Charles Kingsley - "Plays and Puritans"

Alfred de Vigny - "Cinq Mars, v2"

Kathleen Hay - "The Quest of Happy Hearts"

George Bernard Shaw - "Pygmalion"

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









CHAPTER XVI.

IN WHICH TOM SWIGGS GAINS HIS LIBERTY, AND WHAT BEFALLS HIM.





ANNA gives George Mullholland the letter of release, and on the
succeeding morning he is seen entering at the iron gate of the wall
that encloses the old prison. "Bread! give me bread," greets his ear
as soon as he enters the sombre old pile. He walks through the
debtors' floor, startles as he hears the stifled cry for bread, and
contemplates with pained feelings the wasting forms and sickly faces
that everywhere meet his eye. The same piercing cry grates upon his
senses as he sallies along the damp, narrow aisle of the second
floor, lined on both sides with small, filthy cells, in which are
incarcerated men whose crime is that of having committed "assault
and battery," and British seamen innocent of all crime except that
of having a colored skin. If anything less than a gentleman commit
assault and battery, we punish him with imprisonment; we have no law
to punish gentlemen who commit such offences.

Along the felon's aisle-in the malarious cells where "poor"
murderers and burglars are chained to die of the poisonous
atmosphere, the same cry tells its mournful tale. Look into the dark
vista of this little passage, and you will see the gleaming of
flabby arms and shrunken hands. Glance into the apertures out of
which they protrude so appealingly, you will hear the dull clank
of chains, see the glare of vacant eyes, and shudder at the pale,
cadaverous faces of beings tortured with starvation. A low, hoarse
whisper, asks you for bread; a listless countenance quickens at your
footfall. Oh! could you but feel the emotion that has touched that
shrunken form which so despondingly waits the coming of a messenger
of mercy. That system of cruelty to prisoners which so disgraced
England during the last century, and which for her name she would
were erased from her history, we preserve here in all its
hideousness. The Governor knows nothing, and cares nothing about the
prison; the Attorney-General never darkens its doors; the public
scarce give a thought for those within its walls-and to one man, Mr.
Hardscrabble, is the fate of these wretched beings entrusted. And so
prone has become the appetite of man to speculate on the misfortunes
of his fellow-man, that this good man, as we shall call him,
tortures thus the miserable beings entrusted to his keeping, and
makes it a means of getting rich. Pardon, reader, this digression.

George, elated with the idea of setting Tom at liberty, found the
young theologian at the prison, and revealed to him the fact that he
had got the much-desired order. To the latter this seemed
strange-not that such a person as George could have succeeded in
what he had tried in vain to effect, but that there was a mystery
about it. It is but justice to say that the young theologian had for
six months used every exertion in his power, without avail, to
procure an order of release. He had appealed to the
Attorney-General, who declared himself powerless, but referred him
to the Governor. The Governor could take no action in the premises,
and referred him to the Judge of the Sessions. The Judge of the
Sessions doubted his capacity to interfere, and advised a petition
to the Clerk of the Court. The Clerk of the Court, who invariably
took it upon himself to correct the judge's dictum, decided that the
judge could not interfere, the case being a committal by a Justice
of the Peace, and not having been before the sessions. And against
these high functionaries-the Governor, Attorney-General, Judge of
the Sessions, and Clerk of the Court, was Mr. Soloman and Mrs.
Swiggs all-powerful. There was, however, another power superior to
all, and that we have described in the previous chapter.

Accompanied by the brusque old jailer, George and the young
theologian make their way to the cell in which Tom is confined.

"Hallo! Tom," exclaims George, as he enters the cell, "boarding at
the expense of the State yet, eh?" Tom lay stretched on a blanket in
one corner of the cell, his faithful old friend, the sailor,
watching over him with the solicitude of a brother. "I don't know
how he'd got on if it hadn't bin for the old sailor, yonder," says
the jailer, pointing to Spunyarn, who is crouched down at the great
black fire-place, blowing the coals under a small pan. "He took to
Tom when he first came in, and hasn't left him for a day. He'll
steal to supply Tom's hunger, and fight if a prisoner attempts to
impose upon his charge. He has rigged him out, you see, with his
pea-coat and overalls," continues the man, folding his arms.

"I am sorry, Tom--"

"Yes," says Tom, interrupting the young theologian, "I know you are.
You don't find me to have kept my word; and because I haven't you
don't find me improved much. I can't get out; and if I can't get
out, what's the use of my trying to improve? I don't say this
because I don't want to improve. I have no one living who ought to
care for me, but my mother. And she has shown what she cares for
me."

