as any other minister finds it possible to devote to residence out
of London.

Hawarden, usually pronounced Harden, is the name of a large market-town,
far removed from the centre and seat of trade and empire, in Flintshire,
North Wales, six miles southwest from the singular and ancient city of
Chester, of which it may be called a suburb. It is not pretty, but a
clean and tolerably well-built place, with some good houses and the
usual characteristics of a Welsh village. The public road from Chester
to Hawarden, which passes by the magnificent seat of the Duke of
Westminster, is not, except for this, interesting to the stranger. There
is a pedestrian route along the banks of the river Dee, over the lower
ferry and across the meadows. But for the most part the way lies along
dreary wastes, unadorned by any of the beautiful landscape scenery so
common in Wales. Broughton Hall, its pleasant church and quiet
churchyard, belonging to the Hawarden estate, are passed on the way. The
village lies at the foot of the Castle, and outside of the gates of
Hawarden Park. The parish contains 13,000 acres, and of these the estate
of Mr. Gladstone consists of nearly 7000. The road from the village for
the most part is dreary, but within the gates the park is as beautiful
as it is extensive. Richly wooded, on both sides of its fine drive are
charming vistas opening amongst the oaks, limes and elms. On the height
to the left of the drive is the ancient Hawarden Castle, for there are
two--the old and the new--the latter being the more modern home of the
proprietor.

[Illustration: THE PARK GATE, HAWARDEN.]

The ancient Castle of Hawarden, situated on an eminence commanding an
extensive prospect, is now in ruins. What, however, was left of the old