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.



LETTER: To W.D.B. and A.B.
LONDON, May 24, [1847]