[Illustration: ]
As you approach the historic home of the great English Statesman who is
to be your host to-day, you become conscious of the fact that there are
two Hawarden Castles. Moreover, as young HERBERT pleasantly remarks a
little later in the day, "You must draw a Hawarden-fast line between the
two." One, standing on a hill dominating a far-reaching tract of level
country, was already so old in the time of EDWARD THE FIRST that it was
found necessary to rebuild it. Looking through your Domesday Book (which
you always carry with you on these excursions), you find the mansion
referred to under the style of Haordine. This, antiquarians assume, is
the Saxonised form of the earlier British _Y Garthddin_, which, being
translated, means "The hill-fort on the projecting ridge."
When WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR came over, bringing with him a following the
numerical proportions of which increase as the years roll by, he found
the Fort on the Hill held by EDWARD of Mercia, and deemed it convenient
to leave it in his possession. The Castle played its part in English
history down to the time, now 130 years gone by, when it came into the
hands of Sir JOHN GLYNN, and thence through long descent became an
inheritance of the gracious lady who, with cambric cap-strings streaming
in the free air of the Marches, joins your host in welcoming you.
It is, however, not on the steps of the old castle of which Prince
LLEWELLYN was once lord that you are thus received. By the side of the
old ruin has grown up another Hawarden Castle, a roomy mansion,
statelily stuccoed, with sham turrets run up, buttresses, embrasures,
portholes, and portcullises, putting to shame the rugged, looped and
windowless ruin that still stands on the projecting ridge. This dates
only from the beginning of the century, and, looking upon it, your face
glows with honest pride, as you think how much better the generation
near your own made for itself dwelling-houses compared with the earlier
English.
Whilst you stand musing on these things you are conscious of a whishing
sound, and a breath of swiftly moving cool air wantonly strikes your
cheek. You look up and behold! there is your host, axe in hand,
playfully performing a number of passes over your unconscious head. His
dress is designed admirably to suit the exercise. Coat and waistcoat are
doffed; the immortal collars are turned down, displaying the columnar
throat and the brawny chest; the snow-white shirt-sleeves are turned up
to the elbow, disclosing biceps that SAMSON would envy and SANDOW covet.
His braces are looped on either side of his supple hips, and his right
hand grasps the axe which, a moment ago had been performing over your
head a series of evolutions which, remarkable for the strength and
agility displayed, were, perhaps, scarcely desirable for daily
repetition.
"Don't be frightened, TOBY M.P.," said the full rich voice so familiar
in the House of Commons; "it's our wild woodsman's way of welcoming the
coming guest. What do you think of my costume? Seen it before? Ah!
_yes_, the photographs. _Carte de visite style_, _10s. 6d._ a dozen;
Cabinet size, a guinea. I have been photographed several times as you
will observe."
And, indeed, as your host leads you along the stately passages, through
the storied rooms, you find his photograph everywhere. The tables are
covered with them, showing your host in all attitudes and costumes.
"Yes," he says, with a sigh, "I think I have marched up to the camera's
mouth as often as most men of my years."
Ascending the rustic staircase which leads from the garden, WILLIAM
EWART GLADSTONE takes you past the library into the drawing-room, in the
upper parts of the leaded windows of which are inserted panels of rare
old glass, cunningly obtained by melting superfluous Welsh ale bottles.
He leads you to a table, as round as that at which a famous Conference
was held, and points to a little ivory painting. It shows a chubby
little boy some two years of age, with rather large head and broad
shoulders, sitting at the knee of a young nymph approaching her fifth
year. On her knee is a book, and the chubby boy, with dark hair falling
low over his forehead, his great brown eyes staring frankly at you,
points with his finger to a passage. When you learn that this is a
portrait of your host and his sister taken in the year 1811, you
naturally come to the conclusion that the young lady has, for party
purposes, been misquoting some passages in her brother's speech, and
that he, having produced an authorised record of his address, is
triumphantly pointing to the text in controversion of her statement.
Your host, chopping grimly at the furniture as he passes along--here
dexterously severing the leg of a Chippendale chair, and there hacking a
piece off a Louis Quatorze couch--leads the way to an annexe he has just
built for the reception of his treasured books. From the outside this
excrescence on the Castle has but a poverty-stricken look. It is, to
tell the truth, made of corrugated iron. But that is a cloak that
cunningly covers an interior of rare beauty and rich design. Arras of
cloth of gold hangs loosely on the walls, whilst here and there, on the
far-reaching floor, gleams the low light of a faded Turkey carpet. Open
tables, covered with broad cloths of crimson velvet, embroidered and
fringed with gold, carry innumerable Blue Books. On marble tables,
supported on carved and gilded frames, stand priceless vases, filled
with rare flowers. In crystal flagons you detect the sheen of amber
light (which may be sherry wine), whilst the ear is lulled with the
sound of fountains dispensing perfumes as of Araby. In an alcove,
chastely draped with violent violet velvet, the grey apes swing, and the
peacocks preen, on fretted pillar and jewelled screen. Horologes, to
chime the hours, and even the quarters, uprise from tables of
ebony-and-mother-of-pearl. Cabinets from Ind and Venice, of filligree
gold and silver, enclose complete sets of _Hansard's Parliamentary
Debates_; whilst lamps of silver, suspended from pendant pinnacles in
the fretted ceiling, shed a soft light over the varied mass of colour.
Casting himself down lightly by a cabinet worked with Dutch beads
interspersed with seed-pearls, and toying with the gnarled handle of the
axe, the Right Hon. WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE tells you the story of his
life. At the outset you are a little puzzled to gather where exactly he
was born. At first you think it was in Scotland. Anon some town in
England claims the honour. Then Wales is incidentally mentioned, and
next the tearful voice of Erin claims her son. But, as the story goes
forward with long majestic stride, these difficulties fade in the
glamour of the Old Man's eloquence, and when you awake and find your
host has not yet got beyond the second course--the fish, as it were, of
the intellectual banquet--you say you will call again.
Mention of the three courses naturally suggests dinner, and as you
evidently enjoy the monopoly of the mental association, you take your
leave, perhaps regretting that among his wild woodsman accessories your
host does not seem to include the midday chop.
* * * * *
GOLD-TIPPED cigarettes seem just now to be "the swagger thing." "Ah!"
Master TOMMY sighed, as he set off for school with only five shillings
in his pocket, in consequence of all his dearest--and nearest--relatives
being laid up with the prevailing epidemic, "Ah, how I should like to be
one of those cigarettes, and then I should be tipped with gold."
* * * * *
NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and
Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no
exception.