Kitabı oku: «Names: and Their Meaning», sayfa 10

LITERARY PSEUDONYMS

So far from being chosen at random these are frequently the result of much premeditation. Voltaire (born 1694, died 1778), whose proper name was Arovet, composed out of this and the initials L. I. (le jeune) the anagram by which all his writings are identified. Again, Barry Cornwall is an imperfect anagram founded upon Bryan Waller Procter (born 1790, died 1874), the poet’s real name; whereas Yendys, the signature of Sydney Dobell (born 1824, died 1874), was merely the Christian name reversed. To cite an instance of another class: Charles James Apperley, of Denbighshire, author of “The Chase, the Turf, and the Road,” and a regular contributor to The Quarterly Review could scarcely have hit upon a more fitting pseudonym than that of Nimrod, who “was a mighty hunter before the Lord,” alluded to in Genesis x. 9. Such a choice will be the better understood, perhaps, when it is mentioned that out of regard for the sporting tastes of his esteemed contributor, Mr. Pittman, the proprietor of the Quarterly kept a stud of hunters for his especial use. Equally appropriate was the pseudonym Zadkiel, denoting the angel of the planet Jupiter, adopted by Lieutenant Richard James Morrison, author of “The Prophetic Almanack,” which still survives as an annual publication.

Washington Irving selected the nom de plume of Knickerbocker for his “History of New York,” in allusion to the wide breeches worn by the original settlers of that city. The true account of how Charles Lamb (born 1775, died 1834) adopted the name of Elia for his “Essays” is as follows:—His first contribution to the “London Magazine” being a description of the Old South Sea House, in which he had spent several months of his noviciate as a clerk, he at the very moment of appending his signature, bethought himself of a gay, light-hearted foreigner who used to flutter about there; and, as a mere matter of whim, he wrote down the name of that individual instead of his own. Boz, the early nom de plume of Charles Dickens (born 1812, died 1870), arose out of the nickname of Moses conferred by him upon a younger pet brother in honour of Moses Primrose in the “Vicar of Wakefield.” The other children of the family, however, found it impossible to utter a nearer pronunciation to the name than “Bozes,” which presently became shortened in “Boz”; and the latter hit the fancy of our young author sufficiently to lead him to its adoption at that period of his literary career when he lacked the confidence to appear before the world under his own name. Out of an analogous incident sprang Ouida, the pseudonym of one of the most widely-read lady novelists of the present day. Her actual name is Louise de la Ramée (born in 1840); but remarking the infantile conversion of Louise into “Ouida,” she was struck by the novelty of such a nom de plume, and immediately adopted it. Another lady novelist of probably higher attainments assumed the name of George Sand (born 1804, died 1876) as the outcome of her attachment to a young student named Jules Sand, or rather Sandeau, with whom she collaborated in the production of “Rose et Blanche,” her first novel. The real name of this lady was Mdlle. Dupin, afterwards changed by marriage to Madame Dudevant.

It may be deemed interesting to learn also that Artemus Ward was an actual name borne by an eccentric showman with whom Charles Farrar Browne, the American humorist (born 1834, died 1867) often came into personal contact; and, further, that Samuel Langhorne Clemens (born in 1835) owes his singular pseudonym to the fact of having been employed in early life as a pilot on one of the Mississippi River steamboats. The nautical phrase for taking soundings, Mark Twain, or, in other words, “mark two fathoms,” suggested the name under which the works of the latter have become widely popular on both sides of the Atlantic.

Finally, not every one is aware that F. M. Allen, the pseudonym of Mr. Edmund Downey, author of “The Voyage of the Ark,” “Through Green Glasses,” and some other books of Irish humour, was his wife’s maiden name.

COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS

A Portrait, so called from the Latin protrahere, to draw forth, is produced by the individual skill of an artist; whereas a Photograph, conformably to the two Greek words photos, light, and graphein, to write, is obtained by the action of sunlight upon a chemically prepared surface, such as silver, zinc, copper, glass, or paper.

The earliest examples of portraiture were styled Miniatures because they originated from the head of the Virgin or of some well-known saint introduced into the initial letters of illuminated rubics by the Miniatori, a number of monks noted for their skill in painting with minium, or red lead. The reason why the portraits of monarchs are represented on coins and medals in Profile dates back to Antigonus, one of the generals of Alexander the Great, who, having lost one eye, ordered his likeness to be drawn from a side view. This occurred in the year 330 b.c. The term is a corruption, by way of the French profil, of the Latin perfilum, compounded out of per, through, by, and filum, a line, a thread. A profile cut out of black paper bears the name of a Silhouette in honour of Etienne de Silhouette, the French Comptroller of Finance under Louis XV. (born 1709, died 1767), who was the first to have his features outlined in this manner.

