OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.

There is no doubt that had Mr. Gladstone followed his personal inclinations when his Irish education scheme broke down last March, he would have retired from office. He is now sixty-four, and it may be fairly questioned whether there exists a man who for forty-six years has worked his brain harder. It is no light labor to read for the highest honors in even one school at Oxford, and Mr. Gladstone read for them in two. He gained "a double first," which meant at that time a first class both in classics and mathematics. Forthwith he plunged into political essay-writing, until in 1834 he further added to his labors by entering the House of Commons as M.P. for Newark.

Mr. Gladstone's father was, as most people are aware, a Liverpool merchant of Scotch descent. This gentleman was the architect of his own fortunes, which arose in no slight degree out of his connection with the United States. Having been sent to this country by a firm largely interested in the corn trade, he discharged their business to their entire satisfaction, whilst at the same time he made very valuable business connections on his own account, which materially served him when at a later period he himself embarked in business. He made a large fortune, but it did not appear at his death to be so great as it was, because he gave his younger sons the bulk of their portions during his lifetime—to avoid legacy duty, people said. To his eldest son he left considerable estates in Scotland—to the younger sons, about one hundred thousand pounds apiece. The eldest, Sir Thomas Gladstone, is a very worthy man, but nowise remarkable for ability. He has one son, and has had six daughters. Four survive, and all are unmarried.

The next brother, Robertson, an eccentric person whose indiscreet speeches must often have made his statesman brother feel very hot, continues the paternal business at Liverpool. The third, John Neilson, was, socially speaking, the flower of the flock. He was a captain in the navy, from which he had retired many years prior to his death in 1863, and a member of Parliament. By his wife, a singularly excellent and charming woman, he had several children, who may be said to pretty nearly monopolize the feminine charms of the Gladstone family. One of these married the earl of Belmore, an Irish nobleman, who lately returned from a not very successful gubernatorial career in New South Wales. Both Sir Thomas and Captain Gladstone were decided Conservatives.

William Ewart is the fourth brother. "That young brother of mine will make a noise in the world some of these days," said Captain Gladstone to a fellow-middy as his brother turned away from bidding him good-bye just before he was about to start on a cruise; and the words were certainly prophetic. Mr. Gladstone married when he was thirty. His wife was one of the two sisters of Sir Stephen Glynne. The English aristocracy contains a great many sets, and the Glynnes were in the intellectual set, comprising such men as the dukes of Argyll and Devonshire, and Lords Derby, Stanhope and Lyttelton. Mrs. Gladstone and her sister were married on the same day to two of the finest intellects of their time. The younger, whose mental gifts were far superior to those of her sister, married Lord Lyttelton.

Mr. Gladstone has a large family. The eldest son has for some time been in Parliament, but has established no reputation for notable capacity, and it is said that, with the exception of one of his younger brothers, none of the family are remarkable in this respect. Mrs. Gladstone is a person of great kindness of heart and untiring benevolence. She is full of schemes for doing good: hospitals, convalescent institutions, etc. find in her an ever-ready friend, to the neglect, it is whispered, of her domestic duties. There is an amusing story told of how some time ago a few guests arrived at her house in response to an invitation to dinner. They waited in vain for the rest of the party, for whose delay their hostess was at a loss to account. At length she turned aside and opened her blotting-book, which quickly revealed the cause of the guests' non-appearance—the invitations were lying there. They had been written, but never sent.

In London the prime minister—who has an indifferent official residence, which he and his family have occasionally occupied, in Downing street—lives in Carlton-House Terrace. It is a beautiful house, but not by any means well adapted for party-giving, for it is so constructed that circulation is almost impossible. If you once get into a room, you must stay there; whereas half the charm of Lady Palmerston's famous parties at Cambridge House was the free circulation the rooms afforded, enabling you to pass right round a quadrangle, and thus easily find an acquaintance or get away from a bore. Mr. Gladstone's house has a fine double staircase, and it will derive interest in after days from the circumstance that, standing at the head, Lord Russell took leave of the party he had led, and pointed to his then host as his successor.

