and the small contracted space at the top where the "swells" of the dockyard stood together. "Boz," as he himself once told me, took away from Rochester the idea that its old, red brick Guildhall was one of the most imposing edifices in Europe, and described his astonishment on his return at seeing how small it was. Apropos of Rochester and the Pickwick feeling, it may be said that to pass that place by on the London, Chatham, and Dover line rouses the most curious sensation. Above is the Castle, seen a long time before, with the glistening river at its feet; then one skirts the town passing by the backs of the very old-fashioned houses, and you can recognise those of the Guildhall and of the Watts' Charity, and the gilt vanes of other quaint, old buildings; you see a glimpse of the road rising and falling, with its pathways raised on each side, with all sorts of faded tints--mellow, subdued reds, sombre greys, a patch of green here and there, and all more or less dingy, and "quite out of fashion." There is a rather forlorn tone over it all, especially when we have a glimpse of Ordnance Terrace, at Chatham, that abandoned, dilapidated row where the boy Dickens was brought up dismally enough. At that moment the images of the Pickwickians recur as of persons who had lived and had come down there on this pleasant adventure. And how well we know every stone and corner of the place, and the tone of the place! We might have lived there ourselves. Positively, as we walk through it, we seem to recognise localities like old friends. "Boz," when he came to Ipswich, was no more than a humble reporter, on special duty, living in a homely way enough. The "White Horse" was not likely to put itself out for him, and he criticises it in his story, after a fashion that seems rather bold. His description is certainly unflattering: "In the main street, on the left-hand side of the way"--observe how minute Boz is in his topography--"a short distance after you have passed through the open space fronting the Town Hall, stands an Inn known far and wide by the appellation of 'The Great White Horse,' rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal, with flowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an insane cart horse, which is elevated above the principal door. The 'Great White Horse' is famous in the neighbourhood in the same degree as a prize ox or county paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy pig--for its _enormous size_. Never were there such labyrinths of _uncarpeted passages_, such clusters of _mouldy_, _badly-lighted rooms_, such huge numbers of small dens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any other roof, as are collected between the four walls of this overgrown Tavern."