The earlier descriptions of photographs were respectively styled Talbotypes, Daguerreotypes, and Ferriertypes, after the names of their inventors. The smaller-sized photographs at present in use were originally described as Cartes-de-Visite from the practice of the Duc de Parma, who, while staying at Nice in the year 1857, had his photograph produced on the back of his visiting cards. The designation Vignette, which expresses the French diminutive of vine or tendril, owes its origin to the vine-leaves or branches that properly surround the photographs produced in this style. A photograph of the larger size is called a Cabinet because it forms a picture suited to the walls of a cabinet or very small room. A three-quarter-length photograph or portrait is styled among artists a Kit-Kat, in allusion to the portraits of the original members of the “Kit-Kat Club,” which were painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller for Jacob Tonson, the secretary, to suit the dimensions of the room in which the Club was latterly held at his villa at Barn Elms. Similarly, a canvas measuring 28 inches by 36 inches is styled a Kit-Kat Canvas because this was the uniform size of the famous “Kit-Kat Club portraits.” We may as well add here that the Kit-Kat Club derived its name from Christopher Kat, a pastrycook of King Street, Westminster, in whose house the thirty noblemen and gentlemen who formed themselves into a Club for the purpose of promoting the Protestant Succession in the year 1703 held their first meetings.

LONDON INNS AND GARDENS

In our article on Tavern Signs we confined ourselves to a general survey of the subject; we now purpose to consider the significance of a few Inn Signs that are, or were once, peculiar to London. Commencing with the celebrated Tabard, in Southwark, so dear to the memory of Chaucer and his Canterbury Pilgrims, that sign was derived from the rich tunic or mantle of the same name worn by military nobles over their armour and emblazoned with heraldic devices. The Tabard still forms part of the costume of the heralds. La Belle Sauvage, on Ludgate Hill, was, as is evident from a legal document dated the thirty-first year of the reign of Henry VI., known both as “Savage’s Inn” and “The Bell and the Hoop.” The latter was the actual sign, representing a bell within a hoop, of the Inn which was kept by Isabelle Savage; and the combination of these two names resulted in the punning title of “La Belle Sauvage.” The Swan with Two Necks, in Lad Lane, was a corruption of “The Swan with Two Nicks.” As most Londoners are aware, it has long been the custom of the Vintners’ Company, in their annual “swan-upping” expeditions on the Thames, to mark their swans with a couple of nicks or notches in the bill, so as to distinguish them from the royal swans, whose nicks are five in number, viz., two lengthways and three across on the bill. That this characteristic mark of the Vintners’ Company should have been chosen for a London Inn Sign is scarcely extraordinary.

The sign of The Elephant and Castle, on the south side of the river, was adopted from the crest of the Cutlers’ Company, into whose trade ivory, and consequently elephants’ tusks, enters very considerably. With regard to the “Castle,” this was in mediæval times inseparable from the idea of an elephant, owing to the part which these huge animals anciently took in the Punic wars. Another “Elephant and Castle” exists in the parish of St. Pancras, near King’s Cross; but this sign originated from the discovery, in 1714, of the skeleton of an elephant in the neighbourhood of Battle Bridge. A flint-headed spear lay beside the remains, and from this it is reasonable to conjecture that the animal must have been killed by the Britons who were led by Queen Boadicea against the Romans in the year 61 a.d.

The Horse Shoe, Tottenham Court Road, came into existence as a sign from the large horse-shoes nailed up at the entrance of Messrs. Meux’s brewery adjoining. The shoes are also conspicuous on the trappings of the dray-horses belonging to that establishment; in short, they comprise the trade-mark of the firm. The Blue Posts, at the corner of Hanway Street, nearly opposite the “Horse Shoe,” arose out of the fancy of an old innkeeper to distinguish his hostelry from all others by causing the chain-posts abutting on the road to be painted blue instead of white, which eccentricity fully served the purpose of a sign. There is another “Blue Posts” in Cork Street, Piccadilly, and yet another in Southampton Buildings, Holborn; but the first-named is the oldest of the three, and therefore the original. The Black Posts, Bond Street, may also be regarded as a modified imitation of the example set by the original “Blue Posts.” The Three Chairmen, at the foot of Hay Hill, Berkeley Square, and The Running Footman, in Hayes’ Mews, close by, were so denominated from being the resort of gentlemen’s servants in the days when Sedan Chairs (these chairs were first made at Sedan, in France, which accounts for their name, exactly as Bath Chairs were originally introduced at Bath during the last century, when fashionable invalids flocked to the West of England to drink the Bath and Cheltenham waters) and Running Footmen preceded the use of private carriages by the wealthy.

