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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.

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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: Our Old Home

N >> Nathaniel Hawthorne >> Our Old Home




Our hospitable friend now made us drink a glass of wine, as old and
genuine as the curiosities of his cabinet; and while sipping it, we
ungratefully tried to excite his envy, by telling of various things,
interesting to an antiquary and virtuoso, which we had seen in the course
of our travels about England. We spoke, for instance, of a missal bound
in solid gold and set around with jewels, but of such intrinsic value as
no setting could enhance, for it was exquisitely illuminated, throughout,
by the hand of Raphael himself. We mentioned a little silver case which
once contained a portion of the heart of Louis XIV. nicely done up in
spices, but, to the owner's horror and astonishment, Dean Buckland popped
the kingly morsel into his mouth, and swallowed it. We told about the
black-letter prayer-book of King Charles the Martyr, used by him upon the
scaffold, taking which into our hands, it opened of itself at the
Communion Service; and there, on the left-hand page, appeared a spot
about as large as a sixpence, of a yellowish or brownish hue: a drop of
the King's blood had fallen there.

Mr. Porter now accompanied us to the church, but first leading us to a
vacant spot of ground where old John Cotton's vicarage had stood till a
very short time since. According to our friend's description, it was a
humble habitation, of the cottage order, built of brick, with a thatched
roof. The site is now rudely fenced in, and cultivated as a vegetable
garden. In the right-hand aisle of the church there is an ancient
chapel, which, at the time of our visit, was in process of restoration,
and was to be dedicated to Mr. Cotton, whom these English people consider
as the founder of our American Boston. It would contain a painted
memorial-window, in honor of the old Puritan minister. A festival in
commemoration of the event was to take place in the ensuing July, to
which I had myself received an invitation, but I knew too well the pains
and penalties incurred by an invited guest at public festivals in England
to accept it. It ought to be recorded (and it seems to have made a very
kindly impression on our kinsfolk here) that five hundred pounds had been
contributed by persons in the United States, principally in Boston,
towards the cost of the memorial-window, and the repair and restoration
of the chapel.

After we emerged from the chapel, Mr. Porter approached us with the
vicar, to whom he kindly introduced us, and then took his leave. May a
stranger's benediction rest upon him! He is a most pleasant man; rather,
I imagine, a virtuoso than an antiquary; for he seemed to value the Queen
of Otaheite's bag as highly as Queen Mary's embroidered quilt, and to
have an omnivorous appetite for everything strange and rare. Would that
we could fill up his shelves and drawers (if there are any vacant spaces
left) with the choicest trifles that have dropped out of Time's
carpet-bag, or give him the carpet-bag itself, to take out what he will!

The vicar looked about thirty years old, a gentleman, evidently assured
of his position (as clergymen of the Established Church invariably are),
comfortable and well-to-do, a scholar and a Christian, and fit to be a
bishop, knowing how to make the most of life without prejudice to the
life to come. I was glad to see such a model English priest so suitably
accommodated with an old English church. He kindly and courteously did
the honors, showing us quite round the interior, giving us all the
information that we required, and then leaving us to the quiet enjoyment
of what we came to see.

The interior of Saint Botolph's is very fine and satisfactory, as
stately, almost, as a cathedral, and has been repaired--so far as repairs
were necessary--in a chaste and noble style. The great eastern window is
of modern painted glass, but is the richest, mellowest, and tenderest
modern window that I have ever seen: the art of painting these glowing
transparencies in pristine perfection being one that the world has lost.
The vast, clear space of the interior church delighted me. There was no
screen,--nothing between the vestibule and the altar to break the long
vista; even the organ stood aside,--though it by and by made us aware of
its presence by a melodious roar. Around the walls there were old
engraved brasses, and a stone coffin, and an alabaster knight of Saint
John, and an alabaster lady, each recumbent at full length, as large as
life, and in perfect preservation, except for a slight modern touch at
the tips of their noses. In the chancel we saw a great deal of oaken
work, quaintly and admirably carved, especially about the seats formerly
appropriated to the monks, which were so contrived as to tumble down with
a tremendous crash, if the occupant happened to fall asleep.

