testators are arranged--alphabetically, it is true--but under the Christian instead of the Surnames. Imagine the number of days, or couples of guineas, that would drop into the Registrar's coffers, for picking out one particular John Smith from the thousands of "Johns," under the letter "J!" Since the year 1800, the index is better: indeed it is almost as available as the old catalogues of the British Museum, though not quite so perfect. All this was despair to Mr. William Wallace, who modestly hinted that his archæological necessities pressed him to ask admission to the actual depository of the wills. The Registrar was petrified with astonishment. His figure expanded with a burst of indignation, which presently exploded in the interrogative interjection, "What?" that went off, like the sharp crack of a rifle. What? Exhibit, to any living soul, the dilapidative neglect, the hideous disorder, the wilful destruction of documents, involving the transfer of the property, personal and landed, of seven counties; and which he, the Registrar, obtains seven thousand pounds per annum for preserving carefully, and arranging diligently! Why, only last year the Archæological Institute of Great Britain, itself, was peremptorily refused admission; and was it likely that the Registrar would allow Mr. William Wallace--the friend of a mere Bishop--to be turned loose, to browse at will upon the waste the Registrar and his predecessors had committed and permitted? But what will not an enthusiastic antiquary dare, in his loved pursuit? Mr. Wallace was bold enough to hint that a Bishop had perhaps some power in his diocese--even over a Registrar. This appeared in a degree to lull the tempest; and after all storms there is a calm. The Registrar reflected. There was nothing very formidable in the applicant's appearance; he had not the hungry look of a legacy or pedigree hunter--a foolish young fellow, perhaps, with a twist about old manners and customs: and, in short, he _may_ take a look at the repositories. Up a narrow stair, under the guidance of a grumpy clerk, our persevering Middle Templar wends. In a long room, over the arches of the gateway, he sees parallel rows of shelves laden with wills: not tied up in bundles, not docketed, not protected in any way from dust or spiders by the flimsiest covering. Only the modern wills are bound up; but--not to encroach upon the Registrar's hard earnings--the backings of the bindings are composed of such original wills as were written on parchment. These are regularly cut up--that is, wilfully destroyed--for bookbinding purposes!