E. Nesbit - "The Enchanted Castle"

Henry Seton Merriman - "The Last Hope"

James De Mille - "A Strange Manuscript Found in a Copper Cylinder"

Raphael Sabatini - "Love at Arms"

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: Justice in the By Ways

F >> F. Colburn Adams >> Justice in the By Ways




The play proceeds, and soon the old man's attention is drawn from
the Widow Montford by the near approach to the scene of the
grave-digger. And as that delineator enters the grave, and commences
his tune, the old man's anxiety increases.

A twitching and shrugging of the shoulders, discovers Mr. McArthur's
feelings. The grave-digger, to the great delight of the Star,
bespreads the stage with a multiplicity of bones. Then he follows
them with a skull, the appearance of which causes Mr. McArthur to
exclaim, "Ah! that's my poor Yorick." He rises from his seat, and
abstractedly stares at the Star, then at the audience. The audience
gives out a spontaneous burst of applause, which the Teutonic Hamlet
is inclined to regard as an indignity offered to superior talent. A
short pause and his face brightens with a smile, the grave-digger
shoulders his pick, and with the thumb of his right hand to his
nasal organ, throws himself into a comical attitude. The audience
roar with delight; the Star, ignorant of the cause of what he
esteems a continued insult, waves his plumes to the audience, and
with an air of contempt walks off the stage.






CHAPTER XIII.

MRS. SWIGGS COMES TO THE RESCUE OF THE HOUSE OF THE FOREIGN
MISSIONS.





"AN excellent society-excellent, I assure you, Madame--"

"Truly, Mr. Hadger," interrupted Mrs. Swiggs, "your labors on behalf
of this Tract Society will be rewarded in heaven--"

"Dear--a--me," Mr. Hadger returns, ere Mrs. Swiggs can finish her
sentence, "don't mention such a thing. I assure you it is a labor of
love."

"Their tracts are so carefully got up. If my poor old negro property
could only read--(Mrs. Swiggs pauses.) I was going to say-if it
wasn't for the law (again she pauses), we couldn't prejudice our
cause by letting our negroes read them--"

"Excuse the interruption," Mr. Hadger says, "but it wouldn't do,
notwithstanding (no one can be more liberal than myself on the
subject of enlightening our negro property!) the Tract Society
exhibits such an unexceptionable regard to the requirements of our
cherished institution."

This conversation passes between Mrs. Swiggs and Mr. Hadger, who, as
he says with great urbanity of manner, just dropped in to announce
joyous tidings. He has a letter from Sister Abijah Slocum, which
came to hand this morning, enclosing one delicately enveloped for
Sister Swiggs. "The Lord is our guide," says Mrs. Swiggs, hastily
reaching out her hand and receiving the letter. "Heaven will reward
her for the interest she takes in the heathen world."

"Truly, if she hath not now, she will have there a monument of
gold," Mr. Hadger piously pursues, adding a sigh.

"There! there!--my neuralgy; it's all down my left side. I'm not long
for this world, you see!" Mrs. Swiggs breaks out suddenly, then
twitches her head and oscillates her chin. And as if some electric
current had changed the train of her thoughts, she testily seizes
hold of her Milton, and says: "I have got my Tom up again-yes I
have, Mr. Hadger."

Mr. Hadger discovers the sudden flight her thoughts have taken: "I
am sure," he interposes, "that so long as Sister Slocum remains a
member of the Tract Society we may continue our patronage."

Mrs. Swiggs is pleased to remind Mr. Hadger, that although her means
have been exceedingly narrowed down, she has not, for the last ten
years, failed to give her mite, which she divides between the house
of the "Foreign Missions," and the "Tract Society."

A nice, smooth-faced man, somewhat clerically dressed, straight and
portly of person, and most unexceptionable in his morals, is Mr.
Hadger. A smile of Christian resignation and brotherly love happily
ornaments his countenance; and then, there is something venerable
about his nicely-combed gray whiskers, his white cravat, his snowy
hair, his mild brown eyes, and his pleasing voice. One is almost
constrained to receive him as the ideal of virtue absolved in
sackcloth and ashes. As an evidence of our generosity, we regard him
an excellent Christian, whose life hath been purified with an
immense traffic in human--(perhaps some good friend will crack our
skull for saying it).

In truth (though we never could find a solution in the Bible for
it), as the traffic in human property increased Mr. Hadger's riches,
so also did it in a corresponding ratio increase his piety. There
is, indeed, a singular connection existing between piety and
slavery; but to analyze it properly requires the mind of a
philosopher, so strange is the blending.

