This hotel stands in the principal street of Lincoln, and within a very short distance of one of the ancient city-gates, which is arched across the public way, with a smaller arch for foot-passengers on either side; the whole, a gray, time-gnawn, ponderous, shadowy structure, through the dark vista of which you look into the Middle Ages.  The street is narrow, and retains many antique peculiarities; though, unquestionably, English domestic architecture has lost its most impressive features, in the course of the last century.  In this respect, there are finer old towns than Lincoln:  Chester, for instance, and Shrewsbury,—­which last is unusually rich in those quaint and stately edifices where the gentry of the shire used to make their winter-abodes, in a provincial metropolis.  Almost everywhere, nowadays, there is a monotony of modern brick or stuccoed fronts, hiding houses that are older than ever, but obliterating the picturesque antiquity of the street.

Between seven and eight o’clock (it being still broad daylight in these long English days) we set out to pay a preliminary visit to the exterior of the Cathedral.  Passing through the Stone Bow, as the city-gate close by is called, we ascended a street which grew steeper and narrower as we advanced, till at last it got to be the steepest street I ever climbed,—­so steep that any carriage, if left to itself, would rattle downward much faster than it could possibly be drawn up.  Being almost the only hill in Lincolnshire, the inhabitants seem disposed to make the most of it.  The houses on each side had no very remarkable aspect, except one with a stone portal and carved ornaments, which is now a dwelling-place for poverty-stricken people, but may have been an aristocratic abode in the days of the Norman kings, to whom its style of architecture dates back.  This is called the Jewess’s House, having been inhabited by a woman of that faith who was hanged six hundred years ago.

And still the street grew steeper and steeper.  Certainly, the Bishop and clergy of Lincoln ought not to be fat men, but of very spiritual, saint-like, almost angelic habit, if it be a frequent part of their ecclesiastical duty to climb this hill; for it is a real penance, and was probably performed as such, and groaned over accordingly, in monkish times.  Formerly, on the day of his installation, the Bishop used to ascend the hill barefoot, and was doubtless cheered and invigorated by looking upward to the grandeur that was to console him for the humility of his approach.  We, likewise, were beckoned onward by glimpses of the Cathedral towers, and, finally, attaining an open square on the summit, we saw an old Gothic gateway to the left hand, and another to the right.  The latter had apparently been a part of the exterior defences of the Cathedral, at a time when the edifice was fortified.  The west front rose behind.  We passed through one of the side-arches of the Gothic portal, and found ourselves in the Cathedral Close,