The trees of later date, that were set out in the Great Duke’s time, are arranged on the plan of the order of battle in which the illustrious commander ranked his troops at Blenheim; but the ground covered is so extensive, and the trees now so luxuriant, that the spectator is not disagreeably conscious of their standing in military array, as if Orpheus had summoned them together by beat of drum.  The effect must have been very formal a hundred and fifty years ago, but has ceased to be so,—­although the trees, I presume, have kept their ranks with even more fidelity than Marlborough’s veterans did.

One of the park-keepers, on horseback, rode beside our carriage, pointing out the choice views, and glimpses at the palace, as we drove through the domain.  There is a very large artificial lake, (to say the truth, it seemed to me fully worthy of being compared with the Welsh lakes, at least, if not with those of Westmoreland,) which was created by Capability Brown, and fills the basin that he scooped for it, just as if Nature had poured these broad waters into one of her own valleys.  It is a most beautiful object at a distance, and not less so on its immediate banks; for the water is very pure, being supplied by a small river, of the choicest transparency, which was turned thitherward for the purpose.  And Blenheim owes not merely this water-scenery, but almost all its other beauties, to the contrivance of man.  Its natural features are not striking; but Art has effected such wonderful things that the uninstructed visitor would never guess that nearly the whole scene was but the embodied thought of a human mind.  A skilful painter hardly does more for his blank sheet of canvas than the landscape-gardener, the planter, the arranges of trees, has done for the monotonous surface of Blenheim,—­making the most of every undulation,—­flinging down a hillock, a big lump of earth out of a giant’s hand, wherever it was needed,—­putting in beauty as often as there was a niche for it,—­opening vistas to every point that deserved to be seen, and throwing a veil of impenetrable foliage around what ought to be hidden;—­and then, to be sure, the lapse of a century has softened the harsh outline of man’s labors, and has given the place back to Nature again with the addition of what consummate science could achieve.

After driving a good way, we came to a battlemented tower and adjoining house, which used to be the residence of the Ranger of Woodstock Park, who held charge of the property for the King before the Duke of Marlborough possessed it.  The keeper opened the door for us, and in the entrance-hall we found various things that had to do with the chase and woodland sports.  We mounted the staircase, through several stories, up to the top of the tower, whence there was a view of the spires of Oxford, and of points much farther off,—­very indistinctly seen, however, as is usually the case with the misty distances of England.  Returning to the ground-floor, we were ushered into