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 Half-redeemed from the evil hold Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and old, Which drank with its lips of leaves the dew When Time was young and the world was new, And wove its shadows with sun and moon, Ere the stones of Cheops were square and hewn— Think of the sea's dread monotone, Of the mournful wail from the pinewood blown, Of the strange, vast splendours that lit the North, Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth, And the dismal tales the Indians told.

Seated safely and comfortably in a cosy arm-chair, how easy it is to sneer!

Then wandering on we espied a charming specimen of old-world building in the shape of an ancient grammar school, beautified with the bloom of centuries, which was, we learnt by a Latin inscription thereon, built in the year 1567. This interesting and picturesque structure is approached from the road by a courtyard, the entrance to which is through a fine old wrought-iron gateway. Verily Boston is a town of memories; its buildings are histories, and oftentimes pictures!

Not far away, on the opposite side of the road, stands a comfortable-looking red-brick building of two stories in the so-called Queen Anne style. It is an unpretentious but home-like structure, noteworthy as being the birthplace of Jean Ingelow, the popular Lincolnshire poetess and novelist. Then to our right the houses ceased, and the slow-gliding and, let it be honestly confessed, muddy river Witham took their place. Here and there the stream was crossed by ferry-boats, to which you descend by