T.S. Arthur - "Lessons in Life, For All Who Will Read Them"

Anthony Trollope - "The Parson's Daughter of Oxney Colne"

Hamilton Wright Mabie - "Legends That Every Child Should Know"

William W. Walter - "The Pastor's Son"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Rise of David Levinsky

A >> Abraham Cahan >> The Rise of David Levinsky




I suddenly felt ten years older

She broke away from me, jumping around, slapping her hands and
bubbling over with triumphant mirth, as she shouted: "There is a
pious soul for you! There is a pious soul for you!"

A thought of little Red Esther of my childhood days flashed
through my brain, of the way she would force me to "sin" and then
gloat over my "fall."

"A penny for your piety," Matilda added, gravely. "When you are
in America you'll dress like a Gentile and even shave. Then you
won't look so ridiculous. Good clothes would make another man
of you." At this she looked me over in a business-like sort of way.
"Pretty good figure, that," she concluded

In the evening of that day, when there was company in the house,
she bore herself as though she did not know me. But the next
morning, after the children had gone to school and her mother was
away on her various missions, she made me put on the glittering
coat and cap of her brother's Sunday uniform

"It's rather too small for you, but it's becoming all the same," she
said, enthusiastically. "If mamma came in now she would not
know you. But then there would be a nice how-do-you-do if she
did." She gave a titter which rolled through my very heart. "Well,
Mr. Gymnasist, [note] are you really in love with me?"

"Don't make fun of me, pray," I implored her. "It hurts, you know."
"Very well, I sha'n't. But you haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"What a poor memory you have! And yet mother says you have 'a
good head.' Try to remember."

"I do remember your question."

"Then what is your answer?"

"Yes."

"Yes!" she mocked me. "That's not the way gentlemen declare
their love." "What else shall I say?"

"What else! Well, say: 'I am ready to die for you. You are the
sunshine of my life.'" "'You are the sunshine of my life,'" I
echoed, with a smile that was a combination of mirth and
resentment

"'You are my happiness, my soul. The world would be dark
without you.'"

"I am no baby to parrot somebody else's words."

"Then you don't love me."

"Yes, I do. But I hate to be made fun of. Don't! Please don't!" I said
it with a beseeching, passionate tremor in my voice, and all at
once I clasped her violently to me and was about to kiss her. She
put up her lips responsively, but suddenly she wrenched herself
back

"Easy, easy, you saintly Talmudist," she said, good-naturedly.
"You must not forget that you are not a gymnasist, that to kiss a
woman is a sin, a great sin. You'll be beaten with rods of iron in
the world to come. Well, good-by," she concluded, gravely. "I
must go. Take off that coat and cap.

Mamma may come in at any moment." She showed me where to
hang them

[note: Gymnasist] A pupil of a gymnasium or high school

CHAPTER IV In my incessant reveries of her I developed the
theory that if I abandoned my plan about going to America she
would have her father send me to college with a view to my
marrying her. Indeed, matches of this kind were not an unusual
arrangement in our town (nor are they in the Jewish districts of
New York, Philadelphia, Boston, or Chicago, for example)

My bed was usually made on the enormous green sofa in the
spacious sitting-room. One night, when I was asleep on that great
sofa, I was suddenly aroused by the touch of a hand

"'S-sh," I heard Matilda's whisper. "I want to talk to you. I can't
sleep, anyhow. I don't know why. So I was thinking of all kinds of
things till I came to your plan about America. It is foolish. Why go
so far? Perhaps something can be done to get you into high school
and then into the university."

"I have guessed it right, then," I exclaimed within myself. The
room was pitch-dark. Her white kimono was all I could see of her

She explained certain details. She spoke in a very low undertone,
with great earnestness. I took her by the hand and drew her down
to a seat on the edge of the sofa beside me. She offered no
resistance. She continued to talk, partly in the same undertone,
partly in whispers, with her hand remaining in mine. I was aflame
with happiness, yet I listened intently. I felt sure that she was my
bride-to-be, that it was only a matter of days when our
engagement would be celebrated. My heart went out to her with a
passion that seemed to be sanctioned by God and men. I strained
down her head and kissed her, but that was the stainless kiss of a
man yearning upon the lips of his betrothed. I clasped her flimsily
garmented form, kissed her again and again, let her kiss and bite
me; and still it all seemed legitimate, or nearly so. I saw in it an
emphatic confirmation of my feeling that she did not regard
herself a stranger to me. That mattered more than anything else at
this moment

"You're a devil," she whispered, slapping me on both cheeks, "a
devil with side-locks." And she broke into a suppressed laugh

"I'll study as hard as I can," I assured her, with boyish exultation.

