H. Rider Haggard - "Marie"

(H)erbert (G)eorge Wells - "Little Wars"

George Bernard Shaw - "O'Flaherty V. C."

Rosa Nouchette Carey - "Herb of Grace"

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




"Never go into Broadway," repeats Mrs. Swiggs, her fingers wandering
to her spectacles. Turning into Orange street, Mr. Toddleworth
tenders his services in piloting Mrs. Swiggs into Centre street,
which, as he adds, will place her beyond harm. As they advance the
scene becomes darker and darker. Orange street seems that centre
from which radiates the avenues of every vice known to a great city.
One might fancy the world's outcasts hurled by some mysterious hand
into this pool of crime and misery, and left to feast their wanton
appetites and die. "And you have no home, my man?" says Mrs. Swiggs,
mechanically. "As to that, Madam," returns the man, with a bow, "I
can't exactly say I have no home. I kind of preside over and am
looked up to by these people. One says, 'come spend a night with me,
Mr. Toddleworth;' another says, 'come spend a night with me, Mr. Tom
Toddleworth.' I am a sort of respectable man with them, have a place
to lay down free, in any of their houses. They all esteem me, and
say, come spend a night with me, Mr. Toddleworth. It's very kind of
them. And whenever they get a drop of gin I'm sure of a taste.
Surmising what I was once, they look up to me, you see. This gives
me heart." And as he says this he smiles, and draws about him the
ragged remnants of his coat, as if touched by shame. Arrived at the
corner of Orange street, Mr. Toddleworth pauses and begs his charge
to survey the prospect. Look whither she will nothing but a scene of
desolation-a Babylon of hideous, wasting forms, mucky streets, and
reeking dens, meet her eye. The Jews have arranged themselves on one
side of Orange street, to speculate on the wasted harlotry of the
other. "Look you, Madam!" says Mr. Toddleworth, leaning on his stick
and pointing towards Chatham street. "A desert, truly," replies the
august old lady, nervously twitching her head. She sees to the right
("it is wantonness warring upon misery," says Mr. Toddleworth) a
long line of irregular, wooden buildings, black and besmeared with
mud. Little houses with decrepid door-steps; little houses with
decayed platforms in front; little dens that seem crammed with
rubbish; little houses with black-eyed, curly-haired, and
crooked-nosed children looking shyly about the doors; little houses
with lusty and lecherous-eyed Jewesses sitting saucily in the open
door; little houses with open doors, broken windows, and shattered
shutters, where the devil's elixir is being served to ragged and
besotted denizens; little houses into which women with blotched
faces slip suspiciously, deposit their almost worthless rags, and
pass out to seek the gin-shop; little houses with eagle-faced men
peering curiously out at broken windows, or beckoning some wayfarer
to enter and buy from their door; little houses piled inside with
the cast-off garments of the poor and dissolute, and hung outside
with smashed bonnets, old gowns, tattered shawls; flaunting-red,
blue, and yellow, in the wind, emblematic of those poor wretches, on
the opposite side, who have pledged here their last offerings, and
blazed down into that stage of human degradation, which finds the
next step the grave-all range along, forming a picturesque but sad
panorama. Mr. Moses, the man of the eagle face, who keeps the record
of death, as the neighbors call it, sits opulently in his door, and
smokes his cigar; while his sharp-eyed daughters estimate exactly
how much it is safe to advance on the last rag some lean wretch
would pledge. He will tell you just how long that brawny harlot,
passing on the opposite side, will last, and what the few rags on
her back will be worth when she is "shoved into Potters' Field." At
the sign of the "Three Martyrs" Mr. Levy is seen, in his fashionable
coat, and a massive chain falling over his tight waistcoat,
registering the names of his grotesque customers, ticketing their
little packages, and advancing each a shilling or two, which they
will soon spend at the opposite druggery. Thus bravely wages the
war. London has nothing so besotted, Paris nothing so vicious,
Naples nothing so dark and despairing, as this heathen world we pass
by so heedlessly. Beside it even the purlieus of Rome sink into
insignificance. Now run your eye along the East side of Orange
street. A sidewalk sinking in mire; a long line of one-story wooden
shanties, ready to cave-in with decay; dismal looking groceries, in
which the god, gin, is sending his victims by hundreds to the greedy
grave-yard; suspicious looking dens with dingy fronts, open doors,
and windows stuffed with filthy rags-in which crimes are nightly
perpetrated, and where broken-hearted victims of seduction and
neglect, seeking here a last refuge, are held in a slavery delicacy
forbids our describing; dens where negro dancers nightly revel, and
make the very air re-echo their profaning voices; filthy lanes
leading to haunts up alleys and in narrow passages, where thieves
and burglars hide their vicious heads; mysterious looking steps
leading to cavern-like cellars, where swarm and lay prostrate
wretched beings made drunk by the "devil's elixir"--all these beset
the East side of Orange street. Wasted nature, blanched and
despairing, ferments here into one terrible pool. Women in
gaudy-colored dresses, their bared breasts and brawny arms
contrasting curiously with their wicked faces, hang lasciviously
over "half-doors," taunt the dreamy policeman on his round, and
beckon the unwary stranger into their dens. Piles of filth one might
imagine had been thrown up by the devil or the street commissioners
and in which you might bury a dozen fat aldermen without missing
one; little shops where unwholesome food is sold; corner shops where
idlers of every color, and sharpers of all grades, sit dreaming out
the day over their gin-are here to be found. Young Ireland would,
indeed, seem to have made this the citadel from which to vomit his
vice over the city.

