G. P. R. James - "The King's Highway"

Johanna Spyri - "Heidi"

A. H. Leahy - "Heroic Romances of Ireland Volumes 1 and 2 Combined"

James Allen - "As A Man Thinketh"

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: The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

T >> T.S. Arthur >> The Lights and Shadows of Real Life



THE LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF REAL LIFE.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

PHILADELPHIA:

1851.






PREFACE.





To all, as they pass through the world, come "light and shadow."
Though the sun may be in the heavens, clouds often intervene, and
cast deep shadows about our footsteps. But, it is a truth which we
cannot too deeply lay to heart, that, in our life, as in nature, the
exhalations which form the obscuring cloud arise from below. They
are not born in the pure heavens, but spring out of the earth
beneath. If there was nothing evil in the mind, there would be no
cloud in the sky of our being,--all would be "eternal sunshine."

If, therefore, in this book the lights and shadows are blessed; if,
in a word, the clouds often hang heavy and remain long in the sky,
the fault is in those whose histories we have written. But the sky
does not always remain dark. As the heart becomes filled with better
purposes through the trials and pains of adversity, or comes out
purer from the furnace of affliction, the clouds disperse, and the
blessed sunlight comes again. Lay this up for your consolation, all
ye who are in trouble and affliction, and look hopefully in the
future. It will not always remain dark as in the present time.






PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION.





ACCOMPANYING this volume, is a brief auto-biography. In circulating
Mr. Arthur's "Sketches of Life and Character," the publisher met so
frequently with an expressed desire to know something of one whose
writings had made him a general favorite that he was led to solicit
a personal sketch, to go with a new collection of his writings. It
is but due to the author to say, that his concurrence in the matter
was not without considerable reluctance. From this sketch it will be
seen that Mr. Arthur is a self-made man, and that he has gained his
present enviable position through long and patient labor, and
against the pressure of much that was adverse and discouraging. In
his elevation he has this pleasing reflection, that in seeking to
gain a high place for himself, he has dragged no one down, but
rather, sought to carry along, in his upward way, all who could be
induced to go with him.

The portrait given in this volume, was engraved from one recently
painted by Lambdin, and is considered a very good likeness. Mr.
Arthur is now in his forty-second year, and looks somewhat younger
than the artist has represented him.

For the information of those who wish to procure Mr. Arthur's
Temperance Tales, the publisher would state, that in "Lights and
Shadows of Real Life," are included all the stories contained in the
recently issued edition of "Illustrated Temperance Tales," besides
nearly two hundred pages of additional matter, thus making a larger,
more miscellaneous, and more acceptable book for all readers.






BRIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.





In compliance with the earnest request of the publisher of this
volume, I have, with a reluctance that I find it difficult to
overcome, consented to furnish a brief sketch personal to myself.
Although my name has been constantly appearing for some twelve or
fifteen years, yet I have lost none of that, shrinking from
notoriety and observation which made me timid and retiring when a
boy. The necessity to write as a means of livelihood, and to write a
great deal, has brought me so frequently before the public, that I
have almost ceased to think about the matter as any thing more than
an ordinary occurrence; but, now, when called upon to write about
myself, I find that the edge of a natural sensitiveness is quite as
keen as ever. But, I will call the feeling a weakness, and try to
repress it until I have finished my present task.

I was born in the year 1809, near Newburgh, Orange County, New York;
and my eyes first opened on the beautiful scenery of the Hudson. My
earliest recollection is of Fort Montgomery, some six miles below
West Point, on the river, where my parents resided for a few years
previous to 1817. In the Spring of that year, they removed to
Baltimore, which became my place of residence until 1841, when I
came to Philadelphia, where I have since lived.

My early educational advantages were few. There were no public
schools in Maryland, when I was a boy, and, as my father had a large
family and but a moderate income, he could afford to send his
children to school only for a limited period. He knew the value,
however, of a good education, and did all for us in his power.
Especially did he seek to inspire his children with a regard for
religious truth, and, both by precept and example, to lead them into
the practice of such things as were honest and of good rest. In all
this, he was warmly seconded by a mother who still survives; and for
whom, it is but just to say, that her children feel the tenderest
regard--and well may they do so, for they owe her much.

