becoming self-respect about them. During
the entire week of my residence, I was not asked
for a single halfpenny, nor did I see any one in
the least like a beggar. If there be want or
immorality in Ipswich, it certainly is neither
dirty, shabby, nor intrusive.

Cardinal Wolsey, who was born at Ipswich,
still lives in the memory of the people; and by
St. Peter's Church stands a small gateway, built
of brick, and adorned with the royal arms, which,
otherwise unattractive, is historically interesting
as the sole relic of that college which the
ambitious prelate founded as a lasting glory to his
native town, but which did not survive his
downfal. Still is a passage leading from St.
Nicholas-street to the nearest church pointed
out as the place where Wolsey first drew the
breath of life; a small public-house rejoices in
the sign of the Cardinal's Hat; the Odd Fellows
of Ipswich have a Cardinal's Lodge. Nay, in
another public-house called the Spread Eagle, an
old lady is said to reside, who is the last
surviving representative of the Cardinal's family,
and, strange to say, half the house is used as a
butcher's shop.

All remember the princess in the story of
Aladdin, whose palace lacked nothing but a
roc's egg. On my way home from Ipswich,
when the week had expired, a fellow-traveller
asked me if I had seen the Arboraytim. " Do
you mean the promenade with the avenue of
trees by the water-side?" " No, no; just the
other way; you turn down by the White Horse,"
&c. " Then I have not seen the Arboretum."
"Then," ejaculated my fellow-traveller, " you
have missed the best thing in Ipswich." The
Arboretum was the roc's egg of my week's
holiday.

OUR EYE-WITNESS AT CHURCH.

THIS is our Eye-witness's report of a visit to
St. George's-in-the-East.

"No POPERY," written in large characters by
some enthusiastic worshipper upon the
woodwork of the first pew which the E. W. was
shown into.

"No POPERY" on all the blank walls in the
neighbourhood of the church; also handbills
inviting householders to meet in vestry rooms
and talk; handbills inviting young men,
apparently not householders, to meet in school-rooms
and talk.

More handbills—red handbills, green
handbills, prismatic handbills—handbills inviting
the offending clergy to come and be argued
with on platforms, handbills imploring anybody
to come and argue anywhere, handbills
challenging discussion, and some of a more
truculent kind still, informing the local public
that their liberties were in danger, and suggesting
that they should take the matter into their own
hands. In short, there were addresses in every
imaginable form and of every conceivable
colour: invitations full of rich argumentative
promise showing that the whole neighbourhood
was reeking with eloquence and wisdom, and
that any amateur of these qualities would do
well to frequent the purlieus of St.
George's-in-the-East.

But where is St. George's-in-the-East? How
is it approached? What sort of a building is
the church to look at?

St. George's-in-the-East is in the east, with a
vengeance, and very much more towards that
point of the compass than the Eye-witness had
at all bargained for. He had found, by reference
to the Post-office Directory, that this Temple of
Discord was in Cannon-street, and, determined
to be in good time, he entered that imposing
thoroughfare at half-past ten on a fine September
Sunday morning. After investigating all the
churches that lay in little back courts on each
side of the street; after peeping into some of
them, and finding them perfectly empty; after
rendering certain aged pew-openers (who took
him for the congregation) mad with joy by his
appearance, and then plunging them into despair
by his withdrawal; after wondering at the
perversity which hinders the removal of these
useless buildings to other sites where they are
so much wanted;—after these things, the
Eye-witness found himself at the eastern end of
Cannon-street without having made the
discovery he was bent upon, and quite at sea as to
where to look next for St. George's-in-the-East.

It is but to ask a policeman in these cases.

The officer to whom the Eye-witness applied
for advice turned instinctively upon his solid
heels towards the east, and waving his hand in
that direction, after the manner of one who was
requesting the metropolis generally to move on,
intimated that he did not know exactly where
the church was situated, but that it was
somewhere in the neighbourhood of Tower Hill.

To the east did the next policeman turn.

The Eye-witness consulted him when he had
got to the Tower. " St. George's-in-the-Heast,"
he said, " was close to Ratcliif-'ighway." " And
Ratcliff-highway?" inquired the Eye-witness.
The policeman pointed to the east.

When the Eye-witness had consulted one
more member of our constabulary, and had found
him to know nothing about the subject at
all, he became weary of the force, and
determined to apply next to a civilian; so, seeing a
baker standing at the open door of his shop,
waiting for the neighbourhood's Sunday dinners,
the E. W. approached him and asked the old
question once more in a low voice, for he was
ashamed of it. The baker was deaf, and the
Eye-witness had to repeat his inquiry at the top
of his voice three times, before he got an answer.
The little boys who accumulated at the rate of
four to each repetition of the demand, amounted
to quite a train as they followed the E. W.
during the rest of his journey, which was,
happily, not a much longer one, though still to the
east.

To the credit of the Post-office Directory, let
it be said that the church of St. George is in
Cannon-street after all; not, indeed in the well-
known thoroughfare of that name, but in one in