The Mother Red Cap, Camden Town, perpetuates the memory of a notorious poisoner known as “Mother Damnable, the Consort of the Devil,” who lived at Hungerford Stairs during the period of the Commonwealth. The Mother Shipton, Haverstock Hill, was built at the time when the prophecies of Mrs. Evan Preece, of Glamorganshire, South Wales, were in everybody’s mouth. This old woman was said to have had a son by the devil, whereupon, in return for the sacrifice of her honour, she was accorded the gift of prophecy. When we state that she correctly predicted the deaths of Lord Percy, Wolsey, and other historical personages, the existence of Mother Shipton in this country must be regarded as a time-honoured if not exactly as a well-founded institution. The Adelaide, Haverstock Hill, was named in honour of the consort of William IV., and The York and Albany after the title of Frederick, the second son of George III.

Jack Straw’s Castle, Highbury, as also the celebrated hostelry of the same name on Hampstead Heath, was so called after Jack Straw, one of the leaders in Wat Tyler’s insurrection, who pulled down the Priory of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem at the former place, and whose habitation was a hole formed out of the hill-side on the site of the present Inn at the latter place. The Spaniards, Highgate, was originally the private residence of the Spanish Ambassador to James I. The Whittington Stone, Highgate Hill, took its sign from the stone upon which the world-famous Dick Whittington sat down to rest the while he listened to the bells of Bow Church pleasantly chiming across the open fields. The stone is still to be seen on the edge of the pavement exactly opposite the public-house.

The sign of The Thirteen Cantons, King Street, Golden Square, was adopted in compliment to the thirteen Protestant cantons of Switzerland, and to the numerous natives of that country who at one time took up their residence in the parish of Soho. During the last decade or two the Swiss population has given way in a large degree to French immigrants. The North Pole, Wardour Street, dates back to the time when our national interest in Arctic discovery was at its height; exactly in the same manner as The South Australian, Hans Place, Chelsea, was established in the year that first witnessed the colonization of Southern Australia.

The World’s End, in the King’s Road, Chelsea, a favourite house of entertainment during the Restoration period, received its name on account of its distance from town. The Fulham Bridge, at Knightsbridge, recalls the original name of the structure which crossed the Westbourne in this neighbourhood (see Knightsbridge). The Devil, Fleet Street, received its name from its situation, nearly opposite the Church of St. Dunstan, and the traditional account of that saint having seized the Evil One by the nose with a pair of hot pincers. The Three Nuns, Aldgate, well serves the purpose of reminding us of the existence of an ancient priory inhabited by the nuns of St. Clare in this neighbourhood (see Minories). The White Conduit Tavern, Islington, occupies the site of the famous old White Conduit House, a popular place of resort previous to its demolition in 1849. This was the Conduit which had served the Carthusian Friars with water from ancient times. The prenomen “white” applied to the house and was derived from the appearance of its exterior. The Belvedere, Pentonville Hill, originally contained a small structure on the roof known by this name for sitting under and enjoying the prospect across the fields. The term Belvidere is Italian, signifying “a fine prospect,” and is equally applicable to a summer arbour and the flat roof of a house. The Clown Tavern, St. John Street Road, Clerkenwell, owes its sign to the fact that it was formerly kept by a clown engaged at Sadler’s Wells Theatre, in its immediate vicinity. The well-known Hummuns’s Hotel, generally alluded to as Hummuns’s, Covent Garden, derived this title from its erection on the site of a Hummuns, the Arabic name for a sweating bath, kept by a Mr. Small some time during the seventeenth century.

