Arthur M. Winfield - "The Rover Boys out West"

G. A. Henty - "On the Pampas"

J. Henri Fabre - "More Hunting Wasps"

Robert Bell - "Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of England"

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




"There, father," says Maria, "there is something more than we know
about, connected with this letter. One thing always discovers
another-don't you think it may have something to do with that lady
who has two or three times come in here, and always appeared so
nervous when she inquired about Mag Munday? and you recollect how
she would not be content until we had told her a thousand different
things concerning her. She wanted, she said, a clue to her; but she
never could get a clue to her. There is something more than we know
of connected with this letter," and she lays the old damp stained
and crumpled letter on the table, as the old servant enters bearing
on a small tray their humble supper.

"Now, sit up, my daughter," says the old man, helping her to a
sandwich while she pours out his dish of tea, "our enjoyment need be
none the less because our fare is humble. As for satisfying this
lady about Mag Munday, why, I have given that up. I told her all I
knew, and that is, that when she first came to Charleston-one never
knows what these New Yorkers are--she was a dashing sort of woman,
had no end of admirers, and lived in fine style. Then it got out
that she wasn't the wife of the man who came with her, but that she
was the wife of a poor man of the name of Munday, and had quit her
husband; as wives will when they take a notion in their heads. And
as is always the way with these sort of people, she kept gradually
getting down in the world, and as she kept getting more and more
down so she took more and more to drink, and drink brought on grief,
and grief soon wasted her into the grave. I took pity on her, for
she seemed not a bad woman at heart, and always said she was forced
by necessity into the house of Madame Flamingo-a house that hurries
many a poor creature to her ruin. And she seemed possessed of a
sense of honor not common to these people; and when Madame Flamingo
turned her into the street,--as she does every one she has succeeded
in making a wretch of,--and she could find no one to take her in, and
had nowhere to lay her poor head, as she used to say, I used to lend
her little amounts, which she always managed somehow to repay. As to
there being anything valuable in the dress, I never gave it a
thought; and when she would say if she could have restored to her
the dress, and manage to get money enough to get to New York, I
thought it was only the result of her sadness."

"You may remember, father," interrupts Maria, "she twice spoke of a
child left in her charge; and that the child was got away from her.
If she could only trace that poor child, she would say, or find out
what had become of it, she could forget her own sufferings and die
easy. But the thought of what had become of that child forever
haunted her; she knew that unless she atoned in some way the devil
would surely get her." The old man says, setting down his cup, it
all comes fresh to his mind. Mr. Soloman (he has not a doubt) could
let some light upon the subject; and, as he seems acquainted with
the lady that takes so much interest in what became of the woman
Munday, he may relieve her search. "I am sure she is dead,
nevertheless; I say this, knowing that having no home she got upon
the Neck, and then associated with the negroes; and the last I heard
of her was that the fever carried her off. This must have been true,
or else she had been back here pleading for the bundles we could not
find." Thus saying, Mr. McArthur finishes his humble supper, kisses
and fondles his daughter, whom he dotingly loves, and retires for
the night.






CHAPTER XV.

WHAT MADAME FLAMINGO WANTS TO BE.





TOM SWIGGS has enjoyed, to the evident satisfaction of his mother, a
seven months' residence in the old prison. The very first families
continue to pay their respects to the good old lady, and she in
return daily honors them with mementoes of her remembrance. These
little civilities, exchanging between the stately old lady and our
first families, indicate the approach of the fashionable season.
Indeed, we may as well tell you the fashionable season is commencing
in right good earnest. Our elite are at home, speculations are rife
as to what the "Jockey Club" will do, we are recounting our
adventures at northern watering-places, chuckling over our heroism
in putting down those who were unwise enough to speak disrespectful
of our cherished institutions, and making very light of what we
would do to the whole north. You may know, too, that our fashionable
season is commenced by what is taking place at the house of Madame
Flamingo on the one side, and the St. Cecilia on the other. We
recognize these establishments as institutions. That they form the
great fortifications of fashionable society, flanking it at either
extreme, no one here doubts.

We are extremely sensitive of two things-fashion, and our right to
sell negroes. Without the former we should be at sea; without the
latter, our existence would indeed be humble. The St. Cecilia
Society inaugurates the fashionable season, the erudite Editor of
the Courier will tell you, with an entertainment given to the elite
of its members and a few very distinguished foreigners. Madame
Flamingo opens her forts, at the same time, with a grand supper,
which she styles a very select entertainment, and to which she
invites none but "those of the highest standing in society." If you
would like to see what sort of a supper she sets to inaugurate the
fashionable season, take our arm for a few minutes.

