At length, arriving here, we anticipated seeing the cathedral, but alas for human endeavors and calculations! this was to be _the_ place of our entire journey mistake. Wells proper, that of cathedral renown, was hundreds of miles away. This is a little, east-side-of-England seaport town of 3,760 inhabitants. Many of the houses are one-story, stone, plastered, and whitewashed. We felt in one quarter very at-homeish, for the street alongshore was much like one at Gloucester or Rockport, or in Joppa at Newburyport, Mass. There was an intense odor of fish, and the fishermen themselves were Joppa-fishermen-like, and not simply sailors. Heavy clothing was theirs, and of a cut and style not like Boston or Paris. Their boots were innocent of a waste of blacking, _souwesters_ for hats, and Guernsey frocks. We didn't have very hard work to be reconciled, and "making the best of it" wasn't enough in the nature of a sacrifice to transform it into a virtue. We were seeing a fine old English seaboard town, and now we have an unexpected source of thought to draw from. We have it sure, and ever shall. The mistaken detour was a blessing in disguise, a cloud with a silver lining. Next A. M., after a fine night's rest in that invigorating atmosphere, at 7 o'clock took train, and rode along landscapes not much like the other before passed over, for we were soon out into higher land, with some fields, and amid many fine gardens, groves, and woods,--in fact, in a quite New-England-appearing territory; and at 9 A. M., on this June 11, arrived at NORWICH.