"Everything is well. (The young theologian takes Tom by the hand.)
We have got your release. You are a free man, now."

"My release!" exclaims the poor outcast, starting to his feet, "my
release?"

"Yes," kindly interposes the jailer, "you may go, Tom. Stone walls,
bolts and chains have no further use for you." The announcement
brings tears to his eyes; he cannot find words to give utterance to
his emotions. He drops the young theologian's hand, grasps warmly
that of George Mullholland, and says, the tears falling fast down
his cheeks, "now I will be a new man."

"God bless Tom," rejoins the old sailor, who has left the fire-place
and joined in the excitement of the moment. "I alwas sed there war
better weather ahead, Tom." He pats him encouragingly on the
shoulder, and turns to the bystanders, continuing with a childlike
frankness: "he's alwas complained with himself about breaking his
word and honor with you, sir--"

The young theologian says the temptation was more than he could
withstand.

"Yes sir!--that was it. He, poor fellow, wasn't to blame. One brought
him in a drop, and challenged him; then another brought him in a
drop, and challenged him; and the vote-cribber would get generous
now and then, and bring him a drop, saying how he would like to crib
him if he was only out, on the general election coming on, and make
him take a drop of what he called election whiskey. And you know,
sir, it's hard for a body to stand up against all these things,
specially when a body's bin disappointed in love. It's bin a hard up
and down with him. To-day he would make a bit of good weather, and
to-morrow he'd be all up in a hurricane." And the old sailor takes a
fresh quid of tobacco, wipes Tom's face, gets the brush and fusses
over him, and tells him to cheer up, now that he has got his
clearance.

"Tom would know if his mother ordered it."

"No! she must not know that you are at large," rejoins George.

"Not that I am at large?"

"I have," interposes the young theologian, "provided a place for
you. We have a home for you, a snug little place at the house of old
McArthur--"

"Old McArthur," interpolates Tom, smiling, "I'm not a curiosity."

George Mullholland says he may make love to Maria, that she will
once more be a sister. Touched by the kindly act on his behalf, Tom
replies saying she was always kind to him, watched over him when no
one else would, and sought with tender counsels to effect his
reform, to make him forget his troubles.

"Thank you!--my heart thanks you more forcibly than my tongue can. I
feel a man. I won't touch drink again: no I won't. You won't find me
breaking my honor this time. A sick at heart man, like me, has no
power to buffet disappointment. I was a wretch, and like a wretch
without a mother's sympathy, found relief only in drinks--"

"And such drinks!" interposes the old sailor, shrugging his
shoulders. "Good weather, and a cheer up, now and then, from a
friend, would have saved him."

Now there appears in the doorway, the stalwarth figure of the
vote-cribber, who, with sullen face, advances mechanically toward
Tom, pauses and regards him with an air of suspicion. "You are not
what you ought to be, Tom," he says, doggedly, and turns to the
young Missionary. "Parson," he continues, "this 'ere pupil of
yourn's a hard un. He isn't fit for respectable society. Like a
sponge, he soaks up all the whiskey in jail." The young man turns
upon him a look more of pity than scorn, while the jailer shakes his
head admonishingly. The vote-cribber continues insensible to the
admonition. He, be it known, is a character of no small importance
in the political world. Having a sort of sympathy for the old jail
he views his transient residences therein rather necessary than
otherwise. As a leading character is necessary to every grade of
society, so also does he plume himself the aristocrat of the prison.
Persons committed for any other than offences against the election
laws, he holds in utter contempt. Indeed, he says with a good deal
of truth, that as fighting is become the all necessary qualification
of our Senators and Representatives to Congress, he thinks of
offering himself for the next vacancy. The only rival he fears is
"handsome Charley."

An election bully, the ugliest man in Charleston, and the deadly foe
of Mingle. The accommodations are not what they might be, but, being
exempt from rent and other items necessary to a prominent
politician, he accepts them as a matter of economy.

The vote-cribber is sure of being set free on the approach of an
election. We may as well confess it before the world-he is an
indispensable adjunct to the creating of Legislators, Mayors,
Congressmen, and Governors. Whiskey is not more necessary to the
reputation of our mob-politicians than are the physical powers of
Milman Mingle to the success of the party he honors with his
services. Nor do his friends scruple at consulting him on matters of
great importance to the State while in his prison sanctuary.

