and fearful wind, and starved and exhausted and drenched as they were, it was a sight to make a strong man weep....After waiting with wonderful patience, when they got the food many of them fairly broke down from over-joy.' At one of the principal depôts the Bon Marché-The Times correspondent found a young woman who had been waiting thirtynine hours; and others were lying on the pavement waiting till their turn should come, 'the day after to-morrow.' The commissioners and their helpers worked untiringly, and to a large extent alleviated the terrible sufferings of the people. The gratitude of the Parisians was unbounded. Mr. Moore was received with cheers wherever he went, letters of thanks poured in upon him, and 'one morning, as he and Colonel Wortley were getting into their carriage to go the round of the depôts, they found on the seat a bunch of flowers, with a little note saying that it was the only way in which the young girl who left them could show her gratitude to the English who had saved her mother and herself from starvation.' Even amid the horrors of the Commune the memory of English love was preserved, and the crowd who came up to fire Mr. Moore's warehouse spared it when they were reminded that it belonged to the 'Anglais' who had brought the gift of food to Paris. The work had not been done at small cost. Mr. Moore returned from Paris distressed both in body and mind. 'He could not get rid of the horrors he had witnessed. He would start up in the night, calling out, "Do you not see that woman dying? I must go to Versailles." His face began to look worn. His dark hair became grayer. He looked depressed.' Only a few years more remained for him; but they also were literally crowded with good works, and to the last, the same noble passion for doing good possessed him. He had many warnings, many forebodings of the end. Friend after friend departed. At length the messenger came suddenly. One Monday morning in October, 1876, he was preparing to go to Carlisle to preside at a meeting of the Nurses' Institution. The coming event cast its shadow before it, and he told his wife that he was going to Carlisle for the last time. Just before entering his carriage he called to her as she came down-stairs, 'What is that passage in St. Matthew?' 'Do you mean, "I was sick, and ye visited Me"?" No,' he said, 'I remember: "Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."' They reached Carlisle about midday. 'The meeting was to be held at two. About half-past one Mrs. Moore and her sister went shopping, while Mr. Moore and Mr. Steele, of The Carlisle Journal, proceeded down English Street. While standing opposite the Grey Goat Inn, his runaway horses, which had escaped from a livery stable, came galloping along at a furious pace. Mr. Steele had left the causeway, and was upon the pavement, when the first of the two horses passed between Mr. Moore and himself. The second, a few yards behind, was close upon Mr. Moore. He made a step toward the channel to get out of the way, but he was too late. He was struck by the hinder part of the horse and knocked down. He fell on his right side, and struck the ground heavily with his shoulder.' They carried him into the Grey Goat, and from thence, twenty-four hours after, his spirit returned to God, and the busy life which had in some sense began there, ended there also. Men of all ranks hastened to honour his memory-a memory that will long be green in the hearts of all who love and honour those whose life is lived for others. C. A. W. 37 CHEAP LITERATURE FOR THE YOUNG. THE admirable' get up' of children's books in these days, is matter of universal comment. On all hands the love of reading is encouraged by the publication of volumes rich in manifold charms. The public is not without timely, and sorely-needed warning that underneath tasteful covers, and amidst seductively attractive illustrations, frequently lurks moral poison which, once imbibed, may utterly deprave the mental appetite. But the attention of society has of late been drawn to mischief of another kind; less deplorable, indeed, but most surely demanding examination and remedy. What if, by clumsy, careless and misleading execution, the excellent designs of the writers of children's books should cause their good to be 'evil spoken of'; and ostensible efforts in the cause of truth should tend only to produce a feeling of disgust against the religion or morality so repulsively portrayed? This evil predominates amongst publications written with the avowed object of 'doing good to the poor.' wealthier classes, appreciating the power of criticism so early developed in educated children, shrink from offering to their boys and girls 'distorted representations of child life, stilted language, or obtrusive moral.' But the scanty library of the poor child, furnished only by the school reward-books or the gifts of some benevolent visitor, is abandoned to this threefold evil. Under the impression that the working man's child will apply his standard adjective pretty to any volume that falls into his hands, a parcel of books is ordered, and too often indiscriminately distributed; sent forth without perusal, in the consolatory belief that whatever issues from a certain author or a certain firm must, at least, The be 'safe.' If of the kind above described, it is probably 'safe' either to be deposited unread upon the shelf, or to produce a deleterious effect upon the reader's mind. Nor does the mischief end here; for, as is pointed out by a modern author, the intelligent workman, well versed in anti-religious newspapers and pamphlets, who finds his children reading'mawkish, ill-argued tracts and story-books, whose dulness he sets down to their subject instead of to their authors, becomes contemptuous when he might have been touched.' A recent writer in Macmillan's Magazine has warmly espoused the cause of poor children, and by adducing abundant illustrations of what he considers the main faults of the literature disseminated amongst them, seeks to persuade the public to look