igion and law; we pass beautiful gardens, and quickly we arrive at
the Temple. The lamps along the roadway give sufficient light for our
purpose, for they enable us to see that here and there on the seats and
in the recesses of the Embankment are strange beings of both sexes.

Yonder are two men, unkempt and unshaven, their heads bent forward
and their hands thrust deep into their trousers pockets and, to all
appearance, asleep.

Standing in a sheltered corner of the Temple Station we see several
other men, who are smoking short pipes which they replenish from time to
time with bits of cigars and cigarettes that they have gathered during
the day from the streets of London.

I know something of the comedy and tragedy of cigar ends, for times and
again I have seen a race and almost a struggle for a "fat end" when some
thriving merchant has thrown one into the street or gutter. Suddenly
emerging from obscurity and showing unexpected activity, two half-naked
fellows have made for it; I have seen the satisfaction of the fellow who
secured it, and I have heard the curse of the disappointed; but there!
at any time, on any day, near the Bank, or the Mansion House, in
Threadneedle Street, or in Cheapside such sights may be seen by those
who have eyes to see.

These two fellows have been successful, for they are assuaging the pangs
of hunger by smoking their odds and ends. They look at us as we pass to
continue our investigation. Here on a seat we find several men of motley
appearance; one is old and bent, his white beard covers his chest, he
has a massive head, he is a picturesque figure, and would stand well
for a representation of Old Father Thames, for the wet streams from his
hair, his beard and his ample moustache. Beside him sits a younger
man, weak and ill. His worn clothing tells us of better days, and we
instinctively realise that not much longer will he sit out the midnight
hours on the cold Embankment.

Before we distribute our clothes and food, we continue our observation.
What strikes us most is the silence, for no one speaks to us, no hand is
held out for a gift, no requests are made for help.

They look at us unconcernedly as we pass; they appear to bear their
privations with indifference or philosophy. Yonder is a woman leaning
over the parapet looking into the mud and water below; we speak to her,
and she turns about and faces us. Then we realise that Hood's poem
comes into our mind; we offer her a ticket