Edgar Rice Burroughs - "Out of Time's Abyss"

Mrs. C. F. Fraser - "Master Sunshine"

T.S. Arthur - "The Iron Rule"

Ella Wheeler Wilcox - "Poems of Experience"

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




Of a summer morning you will see McArthur, the old Provincialist, as
he is called, arranging in his great bow windows an innumerable
variety of antique relics, none but a Mrs. Toodles could conceive a
want for--such as broken pots, dog-irons, fenders, saws, toasters,
stew-pans, old muskets, boxing-gloves and foils, and sundry other
odds and ends too numerous to mention. At evening he sits in his
door, a clever picture of a by-gone age, on a venerable old sofa,
supported on legs tapering into feet of lion's paws, and carved in
mahogany, all tacked over with brass-headed nails. Here the old man
sits, and sits, and sits, reading the "Heroes of the Revolution,"
(the only book he ever reads,) and seemingly ready at all times to
serve the "good wishes" of his customers, who he will tell you are
of the very first families, and very distinguished! He holds
distinguished people in high esteem; and several distinguished
persons have no very bad opinion of him, but a much better one of
his very interesting daughter, whose acquaintance (though not a
lady, in the Southern acceptation of the term) they would not object
to making-provided!

His little shop is lumbered with boxes and barrels, all containing
relics of a by-gone age--such as broken swords, pistols of curious
make, Revolutionary hand-saws, planes, cuirasses, broken spurs,
blunderbusses, bowie, scalping, and hunting-knives; all of which he
declares our great men have a use for. Hung on a little post, and
over a pair of rather suspicious-looking buckskin breeches, is a
rusty helmet, which he sincerely believes was worn by a knight of
the days of William the Conqueror. A little counter to the left
staggers under a pile of musty old books and mustier papers, all
containing valuable matter relating to the old Continentals, who, as
he has it, were all Carolinians. (Dispute this, and he will go right
into a passion.) Resting like good-natured policemen against this
weary old counter are two sympathetic old coffins, several
second-hand crutches, and a quantity of much-neglected wooden legs.
These Mr. McArthur says are in great demand with our first families.
No one, except Mr. Soloman Snivel, knows better what the chivalry
stand in need of to prop up its declining dignity. His dirty little
shelves, too, are stuffed with those cheap uniforms the State so
grudgingly voted its unwilling volunteers during the Revolution.

See Senator Sumner's speech in Congress on Plantation manners.
Tucked in here and there, at sixes and sevens, are the scarlet and
blue of several suits of cast-off theatrical wardrobe he got of
Abbott, and now loans for a small trifle to Madame Flamingo and the
St. Cecilia Society-the first, when she gives her very seductive
bal-masques; the second, when distinguished foreigners with titles
honor its costume balls. As for Revolutionary cocked hats,
epaulettes, plumes, and holsters, he has enough to supply and send
off, feeling as proud as peacocks, every General and Colonel in
the State-and their name, as you ought to know, reader, is legion.

The stranger might, indeed, be deceived into the belief that Absalom
McArthur's curiosity shop was capable of furnishing accoutrements
for that noble little army, (standing army we call it!) on which the
State prides itself not a little, and spends no end of money. For
ourselves, (if the reader but permit us,) we have long admired this
little Spartan force, saying all the good things of it our prosy
brain could invent, and in the kindest manner recommending its
uniform good character as a model for our very respectable society
to fashion after. Indeed, we have, in the very best nature of a
modern historian, endeavored to enlighten the barbarian world
outside of South Carolina as to the terrible consequences which
might accrue to the Union did this noble little army assume any
other than a standing character. Now that General Jackson is out of
the way, and our plebeian friends over the Savannah, whom we hold in
high esteem, (the Georgians,) kindly consent to let us go our own
road out of the Union, nothing can be more grateful than to find our
wise politicians sincerely believing that when this standing army,
of which other States know so little, shall have become allied with
those mighty men of Beaufort, dire consequences to this young but
very respectable Federal compact will be the result. Having
discharged the duties of a historian, for the benefit of those
benighted beings unfortunate enough to live out of our small but
highly-civilized State, we must return to McArthur.