Carlton-House Terrace is in many respects the most delightful situation in London, for, whilst extremely central, it is very quiet. It stands between Pall Mall and St. James's Park. One side faces a strip of beautifully kept garden, which lies between the terrace and the row of palaces formed by the Senior United Service, Athenaeum, Travelers' and Carlton Clubs. The other side has a charming prospect over St. James's Park. In summer this is really lovely, for all ugly objects are obscured by the foliage, amid which glimpses are obtained of the pinnacles and fretted towers of the palace of Parliament on the one hand, and those of its venerable neighbor, the majestic abbey, on the other. It was here that Bunsen passed his London days, and the reader of his memoirs will remember frequent references to the charms of his house. It may well be imagined how great a boon it is to the toil-worn minister to find himself, as it were, in a garden, with only the distant roar, like that of the sea, to remind him as he sits in his study that five minutes walk across that pleasant park will bring him to Downing street, and three more to the Treasury bench in the House of Commons.

In the country most of his time is spent at Hawarden Castle in Flintshire, about six hours from London. This is the ancestral seat of Mrs. Gladstone's brother, Sir Stephen Glynne, lord lieutenant of the county, whose family have held this property for centuries. Sir Stephen is a very shy man of retired habits. By a family arrangement his house is the country abode of his sister and brother-in-law.

In earlier life, Sir Stephen and his two brothers-in-law, Mr. Gladstone and Lord Lyttelton, formed an unfortunately favorable estimate of certain mines, into which much of the fortune of Sir Stephen and his sisters went, and from which it never came out again. There was one other brother, the late rector of Hawarden. He died about a year ago, and Mr. Gladstone's second son, Stephen, was appointed his successor. The living, in the gift of Sir Stephen, is very valuable. Mr. Glynne, the clergyman, died without a son, and the title will therefore on Sir Stephen's death be extinct. As matters now stand, it may be presumed that Mr. W.H. Gladstone, the prime minister's eldest son, will succeed to the Hawarden estates.

Mr. Gladstone has himself recently increased the family interest around Hawarden by purchase. About five years ago the state of his finances were the talk of the town, and a number of people, especially of the Conservative party, avowed themselves in a position to assert from personal knowledge that he was ruined. There was no just ground for such a statement, and like so many other absurd rumors it died out. None of Mr. Gladstone's daughters are married, nor is his eldest son.

WHITSUNTIDE AMONG THE MENNISTS.

Certain great festivals of the Christian Church which were ignored by the Puritans and Quakers have always continued in high repute among the Pennsylvania Germans. Christmas, Easter, Whitsuntide and Ascension Day are celebrated not only in the Lutheran, the Reformed or Calvinistic and the Moravian churches, but among the descendants of those Swiss Anabaptists who, being driven from their homes by religious persecution, finally took shelter in that part of the land of Penn now called Lancaster county, these quiet sectarians being known among us by the names of Mennists and Amish (pronounced Menneests and Ommish).

The movable feast of Whitsunday or Pentecost, which occurs on the seventh Sunday after Easter, is a solemn occasion in the Mennonite meetings, for at this time is held one of the great semi-annual observances of bread-breaking and feet-washing. The ensuing day, Whitmonday, is a great secular festival. All the spring bonnets are then in readiness for the "Dutch" girls. The young farmer of eighteen or more, whose father has granted his heart's desire in the form of a buggy, or who has otherwise attained to that summit of rural felicity, harnesses and attaches to it one of the horses with which the farm is so well supplied, and takes his girl into the county-town. Here they walk the streets, partake of simple refreshments, meet their acquaintances or talk with them in the tavern parlor. Sometimes they visit a circus or menagerie whose managers have made a timely visit to our inland city.

On the ensuing day, Tuesday, while the Dutch boys are working the corn, you may perchance hear their father's voice raised to a higher pitch than usual, which circumstance he explains when he comes in sight, thus: "The boys is sleepy to-day. Yesterday was Whissuntide, you know. They got home late." For custom forbids their leaving the girl of their choice before the small hours, and allows them, nevertheless, no remission from labor on the succeeding day.

The people, however, whose religious services I am about to describe impose upon their members a stricter rule of earlier hours, etc. They are called New (or Reformed) Mennists.

It was on Whitsunday, May 31, 1868, that I paid a visit to one of our New Mennist meeting-houses, and found before nine o'clock in the morning that the services had already begun. The first apartment we entered was a sort of tiring-room, where along the walls hung the shawls and black sun-bonnets of the sisters. Here were also traveling-bags, and a cradle stood ready to receive one or more of the babies that were in attendance. In the adjoining room were heard the familiar notes of "Old Hundred," and "Du bist der Weg" was sung pleasantly without any instrumental accompaniment.