"They're perfectly wild, Madam-these children are," says Mr.
Toddleworth, in reply to a question Mrs. Swiggs put respecting the
immense number of ragged and profaning urchins that swarm the
streets. "They never heard of the Bible, nor God, nor that sort of
thing. How could they hear of it? No one ever comes in here-that is,
they come in now and then, and throw a bit of a tract in here and
there, and are glad to get out with a whole coat. The tracts are all
Greek to the dwellers here. Besides that, you see, something must be
done for the belly, before you can patch up the head. I say this
with a fruitful experience. A good, kind little man, who seems
earnest in the welfare of these wild little children that you see
running about here-not the half of them know their parents-looks in
now and then, acts as if he wasn't afraid of us, (that is a good
deal, Madam,) and the boys are beginning to take to him. But, with
nothing but his kind heart and earnest resolution, he'll find a
rugged mountain to move. If he move it, he will deserve a monument
of fairest marble erected to his memory, and letters of gold to
emblazon his deeds thereon. He seems to understand the key to some
of their affections. It's no use mending the sails without making
safe the hull."

"At this moment Mrs. Swiggs' attention is attracted by a crowd of
ragged urchins and grotesque-looking men, gathered about a heap of
filth at that corner of Orange street that opens into the Points.

"They are disinterring his Honor, the Mayor," says Mr. Toddleworth.
"Do this sort of thing every day, Madam; they mean no harm, you
see."

Mrs. Swiggs, curious to witness the process of disinterring so
distinguished a person, forgets entirely her appointment at the
House of the Foreign Missions, crowds her way into the filthy
throng, and watches with intense anxiety a vacant-looking idiot, who
has seen some sixteen sumers, lean and half clad, and who has dug
with his staff a hole deep in the mud, which he is busy piling up at
the edges.

"Deeper, deeper!" cries out a dozen voices, of as many mischievous
urchins, who are gathered round in a ring, making him the victim of
their sport. Having cast his glassy eyes upward, and scanned
vacantly his audience, he sets to work again, and continues throwing
out dead cats by the dozen, all of which he exults over, and pauses
now and then for the approbation of the bystanders, who declare they
bear no resemblance to his Honor, or any one of the Board of
Aldermen. One chubby urchin, with a bundle of Tribunes under his
arm, looks mischievously into the pit, and says, "His 'Onor 'ill
want the Tribune." Another, of a more taciturn disposition, shrugs
his shoulders, gives his cap a pull over his eyes, and says, spicing
his declaration with an oath, "He'll buy two Heralds!--he will." The
taciturn urchin draws them from his bundle with an air of
independence, flaunts them in the face of his rival, and exults over
their merits. A splashing of mud, followed by a deafening shout,
announces that the persevering idiot has come upon the object he
seeks. One proclaims to his motley neighbors that the whole
corporation is come to light; another swears it is only his Honor
and a dead Alderman. A third, more astute than the rest, says it is
only the head and body of the Corporation-a dead pig and a decaying
pumpkin! Shout after shout goes up as the idiot, exultingly, drags
out the prostrate pig, following it with the pumpkin. Mr.
Toddleworth beckons Lady Swiggs away. The wicked-faced harlots are
gathering about her in scores. One has just been seen fingering her
dress, and hurrying away, disappearing suspiciously into an Alley.

