_Harper’s Magazine_ of June, 1882, gave the following interesting description:—“At one time the inhabitants of this old borough took up to living on a plan almost entirely their own, and the Rows in which they built their houses remain to this day the most curious of all the features of the ancient town. The Rows are narrow streets leading to and from the quay,—not narrow in the ordinary sense, but narrower, perhaps, than any other streets in the world, their average width being six feet. They are not isolated infrequent lanes left between more commodious thoroughfares by the incomplete modifications of early plans, but they form a system and their aggregate length is about eight miles. Six feet is their average width, but some of them are scarcely more than three feet, and two persons cannot pass one another without contracting themselves and painfully sidling in the opposite directions. The pavement is of rough cobble-stones, with sometimes a strip of flags down the middle to ease the way of the pedestrian. The houses tower up with smooth perpendicular walls, like cliffs, on both sides, and shut out the light, the upper stories projecting in many cases beyond the lower, and forming an arch over the narrow passage below. Most of these houses are very old, and the material of which they are built is flint or stone, often white-washed, though occasionally left in its natural condition with open timbering in the fronts; in one or two the masonry is of the herring-bone pattern; but huddled up as they are, without regard to privacy or ventilation, staring into one another’s faces with undesirable intimacy, they are of a good class, and in good condition, and some of them have courtyards before them with nasturtiums and scarlet runners dragging a tender green web over their white walls. The narrowest of the Rows is only 2 feet 3 inches in width. There are in all 156 of them, each known by its number. The object of the frugal plan in which they originated is a mystery. One of the guesses at it is this:—‘The fishermen spread out their nets to dry very carefully, and leave on the four sides of each net a clear passage, four, five or six feet wide.’ It is suggested that the ground on which the Rows stand was once used for this purpose, and that the passages became so well defined from constant traffic that eventually they were perpetuated as streets. However this may be, it is certain that some of the houses in the Rows were among the first built in the town, and certain also that, leading from the main street, they give easy access to the Quay, whereon Yarmouth finds its chief interest. When the moon is full and throws black beams of shadows across these alleys, and opens seeming pitfalls in their rugged pavement, a stranger hesitates to enter them. At all times they seem properly to belong to conspirators, but they are quite safe and reputable. In olden times the Watchmen patrolled them, ‘crying the wind’ for sleepless