G. A. Henty - "In Freedom's Cause"

S.R. Crockett - "The Lilac Sunbonnet"

Charles Dickens - "The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices"

Abraham Cahan - "The Rise of David Levinsky"

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




Sister Slocum hesitates. Social slavery will not sound just right,
she says to her herself. She must have a term more musical, and less
grating to the ear. A smile flashes across her countenance, her
gold-framed eye-glasses vibrate in her fingers: "Well! I was going
to say, their social arrangements," she pursues.

The assembly is suddenly thrown into a fit of excitement. Lady
Swiggs is seen trembling from head to foot, her yellow complexion
changing to pale white, her features contorting as with pain, and
her hand clutching at her pocket. "O heavens!" she sighs, "all is
gone, gone, gone: how vain and uncertain are the things here below."
She drops, fainting, into the arms of Sister Slocum, who has overset
the wise man in the spectacles, in her haste to catch the prostrate
form. On a bench the august body is laid. Fans, water, camphor,
hartshorn, and numerous other restoratives are brought into use.
Persons get in each other's way, run every way but the right way,
causing, as is common in such cases, very unnecessary alarm. The
stately representative of the great Swiggs family lies motionless.
Like the last of our chivalry, she has nothing left her but a name.

A dash or two of cold water, and the application of a little
hartshorn, and that sympathy so necessary to the fainting of
distinguished people-proves all-efficient. A slight heaving of the
bosom is detected, the hands-they have been well chaffed-quiver and
move slowly, her face resumes its color. She opens her eyes, lays
her hand solicitously on Sister Slocum's arm: "It must be the will
of Heaven," she lisps, motioning her head, regretfully; "it cannot
now be undone--"

"Sister! sister! sister!" interrupts Sister Slocum, grasping her
hand, and looking inquiringly in the face of the recovering woman,
"is it an affection of the heart?-where is the pain?-what has
befallen you? We are all so sorry!"

"It was there, there, there! But it is gone now." Regaining her
consciousness, she lays her hand nervously upon her pocket, and
pursues: "Oh! yes, sister, it was there when I entered that vile
place, as you call it. What am I to do? The loss of the money does
not so much trouble my mind. Oh! dear, no. It is the thought of
going home deprived of the means of aiding these noble
institutions."

Had Lady Swiggs inquired into the character of the purchaser of old
Dolly she might now have become conscious of the fact, that whatever
comes of evil seldom does good. The money she had so struggled to
get together to aid her in maintaining her hypocrisy, was the result
of crime. Perhaps it were better the wretch purloined it, than that
the fair name of a noble institution be stained with its acceptance.
Atonement is too often sought to be purchased with the gold got of
infamy.

The cause of this fainting being traced to Lady Swiggs' pocket book
instead of her heart, the whole scene changes, Sister Slocum becomes
as one dumb, the good fat man is seized with a nervous fit, the man
in the spectacles hangs his head, and runs his fingers through his
crispy hair, as Brother Spyke elongates his lean body, and is seen
going into a melancholy mood, the others gathering round with
serious faces. Lady Swiggs commences describing with great
minuteness the appearance of Mr. Tom Toddleworth. That he is the
person who carried off the money, every one is certain. "He is the
man!" responds a dozen voices. And as many more volunteer to go in
search of Mr. Detective Fitzgerald. Brother Spyke pricks up his
courage, and proceeds to initiate his missionary labors by
consulting Mr. Detective Fitzgerald, with whom he starts off in
pursuit of Mr. Tom Toddleworth.






CHAPTER XXIV.

MR. SNIVEL ADVISES GEORGE MULLHOLLAND HOW TO MAKE STRONG LOVE.





LET us leave for a time the pursuit with which we concluded the
foregoing chapter, and return to Charleston. It is the still hour of
midnight. There has been a ball at the fashionable house of the
Flamingo, which still retains its name. In the great parlour we have
before described, standing here and there upon massive tables with
Egyptian marble-tops, are half-empty bottles of wine, decanters,
tumblers, and viands of various descriptions. Bits of artificial
flowers are strewn about the carpet, a shawl is seen thrown over one
chair, a mantle over another; the light is half shut off-everything
bears evidence of the gaieties of luxurious life, the sumptuous
revel and the debauch. The gilded mirrors reflect but two faces,
both hectic and moody of dissipation. George Mullholland and Mr.
Snivel face each other, at a pier-table. Before them are several
half filled bottles, from one of which Mr. Snivel fills George's
glass.

