was to his home at Hawarden Castle that Mr. Gladstone retired for a well-won rest in 1874. The castle stands in "a delightful corner of Cheshire," about half a mile from the quiet little village on the hill-top, the blue smoke rising from the snug little cottages, which seem to have but little other signs of life. Here is a simple account of the home where Mr. Gladstone passed so many years of "the evening of his day's":— ", ""Change of labour is, to a great extent, the healthiest form of recreation."
"Hawarden Park stood in all the glory of October's golden crown. The chestnut trees seemed to radiate yellow light, the beeches and oaks were billows of coppery red, the roses against the castle walls and in the quaint Italian gardens were still in blown and amidst these very silent, very beautiful scenes, Mr. Gladstone leads his simple life among his own friends, and with a constant stream of visitors, not one of whom leaves Hawarden Castle without being more than ever impressed with Mr. Gladstone's marvellous vitality."
After years of such hard work, it would have been quite natural if Mr. Gladstone, at the age of sixty-five, had treated himself to some small luxuries. But his manner of living, whether in office or out of office, was Spartan in its simplicity. At a quarter to eight, every morning of his life at Hawarden, he walked to church. He refused any refreshment. He refused any company. He walked that half-mile to church alone.
The short service over, he returned with his family to breakfast. Here again extreme simplicity prevailed. Apart from his medical orders, he disliked anything but the plainest fare, and usually breakfasted on fish. Having absorbed the contents of several newspapers, he went off to his library, now so well known as the "Temple of Peace."
", "He never smoked. He belonged to the older school, and formed his habits at a time when tobaccos smoking was looked on as a somewhat vulgar performance.
The library, where he spent his day, was no show place. It was filled with books of every size, and of every subject. The book's were ingeniously arranged, so that not one of them was hidden behind another, but the titles could be seen at a glance by any one with good eyesight. The books were all arranged according to subject, and not according to size. Everything was in its right place, though the room was so much lived in. Papers were tied up in neat bundles, and labeled in Mr. Gladstone's own handwriting.
Three writing-tables stool in the library. At one Mrs. Gladstone wrote her letters: the second, standing between two windows, was Mr. Gladstone's political desk; the third was his literary writing-table, in a niche by the window, the most peaceful corner in that Temple of Peace. The whole table was covered with books of reference. Here he sat absorbed in his work, now writing rapidly and eagerly for some minutes, now throwing down his pen and dipping deep into one of the books lying on the table near him. His concentration was marvellous. People might come and go in his room; he worked on, undisturbed by voices. Whatever the work he had in hand, it took hold of him so entirely that he had to be roused from it as most people are roused from sleep.