The traditional history of Hawarden Church, as well as that of the Castle, travels back to a very remote antiquity, and is the central point of interest to many a tragedy, and some of a very grotesque character. For instance, for many ages the inhabitants of Hawarden were called "Harden Jews," and for this designation we have the following legendary account. In the year 946, during the reign of Cynan ap Elisap Anarawd, King of Gwynedd North, there was a Christian temple at Harden, and a rood-loft, in which was placed an image of the Virgin Mary, with a very large cross in her hands, which was called "holy rood." During a very hot and dry summer the inhabitants prayed much and ardently for rain, but without any effect. Among the rest, Lady Trowst, wife of Sytsyllt, governor of Harden Castle, went also to pray, when, during this exercise, the holy rood fell upon her head and killed her. Such behavior upon the part of this wooden Virgin could be tolerated no longer. A great tumult ensued in consequence, and it was concluded to try the said Virgin for murder, and the jury not only found her guilty of wilful murder, but of inattention in not answering the prayers of innumerable petitioners. The sentence was hanging, but Span, of Mancot, who was one of the jury, opposed this act saying it was best to drown, since it was rain they prayed for. This was fiercely opposed by Corbin, of the gate, who advised that she should be laid on the sands by the river. So, this being done, the tide carried the lady, floating gently, like another lady, Elaine, upon its soft bosom, and placed her near the walls of Caerleon (now Chester), where she was found next day, says the legend, drowned and dead. Here the inhabitants of Caerleon buried her. Upon this occasion, it is said, the river, which had until then been called the Usk, was changed to Rood Die, or Rood Dee. We need not stay here to analyze some things belonging to locality and etymology, which appear to us somewhat anachronistic and contradictory in this ancient and queer legend.
Hawarden Church is a fairly large structure, externally a plain old brick building with a low tower and a dwarf spire, standing in the midst of a large population of graves. There is preserved in the annals of the Church a list of the rectors of Hawarden as far back as 1180.
About forty years ago a fire broke out in the Church, and when all was over, very little was left of the original structure except the walls. It was restored with great expedition, and was re-opened within the same year. The present building is a restoration to the memory of the immediate ancestor, from whom the estate is derived by the present family. It is the centre of hard, earnest work, done for an exceptionally large parish. But the Church population is occasionally recruited from all the ends of the earth.
It is here that the Gladstone family worship on the plain, uncushioned pew, near the lectern and opposite the pulpit. When the estates came into the hands of the Glynnes the living was bestowed upon a member of the family. The Rector is Rev. Stephen Gladstone, second son of the Premier. He is not a great preacher, but he is quietly earnest and instructive. Mr. Gladstone was up early on Sunday mornings and seldom failed to be in his pew at Church. Crowds filled the Church Sunday, morning and evening, week after week, many of them strangers, to see the Prime Minister of England, and behold him leave his pew and, standing at the reading-desk, go through his part of the service—that of reading the lessons for the day, in this obscure village Church. After church Mr. Gladstone went to the rectory with his family, with his cloak only over his shoulders, when the weather required, and as he walked along the path through the churchyard would bow to the crowds that stood on either side uncovered to greet him as he passed by. The two brothers, until recently, lived at the rectory, and the whole family seemed to live in the most beautiful harmony together.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone attribute much of his health to the fact that he will have his Sabbath to himself and his family, undisturbed by any of the agitations of business, the cares of State, or even the recreations of literature and scholastic study. This profound public regard for the day of rest, whether in London or at Hawarden, awakens a feeling of admiration and puts us in mind of his great predecessor in statesmanship, Cecil, Lord Burleigh, who, when he arrived at Theobalds on a Saturday evening would throw off his cloak or chain of office and exclaim, "Lie there and rest, my good lord treasurer."