We now essayed to climb into the upper regions. Up we went, winding and
still winding round the circular stairs, till we came to the gallery
beneath the stone roof of the tower, whence we could look down and see
the raised Font, and my Talma lying on one of the steps, and looking
about as big as a pocket-handkerchief. Then up again, up, up, up,
through a yet smaller staircase, till we emerged into another stone
gallery, above the jackdaws, and far above the roof beneath which we had
before made a halt. Then up another flight, which led us into a pinnacle
of the temple, but not the highest; so, retracing our steps, we took the
right turret this time, and emerged into the loftiest lantern, where we
saw level Lincolnshire, far and near, though with a haze on the distant
horizon. There were dusty roads, a river, and canals, converging towards
Boston, which--a congregation of red-tiled roofs--lay beneath our feet,
with pygmy people creeping about its narrow streets. We were three
hundred feet aloft, and the pinnacle on which we stood is a landmark
forty miles at sea.

Content, and weary of our elevation, we descended the corkscrew stairs
and left the church; the last object that we noticed in the interior
being a bird, which appeared to be at home there, and responded with its
cheerful notes to the swell of the organ. Pausing on the church-steps,
we observed that there were formerly two statues, one on each side of the
doorway; the canopies still remaining and the pedestals being about a
yard from the ground. Some of Mr. Cotton's Puritan parishioners are
probably responsible for the disappearance of these stone saints. This
doorway at the base of the tower is now much dilapidated, but must once
have been very rich and of a peculiar fashion. It opens its arch through
a great square tablet of stone, reared against the front of the tower.
On most of the projections, whether on the tower or about the body of the
church, there are gargoyles of genuine Gothic grotesqueness,--fiends,
beasts, angels, and combinations of all three; and where portions of the
edifice are restored, the modern sculptors have tried to imitate these
wild fantasies, but with very poor success. Extravagance and absurdity
have still their law, and should pay as rigid obedience to it as the
primmest things on earth.

In our further rambles about Boston, we crossed the river by a bridge,
and observed that the larger part of the town seems to be on that side of
its navigable stream. The crooked streets and narrow lanes reminded me
much of Hanover Street, Ann Street, and other portions of the North End
of our American Boston, as I remember that picturesque region in my
boyish days. It is not unreasonable to suppose that the local habits and
recollections of the first settlers may have had some influence on the
physical character of the streets and houses in the New England
metropolis; at any rate, here is a similar intricacy of bewildering
lanes, and numbers of old peaked and projecting-storied dwellings, such
as I used to see there. It is singular what a home-feeling and sense of
kindred I derived from this hereditary connection and fancied
physiognomical resemblance between the old town and its well-grown
daughter, and how reluctant I was, after chill years of banishment, to
leave this hospitable place, on that account. Moreover, it recalled
some of the features of another American town, my own dear native place,
when I saw the seafaring people leaning against posts, and sitting on
planks, under the lee of warehouses,--or lolling on long-boats, drawn up
high and dry, as sailors and old wharf-rats are accustomed to do, in
seaports of little business. In other respects, the English town is more
village-like than either of the American ones. The women and budding
girls chat together at their doors, and exchange merry greetings with
young men; children chase one another in the summer twilight; school-boys
sail little boats on the river, or play at marbles across the flat
tombstones in the churchyard; and ancient men, in breeches and long
waistcoats, wander slowly about the streets, with a certain familiarity
of deportment, as if each one were everybody's grandfather. I have
frequently observed, in old English towns, that Old Age comes forth more
cheerfully and genially into the sunshine than among ourselves, where the
rush, stir, bustle, and irreverent energy of youth are so preponderant,
that the poor, forlorn grandsires begin to doubt whether they have a
right to breathe in such a world any longer, and so hide their silvery
heads in solitude. Speaking of old men, I am reminded of the scholars of
the Boston Charity School, who walk about in antique, long-skirted blue
coats, and knee-breeches, and with bands at their necks,--perfect and
grotesque pictures of the costume of three centuries ago.

