people. As for me, I am well-nigh grown
callous, being hopeless of amendment amidst
the insincere and prevaricating process of all
Government legislation on the matter. To
what end are all the elaborately prepared
reports of the Board of Health;—to what
end do the Commissioners of Sewers lay their
heavy heads together, lay down pipes, and listen,
while their secretary lays down the law;—
to what end do surveyors and clerks carry
each other pick-a-back through the main
sewers once a week, to guage, and weigh, and
sniff, and snuff about, at their lives' peril,—
if, after all, my Lord Do-nothing sits in the
highest chair, wiping his spectacles and clearing
his throat, and reducing everybody to his
own condition of inactivity?"

"But surely, in your remarks on the Water
Companies, you except the New River?"

"The New River Company derives its
supply from springs, called its 'Head,' which
may be simply described as a small pool,
filled from a narrow ditch full of weeds
and half-animated plants, and swarms of
animalculæ in great variety of ugly shapes,
which often rise from the surface and display
themselves in clouds along the margin.
Indifferent as these springs must therefore be,
as to purity, the supply is not limited to
them, but assisted from the River Lea. It
has also an accession to its volume from a
well and two reservoirs at Cheshunt (cleared
out and cleansed once in twelve years), and
it used to derive a final supply in aid from
my waters along Upper Thames Street
(convenient to Billingsgate), where they still keep
up their 'works,' in case of need, and people
do say, &c. The long canal, ingeniously
denominated New River, is also a famous place
at numerous spots for bathing. There's
nothing unwholesome in bath-water, is there?"

"May I request, Father Thames, that you
will put me ashore?"

"To tea—well, you need not make so
shocking a grimace, Mr. Beverage. You can
get no better tea-water in London. But I'll add
a word or two. The East London Company
takes its supply from the Lea, which is joined
by several small rivers; and in its course
runs through three-and-twenty small towns
and villages, most of which use the water for
various purposes of washing and bathing;
and some of them drain their sewers into it.
Moreover, the Lea is a barge-river; and as
bargemen and their families are proverbial
for the elegance and refinement of their
habits, nobody but your over-nice people
could object to drink after them. The Lea
reaches my stream near Blackwall, and half
of its water is in fact derived from me. Stop!
I have not done. The Hampstead——
What's the matter?"

"Oh, Father Thames!" cried I, "it's a
wonder and a mercy we are not all poisoned.
We Londoners have, for the most part, a
very pale look—and here's the cause, I do
believe."

As I said this, a strange expression lighted
up the face of the River-god; and rousing
himself from his indolent recumbency in the
barge, he suddenly exclaimed, "Vengeance!
yes, vengeance, Mr. Beverage! It is true
that I have become hardened to all these
outrages, and almost callous; but, Sir, I have
some feeling left; and though I would not
myself condescend to be vindictive on the
populations whom I have so long reared in
commercial prosperity, yet you cannot
expect me to shed tears over the punishment
which they bring upon themselves. For
every dead dog and cat that is flung into my
bosom, there's a typhus patient—perhaps a
dozen; for every slaughter-house, fish-market,
or graveyard near my banks, there's a dozen
scarlet fever patients—perhaps a hundred;—
for every main sewer draining into me, there
is a legion of cholera patients, in due season.
I have been deeply injured, but l am amply
avenged."

The barge was again nearly abreast of
Somerset House, and the time was at hand
for me to go ashore. The grand tone of
melancholy which Old Thames had now fallen
into, with the absence of any personal anger
at all his years of ill-usage, gave me an
additional interest in him. Though I
certainly could not take tea with him, I yet did
not like to lose his company.

"We are now about to part, Mr. Beverage,"
said the River-god, shouldering his urn—"I
return to my broad pedestal in the gloomy
quadrangle—you to your equally solitary tea."

"Nevertheless, oh Father of Rivers," said I,
"there is no immediate hurry. Besides—I
am thinking."

"Of what, Mr. Beverage? Why do you
stand and muse thus? On what imaginary
cup of perfect tea, or toast-and-water, do you
speculate?"

"On one made with exquisite spring-water,
of which I have recently been reading."*

* See Sir William Napier's Report on the Bagshot Springs.

"That is easily found—enough for you and
I, and a friend or two; but for my people,
my throngs of London people, my commercial
offspring where shall we find enough pure
water from rock or well, or land-spring, to
supply all their necessities?"

"That very thing is asserted by scientific
men who have recently been to make tea
there. Boiled some beef also—and made a
bowl of punch. But tea's the best test."

"And a good draught of the water itself the
best of all and the only safe guide?"

"Shall we go there?"

"Be it so;" said the River-god, "I have
nothing else to do, but pour up, and pour
down currents, and my time will be as well
spent in this visit, as in lying along my stone
pedestal, pointing down into the deep
basement."

So, again, the torches flashed around us,
for the night was far advanced, and up