"You'll see what I can do. The Gentile books are child's play in
comparison with the Talmud."

I went into details. She took no part in my talk, but she let me go
on. I became so absorbed in what I was saying that my caresses
ceased. I sat up and spoke quite audibly

"'S-sh!" she cautioned me in an irritated whisper

I dropped my voice. She listened for another minute or two and
then, suddenly rising, she said: "Oh, you are a Talmud student,
after all," and her indistinct kimono vanished in the darkness

I felt crushed, but I was sure that the words "Talmud student,"
which are Yiddish for "ninny," merely referred to my rendering
our confab dangerous by speaking too loud

The next afternoon she kissed me once more, calling me Talmud
student again.

But she was apparently getting somewhat fidgety about our
relations. She was more guarded, more on the alert for
eavesdroppers, as though somebody had become suspicious. My
Gentile education she never broached again. Finally when a letter
came from her father announcing his speedy return and Shiphrah
hastened to terminate my stay at the house, Matilda was obviously
glad to have me go.

"I shall bring you the money to the synagogue," she whispered as I
was about to leave

I was stunned. I left in a turmoil of misery and perplexity, yet not
in despair

When I returned to the synagogue everybody and everything in it
looked strange to me. Reb Sender was dearer than ever, but that
was chiefly because I was longing for a devoted friend. I was
dying to relieve my fevered mind by telling him all and seeking
advice, but I did not

"Are you still weak?" he asked, tenderly, looking close into niy
eyes

"Oh, it is not that, Reb Sender." "Is it the death of your dear
mother--peace upon her?"

"Yes, of course. That and lots of other things."

"It will all pass. She will have a bright paradise, and The Upper
One will help you. Don't lose heart, my boy."

I ran over to Naphtali's place. We talked of Shiphrah and her
children--at least I did. He asked about Matilda, and I answered
reluctantly. Now and again I felt impelled to tell him all. It would
have been such a relief to ease my mind of its cruel burden and to
hear somebody's, anybody's opinion about it. But his laconical
questions and answers were anything but encouraging

I spent many an hour in his company, but he was always absorbed
in the Talmud, or in some of his infidel books. The specific
character of my restlessness was lost upon him

I was in the grip of a dull, enervating, overpowering agony that
seemed to be weighing my heart down and filling my throat with
pent-up sobs. I was writhing inwardly, praying for Matilda's
mercy. It was the most excruciating pain I had ever experienced. I
remember it distinctly in every detail. If I now wished to imagine
a state of mind driving one to suicide I could not do it better than
by recalling my mental condition in those days

In point of fact I took pride in my misery. "I am in love. I am no
mere slouch of a Talmud student," I would say to myself

In the evening of the fourth day, as I was making a pretense at
reading Talmud, a poor boy came in to call me out. In the alley
outside the house of worship I found Matilda. She had the money
with her

"I don't think I want it now," I said. "I don't care to go to America."
"Why?" she asked, impatiently. "Oh, take it and let me be done
with it," she said, forcing a small packet into my hand. "I have no
time to bother with you. Go to America. I wish you good luck."

"But I'll miss you. I sha'n't be able to live without you."

"What? Are you crazy?" she said, sternly. "You forget your place,
young man!"

She stalked hastily away, her form, at once an angel of light and a
messenger of death, being swallowed up by the gloom

Ten minutes later, when I was at my book again, my heart bleeding
and my head in a daze, I was called out once more

Again I found her standing in the lane

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings," she said. "I wish you good
luck from the bottom of my heart."

She uttered it with a warm cordiality, and yet the note of
impatience which rang in her voice ten minutes before was again
there

"Try to become an educated man in America," she added. "That's
the main thing. Good-by. You have my best wishes. Good-by."