On the morning of our departure, I looked from the parlor-window of the
Peacock into the market-place, and beheld its irregular square already
well covered with booths, and more in progress of being put up, by
stretching tattered sail-cloth on poles. It was market-day. The dealers
were arranging their commodities, consisting chiefly of vegetables, the
great bulk of which seemed to be cabbages. Later in the forenoon there
was a much greater variety of merchandise: basket-work, both for fancy
and use; twig-brooms, beehives, oranges, rustic attire; all sorts of
things, in short, that are commonly sold at a rural fair. I heard the
lowing of cattle, too, and the bleating of sheep, and found that there
was a market for cows, oxen, and pigs, in another part of the town. A
crowd of towns-people and Lincolnshire yeomen elbowed one another in the
square; Mr. Punch was squeaking in one corner, and a vagabond juggler
tried to find space for his exhibition in another: so that my final
glimpse of Boston was calculated to leave a livelier impression than my
former ones. Meanwhile the tower of Saint Botolph's looked benignantly
down; and I fancied it was bidding me farewell, as it did Mr. Cotton, two
or three hundred years ago, and telling me to describe its venerable
height, and the town beneath it, to the people of the American city, who
are partly akin, if not to the living inhabitants of Old Boston, yet to
some of the dust that lies in its churchyard.

One thing more. They have a Bunker Hill in the vicinity of their town;
and (what could hardly be expected of an English community) seem proud to
think that their neighborhood has given name to our first and most widely
celebrated and best remembered battle-field.




NEAR OXFORD.


On a fine morning in September we set out on an excursion to Blenheim,--
the sculptor and myself being seated on the box of our four-horse
carriage, two more of the party in the dicky, and the others less
agreeably accommodated inside. We had no coachman, but two postilions in
short scarlet jackets and leather breeches with top-boots, each astride
of a horse; so that, all the way along, when not otherwise attracted, we
had the interesting spectacle of their up-and-down bobbing in the saddle.
It was a sunny and beautiful day, a specimen of the perfect English
weather, just warm enough for comfort,--indeed, a little too warm,
perhaps, in the noontide sun,--yet retaining a mere spice or suspicion of
austerity, which made it all the more enjoyable.

The country between Oxford and Blenheim is not particularly interesting,
being almost level, or undulating very slightly; nor is Oxfordshire,
agriculturally, a rich part of England. We saw one or two hamlets, and I
especially remember a picturesque old gabled house at a turnpike-gate,
and, altogether, the wayside scenery had an aspect of old-fashioned
English life; but there was nothing very memorable till we reached
Woodstock, and stopped to water our horses at the Black Bear. This
neighborhood is called New Woodstock, but has by no means the brand-new
appearance of an American town, being a large village of stone houses,
most of them pretty well time-worn and weather-stained. The Black Bear
is an ancient inn, large and respectable, with balustraded staircases,
and intricate passages and corridors, and queer old pictures and
engravings hanging in the entries and apartments. We ordered a lunch
(the most delightful of English institutions, next to dinner) to be ready
against our return, and then resumed our drive to Blenheim.

The park-gate of Blenheim stands close to the end of the village street
of Woodstock. Immediately on passing through its portals we saw the
stately palace in the distance, but made a wide circuit of the park
before approaching it. This noble park contains three thousand acres of
land, and is fourteen miles in circumference. Having been, in part, a
royal domain before it was granted to the Marlborough family, it contains
many trees of unsurpassed antiquity, and has doubtless been the haunt of
game and deer for centuries. We saw pheasants in abundance, feeding in
the open lawns and glades; and the stags tossed their antlers and bounded
away, not affrighted, but only shy and gamesome, as we drove by. It is a
magnificent pleasure-ground, not too tamely kept, nor rigidly subjected
within rule, but vast enough to have lapsed back into nature again, after
all the pains that the landscape-gardeners of Queen Anne's time bestowed
on it, when the domain of Blenheim was scientifically laid out. The
great, knotted, slanting trunks of the old oaks do not now look as if man
had much intermeddled with their growth and postures. The trees of later
date, that were set out in the Great Duke's time, are arranged on the
plan of the order of battle in which the illustrious commander ranked his
troops at Blenheim; but the ground covered is so extensive, and the trees
now so luxuriant, that the spectator is not disagreeably conscious of
their standing in military array, as if Orpheus had summoned them
together by beat of drum. The effect must have been very formal a
hundred and fifty years ago, but has ceased to be so,--although the
trees, I presume, have kept their ranks with even more fidelity than
Marlborough's veterans did.