"I'm out to-morrow, parson," he resumes; the massive fingers of his
right hand wandering into his crispy, red beard, and again over his
scarred face. "Mayor's election comes off two weeks from
Friday-couldn't do without me-can knock down any quantity of men-you
throw a plumper, I take it?" The young Missionary answers in the
negative by shaking his head, while the kind old sailor continues to
fuss over and prepare Tom for his departure. "Tom is about to leave
us," says the old sailor, by way of diverting the vote-cribber's
attention. That dignitary, so much esteemed by our fine old
statesmen, turns to Tom, and inquires if he has a vote.

Tom has a vote, but declares he will not give it to the
vote-cribber's party. The politician says "p'raps," and draws from
his bosom a small flask. "Whiskey, Tom," he says,--"no use offering
it to parsons, eh? (he casts an insinuating look at the parson.)
First-chop election whiskey-a sup and we're friends until I get you
safe under the lock of my crib. Our Senators to Congress patronize
this largely." The forlorn freeman, with a look of contempt for the
man who thus upbraids him, dashes the drug upon the floor, to the
evident chagrin of the politician, who, to conceal his feelings,
turns to George Mulholland, and mechanically inquires if he has a
vote. Being answered in the negative, he picks up his flask and
walks away, saying: "what rubbish!"

Accompanied by his friends and the old sailor, Tom sallies forth
into the atmosphere of sweet freedom. As the old jailer swings back
the outer gate, Spunyarn grasps his friend and companion in sorrow
warmly by the hand, his bronzed face brightens with an air of
satisfaction, and like pure water gushing from the rude rock his
eyes fill with tears. How honest, how touching, how pure the
friendly lisp-good bye! "Keep up a strong heart, Tom,--never mind me.
I don't know by what right I'm kept here, and starved; but I expect
to get out one of these days; and when I do you may reckon on me as
your friend. Keep the craft in good trim till then; don't let the
devil get master. Come and see us now and then, and above all, never
give up the ship during a storm." Tom's emotions are too deeply
touched. He has no reply to make, but presses in silence the hand of
the old sailor, takes his departure, and turns to wave him an adieu.






CHAPTER XVII.

IN WHICH THERE IS AN INTERESTING MEETING.





OUR very chivalric dealers in human merchandise, like philosophers
and philanthropists, are composed merely of flesh and blood, while
their theories are alike influenced by circumstances. Those of the
first, we (the South) are, at times, too apt to regard as sublimated
and refined, while we hold the practices of the latter such as
divest human nature of everything congenial. Nevertheless we can
assure our readers that there does not exist a class of men who so
much pride themselves on their chivalry as some of our opulent
slave-dealers. Did we want proof to sustain what we have said we
could not do better than refer to Mr. Forsheu, that very excellent
gentleman. Mrs. Swiggs held him in high esteem, and so far regarded
his character for piety and chivalry unblemished, that she consigned
to him her old slave of seventy years-old Molly. Molly must be sold,
the New York Tract Society must have a mite, and Sister Abijah
Slocum's very laudable enterprise of getting Brother Singleton Spyke
off to Antioch must be encouraged. And Mr. Forsheu is very kind to
the old people he sells. It would, indeed, be difficult for the
distant reader to conceive a more striking instance of a man, grown
rich in a commerce that blunts all the finer qualities of our
nature, preserving a gentleness, excelled only by his real goodness
of heart.

When the old slave, leaning on her crutch, stood before Mr. Forsheu,
her face the very picture of age and starvation, his heart recoiled
at the thought of selling her in her present condition. He read the
letter she bore, contemplated her with an air of pity, and turning
to Mr. Benbow, his methodical book-keeper of twenty years, who had
added and subtracted through a wilderness of bodies and souls,
ordered him to send the shrunken old woman into the pen, on feed.
Mr. Forsheu prided himself on the quality of people sold at his
shambles, and would not for the world hazard his reputation on old
Molly, till she was got in better condition. Molly rather liked
this, inasmuch as she had been fed on corn and prayers exclusively,
and more prayers than corn, which is become the fashion with our
much-reduced first families. For nearly four months she enjoyed,
much to the discomfiture of her august owner, the comforts of Mr.
Forsheu's pen. Daily did the anxious old lady study her Milton, and
dispatch a slave to inquire if her piece of aged property had found
a purchaser. The polite vender preserved, with uncommon philosophy,
his temper. He enjoined patience. The condition and age of the
property were, he said, much in the way of sale. Then Mrs. Swiggs
began questioning his ability as a merchant. Aspersions of this
kind, the polite vender of people could not bear with. He was a man
of enormous wealth, the result of his skill in the sale of people.
He was the president of an insurance company, a bank director, a
commissioner of the orphan asylum, and a steward of the jockey club.
To his great relief, for he began to have serious misgivings about
his outlay on old Molly, there came along one day an excellent
customer. This was no less a person than Madame Flamingo. What was
singular of this very distinguished lady was, that she always had a
use for old slaves no one else ever thought of. Her yard was full of
aged and tottering humanity. One cleaned knives, another fetched ice
from the ice-house, a third blacked boots, a fourth split wood, a
fifth carried groceries, and a sixth did the marketing. She had a
decayed negro for the smallest service; and, to her credit be it
said, they were as contented and well fed a body of tottering age as
could be found in old Carolina.