And before I had time to say anything she shook my hand and was
gone

CHAPTER V A LITTLE over three weeks had elapsed. It was two
days after Passover. I had just solemnized the first anniversary of
my mother's death. The snow had melted. Each of my five senses
seemed to be thrillingly aware of the presence of spring

I was at the railway station. Clustered about me were Reb Sender
and his wife, two other Talmudists from the Preacher's
Synagogue, the retired old soldier with the formidable
side-whiskers, and Naphtali

As I write these words I seem to see the group before me. It is one
of those scenes that never grow dim in one's memory

"Be a good Jew and a good man," Reb Sender murmured to me,
confusedly. "Do not forget that there is a God in heaven in
America as well as here. Do not forget to write us." Naphtali,
speaking in his hoarse whisper, half in jest, half in earnest, made
me repeat my promise to send him a "ship ticket" from America. I
promised everything that was asked of me. My head was
swimming

While the first bell was sounding for the passengers to board the
train, Shiphrah rushed in, puffing for breath. I looked at the door
to see if Matilda was not following her. She was not.

The group around me made way for the rich woman

"Here," she said, handing me a ten-ruble bill and a package. "There
is a boiled chicken in it, and some other things, provided you
won't neglect your Talmud in America."

A minute later she drew her purse from her skirt pocket, produced
a five-ruble bill, and put it into my hand. That all the other money
I had for my journey had come from her daughter she had not the
remotest idea

I made my final farewells amid a hubbub of excited voices and
eyes glistening with tears



BOOK V I DISCOVER AMERICA CHAPTER I TWO weeks later
I was one of a multitude of steerage passengers on a Bremen
steamship on my way to New York. Who can depict the feeling of
desolation, homesickness, uncertainty, and anxiety with which an
emigrant makes his first voyage across the ocean? I proved to be a
good sailor, but the sea frightened me. The thumping of the
engines was drumming a ghastly accompaniment to the awesome
whisper of the waves. I felt in the embrace of a vast, uncanny
force. And echoing through it all were the heart-lashing words:
"Are you crazy? You forget your place, young man!" When
Columbus was crossing the Atlantic, on his first great voyage, his
men doubted whether they would ever reach land. So does many
an America-bound emigrant to this day. Such, at least, was the
feeling that was lurking in my heart while the Bremen steamer
was carrying me to New York. Day after day passes and all you
see about you is an unbroken waste of water, an unrelieved, a
hopeless monotony of water. You know that a change will come,
but this knowledge is confined to your brain. Your senses are
skeptical

In my devotions, which I performed three times a day, without
counting a benediction before every meal and every drink of
water, grace after every meal and a prayer before going to sleep, I
would mentally plead for the safety of the ship and for a speedy
sight of land. My scanty luggage included a pair of phylacteries
and a plump little prayer-book, with the Book of Psalms at the
end. The prayers I knew by heart, but I now often said psalms, in
addition, particularly when the sea looked angry and the pitching
or rolling was unusually violent. I would read all kinds of psalms,
but my favorite among them was the 104th, generally referred to
by our people as "Bless the Lord, O my soul," its opening words in
the original Hebrew. It is a poem on the power and wisdom of
God as manifested in the wonders of nature, some of its verses
dealing with the sea. It is said by the faithful every Saturday
afternoon during the fall and winter; so I could have recited it
from memory; but I preferred to read it in my prayer-book. For it
seemed as though the familiar words had changed their identity
and meaning, especially those concerned with the sea. Their
divine inspiration was now something visible and audible. It was
not I who was reading them. It was as though the waves and the
clouds, the whole far-flung scene of restlessness and mystery,
were whispering to me: "Thou who coverest thyself with light as
with a garment, who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain: who
layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters: who maketh the
clouds his chariot: who walketh upon the wings of the wind. . . .
So is this great and wide sea wherein are things creeping
innumerable, both small and great beasts. There go the ships:
there is that leviathan whom thou hast made to play therein. . .

."

The relentless presence of Matilda in my mind worried me
immeasurably, for to think of a woman who is a stranger to you is
a sin, and so there was the danger of the vessel coming to grief on
my account. And, as though to spite me, the closing verse of
Psalm 104 reads, "Let the sinners be consumed out of the earth
and let the wicked be no more." I strained every nerve to keep
Matilda out of my thoughts, but without avail

When the discoverers of America saw land at last they fell on their
knees and a hymn of thanksgiving burst from their souls. The
scene, which is one of the most thrilling in history, repeats itself
in the heart of every immigrant as he comes in sight of the
American shores. I am at a loss to convey the peculiar state of
mind that the experience created in me

When the ship reached Sandy Hook I was literally overcome with
the beauty of the landscape

The immigrant's arrival in his new home is like a second birth to
him.