"There is something in this champaign (one only gets rubbish in
these houses) that compounds and elevates one's ideas," says Mr.
Snivel, holding his glass in the light, and squinting his
blood-shotten eyes, the lids of which he has scarce power to keep
open. "Drink, George-drink! You have had your day-why let such
nonsense trouble you? The whole city is in love with the girl. Her
beauty makes her capricious; if the old Judge has got her, let him
keep her. Indeed, I'm not so sure that she doesn't love him, and
(well, I always laugh when I think of it), it is a well laid down
principle among us lawyers, that no law stands good against love."
Mr. Snivel's leaden eyelids close, and his head drops upon his
bosom. "She never can love him-never! His wealth, and some false
tale, has beguiled her. He is a hoary-headed lecher, with wealth and
position to aid him in his hellish pursuits; I am poor, and an
outcast! He has flattered me and showered his favors upon me, only
to affect my ruin. I will have--"

"Pshaw! George," interrupts Mr. Snivel, brightening up, "be a
philosopher. Chivalry, you know-chivalry! A dashing fellow like you
should doff the kid to a knight of his metal: challenge him." Mr.
Snivel reaches over the table and pats his opponent on the arm.
"These women, George! Funny things, eh? Make any kind of love-have a
sample for every sort of gallant, and can make the quantity to suit
the purchaser. 'Pon my soul this is my opinion. I'm a lawyer, know
pretty well how the sex lay their points. As for these unfortunate
devils, as we of the profession call them (he pauses and empties his
glass, saying, not bad for a house of this kind), there are so many
shades of them, life is such a struggle with them; they dream of
broken hopes, and they die sighing to think how good a thing is
virtue. You only love this girl because she is beautiful, and
beautiful women, at best, are the most capricious things in the
world. D-n it, you have gone through enough of this kind of life to
be accustomed to it. We think nothing of these things, in
Charleston-bless you, nothing! Keep the Judge your friend-his
position may give him a means to serve you. A man of the world ought
at all times to have the private friendship of as many judges as he
can."

"Never! poor as I am-outcast as I feel myself! I want no such
friendship. Society may shun me, the community may fear me,
necessity may crush me-yea! you may regard me as a villain if you
will, but, were I a judge, I would scorn to use my office to serve
base ends." As he says this he draws a pistol from his pocket, and
throwing it defiantly upon the table, continues as his lip curls
with scorn, "poor men's lives are cheap in Charleston-let us see
what rich men's are worth!"

"His age, George!--you should respect that!" says Mr. Snivel,
laconically.

"His age ought to be my protection."

"Ah!--you forget that the follies of our nature too often go with us
to the grave."

"And am I to suffer because public opinion honors him, and gives him
power to disgrace me? Can he rob me of the one I love-of the one in
whose welfare my whole soul is staked, and do it with impunity?"

"D--d inconvenient, I know, George. Sympathize with you, I do. But,
you see, we are governed here by the laws of chivalry. Don't let
your (I am a piece of a philosopher, you see) temper get up, keep on
a stiff upper lip. You may catch him napping. I respect your
feelings, my dear fellow; ready to do you a bit of a good turn-you
understand! Now let me tell you, my boy, he has made her his
adopted, and to-morrow she moves with him to his quiet little villa
near the Magnolia."

"I am a poor, forlorn wretch," interrupts George, with a sigh.
"Those of whom I had a right to expect good counsel, and a helping
hand, have been first to encourage me in the ways of evil--"

"Get money, Mullholland-get money. It takes money to make love
strong. Say what you will, a woman's heart is sure to be sound on
the gold question. Mark ye, Mullholland!--there is an easy way to get
money. Do you take? (His fingers wander over his forehead, as he
watches intently in George's face.) You can make names? Such things
are done by men in higher walks, you know. Quite a common affair in
these parts. The Judge has carried off your property; make a fair
exchange-you can use his name, get money with it, and make it hold
fast the woman you love. There are three things, George, you may set
down as facts that will be of service to you through life, and they
are these: when a man eternally rings in your ears the immoralities
of the age, watch him closely; when a man makes what he has done for
others a boast, set him down a knave; and when a woman dwells upon
the excellent qualities of her many admirers, set her down as
wanting. But, get money, and when you have got it, charm back this
beautiful creature."

Such is the advice of Mr. Soloman Snivel, the paid intriguer of the
venerable Judge.






CHAPTER XXV.

A SLIGHT CHANGE IN THE PICTURE.





THE two lone revellers remain at the pier-table; moody and hectic.
Mr. Snivel drops into a sound sleep, his head resting on the marble.
Weak-minded, jealous, contentious-with all the attendants natural to
one who leads an unsettled life, sits George Mullholland, his elbow
resting on the table, and his head poised thoughtfully in his hand.
"I will have revenge-sweet revenge; yes, I will have revenge
to-night!" he mutters, and sets his teeth firmly.