Having just arrived from New York, where she has been luxuriating
and selecting her wares for the coming season, (New York is the
fountain ejecting its vice over this Union,) Madame looks hale,
hearty, and exceedingly cheerful. Nor has she spared any expense to
make herself up with becoming youthfulness-as the common people have
it. She has got her a lace cap of the latest fashion, with great
broad striped blue and red strings; and her dress is of orange-
colored brocade, trimmed with tulle, and looped with white blossoms.
Down the stomacher it is set with jewels. Her figure seems more
embonpoint than when we last saw her; and as she leans on the arm of
old Judge Sleepyhorn, forms a striking contrast to the slender
figure of that singular specimen of judicial infirmity. Two great
doors are opened, and Madame leads the way into what she calls her
upper and private parlor, a hall of some fifty feet by thirty, in
the centre of which a sumptuously-decorated table is set out. Indeed
there is a chasteness and richness about the furniture and works of
art that decorate this apartment, singularly at variance with the
bright-colored furniture of the room we have described in a former
chapter. "Ladies and gentlemen!" ejaculates the old hostess,
"imagine this a palace, in which you are all welcome. As the legal
gentry say (she casts a glance at the old Judge), when you have
satisfactorily imagined that, imagine me a princess, and address
me--"

"High ho!" interrupts Mr. Soloman.

"I confess," continues the old woman, her little, light-brown curls
dangling across her brow, and her face crimsoning, "I would like to
be a princess."

"You can," rejoins the former speaker, his fingers wandering to his
chin.

"Well! I have my beadle-beadles, I take, are inseparable from royal
blood-and my servants in liveries. After all (she tosses her head)
what can there be in beadles and liveries? Why! the commonest and
vulgarest people of New York have taken to liveries. If you chance
to take an elegant drive up the 'Fifth Avenue,' and meet a dashing
equipage-say with horses terribly caparisoned, a purloined crest on
the carriage-door, a sallow-faced footman covered up in a green
coat, all over big brass buttons, stuck up behind, and a
whiskey-faced coachman half-asleep in a great hammercloth, be sure
it belongs to some snob who has not a sentence of good English in
his head. Yes! perhaps a soap-chandler, an oil-dealer, or a
candy-maker. Brainless people always creep into plush-always! People
of taste and learning, like me, only are entitled to liveries and
crests." This Madame says, inviting her guests to take seats at her
banquet-table, at the head of which she stands, the Judge on her
right, Mr. Soloman on her left. Her china is of the most elaborate
description, embossed and gilt; her plate is of pure silver, and
massive; she has vases and candelabras of the same metal; and her
cutlery is of the most costly description. No house in the country
can boast a more exact taste in their selection. At each plate a
silver holder stands, bearing a bouquet of delicately-arranged
flowers. A trellise of choice flowers, interspersed here and there
with gorgeous bouquets in porcelain vases, range along the centre of
the table; which presents the appearance of a bed of fresh flowers
variegated with delicious fruits. Her guests are to her choicer than
her fruits; her fruits are choicer than her female wares. No
entertainment of this kind would be complete without Judge
Sleepyhorn and Mr. Soloman. They countenance vice in its most
insidious form-they foster crime; without crime their trade would be
damaged. The one cultivates, that the other may reap the harvest and
maintain his office.

"I see," says Mr. Soloman, in reply to the old hostess, "not the
slightest objection to your being a princess-not the slightest! And,
to be frank about the matter, I know of no one who would better
ornament the position."

"Your compliments are too liberally bestowed, Mr. Soloman."

"Not at all! 'Pon my honor, now, there is a chance for you to bring
that thing about in a very short time. There is Grouski, the Polish
exile, a prince of pure blood. Grouski is poor, wants to get back to
Europe. He wants a wife, too. Grouski is a high old fellow-a most
celebrated man, fought like a hero for the freedom of his country;
and though an exile here, would be received with all the honors due
to a prince in either Italy, France or England.

"A very respectable gentleman, no doubt; but a prince of pure blood,
Mr. Soloman, is rather a scarce article these days."

"Not a bit of it-why there is lots of exiled Princes all over this
country. They are modest men, you know, like me; and having got it
into their heads that we don't like royal blood, rather keep the
fact of their birth to themselves. As for Grouski! why his history
is as familiar to every American who takes any interest in these
things, as is the history of poor Kossuth. I only say this, Madame
Flamingo, to prove to you that Grouski is none of your mock
articles. And what is more, I have several times heard him speak
most enthusiastically of you."