When we entered the whitewashed apartment in which the meeting had assembled I saw upon a small platform at the farther end five men, who were apparently preachers or elders. At the same end of the room were seated the soberly clad members of the sect—the men on one side of the apartment, with their broad-brimmed hats removed; on the other side the sisters, with their extremely plain book-muslin caps and otherwise sober attire.

A portion of the services was in English. Dr. ——, a practitioner of medicine and a bishop in this Church, spoke extemporaneously in our language. He gave a long account of the ordinances of the Jewish Church, and then of those which the "Lord Jesus instituted in the place of these—the baptism that was celebrated a week ago, and this Lord's Supper, this feet-washing, this kiss of peace, this manner of visiting offenders;" the last phrase being an allusion to the severe rule which forbids the New or Reformed Mennists to eat, etc. with those excommunicated by the society.

The Mennists, as I understand, hold in general those doctrines that are considered evangelical. The services were much prolonged, and the congregation became restless. But at length, while a younger brother was speaking in "Dutch" or German, there came in another bearing a parcel wrapped in a white cloth. He was followed by one carrying something tied in a blue-and-white cloth, which being opened disclosed a demijohn. The white parcel was received by the preacher upon the desk, and when opened showed a great loaf of our beautiful Lancaster county bread divided into slices. After prayer several preachers took slices, and passing around among the congregation broke off bits which they gave to the communicants. The wine in the demijohn was then poured into small, bright tin cups, like milkmen's measures, and was distributed among the members. A hymn in the German language was sung, two lines at a time, while the wine was handed round.

After these services were concluded feet-washing began by reading the passage from the 13th chapter of John on the subject, and this was followed by many remarks. I observed that one elderly brother, speaking in a mournful tone and in our Dutch manner, quoted, "Nimmermehr soll du mein Fees wasche" ("Thou shalt never wash my feet"). These discourses were followed by the announcement, "Next Sunday there will be bread-breaking at Landisville."

Now arose a confusion from carrying out benches, from arranging others in two long rows facing each other, etc. The two principal preachers were seen disencumbered of their coats, much animated conversation began, and feet-washing did not seem to be observed with so much seriousness as the Supper. I took a seat near the end of two long benches which were arranged to face each other, and on which sat some of the brethren whose feet were to be washed by one of the preachers. Common unpainted tubs containing water were brought in by two men. Dr. ——, the bishop already mentioned, had a great piece of white linen tied around his waist. He passed along between the two rows of men as they sat facing each other, bearing his tub alternately from a brother in one row to one in the other, so that both rows were finished at about the same time. Quietly the men took off their shoes and stockings. They did not put their feet forward much. As Dr. —— came to each participant he set his tub down before him, washed his feet a little, wiped them on the long white apron or towel, then shook hands with him and kissed him. He thus ministered to thirty persons, a somewhat laborious undertaking, but his powerful frame was suited to the exertion. The same water and the same towel served for all.

Meantime, the sisters, in another part of the room, were arranged in smaller companies on benches placed in a similar manner. I said to a sister, "Do the preachers wash the sisters' feet?"

"Oh no," she answered: "the sisters does it."

Some of the sisters were very friendly, and not unwilling to converse. One said, "One sister washes as many as she is pretty well able: it's hard on the back."

"And does she have a towel?" said I.

"She girds a towel, and then she washes and wipes them, and gives them a kiss."

"Do you all have your feet washed?" I inquired further.

"No, not those that have any weakness that prevents."

"And will all these brothers have their feet washed?"

"All that communes."

"And do not all commune?"

"Yes, without they feel that they have something against another. Now if I feel that I have something against her—placing her hand upon a sister.

"I understand," interrupted I. "'If thou bring thy gift to the altar—' And how many," I continued, "will there be in such a meeting as this that will not commune? Will there be half a dozen?"

"Oh yes; but by another year all will likely be right, and then they will commune. Now, I did not commune nor have my feet washed."

"Why not?" said I.

"Why, I felt at this time such confusion of mind, as if the Enemy was against me—"

"Well, it was not anything against a brother or sister?"

"No, I count them all ahead of me: I count myself the poorest member."

At the conclusion of the feet-washing a hymn was sung. Among those who had their feet washed was a young man apparently about twenty-two, and who looked full of fun. It seems that even such may be in membership with so strict a sect. It was about one o'clock when the meeting ended, having been in session four hours and a half.

The great simplicity of the surroundings on this occasion may lead the reader to suppose that the congregation was poor. It was, however, composed in a great measure of some of the thriftiest farmers in one of the richest upland sections of the United States.

