The Real Gladstone: An Anecdotal Biography

CHAPTER XVII

AT HOME

Hawarden Park, in the centre of which stands Hawarden Castle, is one of the finest country seats in the three kingdoms. Visitors who arrive at Hawarden for the first time are surprised at the extent of the grounds and the beauty of the park. Hawarden Park, with Hawarden Castle, came to Mr. Gladstone with his wife. When Mr. Gladstone married he had no intention of making his seat in Wales, but finding that Sir Stephen Glynne was in circumstances which rendered it disadvantageous to the family for him to live in the Castle, Mr. Gladstone bought some of the land, and took up his quarters with his father-in-law in the Castle, which had been temporarily closed. This arrangement lasted for many years, and was attended with none of the disagreeable consequences which so often happen when two generations live under one roof. The two families lived side by side, and nothing could exceed the harmony of the united households. Sir Stephen Glynne always sat at the head of the table, while Mrs. Gladstone sat at the other end; Mr. Gladstone sat between. This arrangement continued down to the death of Sir Stephen Glynne, and it was rather curious to see a statesman whose name and whose fame were familiar throughout the world always taking the second place in his own house. But for the somewhat embarrassed circumstances of Sir Stephen Glynne, which led Mr. Gladstone to buy some of the Glynne estate, it was his intention to have bought a seat in Scotland, to which, as his native country, Mr. Gladstone was always strongly attached. The accident, therefore, of a temporary financial embarrassment on the part of his father-in-law made Hawarden famous throughout the world, and supplied Mr. Gladstone with a very much more convenient country seat than any which he could have procured north of the Tweed.

The Castle is situated on the summit of a range of hills overlooking Chester and the river Dee. The village contains the remains of a castle which dates back almost to the Conqueror, and the ancient mound fortification, the ditch and drawbridge, and the keep, are proof to-day of its power in the past. The old Castle standing in the grounds is scarce more than a relic now. The modern Castle in which the Gladstone family resides was built over a hundred years ago, and has been considerably added to from time to time, so that it is a comparatively new seat. It has a splendid appearance; the stone battlements and walls, which are well grown with ivy, look especially striking. The grounds contain several points of interest, and are exceedingly well wooded, even now, much to the surprise of many visitors, who have heard no little of Mr. Gladstone’s powers with his axe.

The new buildings of the Library, which stand not far from the church, have a neat entrance-gate leading to them, with a well-kept lawn on each side. It is in no sense a public institution, but is intended to afford to clergymen and others an opportunity of quiet study. Here are gathered thousands of volumes, carefully selected, representing an eclectic field of thought, including the whole area of human interest. By the side of an erudite Churchman like Pusey you will discover a book by a Nonconformist like Dale. The volumes were in many cases brought to the library by Mr. Gladstone’s own hands, and on many an afternoon he was to be seen walking through the park with a bundle of books, to be arranged on the shelves by his own hands or under his superintendence. Not far off in the village street stands the substantial building called the Hawarden Institute. Upstairs in the library are to be seen volumes with characteristic inscriptions by Mr. Gladstone. On the flyleaf of one of the Waverley Novels is written, for instance: ‘No library should be complete without a set of Sir Walter Scott’s novels in full. Accordingly, I present this set to the Hawarden Institute.’ Attached to the institute is a capital billiard-room, a bath-room, and a reading-room. The gymnasium, which was given by Mr. Herbert Gladstone, is not patronized quite so much as that gentleman, it is understood, desires.

The library at Hawarden is one of the finest private libraries in the country. It consists of more than twenty thousand volumes, and considerable curiosity existed as to what Mr. Gladstone intended to do with this collection of books after his death. Contrary to the usual practice obtaining in magnificent private libraries, Mr. Gladstone allowed his books to be lent out to almost anyone in the neighbourhood who wished to read them. At one time this liberty was unlimited; anyone could take a book out and keep it an indefinite period, provided that he simply left an acknowledgment of having borrowed the book. This privilege, however, was so much abused by some persons that a few years ago a rule was laid down limiting the time for which a book might be kept to one month. With that exception, however, the Hawarden Library is still the free loan library of the countryside.

