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 remoteness had the rare good fortune to have escaped the restorer's hands, and not a few of these, we were given to understand, contained curious brasses and interesting tombs of knightly warriors and unremembered worthies; Tattershall Castle, a glorious old pile, one of the finest structures of the kind in the kingdom; the historic town of Boston, with its famous fane and "stump" and Dutch-like waterways; Stamford, erst the rival of Oxford and Cambridge, with its Jacobean buildings, crumbling colleges, and quaint "Callises" or hospitals; Grantham, with its wonderful church spire and genuine medieval hostelry, dating back to the fifteenth century, that still offers entertainment to the latter-day pilgrim, and, moreover, makes him "comfortable exceedingly"; besides many an old coaching inn wherein to take our ease; not to mention the picturesque villages and sleepy market-*towns, all innocent of the hand of the modern builder, nor the rambling manor-houses with their unwritten histories, the many moated granges with their unrecorded traditions, and perhaps not least, two really haunted houses, possessing well-established ghosts.

Then there was Tennyson's birthplace at pretty Somersby, and the haunts of his early life round about, the wild wolds he loved so and sang of—the Highlands of Lincolnshire!—a dreamy land full of the unconscious poetry of civilisation, primitive and picturesque, yet not wholly unprogressive; a land where the fussy railway does not intrude, and where the rush and stress of this bustling century