FROM of this class I had the following account. It may be observed that the lad's statement contains little of incident, or of novelty, but this is characteristic of many of his class. With many of them, it may indeed be said, " day certifieth another." It is often the same tale of labour and of poverty, day after day, so that the mere uniformity makes a youth half oblivious of the past; the months, or perhaps years, seem all alike.

This boy seemed healthy, wore a suit of corduroy, evidently not made for him, and but little patched, although old; he was in good spirits.

I believe I'm between fifteen and sixteen," he said, "and mother died more than two year ago, nearer three, perhaps. Father had gone dead a long time afore; I don't remember him." [I am inclined to think that this story of the death of the father is often told by the mother of an illegitimate child to her offspring, through a natural repugnance to reveal her shame to her child. I do not know, however, that it was the case in this instance.] "I don't remember about mother's funeral, for I was ill myself at the time. She worked with her needle; sometimes for a dressmaker, on "skirts," and sometimes for a tailor, on flannels. She sometimes worked all night, but we was wery badly off—we was so. She had only me. When mother died there was nothing left for me, but there was a good woman—she was a laundress and kept a mangle—and she said, 'well, here's a old basket and a few odd things; give the kid the basket and turn the bits of old traps into money, and let him start on muffins, and then he must shift for hisself.' So she tuk me to a shop and I was started in the muffin line. I didn't do so bad, but it's on'y a winter trade, isn't muffins. I sold creases next—no, not creases, cherries; yes, it was creases, and then cherries, for I remembers as 'ow 'Ungerford was the first market I ever was at; it was so. Since then, I've sold apples, and oranges, and nuts, and chestnuts —but they was dear the last time as I had 'em— and spring garters a penny a pair, and glass pens; yes, and other things. I goes to market, mostly to Common Gard'n, and there's a man goes there what buys bushels and bushels, and he'll let me have any little lot reas'nable; he will so. There's another will, but he ain't so good to a poor kid. Well, I doesn't know as 'ow one trade's better nor another; I think I've done as much in one as in another. But I've done better lately; I've sold more oranges, and I had a few sticks of rhubarb. I think times is mending, but others says that's on'y my luck. I sleeps with a boy as is younger nor I am, and pays 9d. a week. Tom's father and mother—he's a coalheaver, but he's sometimes out of work—sleeps in the same room, but we has a good bed to ourselves. Tom's father knew my mother. There's on'y us four. Tom's father says sometimes if his rheumatics continues, he and all on 'em must go into the house. Most likely I should then go to a lodging-house. I don't know that some on 'em's bad places. I've heer'd they was jolly. I has no amusements. Last year I helped a man one day, and he did so well on fruit, he did so, for he got such a early start, and so cheap, that he gave me 3d. hextra to go to the play with. I didn't go. I'd rather go to bed at seven every night than anywhere else. I'm fond of sleep. I never wakes all night. I dreams now and then, but I never remembers a dream. I can't read or write; I wish I could, if it would help me on. I'm making 3s. 6d. a week now, I think. Some weeks in winter I didn't make 2s.

This boy, although an orphan at a tender age, was yet assisted to the commencement of a business by a friend. I met with another lad who was left under somewhat similar circumstances. The persons in the house where his mother had died were about to take him to the parish officers, and there seemed to be no other course to be pursued to save the child, then nearly , from starvation. The lad knew this and ran away. It was summer time, about years ago, and the little runaway slept in the open air whenever he could find a quiet place. Want drove him to beg, and several days he subsisted on penny which he begged. day he did not find any to give him even a halfpenny, and towards the evening of the he became bold, or even desperate, from hunger. As if by a sudden impulse he went up to an old gentleman, walking slowly in Hyde-park, and said to him, "Sir, I've lived weeks by begging, and I'm hungering now; give me sixpence, or I 'll go and steal." The gentleman stopped and looked at the boy, in whose tones there must have been truthfulness, and in whose face was no doubt starvation, for without uttering a word he gave the young applicant a shilling. The boy began a street-seller's life on lucifer-matches. I had to see him for another purpose a little while ago, and in the course of some conversation he told me of his start in the streets. I have no doubt he told the truth, and I should have given a more detailed account of him, but when I inquired for him, I found that he had