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CHILDREN'S BOOKS: "SANDFORD AND MERTON."--The children's books
in those days were Hogarth's pictures taken in their most literal
acceptation. Every good boy was to ride in his coach, and be a lord
mayor; and every bad boy was to be hung, or eaten by lions. The
gingerbread was gilt, and the books were gilt like the gingerbread:
a "take in" the more gross, inasmuch as nothing could be plainer
or less dazzling than the books of the same boys when they grew a
little older. There was a lingering old ballad or so in favor of the
gallanter apprentices who tore out lions' hearts and astonished gazing
sultans; and in antiquarian corners, Percy's "Reliques" were preparing
a nobler age, both in poetry and prose. But the first counteraction
came, as it ought, in the shape of a new book for children. The pool
of mercenary and time-serving ethics was first blown over by the fresh
country breeze of Mr. Day's "Sandford and Merton," a production that
I well remember, and shall ever be grateful for. It came in aid of my
mother's perplexities, between delicacy and hardihood, between courage
and conscientiousness. It assisted the cheerfulness I inherited from
my father; showed me that circumstances were not to check a healthy
gaiety, or the most masculine self-respect; and helped to supply me
with the resolution of standing by a principle, not merely as a point
of lowly or lofty sacrifice, but as a matter of common sense and duty,
and a simple coöperation with the elements natural warfare.

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CHRIST'S HOSPITAL.--Perhaps there is not foundation in the country
so truly English, taking that word to mean what Englishmen wish it to
mean:--something solid, unpretending, of good character, and free to