Brother Hadger takes a sup of ice-water, and commences reading
Sister Slocum's letter, which runs thus: "NEW YORK, May -, 1850.
"DEAR BROTHER HADGER:

"Justice and Mercy is the motto of the cause we have lent our hands
and hearts to promote. Only yesterday we had a gathering of kind
spirits at the Mission House in Centre street, where, thank God, all
was peace and love. We had, too, an anxious gathering at the 'Tract
Society's rooms.' There it was not so much peace and love as could
have been desired. Brother Bight seemed earnest, but said many
unwise things; and Brother Scratch let out some very unwise
indiscretions which you will find in the reports I send. There was
some excitement, and something said about what we got from the South
not being of God's chosen earnings. And there was something more let
off by our indiscreet Brothers against the getting up of the tracts.
But we had a majority, and voted down our indiscreet Brothers,
inasmuch as it was shown to be necessary not to offend our good
friends in the South. Not to give offence to a Brother is good in
the sight of the Lord, and this Brother Primrose argued in a most
Christian speech of four long hours or more, and which had the
effect of convincing every one how necessary it was to free the
tracts of everything offensive to your cherished institution. And
though we did not, Brother Hadger, break up in the continuance of
that love we were wont to when you were among us, we sustained the
principle that seemeth most acceptable to you-we gained the victory
over our disaffected Brothers. And I am desired on behalf of the
Society, to thank you for the handsome remittance, hoping you will
make it known, through peace and love, to those who kindly
contributed toward it. The Board of 'Foreign Missions,' as you will
see by the report, also passed a vote of thanks for your favor. How
grateful to think what one will do to enlighten the heathen world,
and how many will receive a tract through the medium of the other.

"We are now in want of a few thousand dollars, to get the Rev.
Singleton Spyke, a most excellent person, off to Antioch. Aid us
with a mite, Brother Hadger, for his mission is one of God's own.
The enclosed letter is an appeal to Sister Swiggs, whose yearly
mites have gone far, very far, to aid us in the good but mighty work
now to be done. Sister Swiggs will have her reward in heaven for
these her good gifts. How thankful should she be to Him who provides
all things, and thus enableth her to bestow liberally.

"And now, Brother, I must say adieu! May you continue to live in the
spirit of Christian love. And may you never feel the want of these
mites bestowed in the cause of the poor heathen. "SISTER ABIJAH
SLOCUM."

"May the good be comforted!" ejaculates Mrs. Swiggs, as Mr. Hadger
concludes. She has listened with absorbed attention to every word,
at times bowing, and adding a word of approval. Mr. Hadger hopes
something may be done in this good cause, and having interchanged
sundry compliments, takes his departure, old Rebecca opening the
door.

"Glad he's gone!" the old lady says to herself. "I am so anxious to
hear the good tidings Sister Slocum's letter conveys." She wipes and
wipes her venerable spectacles, adjusts them piquantly over her
small, wicked eyes, gives her elaborate cap-border a twitch forward,
frets her finger nervously over the letter, and gets herself into a
general state of confritteration. "There!" she says, entirely
forgetting her Milton, which has fallen on the floor, to the great
satisfaction of the worthy old cat, who makes manifest his regard
for it by coiling himself down beside it, "God bless her. It makes
my heart leap with joy when I see her writing," she pursues, as old
Rebecca stands contemplating her, with serious and sullen
countenance. Having prilled and fussed over the letter, she
commences reading in a half whisper: "NO. -, 4TH AVENUE, NEW YORK,
May -, 1850. "MUCH BELOVED SISTER:

"I am, as you know, always overwhelmed with business; and having
hoped the Lord in his goodness yet spares you to us, and gives you
health and bounty wherewith to do good, must be pardoned for my
brevity. The Lord prospers our missions among the heathen, and the
Tract Society continues to make its labors known throughout the
country. It, as you will see by the tracts I send here--with, still
continues that scrupulous regard to the character of your domestic
institution which has hitherto characterized it. Nothing is
permitted to creep into them that in any way relates to your
domestics, or that can give pain to the delicate sensibilities of
your very excellent and generous people. We would do good to all
without giving pain to any one. Oh! Sister, you know what a wicked
world this is, and how it becomes us to labor for the good of
others. But what is this world compared with the darkness of the
heathen world, and those poor wretches ('Sure enough!' says Mrs.
Swiggs) who eat one another, never have heard of a God, and prefer
rather to worship idols of wood and stone. When I contemplate this
dreadful darkness, which I do night and day, day and night, I invoke
the Spirit to give me renewed strength to go forward in the good
work of bringing from darkness ('Just as I feel,' thinks Mrs.
Swiggs) unto light those poor benighted wretches of the heathen
world. How often I have wished you could be here with us, to add
life and spirit to our cause-to aid us in beating down Satan, and
when we have got him down not to let him up. The heathen world never
will be what it should be until Satan is bankrupt, deprived of his
arts, and chained to the post of humiliation-never! ('I wish I had
him where my Tom is!' Mrs. Swiggs mutters to herself.) Do come on
here, Sister. We will give you an excellent reception, and make you
so happy while you sojourn among us. And now, Sister, having never
appealed to you in vain, we again extend our hand, hoping you will
favor the several very excellent projects we now have on hand.
First, we have a project-a very excellent one, on hand, for
evangelizing the world; second, in consideration of what has been
done in the reign of the Seven Churches-Pergamos Thyatira, Magnesia,
Cassaba, Demish, and Baindir, where all is darkness, we have
conceived a mission to Antioch; and third, we have been earnestly
engaged in, and have spent a few thousand dollars over a project of
the 'Tract Society,' which is the getting up of no less than one or
two million of their excellent tracts, for the Dahomy field of
missionary labor-such as the Egba mission, the Yoruba mission, and
the Ijebu missions. Oh! Sister, what a field of labor is here open
to us. And what a source of joy and thankfulness it should be to us
that we have the means to labor in those fields of darkness. We have
selected brother Singleton Spyke, a young man of great promise, for
this all-important mission to Antioch. He has been for the last four
years growing in grace and wisdom. No expense has been spared in
everything necessary to his perfection, not even in the selection of
a partner suited to his prospects and future happiness. We now want
a few thousand dollars to make up the sum requisite to his mission,
and pay the expenses of getting him off. Come to our assistance,
dear Sister-do come! Share with us your mite in this great work of
enlightening the heathen, and know that your deeds are recorded in
heaven. ('Verily!' says the old lady.) And now, hoping the Giver of
all good will continue to favor you with His blessing, and preserve
you in that strength of intellect with which you have so often
assisted us in beating down Satan, and hoping either to have the
pleasure of seeing you, or hearing from you soon, I will say adieu!
subscribing myself a servant in the cause of the heathen, and your
sincere Sister, "MRS. ABIJAH SLOCUM.

"P.S.--Remember, dear Sister, that the amount of money expended in
idol-worship--in erecting monster temples and keeping them in
repair, would provide comfortable homes and missions for hundreds of
our very excellent young men and women, who are now ready to buckle
on the armor and enter the fight against Satan. "A.S."

"Dear-a-me," she sighs, laying the letter upon the table, kicking
the cat as she resumes her rocking, and with her right hand
restoring her Milton to its accustomed place on the table.
"Rebecca," she says, "will get a pillow and place it nicely at my
back." Rebecca, the old slave, brings the pillow. "There, there!
now, not too high, nor too low, Rebecca!" her thin, sharp voice
echoes, as she works her shoulders, and permits her long fingers to
wander over her cap-border. "When 'um got just so missus like,
say-da he is!" mumbles the old negress in reply. "Well, well-a
little that side, now--" The negress moves the pillow a little to the
left. "That's too much, Rebecca-a slight touch the other way. You
are so stupid, I will have to sell you, and get Jewel to take care
of me. I would have done it before but for the noise of her crutch-I
would, Rebecca! You never think of me-you only think of how much
hominy you can eat." The old negress makes a motion to move the
pillow a little to the right, when Mrs. Swiggs settles her head and
shoulders into it, saying, "there!"

"Glad 'um suit-fo'h true!" retorts the negress, her heavy lips and
sullen face giving out the very incarnation of hatred.

"Now don't make a noise when you go out." Rebecca in reply says she
is "gwine down to da kitchen to see Isaac," and toddles out of the
room, gently closing the door after her.