In Anna's chamber all is hushed into stillness. The silvery
moonbeams play softly through the half-closed windows, lighting up
and giving an air of enchantment to the scene. Curtains hang,
mist-like, from massive cornices in gilt. Satin drapery,
mysteriously underlaid with lace, and floating in bewitching
chasteness over a fairy-like bed, makes more voluptuous that
ravishing form calmly sleeping-half revealed among the snowy sheets,
and forming a picture before which fancy soars, passion unbends
itself, and sentiment is led away captive. With such exquisite forms
strange nature excites our love;--that love that like a little stream
meanders capriciously through our feelings, refreshing life,
purifying our thoughts, exciting our ambition, and modulating our
actions. That love, too, like a quick-sand, too often proves a
destroyer to the weak-minded.

Costly chairs, of various styles, carved in black walnut, stand
around the chamber: lounges covered with chastely-designed tapestry
are seen half concealed by the gorgeous window curtains. The foot
falls upon a soft, Turkey carpet; the ceiling-in French white, and
gilt mouldings-is set off with two Cupids in a circle, frescoed by a
skilled hand. On a lounge, concealed in an alcove masked by curtains
pending from the hands of a fairy in bronze, and nearly opposite
Anna's bed, the old Judge sleeps in his judicial dignity. To-day he
sentenced three rogues to the whipping-post, and two wretched
negroes-one for raising his hand to a white man-to the gallows.

Calmly Anna continues to sleep, the lights in the girandoles
shedding a mysterious paleness over the scene. To the eye that scans
only the exterior of life, how dazzling! Like a refulgent cloud
swelling golden in the evening sky, how soon it passes away into
darkness and disappointment! Suddenly there appears, like a vision
in the chamber, the stately figure of a female. Advancing slowly to
the bed-side, for a minute she stands contemplating the sleeping
beauty before her. A dark, languishing eye, an aquiline nose,
beautifully-cut mouth, and a finely-oval face, is revealed by the
shadow in which she stands. "How willingly," she mutters, raising
the jewelled fingers of her right hand to her lips, as her eyes
become liquid with emotion, and her every action betokens one whose
very soul is goaded with remorse, "would I exchange all these
worldly pleasures for one single day in peace of mind." She lays
aside her mantle, and keeps her eyes fixed upon the object before
her. A finely-rounded shoulder and exactly-developed bust is set
off with a light satin boddice or corsage, cut low, opening
shawl-fashion at the breast, and relieved with a stomacher of fine
Brussels lace. Down the edges are rows of small, unpolished pearls,
running into points. A skirt of orange-colored brocade, trimmed with
tulle, and surrounded with three flounces, falls, cloud-like, from
her girdle, which is set with cameos and unpolished pearls. With her
left hand she raises slightly her skirts, revealing the embroidered
gimps of a white taffeta underskirt, flashing in the moonlight.
Small, unpolished pearls ornament the bands of her short sleeves; on
her fingers are rings, set with diamonds and costly emeralds; and
her wrists are clasped with bracelets of diamonds, shedding a modest
lustre over her marble-like arms.

"Can this be my child? Has this crime that so like a demon haunts
me-that curses me even in my dreams, driven her, perhaps against her
will, to seek this life of shame?" She takes the sleeper's hand
gently in her own, as the tears gush down her cheeks.

The sleeper startles, half raises herself from her pillow, parts her
black, silky hair, that lays upon her gently-swelling bosom, and
throws it carelessly down her shoulders, wildly setting her great
black orbs on the strange figure before her. "Hush, hush!" says the
speaker, "I am a friend. One who seeks you for a good purpose. Give
me your confidence-do not betray me! I need not tell you by what
means I gained access to you."

A glow of sadness flashes across Anna's countenance. With a look of
suspicion she scans the mysterious figure from head to foot. "It is
the Judge's wife!" she says within herself. "Some one has betrayed
me to her; and, as is too often the case, she seeks revenge of the
less guilty party." But the figure before her is in full dress, and
one seeking revenge would have disguised herself. "Why, and who is
it, that seeks me in this mysterious manner?" whispers Anna, holding
her delicate hand in the shadow, over her eyes. "I seek you in the
hope of finding something to relieve my troubled spirit. I am a
mother who has wronged her child-I have no peace of mind-my heart is
lacerated--"

"Are you, then, my mother?" inerrupts Anna, with a look of scorn.