"You see, Madam," says Mr. Toddleworth, as they gain the vicinity of
Cow Bay, "it is currently reported, and believed by the dwellers
here, that our Corporation ate itself out of the world not long
since; and seeing how much they suffer by the loss of such--to have a
dead Corporation in a great city, is an evil, I assure you--an
institution, they adopt this method of finding it. It affords them
no little amusement. These swarming urchins will have the filthy
things laid out in state, holding with due ceremony an inquest over
them, and mischievously proposing to the first policeman who chances
along, that he officiate as coroner. Lady Swiggs has not a doubt
that light might be valuably reflected over this heathen world. Like
many other very excellent ladies, however, she has no candles for a
heathen world outside of Antioch."

Mr. Toddleworth escorts her safely into Centre street, and directs
her to the House of the Foreign Missions.

"Thank you! thank you!--may God never let you want a shilling," he
says, bowing and touching his hat as Mrs. Swiggs puts four shillings
into his left hand.

"One shilling, Madam," he pursues, with a smile, "will get me a new
collar. A clean collar now and then, it must be said, gives a body a
look of respectability."

Mr. Toddleworth has a passion for new collars, regards them as a
means of sustaining his respectability. Indeed, he considers himself
in full dress with one mounted, no matter how ragged the rest of his
wardrobe. And when he walks out of a morning, thus conditioned, his
friends greet him with: "Hi! ho!--Mister Toddleworth is uppish this
morning." He has bid his charge good morning, and hurries back to
his wonted haunts. There is a mysterious and melancholy interest in
this man's history, which many have attempted but failed to fathom.
He was once heard to say his name was not Toddleworth-that he had
sunk his right name in his sorrows. He was sentimental at times,
always used good language, and spoke like one who had seen better
days and enjoyed a superior education. He wanted, he would say, when
in one of his melancholy moods, to forget the world, and have the
world forget him. Thus he shut himself up in the Points, and only
once or twice had he been seen in the Bowery, and never in Broadway
during his sojourn among the denizens who swarm that vortex of
death. How he managed to obtain funds, for he was never without a
shilling, was equally involved in mystery. He had no very bad
habits, seemed inoffensive to all he approached, spoke familiarly on
past events, and national affairs, and discovered a general
knowledge of the history of the world. And while he was always ready
to share his shilling with his more destitute associates, he ever
maintained a degree of politeness and civility toward those he was
cast among not common to the place. He was ready to serve every one,
would seek out the sick and watch over them with a kindness almost
paternal, discovering a singular familiarity with the duties of a
physician. He had, however, an inveterate hatred of fashionable
wives; and whenever the subject was brought up, which it frequently
was by the denizens of the Points, he would walk away, with a sigh.
"Fashionable wives," he would mutter, his eyes filling with tears,
"are never constant. Ah! they have deluged the world with sorrow,
and sent me here to seek a hiding place."






CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH THE VERY BEST INTENTIONS ARE SEEN TO FAIL.





THE city clock strikes one as Mrs. Swiggs, nervous and weary, enters
the House of the Foreign Missions. Into a comfortably-furnished room
on the right, she is ushered by a man meekly dressed, and whose
countenance wears an expression of melancholy. Maps and drawings of
Palestine, Hindostan, and sundry other fields of missionary labor,
hang here and there upon the walls. These are alternated with
nicely-framed engravings and lithographs of Mission establishments
in the East, all located in some pretty grove, and invested with a
warmth and cheerfulness that cannot fail to make a few years'
residence in them rather desirable than otherwise. These in turn are
relieved with portraits of distinguished missionaries. Earnest-faced
busts, in plaster, stand prominently about the room, periodicals and
papers are piled on little shelves, and bright bookcases are filled
with reports and various documents concerning the society, all bound
so exactly. The good-natured man of the kind face sits in refreshing
ease behind a little desk; the wise-looking lean man, in the
spectacles, is just in front of him, buried in ponderous folios of
reports. In the centre of the room stands a highly-polished mahogany
table, at which Brother Spyke is seated, his elbow rested, and his
head leaning thoughtfully in his hand. The rotund figure and
energetic face of Sister Slocum is seen, whisking about
conspicuously among a bevy of sleek but rather lean gentlemen,
studious of countenance, and in modest cloth. For each she has
something cheerful to impart; each in his turn has some compliment
to bestow upon her. Several nicely-dressed, but rather meek-looking
ladies, two or three accompanied by their knitting work, have
arranged themselves on a settee in front of the wise man in the
spectacles.