Her knife-cleaning machine having taken it into his head to die one
day, she would purchase another. Mr. Forsheu, with that urbanity we
so well understand how to appreciate, informed the distinguished
lady that he had an article exactly suited to her wants. Forthwith,
Molly was summoned into her presence. Madame Flamingo, moved almost
to tears at the old slave's appearance, purchased her out of pure
sympathy, as we call it, and to the great relief of Mr. Forsheu,
lost no time in paying one hundred and forty dollars down in gold
for her. In deference to Mr. Hadger, the House of The Foreign
Missions, and the very excellent Tract Society, of New York, we will
not here extend on how the money was got. The transaction was purely
commercial: why should humanity interpose? We hold it strictly legal
that institutions created for the purpose of enlightening the
heathen have no right to ask by what means the money constituting
their donations is got.

The comforts of Mr. Forsheu's pen,--the hominy, grits, and rest, made
the old slave quite as reluctant about leaving him as she had before
been in parting with Lady Swiggs. Albeit, she shook his hand with
equal earnestness, and lisped "God bless Massa," with a tenderness
and simplicity so touching, that had not Madame Flamingo been an
excellent diplomat, reconciling the matter by assuring her that she
would get enough to eat, and clothes to wear, no few tears would
have been shed. Madame, in addition to this incentive, intimated
that she might attend a prayer meeting now and then-perhaps see
Cicero. However, Molly could easily have forgotten Cicero, inasmuch
as she had enjoyed the rare felicity of thirteen husbands, all of
whom Lady Swiggs had sold when it suited her own convenience.

Having made her purchase, Madame very elegantly bid the gallant
merchant good morning, hoping he would not forget her address, and
call round when it suited his convenience. Mr. Forsheu, his hat
doffed, escorted her to her carriage, into the amber-colored lining
of which she gracefully settled her majestic self, as a
slightly-browned gentleman in livery closed the bright door, took
her order with servile bows, and having motioned to the coachman,
the carriage rolled away, and was soon out of sight. Monsieur
Grouski, it may be well to add here, was discovered curled up in one
corner; he smiled, and extended his hand very graciously to Madame
as she entered the carriage.

Like a pilgrim in search of some promised land, Molly adjusted her
crutch, and over the sandy road trudged, with truculent face, to her
new home, humming to herself "dah-is-a-time-a-comin, den da Lor' he
be good!!"

On the following morning, Lady Swiggs received her account current,
Mr. Forsheu being exceedingly prompt in business. There was one
hundred and twenty-nine days' feed, commissions, advertising, and
sundry smaller charges, which reduced the net balance to one hundred
and three dollars. Mrs. Swiggs, with an infatuation kindred to that
which finds the State blind to its own poverty, stubbornly refused
to believe her slaves had declined in value. Hence she received the
vender's account with surprise and dissatisfaction. However, the
sale being binding, she gradually accommodated her mind to the
result, and began evolving the question of how to make the amount
meet the emergency. She must visit the great city of New York; she
must see Sister Slocum face to face; Brother Spyke's mission must
have fifty dollars; how much could she give the Tract Society? Here
was a dilemma-one which might have excited the sympathy of the House
of the "Foreign Missions." The dignity of the family, too, was at
stake. Many sleepless nights did this difficult matter cause the
august old lady. She thought of selling another cripple! Oh! that
would not do. Mr. Keepum had a lien on them; Mr. Keepum was a man of
iron-heart. Suddenly it flashed upon her mind that she had already
been guilty of a legal wrong in selling old Molly. Mr. Soloman had
doubtless described her with legal minuteness in the bond of
security for the two hundred dollars. Her decrepid form; her
corrugated face; her heavy lip; her crutch, and her
piety-everything, in a word, but her starvation, had been set down.
Well! Mr. Soloman might, she thought, overlook in the multiplicity
of business so small a discrepancy. She, too, had a large circle of
distinguished friends. If the worst came to the worst she would
appeal to them. There, too, was Sir Sunderland Swiggs' portrait,
very valuable for its age; she might sell the family arms, such
things being in great demand with the chivalry; her antique
furniture, too, was highly prized by our first families. Thus Lady
Swiggs contemplated these mighty relics of past greatness. Our
celtic Butlers and Brookses never recurred to the blood of their
querulous ancestors with more awe than did this memorable lady to
her decayed relics. Mr. Israel Moses, she cherished a hope, would
give a large sum for the portrait; the family arms he would value at
a high figure; the old furniture he would esteem a prize. But to Mr.
Moses and common sense, neither the blood of the Butlers, nor Lady
Swiggs' rubbish, were safe to loan money upon. The Hebrew gentleman
was not so easily beguiled.