into the matter for themselves, and 'to cease distributing books of which they know nothing.' With a like object we lay before our readers certain examples of the style and matter of the teaching which we unite with him in deprecating. We shall note, by the way, certain extravagant and shallow observations into which he is occasionally betrayed by incautious indulgence of his highlydeveloped critical and satirical faculty. On examining the plots of these stories, we are struck with their division into a number of ever-recur ring grooves. An author writing with the desire of obtaining a little money, combining therewith the laudable but secondary hope of 'doing good,' has no incentive to leave the beaten track of former writers of children's literature. Let John be called Charles, and Jane's cognomen be altered to Susan, and a pocketbook be honestly returned to the owner, instead of the purse of the typical tale-book, the locality of the interesting scene and the circumstances of the actors slightly changed, the munificent reward of honesty varied, and she has a story readymade, and the honorarium is speedily and cheaply earned. A similar explanation might be given for the multiplication of stories of nieces sent, by some untoward circumstance, to live with their uncles, and eventually becoming instrumental in the conversion of themselves and families (of this class we have counted no less than seven in a small library of children's books), of plodding scholars artfully deprived of their just rewards, by brilliant but wicked schoolfellows, and a host of other hackneyed plots, the story always ending in the open triumph of virtue and the awful abasement of vice. Such, indeed, is the moral of the vast majority of children's books: a moral to which we feel bound to take exception on account of its extreme variance with every-day experience, and its tendency to encourage young people to look for artificial and tangible rewards for every good action. Rather should their thoughts be directed, not by wearisome moralizing, but by lively illustrations, to that best reward obtainable and appreciable by every child : the approving voice of conscience and of Christ. This thought is admirably worked out, in 'Ruth Elliott's' most attractive and natural story, Dick's Troubles, and How he Met them. This, like all the publications of that gifted and lamented authoress, displays a genuine talent for engaging the hearty interest of young people, who are charmed to find their pleasures and struggles viewed from their own standpoint. The writer in Macmillan strengthens his complaints against the plots of children's books by calling attention to 'dissertations against some particular fault, which fault is never allowed to drop out of sight for one moment....In the typi cal story against vanity in dress, foolish Ellen appears to have no idea except the "bright ribbon" for her hat; her kind aunt never opens her mouth except to blame her for her folly; her right-thinking friend seems to have forgotten every theme except the superiority of brown ribbon to pink; the excellent clergyman happens to preach on sober apparel; the judicious schoolmaster praises the rightthinking friend for her neat dress, and compares her with Ellen to the disadvantage of the latter; the good ladies from the Hall bewail her evil propensities to her kind aunt; and the neighbours all prophesy a bad end to her career-a prophecy which is inevitably fulfilled unless an opportune bereavement or typhus fever ensues to convince her of the nothingness of bright millinery.' We confess that this picture of the extravagant obtrusion of one idea is scarcely overdrawn; yet, might it not be matched in secular tale wrights? Some excuse for it may be found in the proverbial slowness of the human mind to grasp the point of a peculiarly applicable moral suggestion. The fault must be presented to Ellen and her semblables in all varieties of evil lights before they will perceive its sinfulness. One other species of plot we are exhorted to beware of, a specimen of which is found in the popular tract, Will Father be a Goat, Mother? which relates how a half-drunken father is cut to the heart by overhearing the question of his boy, who' has listened to his mother's reading of Matthew xxv. The story, which bears all the marks of truth, adds that this incident led to the conversion of the father. It is argued that such anecdotes must do harm to the child by encouraging him to make religious remarks with the object of influencing for good his erring parent, and that such remarks are not likely to benefit the parent. To the latter conclusion we demur, for the words of another man's child may pierce many a sinful parent's heart with the thought: My child might have said this of me.' For such the stories are told, and experience shows that they have frequently produced good effect. Who would wish to hinder the circulation of Dora Greenwell's touching story of the pitman's wife convinced of carelessness in spiritual things by the simple query of her child: Ain't I'most old enough, mother, to give up saying my prayers?' The mischief, if there be any, lies, not in the narratives themselves, but in the incautiousness of those who place them in children's hands. From plots we turn to characters. Of these the most objectionable are the endlessly moralizing parent, the model hero and the wicked hero's right-minded friend. The parent appears to be introduced in many of these stories for the sole purpose of administering reproof or commendation, either unsuitable, from its style, to arouse the compunction of the child, or else utterly unmerited. As an example, take the wearisome praise bestowed by the father of Helen in The Eskdale Herdboy, elicited by an intelligent question from his daughter: Many children are so foolish as to be ashamed to let those they converse with discover that they do not comprehend everything that is said to them, by which means they often imbibe erroneous ideas, when by questioning their friends they might easily have