Francis W. Parker and Nellie Lathrop Helm - "Uncle Robert's Geography (Uncle Robert's Visit, V.3)"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1573"

Edward S. Corwin - "John Marshall and the Constitution,"

Horatio Alger - "Herbert Carter's Legacy"

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: He Knew He Was Right

A >> Anthony Trollope >> He Knew He Was Right




There could be no better breakfast than used to be given in the buffet
at the railway terminus at St. Michael. The company might occasionally
be led into errors about that question of coupe seats, but in reference
to their provisions, they set an example which might be of great use to
us here in England. It is probably the case that breakfasts for
travellers are not so frequently needed here as they are on the
Continent; but, still, there is often to be found a crowd of people
ready to eat if only the wherewithal were there. We are often told in
our newspapers that England is disgraced by this and by that; by the
unreadiness of our army, by the unfitness of our navy, by the
irrationality of our laws, by the immobility of our prejudices, and
what not; but the real disgrace of England is the railway sandwich that
whited sepulchre, fair enough outside, but so meagre, poor, and
spiritless within, such a thing of shreds and parings, such a dab of
food, telling us that the poor bone whence it was scraped had been made
utterly bare before it was sent into the kitchen for the soup pot. In
France one does get food at the railway stations, and at St. Michael
the breakfast was unexceptional.

Our two friends seated themselves near to the American ladies, and
were, of course, thanked for their politeness. American women are
taught by the habits of their country to think that men should give way
to them more absolutely than is in accordance with the practices of
life in Europe. A seat in a public conveyance in the States, when
merely occupied by a man, used to be regarded by any woman as being at
her service as completely as though it were vacant. One woman
indicating a place to another would point with equal freedom to a man
or a space. It is said that this is a little altered now, and that
European views on this subject are spreading themselves. Our two
ladies, however, who were pretty, clever-looking, and attractive even
after the night's journey, were manifestly more impressed with the
villainy of the French officials than they were with the kindness of
their English neighbours.

'And nothing can be done to punish them?' said the younger of them to
Mr Glascock.

'Nothing, I should think,' said he. 'Nothing will, at any rate.'

'And you will not get back your money?' said the elder who, though the
elder, was probably not much above twenty.

'Well no. Time is money, they say. It would take thrice the value of
the time in money, and then one would probably fail. They have done
very well for us, and I suppose there are difficulties.'

'It couldn't have taken place in our country,' said the younger lady.
'All the same, we are very much obliged to you. It would not have been
nice for us to have to go up into the banquette.'

'They would have put you into the interior.'

'And that would have been worse. I hate being put anywhere as if I were
a sheep. It seems so odd to us, that you here should be all so tame.'

'Do you mean the English, or the French, or the world in general on
this side of the Atlantic?'

'We mean Europeans,' said the younger lady, who was better after her
breakfast. 'But then we think that the French have something of
compensation, in their manners, and their ways of life, their climate,
the beauty of their cities, and their general management of things.'

'They are very great in many ways, no doubt,' said Mr Glascock.

'They do understand living better than you do,' said the elder.

'Everything is so much brighter with them,' said the younger.

'They contrive to give a grace to every-day existence,' said the elder.

'There is such a welcome among them for strangers,' said the younger.

'Particularly in reference to places taken in the coupe,' said
Trevelyan, who had hardly spoken before.

'Ah, that is an affair of honesty,' said the elder. 'If we want
honesty, I believe we must go back to the stars and stripes.'

Mr Glascock looked up from his plate almost aghast. He said nothing,
however, but called for the waiter, and paid for his breakfast.
Nevertheless, there was a considerable amount of travelling friendship
engendered between the ladies and our two friends before the diligence
had left the railway yard. They were two Miss Spaldings, going on to
Florence, at which place they had an uncle, who was minister from the
States to the kingdom of Italy; and they were not at all unwilling co
receive such little civilities as gentlemen can give to ladies when
travelling. The whole party intended to sleep at Turin that night, and
they were altogether on good terms with each other when they started on
the journey from St. Michael.

'Clever women those,' said Mr Glascock, as soon as they had arranged
their legs and arms in the banquette.

'Yes, indeed.'

'American women always are clever and are almost always pretty.'

'I do not like them,' said Trevelyan who in these days was in a mood to
like nothing. 'They are exigent and then they are so hard. They want
the weakness that a woman ought to have.'

