the public park and gazed at the venerable cathedral, which stands there for the praise of God. The jackdaws round the towers are perhaps the souls of sacristans who during their lifetime haunted the church. Ely is asleep.
Lincoln runs up a little hill, has a castle and a cathedral, as well as some relic of the Romans—I have forgotten what it is; the cathedral is grey and beautiful, and choral services are held there for three sacristans who watch me with enmity. What can I do? Farewell, sacristans, I am going to have a peep at York.
At York the cathedral is still more beautiful; I wanted to look over it, but the sacristan said I should desist from this, as a service would be held shortly. So I went for a stroll on the ramparts, and from there I made a drawing of York Minster, although they were holding a service in it; perhaps I shall go to the English hell for so doing. Around is the fair region of Yorkshire, a landscape of massive cows and renowned
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