Reference to the above Inns and Taverns peculiar to London compels us almost to say a few words concerning those popular places of outdoor resort of which we have all read and heard so much. Sadler’s Wells marks the position of an ancient holy well whose waters were famous for working extraordinary cures. In the year 1683, after having been stopped up since the Reformation, a Mr. Sadler, while digging for gravel in his garden, discovered this well, and thereafter it bore his name. In order to profit by the re-established fame of this well, Sadler converted his residence into a house of entertainment under the title of “Sadler’s Musick House.” Here were provided tight-rope dancing, conjuring, tumbling, and a variety of other diversions, always accompanied by music. Sixty years later, probably after the death of Mr. Sadler, the property passed into the hands of Mr. Rosoman, who turned it into a theatre, but retained the name of the old proprietor. The present theatre was built by Mrs. Bateman in 1879. Highbury Barn, first a small ale and cake house, and afterwards a place of public entertainment, including a theatre, was so called from its occupying the site of a barn-like structure originally belonging to the ancient Priory of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, and left standing after the incursion of Jack Straw and his rebellious companions [see ante, Jack Straw’s Castle]. Vauxhall Gardens derived their title from the Hall, or Manor-house, of Jane Vaux, which they displaced [see Vauxhall]; Ranelagh Gardens occupied the site of Ranelagh House, the seat of an Irish nobleman of that title; while Cremorne Gardens were named after Thomas Dawson, Lord Cremorne, whose town house and grounds they covered. Whatever may have been the moral character of these places, their removal has had the effect of effacing one phase of Metropolitan amusement entirely; but it has also been instrumental in introducing another—namely, the Music-Halls. The first London music-hall was “The Canterbury,” Westminster Bridge Road, which grew out of The Canterbury Arms, displaying the arms of the city of Canterbury in the year 1848.

SOBRIQUETS AND NICKNAMES

The list of historical personages whose sobriquets and nicknames are even better known than their proper names is very large; we must, therefore, content ourselves with a random selection of the principal.

Commencing with the ladies: Ayesha (born 610, died 677), the second and favourite wife of Mahomet, was called The Mother of Believers because the prophet styled himself “The Father of Believers.” Fair Helen was the wife of Menelaos, King of Sparta, by whose guest, Paris, the Trojan prince, she was carried off. This incident was the immediate cause of the famous siege of Troy which lasted ten years. Fair Rosamond (died 1154) was the mistress of Henry II., who kept her in a secluded bower that could be approached only by a labyrinth or maze in the neighbourhood of the royal palace at Woodstock. One day, however, the queen artfully discovered her way thereto by means of a silken thread attached to the garment of the faithless husband, after which she soon procured the removal of her rival by poison. Joan, the wife of Edward the Black Prince, was styled The Fair Maid of Kent (died 1385) on account of her beauty and being the only daughter of the Earl of Kent. The Holy Maid of Kent was Elizabeth Barton, a religious enthusiast, hanged at Tyburn in 1534. A brave, if not a beautiful, woman of historic renown was the Countess of Dunbar and March, who, in the year 1337, completely defied the attempt of the Earl of Salisbury to capture Dunbar Castle during a siege of nineteen weeks, at the end of which the latter was forced to retire with ignominy. This warlike heroine is generally alluded to under the name of Black Agnes, in consequence of her swarthy complexion. A less fortunate Scottish heroine who fell at the Battle of Ancrum Moor beside her English adversary, General Evers, whom she had killed, was Fair Maiden Lilliard. She was buried on the site of the conflict; and her epitaph, as follows, is known to every man, woman, and child in that part of the country:—

 
“Fair Maiden Lilliard lies under this stene,
Little was her stature, but great was her fame;
Upon the English loons she laid many thumps,
And when her legs were cutted off, she fought upon her stumps.”
 

The spot where she fell still bears the name of “Lilliard’s Edge.” Then, of course, we have the celebrated Joan of Arc, The Maid of Orleans (born 1412, burnt at the stake 1431), who placed herself at the head of the attacking party and effected the capture of the city of Orleans from the English. Neither must we omit a passing allusion to Augustine Zaragossa, better known as The Maid of Saragossa, owing to the signal heroism which she displayed during the siege of her native city in 1808-9. The Honourable Elizabeth St. Leger, the niece of Colonel Anthony St. Leger, who founded the Stakes named after him in connection with Doncaster races, is known to posterity as The Lady Freemason, because on one occasion she overheard the proceedings of an assembly of Freemasons, and, being discovered, was, as the only way of meeting an unprecedented difficulty, duly elected a member of the craft and initiated into its peculiar rites and ceremonies. Madame Jenny Lind Goldschmidt (born 1821, died 1887) was styled The Swedish Nightingale on account of her vocal genius and her birth in the city of Stockholm. The now popular society actress, Mrs. Langtry, bears the somewhat punning though highly complimentary sobriquet of The Jersey Lily, because she was born in Jersey and her Christian name is Lillie.

