Reilly has done for the sanitation of Chicago as Chief Deputy in the Health Office. Administrations may come and go. Would that he could sip the elixir of life, that he might go on forever! [Illustration: DR. FRANK W. REILLY.] On his occasional visits to Chicago, before he came up here for good, Dr. Reilly had become a welcome guest and sometimes host in our midnight round-ups at the Boston Oyster House, and when he made his home here he was taken into regular fellowship. The regulars then were Field, Ballantyne, Reilly, and I--with Mr. Stone, Willis Hawkins, a special writer on the News, Morgan Bates, Paul Hull, a sketch writer who fancied he looked like Lincoln and told stories that would have made Lincoln blush to own a faint resemblance, and Cowen when in town, to say nothing of "visiting statesmen" and play-actors as occasional visitors and contributors to the score. Some insight into the characters of the four regulars may be gained from the statement that Field invariably ordered coffee and apple pie, Ballantyne tea and toast with oysters, Dr. Reilly oysters and claret, and I steak and Bass's ale. It was during these meetings that Field caught from Dr. Reilly's frequent unctuous quotations his first real taste for Horace. To two works the doctor was impartially devoted, the "Noetes Ambrosianæ" and "The Reliques of Father Prout." He never wearied of communion with the classical father or of literary companionship with Christopher North, Timothy Tickler, and the Ettrick Shepherd. We never sat down to pie or oysters that his imagination did not transform that Chicago oyster house into Ambrose's Tavern, the scene of the feasts and festivities of table and conversation of the immortal trio. But though the doctor enjoyed association with Kit North and the voluble Shepherd, it was for the garrulous Father Prout, steeped in the gossip and learning of the ancients, that he reserved his warmest love and veneration. So saturated and infatuated was the doctor with this fascinating creation of Francis Mahony's, that he inoculated Field with his devotion, and before we knew it the author of the Denver Tribune Primer stories was suffering from a literary disease, to the intoxicating pleasure of which he yielded himself without reservation.