‘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.