Heraclitus of Ephesus (flourished 500 b.c.) was known as The Weeping Philosopher, because he spent the latter years of his life in grieving over the folly of men; on the other hand, Democritus of Abdera (born 460 b.c., died 357 b.c.) merited the surname of The Laughing Philosopher, because he jeered at the feeble powers of man, whose every act was in the hands of fate. Duns Scotus, the Scottish schoolman (born 1272, died 1308), was styled The Subtle Doctor by reason of his learning; while St. Thomas Aquinas (born 1227, died 1274) was denominated The Angelic Doctor because he belonged to the priesthood. St. Paul of the Cross is the name by which Paul Francis (born 1694, died 1775), founder of the religious Order of the Passionists, is best known.

The famous English outlaw who flourished between the years 1180 and 1247, and whose real name was Robert Fitz-ooth, Earl of Huntingdon, adopted the style of Robin Hood, in deference to the example set by the people of Nottinghamshire, who, while dropping the Fitz, corrupted the Robert into Robin and the ooth into Hood. Little John was properly called John Little, but being a great, stalwart fellow, the outlaw chief took a fancy to invert his name for the sake of the contrast. We can quite understand “the merry men of Sherwood Forest” cultivating an objection to hard-sounding words; therefore it could not have been long before William Scathelocke, another prominent member of Robin Hood’s band, found his name reduced to the more euphonious form of Will Scarlet. Friar Tuck was so called because his habit was tucked in around the waist by a girdle.

Sixteen-string Jack was the name popularly bestowed upon Jack Rann, a notorious highwayman hanged in 1791, owing to the sixteen tags he wore on his breeches, eight at each knee. Another notorious representative of the great family of Jacks, good, bad, and otherwise, was the Marquis of Waterford, commonly known as Spring-heel Jack, from his habit of frightening people by springing upon them out of obscure corners after nightfall during the early part of the present century. Gentleman Jack and Gentleman Smith were the titles respectively borne by John Bannister and William Smith, both actors of the century gone by. The former was noted for his straightforward dealings with his fellow-men in private life, the latter for his gentlemanly deportment on the stage.

Who has not heard of Admirable Crichton? This extraordinary Scottish prodigy, James Crichton (born 1560, died 1583), is said to have given such early proofs of his learning that the degree of Master of Arts was conferred upon him at the age of fourteen. In addition to his classical knowledge, he was a poet, a musician, a sculptor, an artist, an actor, a brilliant conversationalist, a good horseman, and an excellent fencer. Surely the possessor of such varied accomplishments deserved a better fate than that which befell him in the very prime of his life! He was stabbed by a band of masked desperadoes led by his own pupil, Vincenzo Gonzaga, the son of the Duke of Mantua. A genius of a totally different stamp was George Robert Fitzgerald, better known, owing to his duelling proclivities, as Fighting Fitzgerald. This individual was one of the most infamous characters of the last century. No enemy ever escaped him with life; being a sure shot and an expert swordsman, his intense love of gambling and duelling, united to a haughty and overbearing disposition, habitually prompted him to shed the blood of his fellow-men without the least compunction.

A celebrated leader of fashion during the early part of this century was Robert Coates, popularly styled Romeo Coates in consequence of his fondness for playing the part of Romeo at amateur theatricals. Among other past notabilities of fashion we may mention Beau Fielding, Beau Brummell, and Beau Nash, severally so styled from the foppishness of their attire. The last-named (born 1674, died 1761) was a notorious diner-out, and for some time Master of the Ceremonies at the fashionable Assembly Rooms at Bath, where he provided a series of entertainments the like of which had never been known. On this account he was surnamed King of Bath. Alas! though literally the “monarch of all he surveyed” during the brief period of his popularity, when at length Death claimed him for his own he was as poor as the meanest of King George’s subjects.