Imagine a new-born babe in possession of a fully developed
intellect. Would it ever forget its entry into the world? Neither
does the immigrant ever forget his entry into a country which is,
to him, a new world in the profoundest sense of the term and in
which he expects to pass the rest of his life. I conjure up the
gorgeousness of the spectacle as it appeared to me on that clear
June morning: the magnificent verdure of Staten Island, the tender
blue of sea and sky, the dignified bustle of passing craft--above
all, those floating, squatting, multitudinously windowed palaces
which I subsequently learned to call ferries. It was all so utterly
unlike anything I had ever seen or dreamed of before. It unfolded
itself like a divine revelation. I was in a trance or in something
closely resembling one

"This, then, is America!" I exclaimed, mutely. The notion of
something enchanted which the name had always evoked in me
now seemed fully borne out

In my ecstasy I could not help thinking of Psalm 104, and, opening
my little prayer-book, I glanced over those of its verses that speak
of hills and rocks, of grass and trees and birds.

My transport of admiration, however, only added to my sense of
helplessness and awe. Here, on shipboard, I was sure of my shelter
and food, at least.

How was I going to procure my sustenance on those magic shores?
I wished the remaining hour could be prolonged indefinitely

Psalm 104 spoke reassuringly to me. It reminded me of the way
God took care of man and beast: "Thou openest thine hand and
they are filled with good." But then the very next verse warned me
that "Thou hidest thy face, they are troubled: thou takest away
their breath, they die." So I was praying God not to hide His face
from me, but to open His hand to me; to remember that my
mother had been murdered by Gentiles and that I was going to a
strange land.

When I reached the words, "I will sing unto the Lord as long as I
live: I will sing praise to my God while I have my being," I uttered
them in a fervent whisper

My unhappy love never ceased to harrow me. The stern image of
Matilda blended with the hostile glamour of America

One of my fellow-passengers was a young Yiddish-speaking tailor
named Gitelson. He was about twenty-four years old, yet his
forelock was gray, just his forelock, the rest of his hair being a
fine, glossy brown. His own cap had been blown into the sea and
the one he had obtained from the steerage steward was too small
for him, so that gray tuft of his was always out like a plume. We
had not been acquainted more than a few hours, in fact, for he had
been seasick throughout the voyage and this was the first day he
had been up and about. But then I had seen him on the day of our
sailing and subsequently, many times, as he wretchedly lay in his
berth. He was literally in tatters. He clung to me like a lover, but
we spoke very little.

Our hearts were too full for words

As I thus stood at the railing, prayer-book in hand, he took a look
at the page. The most ignorant "man of the earth" among our
people can read holy tongue (Hebrew), though he may not
understand the meaning of the words. This was the case with
Gitelson

"Saying, 'Bless the Lord, O my soul'?" he asked, reverently. "Why
this chapter of all others?"

"Because--Why, just listen." With which I took to translating the
Hebrew text into Yiddish for him

He listened with devout mien. I was not sure that he understood it
even in his native tongue, but, whether he did or not, his beaming,
wistful look and the deep sigh he emitted indicated that he was in
a state similar to mine

When I say that my first view of New York Bay struck me as
something not of this earth it is not a mere figure of speech. I
vividly recall the feeling, for example, with which I greeted the
first cat I saw on American soil. It was on the Hoboken pier, while
the steerage passengers were being marched to the ferry. A large,
black, well-fed feline stood in a corner, eying the crowd of
new-comers. The sight of it gave me a thrill of joy. "Look! there is
a cat!" I said to Gitelson. And in my heart I added, "Just like those
at home!" For the moment the little animal made America real to
me. At the same time it seemed unreal itself. I was tempted to feel
its fur to ascertain whether it was actually the kind of creature I
took it for