'That comes from what they would call your insular prejudice. We are
accustomed to less self-assertion on the part of women than is
customary with them. We prefer women to rule us by seeming to yield. In
the States, as I take it, the women never yield, and the men have to
fight their own battles with other tactics.'

'I don't know what their tactics are.'

'They keep their distance. The men live much by themselves, as though
they knew they would not have a chance in the presence of their wives
and daughters. Nevertheless they don't manage these things badly. You
very rarely hear of an American being separated from his wife.'

The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than Mr Glascock knew, and
remembered, and felt what he had said. There are occasions in which a
man sins so deeply against fitness and the circumstances of the hour,
that it becomes impossible for him to slur over his sin as though it
had not been committed. There are certain little peccadilloes in
society which one can manage to throw behind one perhaps with some
difficulty, and awkwardness; but still they are put aside, and
conversation goes on, though with a hitch. But there are graver
offences, the gravity of which strikes the offender so seriously that
it becomes impossible for him to seem even to ignore his own iniquity.
Ashes must be eaten publicly, and sackcloth worn before the eyes of
men. It was so now with poor Mr Glascock. He thought about it for a
moment whether or no it was possible that he should continue his
remarks about the American ladies, without betraying his own
consciousness of the thing that he had done; and he found that it was
quite impossible. He knew that he was red up to his hairs, and hot, and
that his blood tingled. His blushes, indeed, would not be seen in the
seclusion of the banquette; but he could not overcome the heat and the
tingling. There was silence for about three minutes, and then he felt
that it would be best for him to confess his own fault. 'Trevelyan,' he
said, 'I am very sorry for the allusion that I made. I ought to have
been less awkward, and I beg your pardon.'

'It does not matter,' said Trevelyan. 'Of course I know that everybody
is talking of it behind my back. I am not to expect that people will be
silent because I am unhappy.'

'Nevertheless I beg your pardon,' said the other.

There was but little further conversation between them till they
reached Lanslebourg, at the foot of the mountain, at which place they
occupied themselves with getting coffee for the two American ladies.
The Miss Spaldings took their coffee almost with as much grace as
though it had been handed to them by Frenchmen. And indeed they were
very gracious as is the nature of American ladies in spite of that
hardness of which Trevelyan had complained. They assume an intimacy
readily, with no appearance of impropriety, and are at their ease
easily. When, therefore, they were handed, out of their carriage by Mr
Glascock, the bystanders at Lanslebourg might have thought that the
whole party had been travelling 'together from New York. 'What should
we have done if you hadn't taken pity on us?' said the elder lady. 'I
don't think we could have climbed up into that high place; and look at
the crowd that have come out of the interior. A man has some advantages
after all.'

'I am quite in the dark as to what they are,' said Mr Glascock.

'He can give up his place to a lady, and can climb up into a
banquette.'

'And he can be a member of Congress,''said the younger. 'I'd sooner be
senator from Massachusetts than be the Queen of England.'

'So would I,' said Mr Glascock. 'I'm glad we can agree about one
thing.'

The two gentlemen agreed to walk up the mountain together, and with
some trouble induced the conductor to permit them to do so. Why
conductors of diligences should object to such relief to their horses
the ordinary Englishman can hardly understand. But in truth they feel
so deeply the responsibility which attaches itself to their shepherding
of their sheep, that they are always fearing lest some poor lamb should
go astray on the mountain side. And though the road be broad and very
plainly marked, the conductor never feels secure that his passenger
will find his way safely to the summit. He likes to know that each of
his flock is in his right place, and disapproves altogether of an
erratic spirit. But Mr Glascock at last prevailed, and the two men
started together up the mountain. When the permission has been once
obtained the walker may be sure that his guide and shepherd will not
desert him.

'Of course I know,' said Trevelyan, when the third twist up the
mountain had been overcome, 'that people talk about me and my wife. It
is a part of the punishment for the mistake that one makes.'

'It is a sad affair altogether.'

'The saddest in the world. Lady Milborough has no doubt spoken to you
about it.'

'Well yes; she has.'

'How could she help it? I am not such a fool as to suppose that people
are to hold their tongues about me more than they do about others.
Intimate as she is with you, of course she has spoken to you.'

'I was in hopes that something might have been done by this time.'

'Nothing has been done. Sometimes I think I shall put an end to myself,
it makes me so wretched.'

'Then why don't you agree to forget and forgive and have done with it?'

