Passing through a gateway on the opposite side of the quadrangle, we had before us the noble classic front of the palace, with its two projecting wings.  We ascended the lofty steps of the portal, and were admitted into the entrance-hall, the height of which, from floor to ceiling, is not much less than seventy feet, being the entire height of the edifice.  The hall is lighted by windows in the upper story, and, it being a clear, bright day, was very radiant with lofty sunshine, amid which a swallow was flitting to and fro.  The ceiling was painted by Sir James Thornhill in some allegorical design, (doubtless commemorative of Marlborough’s victories,) the purport of which I did not take the trouble to make out,—­contenting myself with the general effect, which was most splendidly and effectively ornamental.

We were guided through the showrooms by a very civil person, who allowed us to take pretty much our own time in looking at the pictures.  The collection is exceedingly valuable,—­many of these works of Art having been presented to the Great Duke by the crowned heads of England or the Continent.  One room was all aglow with pictures by Rubens; and there were works of Raphael, and many other famous painters, any one of which would be sufficient to illustrate the meanest house that might contain it.  I remember none of them, however, (not being in a picture-seeing mood,) so well as Vandyck’s large and familiar picture of Charles I on horseback, with a figure and face of melancholy dignity such as never by any other hand was put on canvas.  Yet, on considering this face of Charles, (which I find often repeated in half-lengths,) and translating it from the ideal into literalism, I doubt whether the unfortunate king was really a handsome or impressive-looking man:  a high, thin-ridged nose, a meagre, hatchet face, and reddish hair and beard,—­these are the literal facts.  It is the painter’s art that has thrown such pensive and shadowy grace around him.

On our passage through this beautiful suite of apartments, we saw, through the vista of open doorways, a boy of ten or twelve years old coming towards us from the farther rooms.  He had on a straw hat, a linen sack that had certainly been washed and re-washed for a summer or two, and gray trousers a good deal worn,—­a dress, in short, which an American mother in middle station would have thought too shabby for her darling school-boy’s ordinary wear.  This urchin’s face was rather pale, (as those of English children are apt to be, quite as often as our own,) but he had pleasant eyes, an intelligent look, and an agreeable, boyish manner.  It was Lord Sunderland, grandson of the present Duke, and heir—­ though not, I think, in the direct line—­of the blood of the great Marlborough, and of the title and estate.