that jacket and those boots and stockings into money at the nearest old-clothes shop, and then he would no doubt hasten to his mother's "pub," and detail to her his successful morning's adventure. She would take the money he had obtained for the clothes, and, perhaps, give the child twopence for himself as reward for his smartness and there would be an end, while certainly the letter I had prepared would never be thought of or even discovered unless by some old Jew salesman, who would not comprehend its meaning. Yet could I blame the poor little tramp for his behaviour? No, indeed, I only pitied the unfortunate child more than ever.

Trained to deceive as thoroughly as we train our children to speak the truth, could anything else have been reasonably expected of him? It would have been a real matter for surprise had he acted differently. Still, I was foolish enough to feel somewhat disappointed, for the boy's face had attracted me. It is curious, too, to observe how very many attractive child-faces there are among the little vagrants of the London streets. Children with beautiful eyes and hair-children whose flesh is a perfect marvel of softness and fair delicacy, in spite of the dirt that grimes them from top to toe-and children whose limbs are so gracefully and finely formed, and whose whole manner and bearing are so indescribably lofty, that one would almost deem them to have been born in the purple. An excellent type of the tramp

aristocracy came to me one morning in the shape of an Italian boy of about ten or eleven years of age, who strolled under my window, twanging prettily enough the chords of a much-used, far-travelled, but still sweettoned, mandoline. I have always an extra soft heart for these straying minstrels from my own sunny land of song and I immediately called him, and entered into conversation with him. He told me he had travelled far and earned little, and that he seldom had enough to eat, but he was merry. "Oh, yes," he said, smiling his bright southern smile, "he was always hopeful and light-hearted."

Some peculiarity in his accent impelled me to ask him if he were not from Lombardy, and never shall I forget the superb gesture of head and the proud flash of his eyes, as he drew himself up, and replied, with dignity, "No, signorina, io son Romano" ("I am a Roman").

If he had declared himself an emperor, he could not have asserted himself with more dignity. Many a languid dandy, dawdling through the saloons of fashion, might have envied his grace of figure and princely bearing.

There was a very interesting account once in the Telegraph, concerning two baby tramps known as "Sally and her Bloke." Sally was eight, and her boy companion, the "Bloke," was nine. No matter how great the distances each had to traverse during the day in

obedience to the will of the tyrannical parents or masters who employed them to beg, or sell matches in the streets, as surely as the evening fell these two mites were always found together. Some irresistible attraction, some inexplicable sympathy, drew them together, and the poor little things entertained for each other so harmless, and withal so true, an affection, that even the coarse companions with whom their lot was cast were touched by their behaviour, and spoke with rough goodnature akin to respect of "Sally and her Bloke," and forbore to interfere with their pretty and pathetic little romance. I wondered at the time if anything would be done for this forlorn little couple, but the matter seems to have died out in mere sentiment, and "Sally and her Bloke" will no doubt be left to grow up as such children do grow up-in vice and misery.

A great step in advance has been made since the great English author, Charles Mackay, wrote his famous. poem, "The Souls of the Children," which so powerfully impressed the late Prince Consort that he had thousands of copies printed at his own personal expense, and circulated them freely all over the land. This poem helped largely to influence the minds of English philanthropists and statesmen in favour of universal popular education; but, surely, there yet remains much to be done! True, the question may be justly asked, can anything more be done? It is indeed terrible to think that

we must always be doomed to see sorrow, ignorance, and vice imprinted on the tender, flower-like faces of the very young, and that there must always be, in spite of the efforts of the wisest and best men, a large majority of babes and children for whom there is and can be no hope of good. Must there be a perpetual sacrifice of the innocents to the god of all evil? One of the saddest sights to me, among all the sad sights of London, are the neglected children who have somehow eluded the kindly-meant, though occasionally stern, grasp of the Government officials, and who have literally nothing to hope for, nothing to render their lives of value to the nation; and who, as far as their wretched parents are concerned, might be better out of the world than in it. The streets swarm with such helpless little ones, and yet it seems impossible to do more than is being done every day. English men and women have tender hearts full of pitiful gentleness for the helplessness of infancy, and the charities that are instituted for poor and neglected children, are, I believe, most generously supported; yet amid such a mass of distress and evil, how futile seems all the best work of statesmen and philosophers! We must, however, continue to hope for better times, when every child that is born into the land may be recognized as the child of the Government no less than of its parents, and may be brought to realize its own responsible position and value as a servant of the state.

This was the condition of things in Sparta, and, though the Spartans carried their ideas rather too far, still it must be admitted that their system had its foundation in very excellent common sense. Whatever mistakes and shortcomings Lycurgus may have had to answer for, it is certain that he never would have tolerated baby tramps.