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MR. GLADSTONE without and from within which seem to be transmitted to the brain by spiritual rather than corporeal processes. At such moments forgetful enthusiasts are misled into thinking that the body and the spirit are divisible and can exist independently of each other. The air caresses you as you move over rough stones without feeling them: the heavens bathe your vision in a flood of azure, and the song of the lark thrills you without passing through your ears: the scent of hedgerows and of honeysuckle embalms you completely and makes you one with the ambient air.

Such was my condition of being as I quickly traversed the distance between the ferry and the lower entrance to the churchyard which I crossed to shorten the walk to the castle gates. Here it was that I regained consciousness, with a very large dose of self-consciousness thrown in. I began to lose my way, and, instead of taking the narrow path through a small wooden gate, I continued on the drive that leads across the park, and a great discouragement fell upon me. "What if I should fail?" became an oft-repeated question to myself; and so questioning I stumbled up a grassy slope towards the wall into which was built a narrow door. When I was near enough to see them, three letters and a date on the lintel became distinct. The word I read was W. E. G., and the date, 1853, was the year of my birth. The word translated into English meant "way," but standing under the lintel the period after each capital letter indicated them to be the initials of a name. Slowly I began to say "William Ewart Gladstone," and with a lighter heart I laughed aloud, and, lifting the latch, entered into the grounds and gardens of the castle.

That morning I made two pastel drawings of Mr. Gladstone, one reading and the other writing. They seemed to