"Of me!" interrupts the old hostess, blushing. "I respect Grouski,
and the more so for his being a poor prince in exile." Madame orders
her servants, who are screwed into bright liveries, to bring on some
sparkling Moselle. This done, and the glasses filled with the
sparkling beverage, Mr. Soloman rises to propose a toast; although,
as he says, it is somewhat out of place, two rounds having only
succeeded the soup: "I propose the health of our generous host, to
whom we owe so much for the superb manner in which she has catered
for our amusement. Here's that we may speedily have the pleasure of
paying our respects to her as the Princess Grouski." Madame Flamingo
bows, the toast is drunk with cheers, and she begins to think there
is something in it after all.

"Make as light of it as you please, ladies and gentlemen-many
stranger things have come to pass. As for the exile, Grouski, I
always esteemed him a very excellent gentleman."

"Exactly!" interposes the Judge, tipping his glass, and preparing
his appetite for the course of game-broiled partridges, rice-birds,
and grouse-which is being served by the waiters. "No one more
worthy," he pursues, wiping his sleepy face with his napkin, "of
being a princess. Education, wealth, and taste, you have; and with
Grouski, there is nothing to prevent the happy consummation-nothing!
I beg to assure you." Madame Flamingo makes a most courteous bow,
and with an air of great dignity condescends to say she hopes
gentlemen of the highest standing in Charleston have for ten years
or more had the strongest proofs of her ability to administer the
offices of a lady of station. "But you know," she pursues, hoping
ladies and gentlemen will be kind enough to keep their glasses full,
"people are become so pious now-a-days that they are foolish enough
to attach a stigma to our business."

"Pooh, pooh!" interrupts the accommodation man, having raised his
glass in compliment to a painted harlot. "Once in Europe, and under
the shadow of the wife of Prince Grouski, the past would be wiped
out; your money would win admirers, while your being a princess
would make fashionable society your tool. The very atmosphere of
princesses is full of taint; but it is sunk in the rank, and rather
increases courtiers. In France your untainted princess would
prognosticate the second coming of--, well, I will not profane."

"Do not, I beg of you," says Madame, blushing. "I am scrupulously
opposed to profanity." And then there breaks upon the ear music that
seems floating from an enchanted chamber, so soft and dulcet does it
mingle with the coarse laughing and coarser wit of the banqueters.
At this feast of flowers may be seen the man high in office, the
grave merchant, the man entrusted with the most important affairs of
the commonwealth-the sage and the charlatan. Sallow-faced and
painted women, more undressed than dressed, sit beside them, hale
companions. Respectable society regards the Judge a fine old
gentleman; respectable society embraces Mr. Soloman, notwithstanding
he carries on a business, as we shall show, that brings misery upon
hundreds. Twice has he received a large vote as candidate for the
General Assembly.

A little removed from the old Judge (excellent man) sits Anna
Bonard, like a jewel among stones less brilliant, George Mullholland
on her left. Her countenance wears an expression of gentleness,
sweet and touching. Her silky black hair rolls in wavy folds down
her voluptuous shoulders, a fresh carnatic flush suffuses her
cheeks, her great black eyes, so beautifully arched with heavy
lashes, flash incessantly, and to her bewitching charms is added a
pensive smile that now lights up her features, then subsides into
melancholy.

"What think you of my statuary?" inquired the old hostess, "and my
antiques? Have I not taste enough for a princess?" How soft the
carpet, how rich its colors! Those marble mantel-pieces, sculptured
in female figures, how massive! How elegantly they set off each end
of the hall, as we shall call this room; and how sturdily they bear
up statuettes, delicately executed in alabaster and Parian, of
Byron, Goethe, Napoleon, and Charlemagne-two on each. And there,
standing between two Gothic windows on the front of the hall, is an
antique side-table, of curious design. The windows are draped with
curtains of rich purple satin, with embroidered cornice skirts and
heavy tassels. On this antique table, and between the undulating
curtains, is a marble statue of a female in a reclining posture, her
right hand supporting her head, her dishevelled hair flowing down
her shoulder. The features are soft, calm, and almost grand. It is
simplicity sleeping, Madame Flamingo says. On the opposite side of
the hall are pedestals of black walnut, with mouldings in gilt, on
which stand busts of Washington and Lafayette, as if they were
unwilling spectators of the revelry. A venerable recline, that may
have had a place in the propyl‘a, or served to decorate the halls of
Versailles in the days of Napoleon, has here a place beneath the
portrait of Jefferson. This humble tribute the old hostess says she
pays to democracy. And at each end of the hall are double alcoves,
over the arches of which are great spread eagles, holding in their
beaks the points of massive maroon-colored drapery that falls over
the sides, forming brilliant depressions. In these alcoves are
groups of figures and statuettes, and parts of statuettes, legless
and armless, and all presenting a rude and mutilated condition. What
some of them represented it would have puzzled the ancient Greeks to
decypher. Madame, nevertheless, assures her guests she got them from
among the relics of Italian and Grecian antiquity. You may do
justice to her taste on living statuary; but her rude and decrepit
wares, like those owned and so much valued by our New York patrons
of the arts, you may set down as belonging to a less antique age of
art. And there are chairs inlaid with mosaic and pearl, and
upholstered with the richest and brightest satin damask,--revealing,
however, that uncouthness of taste so characteristic of your Fifth
Avenue aristocrat.

