that even the clanging of bells, the shrill whistling of locomotives, and the metallic rush of trains seemed strangely and pleasantly mellowed there; moreover, the traffic on the stony streets of Boston appeared subdued, and had none of that nerve-irritating din that rises so often from the London thoroughfares.
FROM AN INN WINDOW It was a morning of sunshine and shower, an April day that had lost itself in September, and not readily shall I forget the shifting scene below with its moving mosaic of colour, nor the effect of the constantly changing light and shade on the stately church tower. Now it would be a deep purple-gray, dark almost to blackness as seen against a mass of white vapour, then suddenly it would be all lightened up to a pale orange tint against a sombre rain-cloud, its tracery and sculpturings outlined by the delicate shadows they cast, giving them a soft effect as of stone embroidery. A wonderfully effective and beautiful structure is this tower, and, in my opinion, after Salisbury's soaring spire, the most beautiful and graceful in England, which is saying much in a land where so many fine examples of ecclesiastical architecture abound. This splendid church of St. Botolph arose out of the piety and prosperity of a past generation. History has it that it was built over a small Norman church that formerly stood on the site, and that worship went on in the earlier structure during the time of building, and not until the new edifice was completed was the ancient one removed—a curious, and I should imagine a unique fact, that may account for the great height and size of the nave.