‘Within, Hawarden Castle,’ says a writer in the World, ‘though not ambitiously large, contains more than one roomy cell for its scholar-recluse. At every corner the signs of taste and culture abound. The pictures have been only slightly thinned by the handsome contribution to the Wrexham Exhibition, and curious china is not entirely absent. Oriental jars and costly cabinets of Japanese lacquer are scattered about the handsome rooms with tasteful carelessness, and here and there are specimens of art needlework, in the revival of which Mrs. Gladstone is known to take great interest. But the peculiarity of the house is the vast flood of books, which no one apartment can contain. Out of one library into another, and into drawing-room and dining-room, books have flowed in a resistless stream, pushing other things aside, and establishing themselves in their place. There are books new and old, rare and common, choice editions and ordinary manuals of reference, ponderous tomes of controversial theology and snappish little pamphlets on the currency, with other equally light and pleasant subjects. Over all reigns that air of easy and natural luxury which forms the principal charm of the English country-house proper, as distinguished from the comfortless vastness of foreign châteaux and the pretentious splendour of the suburban villa of the nouveau riche. The castellan, however, is no admirer of nooks and snuggeries, loving most to get through his morning reading in an especially large apartment, garnished with movable bookshelves – a transparent hive for a working bee – amid abundant air and floods of sunshine. “Air and light,” and plenty of them, are among his prime conditions of existence.’

‘Mr. Gladstone’s study,’ says another visitor, ‘is rather curiously arranged. The walls are covered with books, and volumes are also massed on large shelves jutting out from the walls into the room. Between each partition of books there is room to walk; thus the saving of space in arranging the library in this manner is enormous. The stock of books perhaps exceeds fifteen thousand volumes, and notwithstanding this large number, Mr. Gladstone has little difficulty in placing his hand upon any volume that he may require. There are three writing-desks in the room; one is chiefly reserved for correspondence of a political nature and another is used by Mrs. Gladstone. Looking out of the study window, the flower-beds facing the Castle present a picturesque appearance, while the heavy-wooded grounds beyond stand out in bold relief.’

The village itself is only one street, and a small one; but no village has become more famous and has been more visited by savants, politicians, famous individuals, foreign or English, and deputations consisting of working men, either to watch the great statesman felling trees or to hear him talk.

In a magazine known as the Young Man appeared a few years since an interesting account of Mr. Gladstone’s home life, which may claim to be quoted here. The writer, who was one of Mr. Gladstone’s nearest neighbours and most intimate friends, said that there was no home in the United Kingdom where there was more freedom of opinion or more frankness in expressing disagreement than in the home of Mr. Gladstone.

‘His daily life at home is a model of simplicity and regularity, and the great secret of the vast amount of work he accomplishes lies in the fact that every odd five minutes is occupied. No man ever had a deeper sense of the preciousness of time and the responsibility which everyone incurs by the use or misuse he makes of it. To such a length does he carry this that at a picnic to a favourite Welsh mountain he has been seen to fling himself on the heather, and bury himself in some pamphlet upon a question of the day, until called to lighter things by those who were responsible for the provision basket. His grand maxim is never to be doing nothing.

‘Although Mr. Gladstone’s daily routine is familiar to some, yet many inaccurate accounts have been circulated from time to time. In bed about twelve, he sleeps like a child until called in the morning. Not a moment’s hesitation does he allow himself, although, as we have heard him say, no schoolboy could long more desperately for an extra five minutes. He is down by eight o’clock, and at church (three-quarters of a mile off) every morning for the 8.30 service. No snow or rain, no tempest, however severe, has ever been known to stop him. Directly after breakfast a selection of his letters is brought to him.

‘Excepting before breakfast, Mr. Gladstone does not go out in the morning. At 2 p.m.,’ continues the Young Man, ‘he comes to luncheon, and at the present time he usually spends the afternoon arranging the books at his new library. To this spot he has already transported nearly twenty thousand books, and every volume he puts into its place with his own hand. To him books are almost as sacred as human beings, and the increase of their numbers is perhaps as interesting a problem as the increase of population. It is real pain to him to see a book badly treated – dropped on the floor, unduly squeezed into the bookcase, dog’s-eared, or, worst crime of all, laid open upon its face.

‘A short drive or walk before the social cup of tea enables him to devote the remaining hour or so before post-time to completing his correspondence. After dinner he returns to his sanctum – a very temple of peace in the evening, with its bright fire, armchair, warm curtains, and shaded reflecting candle. Here, with an occasional doze, he reads until bedtime, and thus ends a busy, fruitful day. Mr. Gladstone has often been heard to remark that had it not been for his Sunday rest, he would not now be the man he is. Physically, intellectually, and spiritually, his Sunday has been to him a priceless blessing. From Saturday night to Monday morning Mr. Gladstone puts away all business of a secular nature, keeps to his special Sunday books and occupations, and never dines out that day unless to cheer a sick or sorrowful friend.’

