LONDON,May 16,1847
My dear Sons:My letters by this steamer will have very little interest for you,as,from being in complete retirement,I have no new things to related to you....We have taken advantage of our leisure to drive a little into the country,and on Tuesday I had a pleasure of the highest order in driving down to Esher and passing a quiet day with Lady Byron,the widow of the poet.She is an intimate friend of Miss Murray,who has long wished us to see her and desired her to name the day for our visit.
Esher is a little village about sixteen miles from London,and Lady Byron has selected it as her residence,though her estates are in Leicestershire,because it is near Lord and Lady Lovelace,her only child,the "ADA"of poetry.We went in our own carriage,taking Miss Murray with us,and as the country is now radiant with blossoms and glowing green,the drive itself was very agreeable.We arrived at two o'clock,and found only Lady Byron,with the second boy of Lady Lovelace and his tutor.Lady Byron is now about fifty-five,and with the remains of an attractive,if not brilliant beauty.She has extremely delicate features,and very pale and finely delicate skin.A tone of voice and manner of the most trembling refinement,with a culture and strong intellect,almost masculine,but which betrays itself under such sweet and gentle and unobtrusive forms that one is only led to perceive it by slow degrees.She is the most modest and unostentatious person one can well conceive.She lives simply,and the chief of her large income (you know she was the rich Miss Milbank)she devotes to others.After lunch she wished me to see a little of the country round Esher and ordered her ponies and small carriage for herself and me,while Mr.Bancroft and Miss Murray walked.We went first to the royal seat,Claremont,where the Princess Charlotte lived so happily with Leopold,and where she died.Its park adjoins Lady Byron's,and the Queen allows her a private key that she may enjoy its exquisite grounds.Here we left the pedestrians,while Lady Byron took me a more extensive drive,as she wished to show me some of the heaths in the neighborhood,which are covered with furze,now one mass of yellow bloom.
Every object is seen in full relief against the sky,and a figure on horseback is peculiarly striking.I am always reminded of the beginning of one of James's novels,which is usually,you know,after this manner:"It was toward the close of a dull autumn day that two horsemen were seen,"etc.,etc.Lady Byron took me to the estate of a neighboring gentleman,to show me a fine old tower covered with ivy,where Wolsey took refuge from his persecutors,with his faithful follower,Cromwell.
Upon our return we found the last of the old harpers,blind,and with a genuine old Irish harp,and after hearing his national melodies for half an hour,taking a cup of coffee,and enjoying a little more of Lady Byron's conversation,we departed,having had a day heaped up with the richest and best enjoyments.I could not help thinking,as I was walking up and down the beautiful paths of Claremont Park,with the fresh spring air blowing about me,the primroses,daisies,and wild bluebells under my feet,and Lady Byron at my side,that it was more like a page out of a poem than a reality.
On Sunday night any Americans who are here come to see us....Mr.
Harding brought with him a gentleman,whom he introduced as Mr.
Alison.Mr.Bancroft asked him if he were related to Archdeacon Alison,who wrote the "Essay on Taste.""I am his son,"said he.
"Ah,then,you are the brother of the historian?"said Mr.Bancroft.
"I am the historian,"was the reply....An evening visitor is a thing unheard of,and therefore my life is very lonely,now I do not go into society.I see no one except Sunday evenings,and,occasionally,a friend before dinner.
