We will now visit some old towns where we hope to discover some buildings that are ancient and where all is not distressingly new, hideous, and commonplace.  First we will travel to the old-world town of Lynn—­“Lynn Regis, vulgarly called King’s Lynn,” as the royal charter of Henry VIII terms it.  On the land side the town was defended by a fosse, and there are still considerable remains of the old wall, including the fine Gothic South Gates.  In the days of its ancient glory it was known as Bishop’s Lynn, the town being in the hands of the Bishop of Norwich.  Bishop Herbert de Losinga built the church of St. Margaret at the beginning of the twelfth century, and gave it with many privileges to the monks of Norwich, who held a priory at Lynn; and Bishop Turbus did a wonderfully good stroke of business, reclaimed a large tract of land about 1150 A.D., and amassed wealth for his see from his markets, fairs, and mills.  Another bishop, Bishop Grey, induced or compelled King John to grant a free charter to the town, but astutely managed to keep all the power in his own hands.  Lynn was always a very religious place, and most of the orders—­Benedictines, Franciscans, Dominicans, Carmelite and Augustinian Friars, and the Sack Friars—­were represented at Lynn, and there were numerous hospitals, a lazar-house, a college of secular canons, and other religious institutions, until they were all swept away by the greed of a rapacious king.  There is not much left to-day of all these religious foundations.  The latest authority on the history of Lynn, Mr. H.J.  Hillen, well says:  “Time’s unpitying plough-share has spared few vestiges of their architectural* grandeur.”  A cemetery cross in the museum, the name “Paradise” that keeps up the remembrance of the cool, verdant cloister-garth, a brick arch upon the east bank of the Nar, and a similar gateway in “Austin” Street are all the relics that remain of the old monastic life, save the slender hexagonal “Old Tower,” the graceful lantern of the convent of the grey-robed Franciscans.  The above writer also points out the beautifully carved door in Queen Street, sole relic of the College of Secular Canons, from which the chisel of the ruthless iconoclast has chipped off the obnoxious Orate pro anima.

  Transcriber’s Note:  Original “achitectural”

The quiet, narrow, almost deserted streets of Lynn, its port and quays have another story to tell.  They proclaim its former greatness as one of the chief ports in England and the centre of vast mercantile activity.  A thirteenth-century historian, Friar William Newburg, described Lynn as “a noble city noted for its trade.”  It was the key of Norfolk.  Through it flowed all the traffic to and from northern East Anglia, and from its harbour crowds of ships carried English produce, mainly wool, to the Netherlands, Norway, and the Rhine Provinces.  Who would have thought that this decayed harbour ranked fourth among the ports of the kingdom?  But its glories have departed.  Decay set in.  Its prosperity began to decline.