He is a little old-maidish about his age, which for the last twenty
years has not got a day more than fifty-four. Being as sensitive of
his veracity as the State is of its dignity, we would not, either
by implication or otherwise, lay an impeachment at his door, but
rather charge the discrepancy to that sin (a treacherous memory) the
legal gentry find so convenient for their purposes when they knock
down their own positions. McArthur stood five feet eight exactly,
when young, but age has made him lean of person, and somewhat bent.
His face is long and corrugated; his expression of countenance
singularly serious. A nose, neither aquiline nor Grecian, but large
enough, and long enough, and red enough at the end, to make both; a
sharp and curiously-projecting chin, that threatens a meeting, at no
very distant day, with his nasal organ; two small, watchful blue
eyes deep-set under narrow arches, fringed with long gray lashes; a
deeply-furrowed, but straight and contracted forehead, and a shaggy
red wig, poised upon the crown of his head, and, reader, if you
except the constant working of a heavy, drooping lower lip, and the
diagonal sight with which his eyes are favored, you have his most
prominent features. Fashion he holds in utter contempt, nor has he
the very best opinion in the world of our fashionable tailors, who
are grown so rich that they hold mortgages on the very best
plantations in the State, and offer themselves candidates for the
Governorship. Indeed, Mr. McArthur says, one of these knights of the
goose, not long since, had the pertinacity to imagine himself a
great General. And to show his tenacious adherence to the examples
set by the State, he dresses exactly as his grandfather's
great-grandfather used to, in a blue coat, with small brass buttons,
a narrow crimpy collar, and tails long enough and sharp enough for a
clipper-ship's run. The periods when he provided himself with new
suits are so far apart that they formed special episodes in his
history; nevertheless there is always an air of neatness about him,
and he will spend much time arranging a dingy ruffled shirt, a pair
of gray trowsers, a black velvet waistcoat, cut in the Elizabethan
style, and a high, square shirt collar, into which his head has the
appearance of being jammed. This collar he ties with a much-valued
red and yellow Spittlefields, the ends of which flow over his
ruffle. Although the old man would not bring much at the
man-shambles, we set a great deal of store by him, and would not
exchange him for anything in the world but a regiment or two of
heroic secessionists. Indeed we are fully aware that nothing like
him exists beyond the highly perfumed atmosphere of our State. And
to many other curious accomplishments the old man adds that of
telling fortunes. The negroes seriously believe he has a private
arrangement with the devil, of whom he gets his wisdom, and the
secret of propitiating the gods.

Two days have passed since the emeute at the house of the old
hostess. McArthur has promised the young missionary a place for Tom
Swiggs, when he gets out of prison (but no one but his mother seems
to have a right to let him out), and the tall figure of Mister
Snivel is seen entering the little curiosity shop. "I say!--my old
hero, has she been here yet?" inquires Mr. Snivel, the accommodation
man. "Nay, good friend," returns the old man, rising from his sofa,
and returning the salutation, "she has not yet darkened the door."
The old man draws the steel-bowed spectacles from his face, and
watches with a patriarchal air any change that comes over the
accommodation man's countenance. "Now, good friend, if I did but
know the plot," pursues the old man.

"The plot you are not to know! I gave you her history yesterday--
that is, as far as I know it. You must make up the rest. You know
how to tell fortunes, old boy. I need not instruct you. Mind you
flatter her beauty, though-extend on the kindness of the Judge, and
be sure you get it in that it was me who betrayed her at the St.
Cecelia. All right old boy, eh?" and shaking McArthur by the hand
warmly, he takes his departure, bowing himself into the street. The
old man says he will be all ready when she comes.

Scarcely has the accommodation man passed out of sight when a
sallow-faced stripling makes his appearance, and with that
characteristic effrontery for borrowing and never returning, of the
property-man of a country theatre, "desires" to know if Mr. McArthur
will lend him a skull.

"A skull!" ejaculates the old man, his bony fingers wandering to his
melancholy lip--"a skull!" and he fusses studiously round the little
cell-like place, looking distrustfully at the property-man, and then
turning an anxious eye towards his piles of rubbish, as if fearing
some plot is on foot to remove them to the infernal regions.

"You see," interrupts Mr. Property, "we play Hamlet to-night--expect
a crammed house--and our star, being scrupulous of his reputation,
as all small stars are, won't go on for the scene of the
grave-digger, without two skulls-he swears he won't! He raised the
very roof of the theatre this morning, because his name wasn't in
bigger type on the bill. And if we don't give him two skulls and
plenty of bones to-night, he swears-and such swearing as it
is!--he'll forfeit the manager, have the house closed, and come out
with a card to the public in the morning. We are in a fix, you see!
The janitor only has one, and he lent us that as if he didn't want
to."

