My first vis­it to Blenheim was on a beau­ti­ful spring day in May, 1874. Some of the Duke’s ten­ants and Randolph’s con­stituents met us at the sta­tion to give us a wel­come. Tak­ing the hors­es out of the car­riage, they insist­ed on drag­ging us through the town to the house. The place could not have looked more glo­ri­ous…. we passed through the entrance arch­way, and the love­ly scenery burst upon me, Ran­dolph said with par­don­able pride, “This is the finest view in England.”

Look­ing at the lake, the bridge, the miles of mag­nif­i­cent park stud­ded with old oaks, I found no ade­quate words to express my admi­ra­tion, and when we reached the huge and state­ly palace, where I was to find hos­pi­tal­i­ty for so many years, I con­fess I felt awed. But my Amer­i­can pride for­bade the admis­sion, and I tried to con­ceal my feel­ings, ask­ing Ran­dolph if Pope‘s lines were a true descrip­tion of the inside:

Alexander Pope:

“See, sir, here’s the grand approach;

This way is for his grace’s coach:

There lies the bridge, and here’s the clock;

Observe the lion and the cock,

The spa­cious court, the colonnade,

And mark how wide the hall is made!

The chim­neys are so well design’d

They nev­er smoke in any wind.

This gallery’s con­trived for walking,

The win­dows to retire and talk in;

The coun­cil cham­ber for debate,

And all the rest are rooms of state.’

‘Thanks, sir,’ cried I, ‘ ’tis very fine,

But where d’ye sleep, or where d’ye dine?

I find by all you have been telling,

That ’tis a house, but not a dwelling.'”

​

The impe­ri­ous Sarah, known to her con­tem­po­raries as “Great Atossa,” “Who with her­self, or oth­ers, from her birth

Finds all her life one war­fare upon earth,” demol­ished the old­er and prob­a­bly more com­fort­able hunt­ing-lodge which stood in the for­est. Tra­di­tion asserts that it occu­pied the site of the “Bow­er” in which “Fair Rosa­mond” hid her roy­al amours. To this day “Rosamond’s Well,” con­cealed among the trees, is the object of a favourite walk.