Scarcely has the representative of our chivalry entered the room
when Sister Slocum, with all the ardor of a lover of seventeen, runs
to her with open arms, embraces her, and kisses her with an
affection truly grateful. Choking to relate her curious adventure,
she is suddenly heaped with adulations, told how the time of her
coming was looked to, as an event of no common occurrence-how
Brothers Sharp, Spyke, and Phills, expressed apprehensions for her
safety this morning, each in turn offering in the kindest manner to
get a carriage and go in pursuit. The good-natured fat man gets down
from his high seat, and receives her with pious congratulations; the
man in the spectacles looks askant, and advances with extended hand.
To use a convenient phrase, she is received with open arms; and so
meek and good is the aspect, that she finds her thoughts transported
to an higher, a region where only is bliss. Provided with a seat in
a conspicuous place, she is told to consider herself the guest of
the society. Sundry ovations, Sister Slocum gives her to understand,
will be made in her honor, ere long. The fact must here be disclosed
that Sister Slocum had prepared the minds of those present for the
reception of an embodiment of perfect generosity.

No sooner has Lady Swiggs time to breathe freely, than she changes
the wondrous kind aspect of the assembly, and sends it into a
paroxysm of fright, by relating her curious adventure among the
denizens of the Points. Brother Spyke nearly makes up his mind to
faint; the good-natured fat man turns pale; the wise man in the
spectacles is seen to tremble; the neatly-attired females, so
pious-demeanored, express their horror of such a place; and Sister
Slocum stands aghast. "Oh! dear, Sister Swiggs," she says, "your
escape from such a vile place is truly marvellous! Thank God you are
with us once more." The good-natured fat man says, "A horrible
world, truly!" and sighs. Brother Spyke shrugs his shoulders,
adding, "No respectable person here ever thinks of going into such a
place; the people there are so corrupt." Brother Sharp says he
shudders at the very thought of such a place. He has heard much said
of the dark deeds nightly committed in it-of the stubborn vileness
of the dwellers therein. God knows he never wants to descend into
it. "Truly," Brother Phills interposes, "I walked through it once,
and beheld with mine eyes such sights, such human deformity! O, God!
Since then, I am content to go to my home through Broadway. I never
forget to shudder when I look into the vile place from a distance,
nevertheless." Brother Phills says this after the manner of a
philosopher, fretting his fingers, and contorting his comely face
the while. Sister Slocum, having recovered somewhat from the shock
(the shock had no permanent effect on any of them), hopes Sister
Swiggs did not lend an ear to their false pleadings, nor distribute
charity among the vile wretches. "Such would be like scattering
chaff to the winds," a dozen voices chime in. "Indeed!" Lady Swiggs
ejaculates, giving her head a toss, in token of her satisfaction,
"not a shilling, except to the miserable wretch who showed me the
way out. And he seemed harmless enough. I never met a more
melancholy object, never!" Brother Spyke raises his eyes
imploringly, and says he harbors no ill-will against these vile
people, but melancholy is an art with them-they make it a study.
They affect it while picking one's pocket.

The body now resolves itself into working order. Brother Spyke
offers up a prayer. He thanks kind Providence for the happy escape
of Sister Swiggs-this generous woman whose kindness of heart has
brought her here-from among the hardened wretches who inhabit that
slough of despair, so terrible in all its aspects, and so
disgraceful to a great and prosperous city. He thanks Him who
blessed him with the light of learning-who endowed him with vigor
and resolution-and told him to go forth in armor, beating down
Satan, and raising up the heathen world. A mustering of spectacles
follows. Sister Slocum draws from her bosom a copy of the report the
wise man in the spectacles rises to read. A fashionable gold chain
and gold-framed eye-glass is called to her aid; and with a massive
pencil of gold, she dots and points certain items of dollars and
cents her keen eye rests upon every now and then.