We were ferried over to Castle Garden. One of the things that
caught my eye as I entered the vast rotunda was an iron staircase
rising diagonally against one of the inner walls. A uniformed man,
with some papers in his hands, ascended it with brisk, resounding
step till he disappeared through a door not many inches from the
ceiling. It may seem odd, but I can never think of my arrival in
this country without hearing the ringing footfalls of this official
and beholding the yellow eyes of the black cat which stared at us
at the Hoboken pier. The harsh manner of the immigration officers
was a grievous surprise to me. As contrasted with the officials of
my despotic country, those of a republic had been portrayed in my
mind as paragons of refinement and cordiality. My anticipations
were rudely belied. "They are not a bit better than Cossacks," I
remarked to Gitelson. But they neither looked nor spoke like
Cossacks, so their gruff voices were part of the uncanny scheme
of things that surrounded me. These unfriendly voices flavored all
America with a spirit of icy inhospitality that sent a chill through
my very soul

The stringent immigration laws that were passed some years later
had not yet come into existence. We had no difficulty in being
admitted to the United States, and when I was I was loath to leave
the Garden

Many of the other immigrants were met by relatives, friends.
There were cries of joy, tears, embraces, kisses. All of which
intensified my sense of loneliness and dread of the New World.
The agencies which two Jewish charity organizations now
maintain at the Immigrant Station had not yet been established.
Gitelson, who like myself had no friends in New York, never left
my side. He was even more timid than I. It seemed as though he
were holding on to me for dear life. This had the effect of putting
me on my mettle

"Cheer up, old man!" I said, with bravado. "America is not the
place to be a ninny in. Come, pull yourself together." In truth, I
addressed these exhortations as much to myself as to him; and so
far, at least, as I was concerned, my words had the desired effect.

I led the way out of the big Immigrant Station. As we reached the
park outside we were pounced down upon by two evil-looking
men, representatives of boarding-houses for immigrants. They
pulled us so roughly and their general appearance and manner
were so uninviting that we struggled and protested until they let us
go--not without some parting curses. Then I led the way across
Battery Park and under the Elevated railway to State Street.

A train hurtling and panting along overhead produced a
bewildering, a daunting effect on me. The active life of the great
strange city made me feel like one abandoned in the midst of a
jungle. Where were we to go? What were we to do? But the
presence of Gitelson continued to act as a spur on me. I mustered
courage to approach a policeman, something I should never have
been bold enough to do at home. As a matter of fact, I scarcely had
an idea what his function was. To me he looked like some
uniformed nobleman--an impression that in itself was enough to
intimidate me. With his coat of blue cloth, starched linen collar,
and white gloves, he reminded me of anything but the policemen
of my town. I addressed him in Yiddish, making it as near an
approach to German as I knew how, but my efforts were lost on
him. He shook his head. With a witheringly dignified grimace he
then pointed his club in the direction of Broadway and strutted off
majestically

"He's not better than a Cossack, either," was my verdict

At this moment a voice hailed us in Yiddish. Facing about, we
beheld a middle-aged man with huge, round, perpendicular
nostrils and a huge, round, deep dimple in his chin that looked
like a third nostril. Prosperity was written all over his
smooth-shaven face and broad-shouldered, stocky figure.

He was literally aglow with diamonds and self-satisfaction. But he
was unmistakably one of our people. It was like coming across a
human being in the jungle. Moreover, his very diamonds
somehow told a tale of former want, of a time when he had
landed, an impecunious immigrant like myself; and this made him
a living source of encouragement to me

"God Himself has sent you to us," I began, acting as the
spokesman; but he gave no heed to me. His eyes were eagerly
fixed on Gitelson and his tatters

"You're a tailor, aren't you?" he questioned him

My steerage companion nodded. "I'm a ladies' tailor, but I have
worked on men's clothing, too," he said

"A ladies' tailor?" the well-dressed stranger echoed, with
ill-concealed delight. "Very well; come along. I have work for
you."

That he should have been able to read Gitelson's trade in his face
and figure scarcely surprised me. In my native place it seemed to
be a matter of course that one could tell a tailor by his general
appearance and walk.

Besides, had I not divined the occupation of my fellow-passenger
the moment I saw him on deck? As I learned subsequently, the
man who accosted us on State Street was a cloak contractor, and
his presence in the neighborhood of Castle Garden was anything
but a matter of chance. He came there quite often, in fact, his
purpose being to angle for cheap labor among the newly arrived
immigrants

We paused near Bowling Green. The contractor and my
fellow-passenger were absorbed in a conversation full of sartorial
technicalities which were Greek to me, but which brought a gleam
of joy into Gitelson's eye. My former companion seemed to have
become oblivious of my existence.

As we resumed our walk up Broadway the bejeweled man turned
to me