Now cast your eye upward to the ceiling. It is frescoed with themes
of a barbaric age. The finely-outlined figure of a female adorns the
centre. Her loins are enveloped in what seems a mist; and in her
right hand, looking as if it were raised from the groundwork, she
holds gracefully the bulb of a massive chandelier, from the jets of
which a refulgent light is reflected upon the flowery banquet table.
Madame smilingly says it is the Goddess of Love, an exact copy of
the one in the temple of Jupiter Olympus. Another just opposite,
less voluptuous in its outlines, she adds, is intended for a copy of
the fabled goddess, supposed by the ancients to have thrown off her
wings to illustrate the uncertainty of fortune.

Course follows course, of viands the most delicious, and sumptuously
served. The wine cup now flows freely, the walls reecho the coarse
jokes and coarser laughs of the banqueters, and leaden eyelids,
languid faces, and reeling brains, mark the closing scene. Such is
the gorgeous vice we worship, such the revelries we sanction, such
the insidious debaucheries we shield with the mantle of our
laws-laws made for the accommodation of the rich, for the punishment
only of the poor. And a thousand poor in our midst suffer for bread
while justice sleeps.

Midnight is upon the banqueters, the music strikes up a last march,
the staggering company retire to the stifled air of resplendent
chambers. The old hostess contemplates herself as a princess, and
seriously believes an alliance with Grouski would not be the
strangest thing in the world. There is, however, one among the
banqueters who seems to have something deeper at heart than the
transitory offerings on the table-one whose countenance at times
assumes a thoughtfulness singularly at variance with those around
her. It is Anna Bonard.

Only to-day did George Mullholland reveal to her the almost hopeless
condition of poor Tom Swiggs, still confined in the prison, with
criminals for associates, and starving. She had met Tom when fortune
was less ruthless; he had twice befriended her while in New York.
Moved by that sympathy for the suffering which is ever the purest
offspring of woman's heart, no matter how low her condition, she
resolved not to rest until she had devised the means of his release.
Her influence over the subtle-minded old Judge she well knew, nor
was she ignorant of the relations existing between him and the
accommodation man.

On the conclusion of the feast she invites them to her chamber. They
are not slow to accept the invitation. "Be seated, gentlemen, be
seated," she says, preserving a calmness of manner not congenial to
the feelings of either of her guests. She places chairs for them at
the round table, upon the marble top of which an inlaid portfolio
lies open.

"Rather conventional," stammers Mr. Snivel, touching the Judge
significantly on the arm, as they take seats. Mr. Snivel is fond of
good wine, and good wine has so mellowed his constitution that he is
obliged to seek support for his head in his hands.

"I'd like a little light on this 'ere plot. Peers thar's somethin' a
foot," responds the Judge.

Anna interposes by saying they shall know quick enough. Placing a
pen and inkstand on the table, she takes her seat opposite them, and
commences watching their declining consciousness. "Thar," ejaculates
the old Judge, his moody face becoming dark and sullen, "let us have
the wish."

"You owe me an atonement, and you can discharge it by gratifying my
desire."

"Women," interposes the old Judge, dreamily, "always have wishes to
gratify. W-o-l, if its teu sign a warrant, hang a nigger, tar and
feather an abolitionist, ride the British Consul out a town, or send
a dozen vagrants to the whipping-post-I'm thar. Anything my hand's
in at!" incoherently mumbles this judicial dignitary.

