trowsers form the most striking feature; and
who goes about the business of life in a
rough, gruff, lurcher-like fashion, as if grace
and beauty were the two cardinal sins of
womanhood and she were on a "mission" to put
them down. This is not a desirable animal.
We have women like merino sheep: they
wear their hair over their eyes and far on to
their necks. And women like poodle dogs,
with fuzzy heads and round eyes; women
like kangaroos, with short arms and a clumsy
kind of hop when they walk; and we have
active, intelligent little women, with just the
faintest suspicion of a rat's face on them as
they look watchfully after the servants and
inspect the mysteries of the jam closet.
Then there are pretty little loving marmoset
faces. I know the very transcript of that
golden-haired Silky Tamarin in the Zoological
Gardens. It is a gentle, plaintive,
loving creature, with large liquid brown eyes,
that have always a tear behind them and a
look of soft reproach in them; its hair hangs
in a profusion of golden-brown curls—
not curls so much as a mass of waving
tresses; it is a creeping, nestling, clinging
thing, that seems as if it wants always to
bury itself in some one's arms—as if the
world outside were all too large and cold
for it. There is the horsefaced woman,
too, as well as the horsefaced man; and
there is the turnspit woman, with her ragged
head and blunt common nose. In fact,
there are female varieties of all the male
types we have mentioned, excepting, perhaps,
the lion woman. I have never seen a true
lion-headed woman, excepting in that black
Egyptian figure, sitting with her hands on
her two knees, and grinning grimly on the
Museum world, as Bubastis, the lion-
headed goddess of the Nile.

Well, then, as we walk through London,
we have two subjects of contemplation in the
passing faces hurrying by—their races and
their likenesses. Now to their social condition
and their histories, stamped on them as legibly
as arms are painted on a carriage-panel.

In the city alone are several varieties of
our modern Englishman. There are the
smart men, who wear jaunty hats and well-
trimmed moustaches; who drive to their
places of business in cabs with tigers, and
who evidently think they are paying
commerce a compliment by making their
fortunes out of it. And there are the staid
respectable, city men, who live in the
suburbs, ride in omnibuses, and wear great
coats of superseded cut; who carry umbrellas,
shaven chins, and national whiskers, and are
emphatically the city men. And there are
equivocal-looking men, who are evidently
unsubstantial speculators without capital,
and who trade on airy thousands when they
want money enough to buy a dinner. Don't
we all know these men, with their keen faces
and bad hats, their eager walk and trowsers
bulged out at the knees? Don't we all know
the very turn of their black satin handkerchief
pinned with that paste pin—a claw
holding a pearl—all sham, every bit of it,
excepting the claw, which is allegorical—and
folded so as to hide the soiled and crumpled
shirt? Don't we see by their very boots
that they are men of straw? For, by right
of unpaid bills, the landlady is impertinent
or the servant disrespectful, and these necessary
coverings are therefore left in a dusty
and unenlightened condition. These are
the men who are the curse of the commercial
world. Unscrupulous, shifty, careless
of the ruin which their false schemes may
bring on their dupes when the bubble bursts
and the day of reckoning comes. In the
city, too, about the doors of the banks and
offices and the city clubs, are standing old
men dirty and worn. Perhaps they were
once clerks in the very offices at the doors
of which they now lounge to serve any
cab or carriage that may drive up. You
never see such men anywhere but in the
city; not with the same amount of intelligence
and abject poverty combined. In
better days they may perhaps have shovelled
you out gold in shining scoops or have checked
your cash-book for thousands.

Then there are Jews; with that clever,
sensual, crafty countenance, which contains
the epitome of the whole Hebrew history;
with their jewellery and flashy dress. And
there are young thieves, with downcast
eyes and a wholesome fear of the policeman;
but every now and then a sharp glance that
seems to take in a whole world of purses and
pockets, and to subtract your money like
magic from your hand. These have generally
an older lad, or young man, lounging near
them. You would scarcely believe him their
companion, he looks so staid and respectable;
but he is. The young thieves are not
confined to the city, unhappily. You see them
everywhere. Turning vaguely down any
street where they think they see a victim;
walking without aim or purpose or business
in their walk; dressed incongruously—with
some one, or perhaps two articles of dress
perfectly good, and the rest in tatters;
bearing no signs of special trade or of work
about them; a strange kind of cunning,
rather than of intelligence, in their faces:
these are the marks of the thieves.

Turning westward, carriages and
moustaches increase; queerly dressed people and
carts decrease. You see fewer policemen, as
such; but more acute-looking men in plain
clothes, on the look out for evidence or a
criminal. And you see more ladies. Here
is one in all the pride of her new maternity,
walking with nurse by her side carrying
baby in a maze of ribbons, laces, and
embroidery. Sometimes it is a blue baby,
sometimes a pink one, or a light green or
a stone colour; not often a white one in
London, because of the soot. You read
in the face of this young wife pleasant