Some time after attending this meeting I called upon an aged Amish man to converse with him upon their religious society, etc. The Amish are another branch of the Mennonites, and those among us are likewise descendants of Swiss refugees. They are the most primitive of the three divisions of the sect, preserving the use of the Dutch or German language not only in their religious meetings, but almost entirely in their own families.

I mentioned to this aged man the feet-washing that I had attended, and told how Dr. ——, the bishop, had washed the feet of the other brethren.

"Did he wash them all?" said my Amish acquaintance.

"Yes, all that were assigned to him. How is it among you?"

"They wash each other's, every two and two. If he washes them all, he puts himself in Christ's place. He says, 'Wash each other's feet.'"

This, I am also informed, is the rule among the third division, the Old Mennists, the most numerous branch of these remarkable people.

P.E.G.

THE RAW AMERICAN.

London at present abounds in Americans on their way to the Vienna Exposition. Many of them are commissioners from various States. Some have lands to sell or other financial axes to grind. Of such the Langham Hotel is full. The Langham is the nearest approach to an American hotel in London. There, though not a guest, you may pass in and out without explaining to the hall-porter who you are, what you are, where you come from or what you want: you may there enter and retire without giving your pedigree, naturalization papers or a certificate of good character. At other English hotels something analogous to this is commonly required.

We, who have been in England a full year, look down with an air of superiority on the raw, the newly-arrived American. We are quite English. We have worn out our American clothes. We have on English hats with tightly-curled rims and English stub-toed boots. We know the intricacies of London street navigation, and Islington, Blackfriars, Camden Town, Hackney, the "Surrey Side," Piccadilly, Regent and Oxford streets, the Strand and Fleet street, are all mapped out distinctly in our mind's eye. We are skilled in English money, and no longer pass off half crowns for two-shilling pieces. We are real Anglo-Americans.

But the raw American, only arrived a week, is in a maze, a confusion, a hurry. He is excited and mystified. He tries to appear cool and unconcerned, and is simply ridiculous. His cards, bearing his name, title and official status, he distributes as freely as doth the winter wind the snow-flakes. Inquire at the Langham office for Mr. Smith, and you find he has blossomed into General Smith.

He is always partaking or about to partake of official dinners. He feels that the eyes of all England are upon him. He is dressed à la bandbox—hat immaculate in its pristine gloss, white cravat, umbrella of the slimmest encased in silken wrapper. A speck of mud on his boots would tarnish the national honor. Commonly, he is taken for a head-butler. He drinks much stout. He eats a whitebait dinner before being forty-eight hours in London, and tells of it. All this makes him feel English.

You meet him. He is overjoyed. He would talk of everything—your mutual experience in America, his sensations and impressions since arriving in England. He talks intelligibly of nothing. His brain is a mere rag-bag, shreddy, confused, parti-colored. Thus he empties it: "Passage over rough;" "London wonderful;" "Dined with the earl of —— yesterday;" "Dine with Sir —— to-day;" "To the Tower;" "Westminster;" "New York growing;" "Saint Paul's"—going, going, gone! and he shakes hands with you, and is off at a Broadway gait straight toward the East End of London for his hotel, which lies at the West End.

In reality, the man is not in his right mind. He is undergoing the mental acclimatization fever. Should he stay in London for three months, he might recover and begin to find out where he is. But six months hence he will have returned to America, fancying he has seen London, Paris, Rome, Geneva, Vienna, and whatever other places his body has been hurried through, not his mind; for that, in the excitement and rapidity of his flight, has streamed behind him like the tail of a comet, light, attenuated, vapory, catching nothing, absorbing nothing.

Occasionally this fever takes an abusive phase. He finds in England nothing to like, nothing to admire. Sometimes he wishes immediately to revolutionize the government. He is incensed at the cost of royalty. He sees on every side indications of political upheaval. Or he becomes culinarily disgusted. Because there are no buckwheat cakes, no codfish cakes, no hot bread, no pork and beans, no mammoth oysters, stewed, fried and roasted, he can find nothing fit to eat. The English cannot cook. Because he can find no noisy, clattering, dish-smashing restaurant, full of acrobatic waiters racing and balancing under immense piles of plates, and shouting jargon untranslatable, unintelligible and unpronounceable down into the lower kitchen, he cannot, cannot eat.

PRENTICE MULFORD.