bottom of their cañon or their 'well.' In London, building spaces should be open, not confined; in our vast wilderness we want no 'constant contiguity of shade.' Our climate is not that of Genoa or Naples, and our first sanitary need is ample sunlight, with its consequence, fresh, moving air. Our market gardeners understand all this: they do not rest when they have drained the land and regulated the manure, nor do they place their shrubs as close as possible upon the ground. They arrange, judiciously, to give each plant its share of sunlight and of air, and even open out the centres of their trees and bushes to the sun: they cherish health, and, constantly observing nature's laws, they look for multiplied and healthy fruit. Our builders and philanthropists, too often, it appears, regard existence only, not the joy and the exuberance of wholesome sunny life: they plan for a congestion of the population that will yield them five per cent., and on these terms they undertake to warehouse men and women.
The apartments thus provided are small, low-pitched rooms, some ten feet square, with what is called 'sufficient ventilation.' In such places even the most necessary movement of the air must cause a draught. The result is evident: all ventilation is, where possible, prevented; constitutions then must gradually fail, and doctors' bills will come to supplement the moderate rent, and bring the cost of model lodgings up to the level of substantial, spacious, freehold residences for our labourers and artisans.
There is a minimum of human need in dwellings as in clothes. Places and ages differ, and our model lodgings might be sumptuous for troglodytes and Esquimaux, though quite unsuitable for London workmen, who want homes for comfort and not cabins to confine them. Ordinary day rooms should be sixteen feet, at least, from wall to wall. The fireplace and fender, dining table, with a chair on either side, and room for comfortable movement, make this space im-