One of the park-keepers, on horseback, rode beside our carriage, pointing
out the choice views, and glimpses at the palace, as we drove through the
domain. There is a very large artificial lake (to say the truth, it
seemed to me fully worthy of being compared with the Welsh lakes, at
least, if not with those of Westmoreland), which was created by
Capability Brown, and fills the basin that he scooped for it, just as if
Nature had poured these broad waters into one of her own valleys. It is
a most beautiful object at a distance, and not less so on its immediate
banks; for the water is very pure, being supplied by a small river, of
the choicest transparency, which was turned thitherward for the purpose.
And Blenheim owes not merely this water-scenery, but almost all its other
beauties, to the contrivance of man. Its natural features are not
striking; but Art has effected such wonderful things that the
uninstructed visitor would never guess that nearly the whole scene was
but the embodied thought of a human mind. A skilful painter hardly does
more for his blank sheet of canvas than the landscape-gardener, the
planter, the arranger of trees, has done for the monotonous surface of
Blenheim,--making the most of every undulation,--flinging down a hillock,
a big lump of earth out of a giant's hand, wherever it was needed,--
putting in beauty as often as there was a niche for it,--opening vistas
to every point that deserved to be seen, and throwing a veil of
impenetrable foliage around what ought to be hidden;--and then, to be
sure, the lapse of a century has softened the harsh outline of man's
labors, and has given the place back to Nature again with the addition of
what consummate science could achieve.

After driving a good way, we came to a battlemented tower and adjoining
house, which used to be the residence of the Ranger of Woodstock Park,
who held charge of the property for the King before the Duke of
Marlborough possessed it. The keeper opened the door for us, and in the
entrance-hall we found various things that had to do with the chase and
woodland sports. We mounted the staircase, through several stories, up
to the top of the tower, whence there was a view of the spires of Oxford,
and of points much farther off,--very indistinctly seen, however, as is
usually the case with the misty distances of England. Returning to the
ground-floor, we were ushered into the room in which died Wilmot, the
wicked Earl of Rochester, who was Ranger of the Park in Charles II.'s
time. It is a low and bare little room, with a window in front, and a
smaller one behind; and in the contiguous entrance-room there are the
remains of an old bedstead, beneath the canopy of which, perhaps,
Rochester may have made the penitent end that Bishop Burnet attributes to
him. I hardly know what it is, in this poor fellow's character, which
affects us with greater tenderness on his behalf than for all the other
profligates of his day, who seem to have been neither better nor worse
than himself. I rather suspect that he had a human heart which never
quite died out of him, and the warmth of which is still faintly
perceptible amid the dissolute trash which he left behind.

Methinks, if such good fortune ever befell a bookish man, I should choose
this lodge for my own residence, with the topmost room of the tower for a
study, and all the seclusion of cultivated wildness beneath to ramble in.
There being no such possibility, we drove on, catching glimpses of the
palace in new points of view, and by and by came to Rosamond's Well. The
particular tradition that connects Fair Rosamond with it is not now in my
memory; but if Rosamond ever lived and loved, and ever had her abode in
the maze of Woodstock, it may well be believed that she and Henry
sometimes sat beside this spring. It gushes out from a bank, through
some old stone-work, and dashes its little cascade (about as abundant as
one might turn out of a large pitcher) into a pool, whence it steals away
towards the lake, which is not far removed. The water is exceedingly
cold, and as pure as the legendary Rosamond was not, and is fancied to
possess medicinal virtues, like springs at which saints have quenched
their thirst. There were two or three old women and some children in
attendance with tumblers, which they present to visitors, full of the
consecrated water; but most of us filled the tumblers for ourselves, and
drank.

Thence we drove to the Triumphal Pillar which was erected in honor of the
Great Duke, and on the summit of which he stands, in a Roman garb,
holding a winged figure of Victory in his hand, as an ordinary man might
hold a bird. The column is I know not how many feet high, but lofty
enough, at any rate, to elevate Marlborough far above the rest of the
world, and to be visible a long way off; and it is so placed in reference
to other objects, that, wherever the hero wandered about his grounds, and
especially as he issued from his mansion, he must inevitably have been
reminded of his glory. In truth, until I came to Blenheim, I never had
so positive and material an idea of what Fame really is--of what the
admiration of his country can do for a successful warrior--as I carry
away with me and shall always retain. Unless he had the moral force of a
thousand men together, his egotism (beholding himself everywhere, imbuing
the entire soil, growing in the woods, rippling and gleaming in the
water, and pervading the very air with his greatness) must have been
swollen within him like the liver of a Strasburg goose. On the huge
tablets inlaid into the pedestal of the column, the entire Act of
Parliament, bestowing Blenheim on the Duke of Marlborough and his
posterity, is engraved in deep letters, painted black on the marble
ground. The pillar stands exactly a mile from the principal front of the
palace, in a straight line with the precise centre of its entrance-hall;
so that, as already said, it was the Duke's principal object of
contemplation.