But Richard “Beau” Nash was not the only British subject who has rejoiced in the erstwhile title of King. As examples: Richard Oastler, of Bradford (born 1789, died 1861), merited the style of The Factory King, in recognition of his success in promoting the “Ten Hours’ Bill”; George Hudson, of Yorkshire (born 1800, died 1871), chairman of the Midland Railway Company, was denominated The Railway King, because in one day he cleared the large sum of £100,000 by fortunate railway speculations; John Law, the projector of the Mississippi Scheme (born 1671, died 1729), bore the name of The Paper King, than which, by the way, nothing could have been more appropriate. The huge fortunes anticipated by the subscribers to this wholesale fraud appeared promising enough upon paper, or, to put it more precisely, in the prospectus; but hard cash there was none, saving such as passed into the pockets of the wily promoter. In our own decade we have The Nitrate King, the sobriquet of Colonel J. T. North, of Eltham, consequent upon his successful speculations in the commodity with which his name has become associated.

John Kyrle, of Ross, Herefordshire (born 1637, died 1754), well known for his artistic tastes and acts of benevolence, was styled by Pope The Man of Ross, because he was constantly effecting improvements for the public good in the neighbourhood of his estate. Another local philanthropist was Dr. William Gordon, of Hull (born 1801, died 1849), whose surname, The People’s Friend, so well merited during life, literally followed him to the grave, where it appears chiselled on his tombstone. Perhaps the greatest benefactor of the human race with whom we have become practically acquainted in modern times, was Father Mathew (born 1790, died 1856), universally styled The Apostle of Temperance, beside whom, judging from results, all our latter-day temperance advocates sink into insignificance. He was also made the recipient of the sobriquet The Sinner’s Friend, on account of the special interest he took in the fallen and the outcast; even the most degraded always met with a welcome at his hands.

The Musical Small-coal Man was the popular designation of Thomas Britton (born 1650, died 1714), a vendor of small coals, which he carried in a sack over his shoulder and cried in the streets, who on Thursday evenings gave a series of high-class instrumental concerts in the room over his shed in Clerkenwell, assisted by the best talent he could procure, that attracted all fashionable London. This gifted person was actually frightened to death by the freak of a ventriloquist. Thomas Rawlinson, the bibliopolist (born 1681, died 1725), was appropriately enough styled Tom Folio. The Infant Roscius (born 1791, died 1874) was William Henry Betty, a histrionic prodigy named after the greatest actor of antiquity. His début took place at Belfast, August 19, 1803; and three months later he appeared at Covent Garden (then under the management of the elder Macready) for twelve nights at a salary of fifty guineas a night and a clear benefit. During this brief season the public excitement was so great that the military had to be called out every night to preserve order. His last appearance as a boy-actor occurred at Bath in the year 1808.

William Gerard Hamilton, the Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer (born 1729, died 1756), has been handed down to posterity under the name of Single-speech Hamilton, because he delivered but one speech in the House, and that was such a marvellous outburst of rhetoric that it electrified all who heard it. This memorable incident took place November 13, 1755. Henry Dundas, afterwards Lord Melville (born 1740, died 1811), merited the sobriquet of Starvation Dundas in consequence of his repeated use of the word “starvation” in the course of a debate on American affairs in the year 1775. Sir Robert Peel (born 1750, died 1830), during the time he was Chief Secretary for Ireland (1812 to 1816), was popularly denominated Orange Peel, on account of his strong anti-Catholic spirit [see Orangemen]. William Pitt, Earl of Chatham (born 1708, died 1778), was styled The Heaven-sent Minister because the most splendid triumphs of British arms were achieved during his administration. John Russell, afterwards created Earl Russell (born 1792, died 1878), received the nickname of Finality John from the fact of his maintaining that the Reform Bill of 1832 was a finality. The late Earl of Beaconsfield (born 1804, died 1881) owed his popular name of Dizzy to his own habit of setting forth his early novels during the lifetime of his father under the authorship of “D’Israeli the Younger.” In course of time this became shortened into “Dizzy,” and it clung to him ever afterwards.

Mr. W. E. Gladstone (born 1809) first received the nickname of The Grand Old Man on the occasion of the unseating in the House of Commons of Mr. Charles Bradlaugh (June 1880), through his refusal to take the oath after his election as member for Northampton. At this time Mr. Bradlaugh found a strong champion in Mr. Labouchere; and the nickname arose out of the latter’s conversation in the tea-room of the House “I told some friends,” said Mr. Labouchere, referring to the incident of Mr. Bradlaugh’s expulsion, “that before I left Mr. Gladstone came to me, and that grand old man, with tears in his eyes, took me by the hands and said, ‘Mr. Labouchere, bring me Mr. Bradlaugh back again.’”