Hawarden Castle was much improved after passing into Mr. Gladstone’s hands. In commemoration of the golden wedding the porch in front of the Castle was erected, a building that adds much to its appearance. A writer in Harper’s Magazine says: ‘A glance over the tables in the drawing-room at Hawarden Castle leads one to the conviction that Mr. Gladstone is the most photographed man in the world. The tables are literally covered with photographs presenting the well-known face and figure in all habitual circumstances and attitudes. Mr. Gladstone submits to the photographer much upon the same principle that he endures many other of the experiences that sadden life. He recognises a certain amount of possession that the public have in him, and if they insist upon taking it out in photography, that is their affair. He is not only photographed often, but happily, having, indeed, by this time acquired so much skill that he always comes out well. But,’ continues the writer, ‘no photograph, or the fine oil painting of Millais, comes up to the interest possessed by a little ivory painting which lies in the drawing-room at Hawarden. It represents a little boy some two years of age sitting on the knee of a little girl in nymph-like costume, and fondly supposed to be learning his letters. He has, in truth, one chubby little finger pointed towards the book which rests on his sister’s knees, but his face is raised, and two great brown eyes look inquiringly into those of the beholder. This is the child – the father of the man who sits in the other room, though beyond the measurement of the floor there stretches between them the long span of seventy years. The little girl is Mr. Gladstone’s sister, who died. The portrait was taken in Liverpool, while Mr. John Gladstone lived in Rodney Street.

‘Mr. Gladstone has recently disposed of the question of his hobbies. He has none. Before the day of his retirement into private life, however, the public took a partially proprietary interest in what they were pleased to consider his hobby of cutting down trees.

‘It became so notorious that foreigners got to suppose that Mr. Gladstone did little else in his spare time but fell timber, and Americans who visited Hawarden Castle were disappointed at not finding the park a desolation of tree-stumps.

‘That Mr. Gladstone should often have gone out, axe in hand, to assist his woodmen was really the most natural thing imaginable. Wood-cutting was just the kind of Titanic exercise in which he delighted to let out the flood of his energy. Again, the park being one of the best timbered in England, it was to be expected that Mr. Gladstone, with a keen eye to the improvement of the property, should take a personal interest in the removal of those trees whose growth, position or decay marred the splendour of their neighbours.

‘Mr. Gladstone is now a very old man – older than many who remember him in his vigorous Parliamentary days quite realize. It is many years since his wood-cutting exploits. But, three summers ago, on a special occasion, he went out for the last time on his favourite pastime. The axe that he used – a new one, and lighter than those he usually wielded – is now stored away in a cupboard in Mr. Herbert Gladstone’s room at the Castle. “To the end of the handle,” says a writer in Pearson’s Magazine for March, “is pasted a little label with the brief inscription:

‘“Used by W. E. G. on a beech in the North Garden, 1895.”

‘Mr. Gladstone’s favourite implement was the ordinary wedge-shaped American axe. But one that he used a great deal in later days still stands in a corner of his study. Its long, thin blade made it a difficult weapon to handle skilfully; yet the shape or size of the axe made little difference to so experienced a craftsman. In an outdoor room at Hawarden, now chiefly devoted to the storage of bicycles and fishing-baskets, are between thirty and forty axes piled together – long axes and short axes, thick and thin, plain and varnished, new and worn. These represent only a small portion of the collection that Mr. Gladstone once had. In bygone days admirers were constantly sending him axes as marks of their esteem, and now other admirers quite as constantly smuggle them away as treasured mementoes of their visits.

‘Besides these workaday axes one may see several with silver heads, and among them one, especially valued, that was presented to Mr. Gladstone in 1884 by the workmen on the Forth Bridge. There are, too, miniature axes beautifully modelled in solid gold, kept among the jewels in the drawing-room; and a silver pencil, axe-shaped, which was presented to the G. O. M. by the Princess of Wales “for axing questions.”’

In 1870 Hayward writes: ‘I had an immensity of talk on all subjects with Gladstone. I strolled about with him for some hours yesterday. He takes whatever work he has to do easily enough here, and finds time for general reading into the bargain.’ In 1871 the same writer says: ‘Gladstone as he always is as a companion – conversation singularly rich and varied.’ Such seems to have been the common testimony of all who had the honour of spending a brief time with Mr. Gladstone at home.