'That is so easily said so easily said.' After this they walked on in
silence for a considerable distance. Mr Glascock was not anxious to
talk about Trevelyan's wife, but he did wish to ask a question or two
about Mrs Trevelyan's sister, if only this could be done without
telling too much of his own secret. 'There's nothing I think so grand,
as walking up a mountain,' he said after a while.

'It's all very well,' said Trevelyan, in a tone which seemed to imply
that to him in his present miserable condition all recreations,
exercises, and occupations were mere leather and prunella.

'I don't mean, you know, in the Alpine Club way, said Glascock. 'I'm
too old and too stiff for that. But when the path is good, and the air
not too cold, and when it is neither snowing, nor thawing, nor raining,
and when the sun isn't hot, and you've got plenty of time, and know
that you can stop any moment you like and be pushed up by a carriage, I
do think walking up a mountain is very fine if you've got proper shoes,
and a good stick, and it isn't too soon after dinner. There's nothing
like the air of Alps.' And Mr Glascock renewed his pace, and stretched
himself against the hill at the rate of three miles an hour.

'I used to be very fond of Switzerland,' said Trevelyan, 'but I don't
care about it now. My eye has lost all its taste.'

'It isn't the eye,' said Glascock.

'Well; no. The truth is that when one is absolutely unhappy one cannot
revel in the imagination. I don't believe in the miseries of poets.'

'I think myself,' said Glascock, 'that a poet should have a good
digestion. By-the-bye, Mrs Trevelyan and her sister went down to
Nuncombe Putney, in Devonshire.'

'They did go there.'

'Have they moved since? A very pretty place is Nuncombe Putney.'

'You have been there, then?'

Mr Glascock blushed again. He was certainly an awkward man, saying
things that he ought not to say, and telling secrets which ought not to
have been told. 'Well yes. I have been there as it happens.'

'Just lately do you mean?'

Mr Glascock paused, hoping to find his way out of the scrape, but soon
perceived that there was no way out. He could not lie, even in an
affair of love, and was altogether destitute of those honest
subterfuges subterfuges honest in such position of which a dozen would
have been at once at the command of any woman, and with one of which,
sufficient for the moment, most men would have been able to arm
themselves. 'Indeed, yes,' he said, almost stammering as he spoke. 'It
was lately since your wife went there.' Trevelyan, though he had been
told of the possibility of Mr Glascock's courtship, felt himself almost
aggrieved by this man's intrusion on his wife's retreat. Had he not
sent her there that she might be private; and what right had any one to
invade such privacy? 'I suppose I had better tell the truth at once,'
said Mr Glascock. 'I went to see Miss Rowley.'

'Oh, indeed.'

'My secret will be safe with you, I know.'

'I did not know that there was a secret,' said Trevelyan. 'I should
have thought that they would have told me.'

'I don't see that. However, it doesn't matter much. I got nothing by my
journey. Are the ladies still at Nuncombe Putney?'

'No, they have moved from there to London.'

'Not back to Curzon Street?'

'Oh dear, no. There is no house in Curzon Street for them now.' This
was said in a tone so sad that it almost made Mr Glascock weep. 'They
are staying with an aunt of theirs .out to the east of the city.'

'At St. Diddulph's?'

'Yes with Mr Outhouse, the clergyman there. You can't conceive what it
is not to be able to see your own child; and yet, how can I take the
boy from her?'

'Of course not. He's only a baby.'

'And yet all this is brought on me solely by her obstinacy. God knows,
however, I don't want to say a word against her. People choose to say
that I am to blame, and they may say so for me. Nothing that any one
may say can add anything to the weight that I have to bear.' Then they
walked to the top of the mountain in silence, and in due time were
picked up by their proper shepherd and carried down to Susa at a pace
that would give an English coachman a concussion of the brain.

Why passengers for Turin, who reach Susa dusty, tired, and sleepy,
should be detained at that place for an hour and a half instead of
being forwarded to their beds in the great city, is never made very
apparent. All travelling officials on the continent of Europe are very
slow in their manipulation of luggage; but as they are equally correct
we will find the excuse for their tardiness in the latter quality. The
hour and a half, however, is a necessity, and it is very grievous. On
this occasion the two Miss Spaldings ate their supper, and the two
gentlemen waited on them. The ladies had learned to regard at any rate
Mr Glascock as their own property, and received his services,
graciously indeed, but quite as a matter of course. When he was sent
from their peculiar corner of the big, dirty refreshment room to the
supper-table to fetch an apple, and then desired to change it because
the one which he had brought was spotted, he rather liked it. And when
he sat down with his knees near to theirs, actually trying to eat a
large Italian apple himself simply because they had eaten one and
discussed with them the passage over the Mont Cenis, he began to think
that Susa was, after all, a place in which an hour and a half might be
whiled away without much cause for complaint.