Mr. McArthur says he sees, and with an air of regained wisdom stops
suddenly, and takes from a shelf a dingy old board, on which is a
dingier paper, bearing curious inscriptions, no one but the old man
himself would have supposed to be a schedule of stock in trade. Such
it is, nevertheless. He rubs his spectacles, places them
methodically upon his face, wipes and wipes the old board with his
elbow. "It's here if it's anywhere!" says the old man, with a sigh.
"It comes into my head that among the rest of my valuables I've
Yorick's skull."

"The very skull we want!" interrupts Property. And the old man
quickens the working of his lower jaw, and continues to rub at the
board until he has brought out the written mystery. "My ancestors
were great people," he mumbles to himself, "great people!" He runs
the crusty forefinger of his right hand up and down the board,
adding, "and any customers are all of the first families, which is
some consolation in one's poverty. Ah! I have it here!" he exclaims,
with childlike exultation, frisking his fingers over the board. "One
Yorick's skull-a time-worn, tenantless, and valuable relic, in which
graveyard worms have banqueted more than once. Yes, young man,
presented to my ancestors by the elder Stuarts, and on that account
worth seven skulls, or more." "One Yorick's skull," is written on
the paper, upon which the old man presses firmly his finger. Then
turning to an old box standing in the little fire-place behind the
counter, saying, "it's in here-as my name's Absalom McArthur, it
is," he opens the lid, and draws forth several old military coats
(they have seen revolutionary days! he says, exultingly), numerous
scales of brass, such as are worn on British soldiers' hats, a
ponderous chapeau and epaulets, worn, he insists, by Lord Nelson at
the renowned battle of Trafalgar. He has not opened, he adds, this
box for more than twelve long years. Next he drags forth a military
cloak of great weight and dimensions. "Ah!" he exclaims, with
nervous joy, "here's the identical cloak worn by Lord Cornwallis-how
my ancestors used to prize it." And as he unrolls its great folds
there falls upon the floor, to his great surprise, an old
buff-colored silk dress, tied firmly with a narrow, green ribbon.
"Maria! Maria! Maria!" shouts the old man, as if suddenly seized
with a spasm. And his little gray eyes flash with excitement, as he
says--"if here hasn't come to light at last, poor Mag Munday's dress.
God forgive the poor wretch, she's dead and gone, no doubt." In
response to the name of "Maria" there protrudes from a little door
that opens into a passage leading to a back-room, the delicate
figure of a female, with a face of great paleness, overcast by a
thoughtful expression. She has a finely-developed head, intelligent
blue eyes, light auburn hair, and features more interesting than
regular. Indeed, there is more to admire in the peculiar modesty of
her demeanor than in the regularity of her features, as we shall
show. "My daughter!" says the old man, as she nervously advances,
her pale hand extended. "Poor woman! how she would mourn about this
old dress; and say it contained something that might give her a
chance in the world," she rather whispers than speaks, disclosing
two rows of small white teeth. She takes from the old man's hand the
package, and disappears. The anxiety she evinces over the charge
discloses the fact that there is something of deep interest
connected with it.

Mr. McArthur was about to relate how he came by this seemingly
worthless old package, when the property-man, becoming somewhat
restless, and not holding in over high respect the old man's
rubbish, as he called it in his thoughts, commences drawing forth,
piece after piece of the old relics. The old man will not allow
this. "There, young man!" he says, touching him on the elbow, and
resuming his labor. At length he draws forth the dust-tenanted
skull, coated on the outer surface with greasy mould. "There!" he
says, with an unrestrained exclamation of joy, holding up the
wasting bone, "this was in its time poor Yorick's skull. It was such
a skull, when Yorick lived! Beneath this filthy remnant of past
greatness (I always think of greatness when I turn to the past),
this empty tenement, once the domain of wisdom, this poor bone, what
thoughts did not come out?" And the old man shakes his head, mutters
inarticulately, and weeps with the simplicity of a child.

"The Star'll have skulls and bones enough to make up for his want of
talent now-I reckon," interposes the property-man. "But!--I say,
mister, this skull couldn't a bin old Yorick's, you know--"

"Yorick's!--why not?" interrupts the old man.

