probable occurrence. Even at high water, the
larger vessels are obliged to confine themselves
to the central channel, as the rest of the river's
bed is but slightly covered by the silvery liquid,
that lies like a vast mirror in its richly
ornamented frame. Of course, it was at low water
that the Orwell was seen by Rochester.

Thus, as in the course of last August I
proceeded up the river, when the water was at the
lowest, and stared not a little at the splashings
and tumblings that were going on around me, my
mind was prepared for something curious, and I
said to myself, "I will so discipline my memory
that it will retain the images impressed upon it
during my week's residence at Ipswich; I have
heard that Ipswich is a curious old place, and
lo! its curiosity begins some twelve miles
before I reach it."

Sometimes a promising commencement leads
to an impotent conclusion, as we find in the case
of numerous five-act dramas in which the
first act is immeasurably the best. But Ipswich
not only promises to be curious, but the promise
is honourably kept. As you quit the landing-place
and enter the town, you come to one
irregular street after the other. Curves abound,
pathways are narrow, the old-fashioned houses
are not merely dotted about, but you may walk
under a series of projecting first floors as long as
you please, and feast your eyes on infinite gables.
And after wandering about for some time, you
will probably find yourself on the Cornhill, a very
large square, in which the Corn Exchange and
the Town-hall are the conspicuous buildings.
Then will you rub your eyes and ask yourself
whether, instead of performing a little coasting
voyage, you have not crossed the Channel and
set your foot in some semi- Anglicised town of
Belgium.

Perceiving that the streets were very intricate,
and understanding that not a few special " lions"
were to be found, I lost no time in inquiring for
a map of Ipswich and its environs, and for
an Ipswich Guide. A map was not to be
obtained. One had, indeed, been published in
1840, but it was out of print, and you could not
get a copy for love or money. The bookseller
himself, who communicated this fact, marvelled
at the deficiency of his stock. A map of Ipswich
would be a very desirable thing, nay, visitors
had often asked for one; still—but—however
—no supply had arisen to meet the demand.
With the Guide I was more fortunate, the outlay
of an humble shilling putting me into possession
of an invaluable work by J. WODDERSPOON, which
not only told me much that I wanted to learn,
but also overwhelmed me with a knowledge of
things about which I felt no interest whatever.
To J. Wodderspoon I profess my gratitude for
all that he tells me about Wolsey's College, and
his directions as to where I am to find the
carved posts, &c., which are the delights
of the archaeologist, but I feel less beholden
to him for the arithmetical information he
gives about the dock, the foundation of which
was laid in 1839, and which was opened in 1842.
This dock, necessitated by the shallowness of
the Orwell at low water, is of the highest
importance to the place, and it is doubtless vastly
ridiculous to care more about a number of
antiquated carvings, that are neither useful nor
beautiful, than about a work of such obvious
utility. Nevertheless, I do care about the old
house in the Butter-market, down to the smallest
leaf on its garlands, and I don't care about the
area of the dock, nor can I enter with the
slightest enthusiasm into the controversy whether
fifteen thousand or twenty thousand persons
witnessed the ceremony of laying the foundation.

But what renders J. Wodderspoon's book a
source of peculiar excitement is the circumstance
that it was published in 1842, about seventeen
years ago, and that since that time Vandalic
hands have made rather free with the antiquities
of Ipswich. Hence, when he tells you that some
prime curiosity is to be found in such and such
a nook, and when by dint of a vast deal of inquiry
you reach the nook in question, it is by no means
certain that you will find the curiosity.
Uncertainty, everybody knows, is one grand cause
of interest, and then how great is the delight
of the investigator when his Guide happens
to be correct after all.

The chief archaeological " lion" of the place
is unquestionably the old house in the Buttermarket,
a street where butter was once vended,
and which now bears about as much resemblance
to a market as Whetstone Park to a preserve for
deer. This same old house is said to have been
built in 1572, for Mr. Robert Sparrowe, and we
believe the property remains in his family still,
although the present tenant uses it as a book-
seller's shop. A mass of sculpture decorates the
front of the edifice, allegorically representing the
four quarters of the globe, with a profusion of
Cupids and garlands by way of accompaniment;
while at the west end, facing a smaller street,
are a man on horseback fighting with something,
which the lively imagination may torture into a
dragon, an old gentleman on one knee, with a
solid conical beard, and a globe on his shoulders,
which betokens him to be Atlas; and a large
pastoral scene, in alto relievo, representing one gawky
shepherd approaching another who reposes
under a tree. This scene is supposed to illustrate
the first of Virgil's Eclogues, and indeed
whenever, in painting or sculpture, two men are
talking together, one standing and the other
seated with a tree close behind him, they may
be at once deemed representations of Tityrus
and Meliboeus, in the absence of strong reason
to the contrary. Anything more ugly or
inartistic than the human figures in these
ornaments, separately considered, it is impossible
to conceive. The symbols of Europe, Asia,
Africa, and America, are, in point of drawing,
scarcely beyond the ordinary achievements of the
mischievous amateur who chalks devices on a
long wall; but let all be gathered together into
a huge arabesque decoration, without regard to
detail, and the house, conspicuous with its four
bay-windows, presents a very pretty embossed
aspect. The windows project so far as to be