'We only stay one night at Turin,' said Caroline Spalding, the elder.

'And we shall have to start at ten to get through to Florence
to-morrow,' said Olivia, the younger. 'Isn't it cruel, wasting all this
time when we might be in bed?'

'It is not for me to complain of the cruelty,' said Mr Glascock.

'We should have fared infinitely worse if we hadn't met you,' said
Caroline Spalding.

'But our republican simplicity won't allow us to assert that even your
society is better than going to bed, after a journey of thirty hours,'
said Olivia.

In the meantime Trevelyan was roaming about the station moodily by
himself, and the place is one not apt to restore cheerfulness to a
moody man by any resources of its own. When the time for departure came
Mr Glascock sought him and found him; but Trevelyan had chosen a corner
for himself in a carriage, and declared that he would rather avoid the
ladies for the present. 'Don't think me uncivil to leave you,' he said,
'but the truth is, I don't like American ladies.'

'I do rather,' said Mr Glascock.

'You can say that I've got a headache,' said Trevelyan. So Mr Glascock
returned to his friends, and did say that Mr Trevelyan had a headache.
It was the first time that a name had been mentioned between them.

'Mr Trevelyan! What a pretty name. It sounds like a novel,' said
Olivia.

'A very clever man,' said Mr Glascock, 'and much liked by his own
circle. But he has had trouble, and is unhappy.'

'He looks unhappy,' said Caroline.

'The most miserable looking man I ever saw in my life,' said Olivia.
Then it was agreed between them as they went up to Trompetta's hotel,
that they would go on together by the ten o'clock train to Florence.



CHAPTER XXXVIII - VERDICT OF THE JURY 'MAD, MY LORD'

Trevelyan was left alone at Turin when Mr Glascock went on to Florence
with his fair American friends. It was imperatively necessary that he
should remain at Turin, though he had no business there of any kind
whatever, and did not know a single person in the city. And of all
towns in Italy Turin has perhaps less of attraction to offer to the
solitary visitor than any other. It is new and parallelogrammatic as an
American town is very cold in cold weather, very hot in hot weather,
and now that it has been robbed of its life as a capital is as dull and
uninteresting as though it were German or English. There is the
Armoury, and the river Po, and a good hotel. But what are these things
to a man who is forced to live alone in a place for four days, or
perhaps a week? Trevelyan was bound to remain at Turin till he should
hear from Bozzle. No one but Bozzle knew his address; and he could do
nothing till Bozzle should have communicated to him tidings of what was
being done at St. Diddulph's.

There is perhaps no great social question so imperfectly understood
among us at the present day as that which refers to the line which
divides sanity from insanity. That this man is sane and that other
unfortunately mad we do know well enough; and we know also that one man
may be subject to various hallucinations may fancy himself to be a
teapot, or what not and yet be in such a condition of mind as to call
for no intervention either on behalf of his friends, or of the law;
while another may be in possession of intellectual faculties capable of
lucid exertion for the highest purposes, and yet be so mad that bodily
restraint upon him is indispensable. We know that the sane man is
responsible for what he does, and that the insane man is irresponsible;
but we do not know we only guess wildly, at the state of mind of those,
who now and again act like madmen, though no court or council of
experts has declared them to be mad. The bias of the public mind is to
press heavily on such men till the law attempts to touch them, as
though they were thoroughly responsible; and then, when the law
interferes, to screen them as though they were altogether
irresponsible. The same juryman who would find a man mad who has
murdered a young woman, would in private life express a desire that the
same young man should be hung, crucified, or skinned alive, if he had
moodily and without reason broken faith to the young woman in lieu of
killing her. Now Trevelyan was, in truth, mad on the subject of his
wife's alleged infidelity. He had abandoned everything that he valued
in the world, and had made himself wretched in every affair of life,
because he could not submit to acknowledge to himself the possibility
of error on his own part. For that, in truth, was the condition of his
mind. He had never hitherto believed that she had been false to her
vow, and had sinned against him irredeemably; but he had thought that
in her regard for another man she had slighted him; and, so thinking,
he had subjected her to a severity of rebuke which no high-spirited
woman could have borne. His wife had not tried to bear it in her
indignation had not striven to cure the evil. Then had come his
resolution that she should submit, or part from him; and, having so
resolved, nothing could shake him. Though every friend he possessed was
now against him including even Lady Milborough he was certain that he
was right. Had not his wife sworn to obey him, and was not her whole
conduct one tissue of disobedience? Would not the man who submitted to
this find himself driven to submit to things worse? Let her own her
fault, let her submit, and then she should come back to him.

