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wanting wide views; a closed-in landscape, however beautiful of itself, becomes a trifle monotonous in time—you can even have a monotony of beauty—the eye loves to rake the countryside, to get a peep, now and then, of the blue far-away, or of the gray outline of a distant hill.
 * ful, homelike country, green and slumberous, but

The first village on our way was Buckden, and here, being unprovided with a guide-book, we had a delightful surprise, for as we entered the place we caught a glimpse of the broken and time-worn towers of a large, rambling, and picturesque pile of buildings, some portions ruined, others apparently maintained and occupied. The structure was principally of brick, but time-toned into a warmish gray with age. What could it be? Manifestly, from its extent, it was a place of considerable importance. Such surprises are happily to be expected in such a storied land as England, wherein you cannot travel far without setting your eyes upon some ancient history. In spite of the size and beauty of the many-towered building, when we asked ourselves what it could be, we had sadly to acknowledge that even the name of Buckden was unfamiliar to us! So we consulted our ancient and faithful Paterson to see what he might say, and running our finger down the line of road, as given in the "London to Carlisle" route, we read after the name of the village, "Bishop of Lincoln's Palace." A note by the side, giving some details thereof, says: "This venerable pile is chiefly constructed of brick, and partly surrounded by a moat; it comprises two quadrangular courts, with a