Resignedly Mrs. Swiggs closes her eyes, moderates her rocking, and
commences evolving and revolving the subject over in her mind. "I
haven't much of this world's goods-no, I haven't; but I'm of a good
family, and its name for hospitality must be kept up. Don't see that
I can keep it up better than by helping Sister Slocum and the Tract
Society out," she muses. But the exact way to effect this has not
yet come clear to her mind. Times are rather hard, and, as we have
said before, she is in straightened circumstances, having, for
something more than ten years, had nothing but the earnings of
eleven old negroes, five of whom are cripples, to keep up the
dignity of the house of the Swiggs. "There's old Zeff," she says,
"has took to drinking, and Flame, his wife, ain't a bit better; and
neither one of them have been worth anything since I sold their two
children-which I had to do, or let the dignity of the family suffer.
I don't like to do it, but I must. I must send Zeff to the
workhouse-have him nicely whipped, I only charge him eighteen
dollars a month for himself, and yet he will drink, and won't pay
over his wages. Yes!--he shall have it. The extent of the law, well
laid on, will learn him a lesson. There's old Cato pays me twenty
dollars a month, and Cato's seventy-four-four years older than Zeff.
In truth, my negro property is all getting careless about paying
wages. Old Trot runs away whenever he can get a chance; Brutus has
forever got something the matter with him; and Cicero has come to be
a real skulk. He don't care for the cowhide; the more I get him
flogged the worse he gets. Curious creature! And his old woman,
since she broke her leg, and goes with a crutch, thinks she can do
just as she pleases. There is plenty of work in her-plenty; she has
no disposition to let it come out, though! And she has kept up a
grumbling ever since I sold her girls. Well, I didn't want to keep
them all the time at the whipping-post; so I sold them to save their
characters." Thus Mrs. Swiggs muses until she drops into a profound
sleep, in which she remains, dreaming that she has sold old Mumma
Molly, Cicero's wife, and with the proceeds finds herself in New
York, hob-nobbing it with Sister Slocum, and making one extensive
donation to the Tract Society, and another to the fund for getting
Brother Singleton Spyke off to Antioch. Her arrival in Gotham, she
dreams, is a great event. The Tract Society (she is its guest) is
smothering her with its attentions. Indeed, a whole column and a
half of the very conservative and highly respectable old Observer is
taken up with an elaborate and well-written history of her many
virtues.

The venerable old lady dreams herself into dusky evening, and wakes
to find old Rebecca summoning her to tea. She is exceedingly sorry
the old slave disturbed her. However, having great faith in dreams,
and the one she has just enjoyed bringing the way to aid Sister
Slocum in carrying out her projects of love so clear to her mind,
she is resolved to lose no time in carrying out its principles.
Selling old Molly won't be much; old Molly is not worth much to her;
and the price of old Molly (she'll bring something!) will do so much
to enlighten the heathen, and aid the Tract Society in giving out
its excellent works. "And I have for years longed to see Sister
Slocum, face to face, before I die," she says. And with an affixed
determination to carry out this pious resolve, Mrs. Swiggs sips
her tea, and retires to her dingy little chamber for the night.

A bright and cheerful sun ushers in the following morning. The soft
rays steal in at the snuffy door, at the dilapidated windows,
through the faded curtains, and into the "best parlor," where, at an
early hour, sits the antique old lady, rummaging over some musty old
papers piled on the centre-table. The pale light plays over and
gives to her features a spectre-like hue; while the grotesque pieces
of furniture by which she is surrounded lend their aid in making
complete the picture of a wizard's abode. The paper she wants is
nowhere to be found. "I must exercise a little judgment in this
affair," she mutters, folding a bit of paper, and seizing her pen.
Having written--"TO THE MASTER OF THE WORKHOUSE:

"I am sorry I have to trouble you so often with old Cicero. He will
not pay wages all I can do. Give him at least thirty-well laid on. I
go to New York in a few days, and what is due you from me for
punishments will be paid any time you send your bill. "SARAH PRINGLE
HUGHES SWIGGS."

"Well! he deserves what he gets," she shakes her head and
ejaculates. Having summoned Rebecca, Master Cicero, a hard-featured
old negro, is ordered up, and comes tottering into the room,
half-bent with age, his hair silvered, and his face covered with a
mossy-white beard-the picture of a patriarch carved in ebony. "Good
mornin', Missus," he speaks in a feeble and husky voice, standing
hesitatingly before his august owner. "You are--well, I might as
well say it--you're a miserable old wretch!" Cicero makes a nervous
motion with his left hand, as the fingers of his right wander over
the bald crown of his head, and his eyes give out a forlorn look.
She has no pity for the poor old man-none. "You are, Cicero-you
needn't pretend you ain't," she pursues; and springing to her feet
with an incredible nimbleness, she advances to the window, tucks up
the old curtain, and says, "There; let the light reflect on your
face. Badness looks out of it. Cicero! you never was a good nigger--"

"Per'aps not, Missus; but den I'se old.

