Near Oxford

On a fine morning in September we set out on an excursion to Blenheim,--
the sculptor and myself being seated on the box of our four-horse
carriage, two more of the party in the dicky, and the others less
agreeably accommodated inside. We had no coachman, but two postilions in
short scarlet jackets and leather breeches with top-boots, each astride
of a horse; so that, all the way along, when not otherwise attracted, we
had the interesting spectacle of their up-and-down bobbing in the saddle.
It was a sunny and beautiful day, a specimen of the perfect English
weather, just warm enough for comfort,--indeed, a little too warm,
perhaps, in the noontide sun,--yet retaining a mere spice or suspicion of
austerity, which made it all the more enjoyable.

The country between Oxford and Blenheim is not particularly interesting,
being almost level, or undulating very slightly; nor is Oxfordshire,
agriculturally, a rich part of England. We saw one or two hamlets, and I
especially remember a picturesque old gabled house at a turnpike-gate,
and, altogether, the wayside scenery had an aspect of old-fashioned
English life; but there was nothing very memorable till we reached
Woodstock, and stopped to water our horses at the Black Bear. This
neighborhood is called New Woodstock, but has by no means the brand-new
appearance of an American town, being a large village of stone houses,
most of them pretty well time-worn and weather-stained. The Black Bear
is an ancient inn, large and respectable, with balustraded staircases,
and intricate passages and corridors, and queer old pictures and
engravings hanging in the entries and apartments. We ordered a lunch
(the most delightful of English institutions, next to dinner) to be ready
against our return, and then resumed our drive to Blenheim.

The park-gate of Blenheim stands close to the end of the village street
of Woodstock. Immediately on passing through its portals we saw the
stately palace in the distance, but made a wide circuit of the park
before approaching it. This noble park contains three thousand acres of
land, and is fourteen miles in circumference. Having been, in part, a
royal domain before it was granted to the Marlborough family, it contains
many trees of unsurpassed antiquity, and has doubtless been the haunt of
game and deer for centuries. We saw pheasants in abundance, feeding in
the open lawns and glades; and the stags tossed their antlers and bounded
away, not affrighted, but only shy and gamesome, as we drove by. It is a
magnificent pleasure-ground, not too tamely kept, nor rigidly subjected
within rule, but vast enough to have lapsed back into nature again, after
all the pains that the landscape-gardeners of Queen Anne's time bestowed
on it, when the domain of