The wonders of electrical communication have allowed me to pay a visit to my old castle at Hawarden. Here I see my library and here is my desk and here is a photograph of myself writing at my desk. I am not present in the flesh or even in spirit. I am merely viewing a British Broadcasting programme entitled Gladstone and Disreali.
The programme states that I hated Disraeli, that I had a "feud" with him. It is no doubt a source of drama for authors to pitch myself against Beaconsfield, as we jousted so often over so many decades. But I did not not hate the man; he was a mountebank, a scoundrel of few principles, a man who led many astray. People who hold hatred in their hearts do not live for a great age; it was my task to expose Beaconsfield's humbuggery and overweening ambition. It was not hatred.
Regardless of the deficiency of the analysis, the programme contains much to amuse and inform, and you can view it here.
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