that it would not cost to pay the piper more
than half the annual charge for cleansing
and repairing the existing cesspools, house-
drains, and sewers of deposit. Soon
afterwards, there are new counsels to the fore.
Trial works, requisite for the adjustment of
the size of pipes to the services they are to
render, are abandoned; proceedings under
the Public Health Act, for compelling the
abolition of cesspools, or the amendment of
house drainage, are dropped; and it is
declared that all investigations as to the means
of applying the refuse of London to agricultural
uses are beside the purpose of the
Commission. Young surveyors carry out some
plans of tubular drainage, while the old
surveyors bring their bricks into the field.
A great brick sewer, already producing
poison, has been constructed for Victoria
Street, at a cost of one-third more money
than would find pipe sewerage for the whole of
Westminster, except Belgravia and Pimlico.
Outlying townships, that could be got at in a
simple quiet way—Croydon, for example—
are being supplied with a complete new suit
of water supply and drainage, in the most
approved style; but, in the metropolis itself,
where the need is so great, we make small
progress. We have a foe under our feet
that is not conquered, and against which
no public effort appears likely to have much
effect. There is a Birnam wood sort of prophecy
that this foe cannot be vanquished
until Ministers, gentlemen of the Board of
Health, Commissioners, engineers, and
surveyors, can all come to a friendly
understanding with each other, and obtain the
blessing of a Beadle on their measures.

DOCTOR CHILLINGWORTH'S
PRESCRIPTION.

SOME years ago I read the Life of Gifford,
and straightway determined to go to some
college, and become a great scholar. In
what way this was to be done, I did not
know; nor, indeed, did it seem very easy,
for my mother was a widow, and her
property was small. But whatever scheme
I might decide upon, to come to London, it
seemed, must necessarily be the first step;
so to London I came in my eighteenth year.

I wandered in grand squares and crowded
streets. I loitered at print shops and
bookstalls. I idled in museums and galleries—
profiting by nothing that I saw, because I
was haunted with a bewildering feeling of
how much there was to be seen. I delayed
presenting letters of recommendation, and
when I did present them, was treated so
coldly that I never went again. I looked for
Milton's house at Westminster, and could not
find it. I took a book sometimes and lounged
all day in one of the Inns of Court, where
there was a garden; and I felt more lonely
than Robinson Crusoe. My faith in London
was gone. I saw plainly enough what
London was. A great family of rich and
comfortable people, all leagued together
against strangers; a community pretending
to be open to all, but secretly agreed to
dishearten intruders, by simply shunning them.

But while I had been thus staring about
me, the very thing that I wanted had been
lying at my feet. Opposite my window, in
one of those quiet cross-streets in the City,
that connect the narrow and comparatively
unfrequented lanes running down to the river,
was a little plot of ground, with a solitary
sycamore tree, and a thin down of grass-plot,
shut in with a wall breast high, and a row of
weather-eaten iron railings. Next to this
was a large house, almost entitled to be called
a mansion, for it had a flight of many stone
steps, a heavy oaken porch, profusely carved
with fruits, and tangled ribbons, and leaves,
and cherubim; a massive iron-ring knocker,
a link extinguisher, and a pear-shaped bellpull.
I had settled in my own mind that this
was the residence of the clergyman of the
parish; but, one day, induced by that curiosity
to know my neighbour's business that comes
of idleness and sitting near a window, I made
inquiries, and learned that this was known as
Doctor Chillingworth's Library. Now, on
reference to Maitland's History of London, I
discovered that this Doctor Chillingworth
was a relative of the great divine of that
name, who died in Charles the Second's reign,
and left large property for the founding of a
theological library; for the re-publication to
all time, of certain religious works written by
himself, that I had never heard of; for the
annual charitable relief of the widows of poor
clergymen (who should be found to have
studied those works); and, lastly, for the
sending yearly to a Scotch College, three
scholars who should have proved themselves,
upon examination, to have been the most
studious and deserving amongst the
competitors.

There was the library still, evidently—
though nobody seemed to know it. I could see
the ends of bookshelves near the upper
windows. No doubt there were the scholarships,
too, if any poor student chanced to hear of
them. I would just step over and ask.

I did step over and pulled the pear-shaped
bell handle, making such an incessant ringing
in some distant part of the house—that if
the trustees of Doctor Chillingworth had
resolved to go into a long sleep (as to all
appearance they had), they might have done
so with a perfect assurance of being roused
on the first application. No trustees, however,
came; but only an old man, who said
Mr. Thaine, the librarian, was out, and so was
Mrs. Thaine; but that Miss Thaine was in
the library. I desired to see Miss Thaine—
and the man bade me follow him upstairs.

There was a close smell of dust, but the
great hall was extremely neat and clean;
and the wide oaken stairs were all polished
and bare, except a little rivulet of carpet,