"That I would answer if I could. You have occupied my thoughts day
and night. I have traced your history up to a certain period. ("What
I know of my own, I would fain not contemplate," interrupts Anna.)
Beyond that, all is darkness. And yet there are circumstances that
go far to prove you the child I seek. Last night I dreamed I saw a
gate leading to a dungeon, that into the dungeon I was impelled
against my will. While there I was haunted with the figure of a
woman of the name of Mag Munday-a maniac, and in chains! My heart
bled at the sight, for she, I thought, was the woman in whose charge
I left the child I seek. I spoke-I asked her what had become of the
child! She pointed with her finger, told me to go seek you here, and
vanished as I awoke. I spent the day in unrest, went to the ball
to-night, but found no pleasure in its gay circle. Goaded in my
conscience, I left the ball-room, and with the aid of a confidant am
here."

"I recognize-yes, my lady, I recognize you! You think me your
abandoned child, and yet you are too much the slave of society to
seek me as a mother ought to do. I am the supposed victim of your
crime; you are the favored and flattered ornament of society. Our
likenesses have been compared many times:-I am glad we have met. Go,
woman, go! I would not, outcast as I am, deign to acknowledge the
mother who could enjoy the luxuries of life and see her child a
wretch."

"Woman! do not upbraid me. Spare, oh! spare my troubled heart this
last pang," (she grasps convulsively at Anna's hand, then shrinks
back in fright.) "Tell me! oh, tell me!" she pursues, the tears
coursing down her cheeks--

Anna Bonard interrupts by saying, peremptorily, she has nothing to
tell one so guilty. To be thus rebuked by an abandoned woman,
notwithstanding she might be her own child, wounded her feelings
deeply. It was like poison drying up her very blood. Tormented with
the thought of her error, (for she evidently labored under the smart
of an error in early life,) her very existence now seemed a burden
to her. Gloomy and motionless she stood, as if hesitating how best
to make her escape.

"Woman! I will not betray your coming here. But you cannot give me
back my virtue; you cannot restore me untainted to the world-the
world never forgives a fallen woman. Her own sex will be first to
lacerate her heart with her shame." These words were spoken with
such biting sarcasm, that the Judge, whose nap the loudness of
Anna's voice had disturbed, protruded his flushed face and snowy
locks from out the curtains of the alcove. "The gay Madame Montford,
as I am a Christian," he exclaims in the eagerness of the moment,
and the strange figure vanishes out of the door.

"A fashionable, but very mysterious sort of person," pursues the
Judge, confusedly. "Ah! ha,--her case, like many others, is the want
of a clear conscience. Snivel has it in hand. A great knave, but a
capital lawyer, that Snivel--"

The Judge is interrupted in his remarks by the entrance of Mr.
Snivel, who, with hectic face, and flushed eyes, comes rushing into
the chamber. "Hollo!--old boy, there's a high bid on your head
to-night. Ready to do you a bit of a good turn, you see." Mr. Snivel
runs his fingers through his hair, and works his shoulders with an
air of exultation. "If," he continues, "that weak-minded
fellow-that Mullholland we have shown some respect to, hasn't got a
pistol! He's been furbishing it up while in the parlor, and swears
he will seriously damage you with it. Blasted assurance, those
Northerners have. Won't fight, can't make 'em gentlemen; and if you
knock 'em down they don't understand enough of chivalry to resent
it. They shout to satisfy their fear and not to maintain their
honor. Keep an eye out!"

The Judge, in a tone of cool indifference, says he has no fears of
the renegade, and will one of these days have the pleasure of
sending him to the whipping-post.

"As to that, Judge," interposes Mr. Snivel, "I have already prepared
the preliminaries. I gave him the trifle you desired-to-morrow I
will nail him at the Keno crib." With this the Judge and the Justice
each take an affectionate leave of the frail girl, and, as it is now
past one o'clock in the morning, an hour much profaned in
Charleston, take their departure.

Armed with a revolver Mullholland has taken up his position in the
street, where he awaits the coming of his adversaries. In doubt and
anxiety, he reflects and re-reflects, recurs to the associations of
his past life, and hesitates. Such reflections only bring more
vividly to his mind the wrong he feels himself the victim of, and
has no power to resent except with violence. His contemplations only
nerve him to revenge.

