The vicar looked about thirty years old, a gentleman, evidently assured of his position, (as clergymen of the Established Church invariably are,) comfortable and well-to-do, a scholar and a Christian, and fit to be a bishop, knowing how to make the most of life without prejudice to the life to come.  I was glad to see such a model English priest so suitably accommodated with an old English church.  He kindly and courteously did the honors, showing us quite round the interior, giving us all the information that we required, and then leaving us to the quiet enjoyment of what we came to see.

The interior of Saint Botolph’s is very fine and satisfactory, as stately, almost, as a cathedral, and has been repaired—­so far as repairs were necessary—­in a chaste and noble style.  The great eastern window is of modern painted glass, but is the richest, mellowest, and tenderest modern window that I have ever seen:  the art of painting these glowing transparencies in pristine perfection being one that the world has lost.  The vast, clear space, of the interior church delighted me.  There was no screen,—­nothing between the vestibule and the altar to break the long vista; even the organ stood aside,—­though it by-and-by made us aware of its presence by a melodious roar.  Around the walls there were old engraved brasses, and a stone coffin, and an alabaster knight of Saint John, and an alabaster lady, each recumbent at full length, as large as life, and in perfect preservation, except for a slight modern touch at the tips of their noses.  In the chancel we saw a great deal of oaken work, quaintly and admirably carved, especially about the seats formerly appropriated to the monks, which were so contrived as to tumble down with a tremendous crash, if the occupant happened to fall asleep.

We now essayed to climb into the upper regions.  Up we went, winding and still winding round the circular stairs, till we came to the gallery beneath the stone roof of the tower, whence we could look down and see the raised Fort, and my Talma lying on one of the steps, and looking about as big as a pocket-handkerchief.  Then up again, up, up, up, through a yet smaller staircase, till we emerged into another stone gallery, above the jackdaws, and far above the roof beneath which we had before made a halt.  Then up another flight, which led us into a pinnacle of the temple, but not the highest; so, retracing our steps, we took the right turret this time, and emerged into the loftiest lantern, where we saw level Lincolnshire, far and near, though with a haze on the distant horizon.  There were dusty roads, a river, and canals, converging towards Boston, which—­a congregation of red-tiled roofs—­lay beneath our feet, with pigmy people creeping about its narrow streets.  We were three hundred feet aloft, and the pinnacle on which we stood is a landmark forty miles at sea.