"Because Yorick-Yorick was the King's jester, you see-no nigger; and
no one would think of importing anything but a nigger's skull into
Charleston--"

"Young man!--if this skull had consciousness; if this had a tongue it
would rebuke thee;" the old man retorts hastily, "for my ancestors
knew Yorick, and Yorick kept up an intimate acquaintance with the
ancestors of the very first families in this State, who were not
shoemakers and milliners, as hath been maliciously charged, but good
and pious Huguenots." To the end that he may convince the
unbelieving Thespian of the truth of his assertion, he commences to
rub away the black coating with the sleeve of his coat, and there,
to his infinite delight, is written, across the crown, in letters of
red that stand out as bold as the State's chivalry--"Alas! poor
Yorick." Tears of sympathy trickle down the old man's cheeks, his
eyes sparkle with excitement, and with womanly accents he mutters:
"the days of poetry and chivalry are gone. It is but a space of time
since this good man's wit made Kings and Princes laugh with joy."

This skull, and a coral pin, which he said was presented to his
ancestors by Lord Cornwallis, who they captured, now became his
hobby; and he referred to it in all his conversation, and made them
as much his idol as our politicians do secession. In this instance,
he dare not entrust his newly-discovered jewel to the vulgar hands
of Mr. Property, but pledged his honor-a ware the State deals
largely in notwithstanding it has become exceedingly cheap-it would
be forthcoming at the requisite time.






CHAPTER XII.

IN WHICH ARE MATTERS THE READER MAY HAVE ANTICIPATED.





MR. SOLOMAN SNIVEL has effected a reconciliation between old Judge
Sleepyhorn and the beautiful Anna Bonard, and he has flattered the
weak-minded George Mullholland into a belief that the old Judge, as
he styles him, is his very best friend. So matters go on swimmingly
at the house of Madame Flamingo. Indeed Mr. Soloman can make himself
extremely useful in any affair requiring the exercise of nice
diplomatic skill-no matter whether it be of love or law. He gets
people into debt, and out of debt; into bankruptcy and out of
bankruptcy; into jail and out of jail; into society and out of
society. He has officiated in almost every capacity but that of a
sexton. If you want money, Mr. Soloman can always arrange the little
matter for you. If you have old negroes you want to get off your
hands at a low figure, he has a customer. If you want to mortgage
your negro property, a thing not uncommon with our very first
families, Mr. Soloman is your man. Are you worth a fee, and want
legal advice, he will give it exactly to your liking. Indeed, he
will lie you into the most hopeless suit, and with equal pertinacity
lie you out of the very best. Every judge is his friend and most
intimate acquaintance. He is always rollicking, frisking, and
insinuating himself into something, affects to be the most liberal
sort of a companion, never refuses to drink when invited, but never
invites any one unless he has a motive beyond friendship. Mr.
Keepum, the wealthy lottery broker, who lives over the way, in Broad
street, in the house with the mysterious signs, is his money-man.
This Keepum, the man with the sharp visage and guilty countenance,
has an excellent standing in society, having got it as the reward of
killing two men. Neither of these deeds of heroism, however, were
the result of a duel. Between these worthies there exists relations
mutually profitable, if not the most honorable. And notwithstanding
Mr. Soloman is forever sounding Mr. Keepum's generosity, the said
Keepum has a singular faculty for holding with a firm grasp all he
gets, the extent of his charities being a small mite now and then to
Mr. Hadger, the very pious agent for the New York Presbyterian Tract
Society. Mr. Hadger, who by trading in things called negroes, and
such like wares, has become a man of great means, twice every year
badgers the community in behalf of this society, and chuckles over
what he gets of Keepum, as if a knave's money was a sure panacea for
the cure of souls saved through the medium of those highly
respectable tracts the society publishes to suit the tastes of the
god slavery. Mr. Keepum, too, has a very high opinion of this
excellent society, as he calls it, and never fails to boast of his
contributions.

It is night. The serene and bright sky is hung with brighter stars.
Our little fashionable world has got itself arrayed in its best
satin-and is in a flutter. Carriages, with servants in snobby coats,
beset the doors of the theatre. A flashing of silks, satins,
brocades, tulle and jewelry, distinguished the throng pressing
eagerly into the lobbies, and seeking with more confusion than grace
seats in the dress circle. The orchestra has played an overture, and
the house presents a lively picture of bright-colored robes. Mr.
Snivel's handsome figure is seen looming out of a private box in the
left-hand procenium, behind the curtain of which, and on the
opposite side, a mysterious hand every now and then frisks, makes a
small but prudent opening, and disappears. Again it appears, with
delicate and chastely-jeweled fingers. Cautiously the red curtain
moves aside apace, and the dark languishing eyes of a female,
scanning over the dress-circle, are revealed. She recognizes the
venerable figure of Judge Sleepyhorn, who has made a companion of
George Mullholland, and sits at his side in the parquette. Timidly
she closes the curtain.