A click, and the door cautiously opens, as if some votary of crime
was about to issue forth in quest of booty. The hostess' heed
protrudes suddenly from the door, she scans first up and then down
the street, then withdraws it. The Judge and Mr. Snivel, each in
turn, shake the landlady by the hand, and emerge into the street.
They have scarce stepped upon the sidepath when the report of a
pistol resounds through the air. The ball struck a lamp-post,
glanced, passed through the collar of Judge Sleepyhorn's coat, and
brushed Mr. Snivel's fashionable whiskers. Madame Ashley, successor
to Madame Flamingo, shrieks and alarms the house, which is suddenly
thrown into a state of confusion. Acting upon the maxim of
discretion being the better part of valor, the Judge and the Justice
beat a hasty retreat into the house, and secrete themselves in a
closet at the further end of the back-parlor.

As if suddenly moved by some strange impulse, Madame Ashley runs
from room to room, screaming at the very top of her voice, and
declaring that she saw the assassin enter her house. Females rush
from their rooms and into the great parlor, where they form groups
of living statuary, strange and grotesque. Anxious faces-faces half
painted, faces hectic of dissipation, faces waning and sallow, eyes
glassy and lascivious, dishevelled hair floating over naked
shoulders;--the flashing of bewitching drapery, the waving and
flitting of embroidered underskirts, the tripping of pretty feet and
prettier ankles, the gesticulating and swaying of half-draped
bodies-such is the scene occasioned by the bench and the bar.

Madame Ashley, having inherited of Madame Flamingo the value of a
scrupulous regard for the good reputation of her house, must needs
call in the watch to eject the assassin, whom she swears is
concealed somewhere on the premises. Mr. Sergeant Stubbs, a much
respected detective, and reputed one of the very best officers of
the guard, inasmuch as he never troubles his head about other
people's business, and is quite content to let every one fight their
own battles,--provided they give him a "nip" of whiskey when they are
through, lights his lantern and goes bobbing into every room in the
house. We must here inform the reader that the cause of the emeute
was kept a profound secret between the judicial gentry. Madame
Ashley, at the same time, is fully convinced the ball was intended
for her, while Anna lays in a terrible fright in her chamber.

"Ho," says Mr. Stubbs, starting back suddenly as he opened the door
of the closet in which the two gentlemen had concealed themselves.
"I see! I see!--beg your pardon, gentlemen!" Mr. Stubbs whispers, and
bows, and shuts the door quickly.

"An infernal affair this, Judge! D-n me if I wouldn't as soon be in
the dock. It will all get out tomorrow," interposes Mr. Snivel,
facetiously.

"Blast these improper associations!" the high functionary exclaims,
fussily shrugging his shoulders, and wiping the sweat from his
forehead. "I love the girl, though, I confess it!"

"Nothing more natural. A man without gallantry is like a pilgrim in
the South-West Pass. You can't resist this charming creature. In
truth it's a sort of longing weakness, which even the scales of
justice fail to bring to a balance."

Mr. Stubbs fails to find the assassin, and enters Madame Ashley's
chamber, the door of which leads into the hall. Here Mr. Stubbs's
quick eye suddenly discerns a slight motion of the curtains that
enclose the great, square bed, standing in one corner. "I ax your
pardon, Mam, but may I look in this 'ere bed?" Mr. Stubbs points to
the bed, as Madame, having thrown herself into a great rocking
chair, proceeds to sway her dignity backward and forward, and give
out signs of making up her mind to faint.

Mr. Stubbs draws back the curtains, when, behold! but tell it not in
the by-ways, there is revealed the stalworth figure of Simon
Patterson, the plantation parson. Our plantation parsons, be it
known, are a singular species of depraved humanity, a sort of
itinerant sermon-makers, holding forth here and there to the negroes
of the rich planters, receiving a paltry pittance in return, and
having in lieu of morals an excellent taste for whiskey, an article
they invariably call to their aid when discoursing to the ignorant
slave-telling him how content with his lot he ought to be, seeing
that God intended him only for ignorance and servitude. The parson
did, indeed, cut a sorry figure before the gaze of this
indescribable group, as it rushed into the room and commenced
heaping upon his head epithets delicacy forbids our inserting
here-calling him a clerical old lecher, an assassin, and a disturber
of the peace and respectability of the house. Indeed, Madame Ashley
quite forgot to faint, and with a display of courage amounting
almost to heroism, rushed at the poor parson, and had left him in
the state he was born but for the timely precautions of Mr. Stubbs,
who, finding a revolver in his possession, and wanting no better
proof of his guilt, straightway took him off to the guardhouse.
Parson Patterson would have entered the most solemn and pious
protestations of his innocence but the evidence was so strong
against him, and the zeal of Mr. Sargeant Stubbs so apparent, that
he held it the better policy to quietly submit to the rough fare of
his new lodgings.

"I have a terror of these brawls!" says Mr. Snivel, emerging from
his hiding-place, and entering the chamber, followed by the high
legal functionary.