The time came when it was necessary to appeal to Mr. Hadger. That
gentleman held the dignity of the Swiggs family in high esteem, but
shook his head when he found the respectability of the house the
only security offered in exchange for a loan. Ah! a thought flashed
to her relief, the family watch and chain would beguile the Hebrew
gentleman. With these cherished mementoes of the high old family,
(she would under no other circumstance have parted with for
uncounted gold,) she in time seduced Mr. Israel Moses to make a
small advance. Duty, stern and demanding, called her to New York.
Forced to reduce her generosity, she, not without a sigh, made up
her mind to give only thirty dollars to each of the institutions she
had made so many sacrifices to serve. And thus, with a reduced
platform, as our politicians have it, she set about preparing for
the grand journey. Regards the most distinguished were sent to all
the first families; the St. Cecilia had notice of her intended
absence; no end of tea parties were given in honor of the event.
Apparently happy with herself, with every one but poor Tom, our
august lady left in the Steamer one day. With a little of that
vanity the State deals so largely in, Mrs. Swiggs thought every
passenger on board wondering and staring at her.

While then she voyages and dreams of the grand reception waiting her
in New York,--of Sister Slocum's smiles, of the good of the heathen
world, and of those nice evening gatherings she will enjoy with the
pious, let us, gentle reader, look in at the house of Absalom
McArthur.

To-day Tom Swiggs feels himself free, and it is high noon. Downcast
of countenance he wends his way along the fashionable side of
King-street. The young theologian is at his side. George Mullholland
has gone to the house of Madame Flamingo. He will announce the glad
news to Anna. The old antiquarian dusts his little counter with a
stubby broom, places various curiosities in the windows, and about
the doors, stands contemplating them with an air of satisfaction,
then proceeds to drive a swarm of flies that hover upon the ceiling,
into a curiously-arranged trap that he has set.

"What!--my young friend, Tom Swiggs!" exclaims the old man, toddling
toward Tom, and grasping firmly his hand, as he enters the door.
"You are welcome to my little place, which shall be a home." Tom
hangs down his head, receives the old man's greeting with shyness.
"Your poor father and me, Tom, used to sit here many a time. (The
old man points to an old sofa.) We were friends. He thought much of
me, and I had a high opinion of him; and so we used to sit for
hours, and talk over the deeds of the old continentals. Your mother
and him didn't get along over-well together; she had more dignity
than he could well digest: but that is neither here nor there."

"I hope, in time," interrupts Tom, "to repay your kindness. I am
willing to ply myself to work, though it degrades one in the eyes of
our society."

"As to that," returns the old man, "why, don't mention it. Maria,
you know, will be a friend to you. Come away now and see her." And
taking Tom by the hand, (the theologian has withdrawn,) he becomes
enthusiastic, leads him through the dark, narrow passage into the
back parlor, where he is met by Maria, and cordially welcomed. "Why,
Tom, what a change has come over you," she ejaculates, holding his
hand, and viewing him with the solicitude of a sister, who hastens
to embrace a brother returned after a long absence. Letting fall his
begrimed hand, she draws up the old-fashioned rocking chair, and
bids him be seated. He shakes his head moodily, says he is not so
bad as he seems, and hopes yet to make himself worthy of her
kindness. He has been the associate of criminals; he has suffered
punishment; he feels himself loathed by society; he cannot divest
himself of the odium clinging to his garments. Fain would he go to
some distant clime, and there seek a refuge from the odium of
felons.