He had not considered, when his resolutions to this effect were first
forming themselves, that a separation between a man and his wife once
effected cannot be annulled, and as it were cured, so as to leave no
cicatrice behind. Gradually, as he spent day after day in thinking on
this one subject, he came to feel that even were his wife to submit, to
own her fault humbly, and to come back to him, this very coming back
would in itself be a new wound. Could he go out again with his wife on
his arm to the houses of those who knew that he had repudiated her
because of her friendship with another man? Could he open again that
house in Curzon Street, and let things go on quietly as they had gone
before? He told himself that it was impossible that he and she were
ineffably disgraced that, if reunited, they must live buried out of
sight in some remote distance. And he told himself, also, that he could
never be with her again night or day without thinking of the
separation. His happiness had been shipwrecked.

Then he had put himself into the hands of Mr Bozzle, and Mr Bozzle had
taught him that women very often do go astray. Mr Bozzle's idea of
female virtue was not high, and he had opportunities of implanting his
idea on his client's mind. Trevelyan hated the man. He was filled with
disgust by Bozzle's words, and was made miserable by Bozzle's presence.
Yet he came gradually to believe in Bozzle. Bozzle alone believed in
him. There were none but Bozzle who did not bid him to submit himself
to his disobedient wife. And then, as he came to believe in Bozzle, he
grew to be more and more assured that no one but Bozzle could tell him
facts. His chivalry, and love, and sense of woman's honour, with
something of manly pride on his own part so he told himself had taught
him to believe it to be impossible that his wife should have sinned.
Bozzle, who knew the world, thought otherwise. Bozzle, who had no
interest in the matter, one way or the other, would find out facts.
What if his chivalry, and love, and manly pride had deceived him? There
were women who sinned. Then he prayed that his wife might not be such a
woman; and got up from his prayers almost convinced that she was a
sinner.

His mind was at work upon it always. Could it be that she was so base
as this so vile a thing, so abject, such dirt, pollution, filth? But
there were such cases. Nay, were they not almost numberless? He found
himself reading in the papers records of such things from day to day,
and thought that in doing so he was simply acquiring experience
necessary for himself. If it were so, he had indeed done well to
separate himself from a thing so infamous. And if it were not so, how
could it be that that man had gone to her in Devonshire? He had
received from his wife's hands a short note addressed to the man, in
which the man was desired by her not to go to her, or to write to her
again, because of her husband's commands. He had shown this to Bozzle,
and Bozzle had smiled. 'It's just the sort of thing they does,' Bozzle
had said. 'Then they writes another by post.' He had consulted Bozzle
as to the sending on of that letter, and Bozzle had been strongly of
opinion that it should be forwarded, a copy having been duly taken and
attested by himself. It might be very pretty evidence by-and-by. If the
letter were not forwarded, Bozzle thought that the omission to do so
might be given in evidence against his employer. Bozzle was very
careful, and full of 'evidence.' The letter therefore was sent on to
Colonel Osborne. 'If there's billy-dous going between 'em we shall
nobble 'em,' said Bozzle. Trevelyan tore his hair in despair, but
believed that there would be billy-dous.

He came to believe everything; and, though he prayed fervently that his
wife might not be led astray, that she might be saved at any rate from
utter vice, yet he almost came to hope that it might be otherwise not,
indeed, with the hope of the sane man, who desires that which he tells
himself to be for his advantage; but with the hope of the insane man,
who loves to feed his grievance, even though the grief should be his
death. They who do not understand that a man may be brought to hope
that which of all things is the most grievous to him, have not observed
with sufficient closeness the perversity of the human mind. Trevelyan
would have given all that he had to save his wife; would, even now,
have cut his tongue out before he would have expressed to anyone save
to Bozzle a suspicion that she could in truth have been guilty; was
continually telling himself that further life would be impossible to
him, if he, and she, and that child of theirs, should be thus disgraced
and yet he expected it, believed it, and, after a fashion, he almost
hoped it.