In the right-hand procenium box sits, resplendent of jewels and
laces, and surrounded by her many admirers, the beautiful and very
fashionable Madame Montford, a woman of singularly regular features,
and more than ordinary charms. Opinion is somewhat divided on the
early history of Madame Montford. Some have it one thing, some
another. Society is sure to slander a woman of transcendent beauty
and intellect. There is nothing in the world more natural,
especially when those charms attract fashionable admirers. It is
equally true, too, that if you would wipe out any little taint that
may hang about the skirts of your character you must seek the
panacea in a distant State, where, with the application of a little
diplomacy you may become the much sought for wonder of a new
atmosphere and new friends, as is the case with Madame Montford, who
rebukes her New York neighbors of the Fifth Avenue (she has a
princely mansion there), with the fact that in Charleston she is,
whenever she visits it, the all-absorbing topic with fashionable
society. For four successive winters Madame Montford has honored the
elite of Charleston with her presence. The advent of her coming,
too, has been duly heralded in the morning papers-to the infinite
delight of the St. Cecilia Society, which never fails to distinguish
her arrival with a ball. And this ball is sure to be preceded with
no end of delicately-perfumed cards, and other missives, as full of
compliments as it is capable of cramming them. There is,
notwithstanding all these ovations in honor of her coming, a mystery
hanging over her periodical visits, for the sharp-eyed persist that
they have seen her disguised, and in suspicious places; making
singular inquiries about a woman of the name of Mag Munday. And
these suspicions have given rise to whisperings, and these
whisperings have crept into the ears of several very old and
highly-respectable "first families," which said families have
suddenly dropped her acquaintance. But what is more noticeable in
the features of Madame Montford, is the striking similarity between
them and Anna Bonard's. Her most fervent admirers have noticed it;
while strangers have not failed to discover it, and to comment upon
it. And the girl who sits in the box with Mr. Snivel, so cautiously
fortifying herself with the curtain, is none other than Anna. Mr.
Snivel has brought her here as an atonement for past injuries.

Just as the curtain is about to rise, Mr. McArthur, true to his
word, may be seen toddling to the stage door, his treasure carefully
tied up in a handkerchief. He will deliver it to no one but the
manager, and in spite of his other duties that functionary is
compelled to receive it in person. This done, the old man, to the
merriment of certain wags who delight to speculate on his childlike
credulity, takes a seat in the parquette, wipes clean his venerable
spectacles, and placing them methodically over his eyes, forms a
unique picture in the foreground of the audience. McArthur, with the
aid of his glasses, can recognize objects at a distance; and as the
Hamlet of the night is decidedly Teutonic in his appearance and
pronunciation, he has no great relish for the Star, nor a hand of
applause to bestow on his genius. Hamlet, he is sure, never
articulated with a coarse brogue. So turning from the stage, he
amuses himself with minutely scanning the faces of the audience, and
resolving in his mind that something will turn up in the
grave-digger's scene, of which he is an enthusiastic admirer. It is,
indeed, he thinks to himself, very doubtful, whether in this wide
world the much-abused William Shakspeare hath a more ardent admirer
of this curious but faithful illustration of his genius. Suddenly
his attention seems riveted on the private box, in which sits the
stately figure of Madame Montford, flanked in a half-circle by her
perfumed and white-gloved admirers. "What!" exclaims the old man, in
surprise, rubbing and replacing his glasses, "if I'm not deceived!
Well-I can't be. If there isn't the very woman, a little altered,
who has several times looked into my little place of an evening. Her
questions were so curious that I couldn't make out what she really
wanted (she never bought anything); but she always ended with
inquiring about poor Mag Munday. People think because I have all
sorts of things, that I must know about all sorts of things. I never
could tell her much that satisfied her, for Mag, report had it, was
carried off by the yellow fever, and nobody ever thought of her
afterwards. And because I couldn't tell this woman any more, she
would go away with tears in her eyes." Mr. McArthur whispers to a
friend on his right, and touches him on the arm, "Pooh! pooh!"
returns the man, with measured indifference, "that's the reigning
belle of the season-Madame Montford, the buxom widow, who has been
just turned forty for some years."