obtained correct information.' The composer of this sentence needs to be reminded that a child (out of a book) understands 'as a child.' In Arthur Granville, the hero willingly agrees to his mamma's suggestion that they should spend half an hour in talking of God's mercies. The conversation appears to have suitably impressed the boy, for on the following day he enters the room, keeping his Bible concealed, and asks his mother Which of God's mercies he holds in his hands. Mrs. Granville lengthily expostulates with him for his levity, beginning: 'A less giddy humour would be more becoming. You know, my child, how I delight in seeing you cheerful at all times, and merry in your play, and that Í do not at all object to a noisy game of romps at a proper time and in proper places; but sacred things, Arthur, should be treated with reverence.' An excellent lesson doubtless, but surely somewhat malapropos. We fail to see the irreverence either of considering the Bible one of God's mercies, or of holding it in one's hand. However, since Mrs. Granville's remarks occupy two pages, we are scarcely surprised to learn that Arthur needed no further reproof. It is only fair to add that in some instances the parent's or guardian's reproof is both timely and salutary, the only desideratum being a less harsh mode of administration. But if the model hero is not allowed to understand as a child,' still less is he permitted to think or speak as a child.' His excellent reflections are expressed in language so essentially unboy-like, that the sympathies of the reader are almost sure to be enlisted against him: the conclusion arrived at being that if good boys are all of this stamp, no sensible lad need hasten to join their company. Richard, in Try Again, thus addresses his schoolmaster: You lectured us in school upon sympathy, telling us that we were all brothers, and that being schoolfellows meant that we should have fellowfeeling; and then you went on to show that patience with one another's faults was a duty we were called upon to practise.... When we were dismissed from school I went to my little room and wept very bitterly, for I thought how often I had acted in a manner disgraceful to a Christian.' Surely, the purpose of encouraging a kindly and unselfish spirit amongst schoolboys would have been far better accomplished if the writer had become as a boy to the boys in order to gain the boys. Christian craftiness and 'guile,' after St. Paul's example, are especially needed in order to win most boys to follow the meekness and gentleness of Christ. The feeling of aversion to the representative good child of these books is still further fostered by the provoking egotism of the bad boy's or girl's right-minded friend. Considering that the disposition of the typical bad boy is one of unmixed evil, that 'he is devoid of a single redeeming quality,' it is not surprising that his irreproachable friend finds frequent occasion to display his own excellencies against the dark background of his companion's depravity. It is greatly to be regretted that the writers of children's books should be so addicted to extremes. For it is certain that no thoroughly wicked lad will spend his time in perusing records of this class, and he who has any preventing grace will fail to see his own 'natural face' in these supposed mirrors of character. And how can the average boy-conscious, amongst all his bad qualities, of at least some good moral or spiritual results of pious instruction followed up by the Spirit's light-perceive that this frightful embodiment of evil is intended to warn him from the error of his own particular ways? On the other hand, one turns from the faultless boys and girls, sickened with their ever obtrusive sense of their superiority to their companions. Why are we not told of the struggle in a child's heart before she can reply gently to the taunt of a companion; of her perplexity and inward prayer that what she is about to say may not offend her friend, instead of being always confronted with the glib sarcasm of conscious moral superiority? In the course of an attack by the writer in Macmillan on the dramatis persona of children's stories, we are introduced to the aged cottager of Old Humphrey. Our critic 'cannot help being astonished at the unbroken monotony of his ministrations, and wondering at the ascendency which he preserves over the minds of his acquaintance.' He instances Joel Stokes, 'a truly Christian and cheerful-hearted old man,' who is in the habit of introducing a word in season, by putting to those whom he meets, the query, 'How do you get on?' The same complaint is made against a similar personage in Old Humphrey's Pleasant Pages, who spends an hour with Master Arthur, telling him the mistakes of half a dozen of his acquaintance-after which he has apparently nothing to say, and the story abruptly closes with a text and a piece of good advice.' We see no reason to suppose that Old Richard stopped talking because he had nothing to say an hour's conversation, even of the lively and interesting description of most of Old Humphrey's heroes, was quite sufficient for a boy like Arthur. We should prefer to think that the good villager, instead of uttering' all his mind,' chose the part of the wise man, and kept it till afterwards.' Indeed, the whole attack against Old Humphrey's books appears to us quite uncalled for. We admit that the advice of Stokes is scarcely suitable for children; but George Moggridge wrote his books for the cottage family, and there is generally a chapter for the father and mother as well as for the children. We should be sorry to learn that the books of Old Humphrey were no longer in circulation. for We have spoken of the incomprehensible language employed by the various personages introduced into children's tales. We now turn to the wording of the narrative portion. The same incapacity to realize for whom the stories are intended is observable here. Young authoresses, especially, forget that a child's storybook is scarcely a fitting field for the |