Mr. Snivel having reminded the Judge that ten o'clock to-morrow
morning is the time appointed for meeting Splitwood, the "nigger
broker," who furnishes capital with which they start a new paper for
the new party, drops away into a refreshing sleep, his head on the
marble.

"Grant me, as a favor, an order for the release of poor Tom Swiggs.
You cannot deny me this, Judge," says Anna, with an arch smile, and
pausing for a reply.

"Wol, as to that," responds this high functionary, "if I'd power,
'twouldn't be long afore I'd dew it, though his mother'd turn the
town upside down; but I hain't no power in the premises. I make it a
rule, on and off the bench, never to refuse the request of a pretty
woman. Chivalry, you know."

"For your compliment, Judge, I thank you. The granting my request,
however, would be more grateful to my feelings."

"It speaks well of your heart, my dear girl; but, you see, I'm only
a Judge. Mr. Snivel, here, probably committed him ('Snivel! here,
wake up!' he says, shaking him violently), he commits everybody.
Being a Justice of the Peace, you see, and justices of the peace
being everything here, I may prevail on him to grant your request!"
pursues the Judge, brightening up at the earnest manner in which
Anna makes her appeal. "Snivel! Snivel!--Justice Snivel, come, wake
up. Thar is a call for your sarvices." The Judge continues to shake
the higher functionary violently. Mr. Snivel with a modest snore
rouses from his nap, says he is always ready to do a bit of a good
turn. "If you are, then," interposes the fair girl, "let it be made
known now. Grant me an order of release for Tom Swiggs. Remember
what will be the consequence of a refusal!"

"Tom Swiggs! Tom Swiggs!--why I've made a deal of fees of that
fellow. But, viewing it in either a judicial or philosophical light,
he's quite as well where he is. They don't give them much to eat in
jail I admit, but it is a great place for straightening the morals
of a rum-head like Tom. And he has got down so low that all the
justices in the city couldn't make him fit for respectable society."
Mr. Snivel yawns and stretches his arms athwart.

"But you can grant me the order independent of what respectable
society will do."

Mr. Snivel replies, bowing, a pretty woman is more than a match for
the whole judiciary. He will make a good amount of fees out of Tom
yet; and what his testy old mother declines to pay, he will charge
to the State, as the law gives him a right to do.

"Then I am to understand!" quickly retorts Anna, rising from her
chair, with an expression of contempt on her countenance, and a
satirical curl on her lip, "you have no true regard for me then;
your friendship is that of the knave, who has nothing to give after
his ends are served. I will leave you!" The Judge takes her gently
by the arm; indignantly she pushes him from her, as her great black
eyes flash with passion, and she seeks for the door. Mr. Snivel has
placed himself against it, begs she will be calm. "Why," he says,
"get into a passion at that which was but a joke." The Judge touches
him on the arm significantly, and whispers in his ear, "grant her
the order-grant it, for peace sake, Justice Snivel."

"Now, if you will tell me why you take so deep an interest in
getting them fellows out of prison, I will grant the order of
release," Mr. Snivel says, and with an air of great gallantry leads
her back to her chair.

"None but friendship for one who served me when he had it in his
power."

"I see! I see!" interrupts our gallant justice; "the renewal of an
old acquaintance; you are to play the part of Don Quixote,--he, the
mistress. It's well enough there should be a change in the knights,
and that the stripling who goes about in the garb of the clergy, and
has been puzzling his wits how to get Tom out of prison for the last
six months--"

"Your trades never agree;" parenthesises Anna.

"Should yield the lance to you."

"Who better able to wield it in this chivalrous atmosphere? It only
pains my own feelings to confess myself an abandoned woman; but I
have a consolation in knowing how powerful an abandoned woman may be
in Charleston."

An admonition from the old Judge, and Mr. Snivel draws his chair to
the table, upon which he places his left elbow, rests his head on
his hand. "This fellow will get out; his mother-I have pledged my
honor to keep him fast locked up-will find it out, and there'll be a
fuss among our first families," he whispers. Anna pledges him her
honor, a thing she never betrays, that the secret of Tom's release
shall be a matter of strict confidence. And having shook hands over
it, Mr. Snivel seizes the pen and writes an order of release,
commanding the jailer to set at liberty one Tom Swiggs, committed as
a vagrant upon a justice's warrant, &c., &c., &c. "There," says
Justice Snivel, "the thing is done-now for a kiss;" and the fair
girl permits him to kiss her brow. "Me too; the bench and the bar!"
rejoins the Judge, following the example of his junior. And with an
air of triumph the victorious girl bears away what at this moment
she values a prize.