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 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.