"Old! you ain't so old but you can pay wages," the testy old woman
interrupts, tossing her head. "You're a capital hand at cunning
excuses. This will get you done for, at the workhouse." She hands
him a delicately enveloped and carefully superscribed billet, and
commands him to proceed forthwith to the workhouse. A tear courses
slowly down his time-wrinkled face, he hesitates, would speak one
word in his own defence. But the word of his owner is absolute, and
in obedience to the wave of her hand he totters to the door, and
disappears. His tears are only those of a slave. How useless fall
the tears of him who has no voice, no power to assert his manhood!
And yet, in that shrunken bosom-in that figure, bent and shattered
of age, there burns a passion for liberty and hatred of the
oppressor more terrible than the hand that has made him the wretch
he is. That tear! how forcibly it tells the tale of his sorrowing
soul; how eloquently it foretells the downfall of that injustice
holding him in its fierce chains!

Cicero has been nicely got out of the way. Molly, his wife, is
summoned into the presence of her mistress, to receive her awful
doom. "To be frank with you, Molly, and I am always outspoken, you
know, I am going to sell you. We have been long enough together, and
necessity at this moment forces me to this conclusion," says our
venerable lady, addressing herself to the old slave, who stands
before her, leaning on her crutch, for she is one of the cripples.
"You will get a pious owner, I trust; and God will be merciful to
you."

The old slave of seventy years replies only with an expression of
hate in her countenance, and a drooping of her heavy lip. "Now,"
Mrs. Swiggs pursues, "take this letter, go straight to Mr. Forcheu
with it, and he will sell you. He is very kind in selling old
people-very!" Molly inquires if Cicero may go. Mrs. Swiggs replies
that nobody will buy two old people together.

The slave of seventy years, knowing her entreaties will be in vain,
approaches her mistress with the fervency of a child, and grasping
warmly her hand, stammers out: "Da-da-dah Lord bless um, Missus.
Tan't many days fo'h we meet in t'oder world-good-bye."

"God bless you-good-bye, Molly. Remember what I have told you so
many times-long suffering and forbearance make the true Christian.
Be a Christian-seek to serve your Master faithfully; such the
Scripture teacheth. Now tie your handkerchief nicely on your head,
and get your clean apron on, and mind to look good-natured when Mr.
Forcheu sells you." This admonition, methodically addressed to the
old slave, and Mrs. Swiggs waves her hand, resumes her Milton, and
settles herself back into her chair. Reader! if you have a heart in
the right place it will be needless for us to dwell upon the
feelings of that old slave, as she drags her infirm body to the
shambles of the extremely kind vender of people.






CHAPTER XIV.

MR. M'ARTHUR MAKES A DISCOVERY.





ON his return from the theatre, Mr. McArthur finds his daughter,
Maria, waiting him in great anxiety. "Father, father!" she says, as
he enters his little back parlor, "this is what that poor woman, Mag
Munday, used to take on so about; here it is." She advances, her
countenance wearing an air of great solicitude, holds the old dress
in her left hand, and a stained letter in her right. "It fell from a
pocket in the bosom," she pursues. The old man, with an expression
of surprise, takes the letter and prepares to read it. He pauses.
"Did it come from the dress I discovered in the old chest?" he
inquires, adjusting his spectacles. Maria says it did. She has no
doubt it might have relieved her suffering, if it had been found
before she died. "But, father, was there not to you something
strange, something mysterious about the manner she pursued her
search for this old dress? You remember how she used to insist that
it contained something that might be a fortune to her in her
distress, and how there was a history connected with it that would
not reflect much credit on a lady in high life!"

The old man interrupts by saying he well remembers it; remembers how
he thought she was a maniac to set so much value on the old dress,
and make so many sighs when it could not be found. "It always
occurred to me there was something more than the dress that made her
take on so," the old man concludes, returning the letter to Maria,
with a request that she will read it. Maria resumes her seat, the
old man draws a chair to the table, and with his face supported in
his left hand listens attentively as she reads: "WASHINGTON SQUARE,
NEW YORK, May 14, 18--

"I am glad to hear from Mr. Sildon that the child does well. Poor
little thing, it gives me so many unhappy thoughts when I think of
it; but I know you are a good woman, Mrs. Munday, and will watch her
with the care of a mother. She was left at our door one night, and
as people are always too ready to give currency to scandal, my
brother and I thought that it would not be prudent to adopt it at
once, more especially as I have been ill for the last few months,
and have any quantity of enemies. I am going to close my house, now
that my deceased husband's estate is settled, and spend a few years
in Europe. Mr. Thomas Sildon is well provided with funds for the
care of the child during my absence, and will pay you a hundred
dollars every quarter. Let no one see this letter, not even your
husband. And when I return I will give you an extra remuneration,
and adopt the child as my own. Mr. Sildon will tell you where to
find me when I return. Your friend, "C. A. M."