"Why, how now, Mr. Beverage!—what is
the meaning of this?"

"You really must excuse me—I can't drink
your tea."

"Why not?"

"I may be thought too scrupulous by my
City friends, as to the water, but in truth I
can't—in short, I won't."

"Oh, Sir Beverage, of Rockwell! this fine
gentleman must be your fanciful descendant!
Scrupulous about the water you drink!"
exclaimed Old Thames; "of course, then, you
are not a Londoner—they don't mind what
they drink. A genuine Londoner can stand
anything, and for any number of years."

"I am fully persuaded of it," answered I;
"but there must be changes in all things.
Even Londoners—and let me assure you that
I am one—even Londoners will some day or
other come to a determination to have a purer
stream to their kettles and urns, than is at
present furnished by your Rivership's noble
current. We live in a time of changes, and
even you cannot much longer escape them."

"Changes!" exclaimed the Father of Rivers
—"there you touch me to the very mud; for
what changes have I not undergone, of which
this generation, and the one before it, have
not only no memory, but no idea. I, however,
know it too well."

"Ah, do you so?—pray unbosom yourself,
Great River!"

"Changes, Mr. Beverage!—there you reach
the bottom of my proud old heart, and make
me confess how much of my indifference,
however I may be hardened by long habit, is
assumed. I, in some measure, pretend not to
care for those abominations, because I cannot
help them. The City loves them; the seven
District Commissioners of Sewers, long
cherished them; the West-end turns up its nose
at mention of them, and walks away; aldermen
scream out against innovation and purification
—what hope have I? I don't pretend
that I was ever a pellucid stream—a crystal
current such as pastoral poets delight to
describe—no great river, with much shipping
or other water-traffic upon it, ever can be
clear; but it may be a vast deal clearer than
my present condition—ay, purer beyond all
comparison as beyond all doubt."

"Pardon me, venerable River, said I, "if I
ask how this could be; for did not the sewers
empty themselves into you formerly as they
do now?"

"Yes" said Old Thames, "they certainly
did; but then their stream was not what it
now is. Formerly, the sewers were rain-
courses—mere land and surface drains; they
were for water only, and if anybody threw a
dead cat into me, an old pair of boots, a
bullock's offal, or any other refuse, he was
punishable by the law."

"Where then did the house-drains have
their outlets?" I anxiously inquired.

"House-drains—our ancestors' house-drains!
—ha! ha! ha!" laughed Father Thames—
"why, they had none. The very idea had
never occurred to them."

"An extensive system of cesspools, then,"
said I, "like our own, till very recently?"

"Not even so decent as this. Every house
took care of itself, after its own sweet will,
and the passengers in the streets, especially
at night, had also to take care of themselves,
and run sometimes, for their lives, when they
heard a window opened above them."

"Very much in the same way as in some
parts of Scotland at the present time,"
said I.

"I know nothing of the Scotch water-
works," said Old Thames:—"I have always
had enough to do with my own affairs. What
with one tributary and another, each bringing
fresh trouble into my waters, I am sometimes
almost sick of my life—especially in the dog-
days—when—a painful subject that of dogs,
for they suggest cats and kittens, and other
varieties, with or without brickbats round
their necks. One hot summer's day, half a
horse, that used to draw the Lord Mayor's
coach, came float—but I shall spoil your
tea; let's change the current of our discourse."

I now proposed that we should converse a
little on the different Water Companies of the
Metropolis. At mention of these, Father
Thames sank back against a bulk-head and
laughed aloud.  "Where do you think the
Water Companies derive their supplies from?"
said he.

"From beautiful, unpolluted, clear rivers,
rising in the rural districts," answered I, with
frank innocence.

"Shall I give you the source and derivation
of each of them?"

"I shall feel exceedingly obliged to you,"
answered I, in some little trepidation, for I
began to fear that my tea-drinking was likely
to be troubled by his information.

"Then, behold in me that source," said
Father Thames. "I, Sir, I am that beautiful,
unpolluted, clear river, from which the
greatest part of them derive their supplies.
Some of these are peculiarly favoured by
circumstances. The Southwark Company,
and the Vauxhall Company take their stock
in trade from me near Vauxhall,—a
neighbourhood which constantly presents me with
so abundant a supply of the most objectionable
contributions, that it is no wonder
the water of these two companies should
furnish the mass of microscopic monsters
which have recently occupied the attention of
Mr. Arthur Hill Hassall. The Lambeth
Company fills its pipes from me at Lambeth,
famous for the grand outlet of a capacious
sewer, hard by. In this way do the Water
Companies wisely cater for the London
public. You see, they know your taste."

"Taste!—I beg, Father Thames, you will
make me an exception to any such taste.
My heart resents—I may say, rises at it."

"Well, well—I don't very much wonder.
You are not so well seasoned to it as some