‘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.