for a "shelter," which she
declines; we offer her food, but she will have none of it; she asks us
to leave her, and we pass on.

Here is a family group, father and mother with two children; their
attire and appearance tell us that they are tramps; the mother has a
babe close to her breast, and round it she has wrapt her old shawl; a
boy of five sits next to her, and the father is close up.

The parents evidently have been bred in vagrancy, and the children, and,
unless the law intervenes, their children are destined to continue the
species. The whining voice of the woman and the outstretched hands of
the boy let us know that they are eager and ready for any gift that pity
can bestow.

But we give nothing, and let me say that after years of experience,
I absolutely harden my heart and close my pocket against the tramping
beggar that exploits little children. And to those who drag children,
droning out hymns through our quiet streets on Sunday, my sympathies
extend to a horsewhip.

We leave the tramps, and come upon a poor shivering wretch of about
thirty-five years; his face presents unmistakable signs of disease more
loathsome than leprosy; he is not fit to live, he is not fit to die; he
is an outcast from friends, kindred and home. He carries his desolation
with him, and the infirmary or the river will be the end of him.

Here are two stalwart fellows, big enough and strong enough to do useful
work in the world. But they are fresh from prison, and will be back in
prison before long; they know us, for it is not the first time we have
made their acquaintance.

They are by no means backward in speaking and telling us that they want
"just ten shillings to buy stock in Houndsditch which they can sell
in Cheapside." As we move away they beg insistently for "just a few
shillings; they don't want to get back to prison."

Now we come to a youth of eighteen; he seems afraid, and looks at us
with suspicious eyes; what is he doing here? We are interested in him,
so young, yet alone on the Embankment. We open our bag and offer him
food, which he accepts and eats; as we watch him our pity increases:
he is thinly clad, and the night air is damp and cold; we select an old
coat, which he puts on. Then we question him, and he tells us that his
mother is dead, his father remarried; that his stepmother did not like
him, and in consequence his father turned him out; that he cannot get
work. And so on; a common story, no originality