We now proceeded to the palace-gate, which is a great pillared archway,
of wonderful loftiness and state, giving admittance into a spacious
quadrangle. A stout, elderly, and rather surly footman in livery
appeared at the entrance, and took possession of whatever canes,
umbrellas, and parasols he could get hold of, in order to claim sixpence
on our departure. This had a somewhat ludicrous effect. There is much
public outcry against the meanness of the present Duke in his
arrangements for the admission of visitors (chiefly, of course, his
native countrymen) to view the magnificent palace which their forefathers
bestowed upon his own. In many cases, it seems hard that a private abode
should be exposed to the intrusion of the public merely because the
proprietor has inherited or created a splendor which attracts general
curiosity; insomuch that his home loses its sanctity and seclusion for
the very reason that it is better than other men's houses. But in the
case of Blenheim, the public have certainly an equitable claim to
admission, both because the fame of its first inhabitant is a national
possession, and because the mansion was a national gift, one of the
purposes of which was to be a token of gratitude and glory to the English
people themselves. If a man chooses to be illustrious, he is very likely
to incur some little inconveniences himself, and entail them on his
posterity. Nevertheless, his present Grace of Marlborough absolutely
ignores the public claim above suggested, and (with a thrift of which
even the hero of Blenheim himself did not set the example) sells tickets
admitting six persons at ten shillings; if only one person enters the
gate, he must pay for six; and if there are seven in company, two tickets
are required to admit them. The attendants, who meet you everywhere in
the park and palace, expect fees on their own private account,--their
noble master pocketing the ten shillings. But, to be sure, the visitor
gets his money's worth, since it buys him the right to speak just as
freely of the Duke of Marlborough as if he were the keeper of the
Cremorne Gardens.

[The above was written two or three years ago, or more; and the Duke of
that day has since transmitted his coronet to his successor, who, we
understand, has adopted much more liberal arrangements. There is seldom
anything to criticise or complain of, as regards the facility of
obtaining admission to interesting private houses in England.]

Passing through a gateway on the opposite side of the quadrangle, we had
before us the noble classic front of the palace, with its two projecting
wings. We ascended the lofty steps of the portal, and were admitted into
the entrance-hall, the height of which, from floor to ceiling, is not
much less than seventy feet, being the entire elevation of the edifice.
The hall is lighted by windows in the upper story, and, it being a clear,
bright day, was very radiant with lofty sunshine, amid which a swallow
was flitting to and fro. The ceiling was painted by Sir James Thornhill
in some allegorical design (doubtless commemorative of Marlborough's
victories), the purport of which I did not take the trouble to make out,
--contenting myself with the general effect, which was most splendidly
and effectively ornamental.

We were guided through the show-rooms by a very civil person, who allowed
us to take pretty much our own time in looking at the pictures. The
collection is exceedingly valuable,--many of these works of Art having
been presented to the Great Duke by the crowned heads of England or the
Continent. One room was all aglow with pictures by Rubens; and there
were works of Raphael, and many other famous painters, any one of which
would be sufficient to illustrate the meanest house that might contain
it. I remember none of then, however (not being in a picture-seeing
mood), so well as Vandyck's large and familiar picture of Charles I. on
horseback, with a figure and face of melancholy dignity such as never by
any other hand was put on canvas. Yet, on considering this face of
Charles (which I find often repeated in half-lengths) and translating it
from the ideal into literalism, I doubt whether the unfortunate king was
really a handsome or impressive-looking man: a high, thin-ridged nose, a
meagre, hatchet face, and reddish hair and beard,--these are the literal
facts. It is the painter's art that has thrown such pensive and shadowy
grace around him.