It is idle, and would be tiresome, to give the history of the deputations of working-men who went to Hawarden. As an illustration, let me say that one December day a number of the working-men of Derby went to Hawarden to present Mr. Gladstone with a dessert-service of Derby china, specially manufactured at the Derby Crown Works for the occasion. When in 1882 Mr. Gladstone celebrated his political jubilee, addresses and telegrams came to him at Hawarden from all parts of the country. When in 1877 Hawarden was invaded by fourteen hundred members of the Bolton Liberal Club, he refused to see them, but quietly informed them that he and his son were about to fell a tree in the course of the day in the park, and thither the crowd repaired, where, after Mr. Gladstone had performed his task, he gave them an address. One of his great wood-cutting feats that year was his felling an enormous beech-tree – a task he performed in three hours. It was a tough job, considering that it measured thirteen feet in circumference, and was a good proof of the aged statesman’s muscular strength and activity. Hercules alone seems to have been his equal.

Perhaps one of the most enormous deputations ever received at Hawarden was in 1886, when the Irish deputations came over in great strength to Hawarden, one of them bearing an address signed by 600,000 Irish women. The others brought to him the freedoms of Cork, Limerick, Waterford, and Clonmel. In acknowledging the addresses received, Mr. Gladstone dwelt upon the moderation with which the Home Rule agitation was carried on. He declared that it would ultimately succeed, and denied that the Irish demand involved separation. Yet at one time there were fears for Hawarden and Mr. Gladstone. In 1882 Lord Houghton, while staying there, wrote to his son:

‘Dear Robert,

‘You may be easy about my personal security. We have two detectives – one engaged to the cook; and Lord Spencer brought three more yesterday.’

Of the Hawarden Post-office a volume might be written. There could scarcely have been one more filled with important correspondence in all the empire. Everyone deemed it to be his duty to pester Mr. Gladstone with letters, and his replies in the shape of postcards were to be found carefully preserved everywhere. Even illness severe and protracted was no excuse. ‘One of the most painful incidents connected with Mr. Gladstone’s illness,’ writes the London correspondent of the Birmingham Daily Post, ‘is the persistence of uninvited spiritual advisers in addressing him. I am told that not a day, and scarcely a post, passes without some of these personages intruding themselves.

‘Chapters from the Old and New Testaments, the lives of Scriptural personages, isolated texts, hymns and religious books – in some cases the advice coming from the unknown authors themselves – have all been suggested for the veteran statesman’s “edification.”

‘In not a few instances poems on the same theme have been sent for his perusal, and, as the authors have generally put it, for his spiritual comfort and relief. I need hardly say that these effusions have never reached Mr. Gladstone, but they have in not a few instances, by their very suggestiveness of impending disaster, caused distress to his family.’

A representative of the Daily Mail added more on this subject: ‘Among people in touch with the Hawarden household it is being discussed with a good deal of indignant comment, and more than one well-known name is mentioned as having been appended to some of this correspondence. It is not so much the gratuitous impertinence of the amateur spiritual consoler which occasions the annoyance Mr. Gladstone’s relatives feel.

‘Mr. Gladstone has throughout his life loomed so large in the eyes of the religious public that he has always been a favourite target for the controversialists of every sect. He long ago grew accustomed to being bombarded with controversial pamphlets, and to being assailed with texts of Scripture bearing more or less obliquely upon some political question of the day. And whenever he has been suffering from some trifling indisposition, or has sustained any family loss or affliction, sackfuls of letters quoting texts of Scripture have been sent to him. It occasions neither surprise nor any great amount of annoyance, therefore, now that the sympathy of everyone is turned towards him, that in the case of fervid religionists it should find expression in passages of Scripture and extracts from devotional works from which the senders have themselves, in times of sorrow and affliction, derived comfort and consolation.

‘But there are other classes of correspondents. There are people who urge him for his soul’s sake to see the error of his ways while there is yet time; there are people who see occasion in his present illness to hasten to say that they forgive him for holding theological views differing from their own; there are people who invite him to send a subscription to something with a view to insuring to himself posthumous satisfaction, as well as the advantage of grateful prayer and intercession.

‘But, worst of all, and most painful to the relatives to bear, are the frantic efforts of the testimonial hunters in a hurry. One patent medicine has made strenuous endeavours to foist itself upon him, with an obvious view to subsequent advertisement.

‘Of course, there is another side to the picture. The kindly and sympathetic messages and inquiries which have come from people of all ranks, from her Majesty the Queen downwards, have been of great comfort.’