The wise man in the spectacles rises, having exchanged glances with
Sister Slocum, and commences reading a very long, and in nowise lean
report. The anxious gentlemen draw up their chairs, and turn
attentive ears. For nearly an hour, he buzzes and bores the contents
of this report into their ears, takes sundry sips of water, and
informs those present, and the world in general, that nearly forty
thousand dollars have recently been consumed for missionary labor.
The school at Corsica, the missions at Canton, Ningpo, Pu-kong,
Cassaba, Abheokuta, and sundry other places, the names of which
could not, by any possibility, aid the reader in discovering their
location-all, were doing as well as could be expected, under the
circumstances. After many years labor, and a considerable
expenditure of money, they were encouraged to go forward, inasmuch
as the children of the school at Corsica were beginning to learn to
read. At Casaba, Droneyo, the native scholar, had, after many years'
teaching, been made conscious of the sin of idol-worship, and had
given his solemn promise to relinquish it as soon as he could
propitiate two favorite gods bequeathed to him by his great uncle.
The furnace of "Satanic cruelty" had been broken down at Dahomey.
Brother Smash had, after several years' labor, and much
expense-after having broken down his health, and the health of many
others-penetrated the dark regions of Arabia, and there found the
very seat of Satanic power. It was firmly pegged to Paganism and
Mahomedan darkness! This news the world was expected to hail with
consternation. Not one word is lisped about that terrible devil
holding his court of beggary and crime in the Points. He had all his
furnaces in full blast there; his victims were legion! No Brother
Spyke is found to venture in and drag him down. The region of the
Seven Churches offers inducements more congenial. Round about them
all is shady groves, gentle breezes, and rural habitations; in the
Points the very air is thick with pestilence!

A pause follows the reading. The wise man in the spectacles-his
voice soft and persuasive, and his aspect meekness itself-would like
to know if any one present be inclined to offer a remark. General
satisfaction prevails. Brother Sharp moves, and Brother Phills
seconds, that the report be accepted. The report is accepted without
a dissenting voice. A second paper is handed him by Sister Slocum,
whose countenance is seen to flash bright with smiles. Then there
follows the proclaiming of the fact of funds, to the amount of three
thousand six hundred dollars, having been subscribed, and now ready
to be appropriated to getting Brother Syngleton Spyke off to
Antioch. A din of satisfaction follows; every face is radiant with
joy. Sister Swiggs twitches her head, begins to finger her pocket,
and finally readjusts her spectacles. Having worked her countenance
into a good staring condition, she sets her eyes fixedly upon
Brother Spyke, who rises, saying he has a few words to offer.

The object of his mission to Antioch, so important at this moment,
he would not have misunderstood. Turks, Greeks, Jews, Arabs,
Armenians, and Kurds, and Yesedees-yes, brethren, Yesedees! inhabit
this part of Assyria, which opens up an extensive field of
missionary labor, even yet. Much had been done by the ancient Greeks
for the people who roamed in these Eastern wilds-much remained for
us to do; for it was yet a dark spot on the missionary map.
Thousands of these poor souls were without the saving knowledge of
the Gospel. He could not shrink from a duty so demanding-wringing
his very heart with its pleadings! Giving the light of the Gospel to
these vicious Arabs and Kurds was the end and aim of his mission. (A
motion of satisfaction was here perceptible.) And while there, he
would teach the Jews a just sense of their Lord's design-which was
the subjugation of the heathen world. Inward light was very good,
old prophecies were very grand; but Judaism was made of stubborn
metal, had no missionary element in it, and could only be forced to
accept light through strong and energetic movement. He had read with
throbbing heart how Rome, while in her greatness, protected those
Christian pilgrims who went forth into the East, to do battle with
the enemy. Would not America imitate Rome, that mighty mother of
Republics? A deeper responsibility rested on her at this moment.
Rome, then, was semi-barbarous; America, now, was Christianized and
civilized. Hence she would be held more accountable for the
dissemination of light.

In those days the wandering Christian Jews undertook to instruct the
polished Greeks-why could not Americans at this day inculcate the
doctrines of Jesus to these educated heathen? It was a bold and
daring experiment, but he was willing to try it. The All-wise worked
his wonders in a mysterious way. In this irrelevant and somewhat
mystical style, Brother Spyke continues nearly an hour, sending his
audience into a highly-edified state. We have said mystical, for,
indeed, none but those in the secret could have divined, from
Brother Spyke's logic, what was the precise nature of his mission.
His speech was very like a country parson's model sermon; one text
was selected, and a dozen or more (all different) preached from;
while fifty things were said no one could understand.

Brother Spyke sits down-Sister Slocum rises. "Our dear and very
generous guest now present," she says, addressing the good-natured
fat man in the chair, as Lady Swiggs bows, "moved by the goodness
that is in her, and conscious of the terrible condition of the
heathen world, has come nobly to our aid. Like a true Christian she
has crossed the sea, and is here. Not only is she here, but ready to
give her mite toward getting Brother Spyke off to Antioch. Another
donation she proposes giving the 'Tract Society,' an excellent
institution, in high favor at the South. Indeed I may add, that it
never has offended against its social--"