y, at this moment, Pickwick is chiefly "made in Germany," and comes to
us from that country in highly-coloured almanacks--and pictures of all
kinds. About Ipswich there is a very appropriate old-fashioned tone, and
much of the proper country town air. The streets seem dingy enough--the
hay waggon is encountered often. The "Great White Horse," which is at
the corner of several streets, is a low, longish building--with a rather
seedy air. But to read "Boz's" description of it, we see at once that he
was somewhat overpowered by its grandeur and immense size--which, to us
in these days of huge hotels, seems odd. It was no doubt a large posting
house of many small chambers--and when crowded, as "Boz" saw it at
Election time in 1835, swarming with committeemen, agents, and voters,
must have impressed more than it would now. The Ball-room at "The Bull,"
in Rochester, affected him in much the same way; and there is a curious
sensation in looking round us there, on its modest proportions--its
little hutch of a gallery which would hold about half-a-dozen musicans,
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
c