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 trees and grassy margins on either side—is exceedingly Dutch-like and very pleasant. Few English towns have so attractive an approach; it gave us a favourable impression of the place at once—so imperceptibly the country road became the town street, first the trees, then the houses. Spalding is a place that seems more of a natural growth, an integral part of the scenery, so in harmony is it therewith, rather than a conglomeration of houses built merely for man's convenience. Such charmingly old-fashioned, prosperous, but delightfully unprogressive towns are not to be met with every day, when the ambition of most places appears to be more or less a second-hand copy of London; and at a sacrifice of all individuality they strive after this undesirable ideal. How refreshing is a little originality in this world, that grows more sadly commonplace and colourless year by year! Alas! we live in an age of civilised uniformity, an age that has given us railways and ironclads in far-off Japan, and tramway lines and French tables d'hôte in the very heart of ancient Egypt! Soon the only ground the unconventional traveller will have left to him will be the more remote spots of rural England! It is far more primitive and picturesque to-day than rural new America with its up-to-date villages lighted with electricity, and stores provided with all the latest novelties of Chicago or New York! Where will the next-century mortal find the rest and repose of the past?

Driving into Spalding we noticed the ancient hostelry of the "White Hart" facing the market