A POETIC PROSPECT was presented to us; buildings quaint and commonplace, but all glorified in colour by the golden rays of the setting sun, their warm tints being enhanced by broad mysterious shadows of softest blue, mingled with which was a haze of pearly-gray smoke—the very poetry of smoke, so film-like and romantic it seemed. And over all there rose the tall tower of St. Botolph's stately fane, so etherealised by the moist light-laden atmosphere that it looked as unsubstantial as the building of a dream, whilst near at hand tapering masts, tipped with gold, and ruddy sails told of the proximity of the sea. The ancient town had a strangely medieval look, as though we had somehow driven backwards into another century, the glamour of the scene took possession of us, and we began to dream delicious dreams, but just then came wafted on the stilly air the sound of a far-away railway whistle, soft and subdued by distance truly, but for all that unmistakable. The charm of illusion was over; it was a sudden descent from the poetic to the prosaic. Still, perhaps in the picturesque past the belated traveller would not have fared so well, so comfortably, or so cleanly in his hostelry as did we in our nineteenth-century one, where we found welcome letters awaiting us from home that reached us by the grace of the modern iron horse! Speed is a blessing after all, though it is the parent of much ugliness!