At school, I was considered a very dull boy. My memory was not
retentive, and I comprehended ideas and formulas expressed by others
in a very imperfect manner. I needed a careful, judicious, and
patient teacher, who understood the character of my mind, and who
was able to come down to it with instruction in the simplest and
clearest forms; thus helping me to think for myself and to see for
myself. Instead of this, I was scolded and whipped because I could
not understand things that were never explained. As, for instance, a
slate and pencil were placed in my hands after I had learned to
read, upon which was a sum in simple addition for which I was
required to find an answer. Now, in the word, "Addition," as
referring to figures, I saw no meaning. I did not comprehend the
fact, in connexion with it, that two and two made four. True, I had
learned my "Addition Table," but, strangely enough, that did not
furnish me with any clue towards working out the problem of figures
set for me on my slate. I was then in my ninth year; and I can
remember, to this day, with perfect distinctness, how utterly
discouraged I became, as day by day went by, and still I had not
found a correct result to any one of my sums, nor gained a single
ray of light on the subject. Strange as it may seem, I remained for
several months in simple addition before I knew how to sum up
figures, and then the meaning of addition flashed, in a sudden
thought upon my mind, while I was at play. I had no trouble after
that. During the next week, I escaped both scolding and "belaboring"
(a favorite phrase of my teacher's), and then passed on to
subtraction. Five minutes devoted to an explanation, in some simple
form, of what "Addition" meant, would have saved me the loss of
months, to say nothing of the pain, both mental and bodily, that I
suffered during the time.

With such a mind and such a teacher, it is no wonder that I made but
little progress during the few years that I went to school. Beyond
reading and writing, Arithmetic and English Grammar included the
entire range of my studies. As for Arithmetic, I did not master half
the common rules, and Grammar was to my mind completely
unintelligible.

In the end, my teacher, declared that it was only wasting time and
money to send me to school, and advised my father to put me out to a
trade. This was done. I left home and entered upon an apprenticeship
shortly after passing my thirteenth year.

If I found it extremely difficult to comprehend ideas as expressed
in ordinary written forms, I was not without thoughts of my own. I
had an active mind, and soon after entering upon my apprenticeship
the desire for knowledge became strong. As food for this was
supplied, even though in a stinted measure, the desire gained
strength, and I began a system of self-education that was continued
for years afterwards. Of course, the system was a very imperfect
one. There was no one to select books for me, nor to direct my mind
in its search after knowledge. I was an humble apprentice boy,
inclined from habit to shrink from observation, and preferring to
grope about in the dark for what I was in search off, rather than
intrude my wants and wishes upon others. Day after day I worked and
thought, and night after night I read and studied, while other boys
were seeking pleasure and recreation. Thus, through much
discouragement, the years passed by; and thus time went on, until I
attained the age of manhood, when, defective sight compelled me to
give up the trade I had been acquiring for over seven years.

Beyond this trade, my ability to earn a living was small. My efforts
at self-education had been guided by no definite aims in life. I had
read, studied and thought, more to gratify a desire for knowledge
than to gain information with the end of applying it to any
particular use. The consequence was, that on reaching manhood, I
entered the world at a great disadvantage. My trade, to learn which
I had spent so many years, could not be followed, except at the risk
of losing my sight, which had failed for the three preceding years
with such rapidity that I was now compelled to use glasses of strong
magnifying power. I had but slight knowledge of figures, and was
not, therefore, competent, to take the situation of a clerk. At this
point in my life, I suffered from great discouragement of mind.
Through the kind offices of a friend, a place was procured for me in
a counting room, at a very small salary, where but light service was
required, and where I found but few opportunities for acquiring a
knowledge of business. Here I remained for over three years, almost
as much shut out from contact with the business world as when an
apprentice, and with plenty of time on my hands for reading and
writing, which I improved.

The necessity for a larger income caused me to leave this place, and
accept of one in which a higher ability was required. In 1833 I went
to the West as agent for a Banking Company; but the institution
failed and I returned to Baltimore, out of employment. During all
this time, I was devoting my leisure moments to writing, not that I
looked forward to authorship as a trade--nothing could have been
more foreign to my thoughts;--I continued to write, as I had begun,
prompted by an impulse that I felt little inclination to resist.

At this point in my life, I was induced, in association with a
friend who was as fond of writing as myself, to assume the editorial
charge of a literary paper. And here began, in earnest, my literary
labors, that have since continued with only brief periods of
intermission.

As an author, I have never striven for mere reputation; have never
sought to make a name. Circumstances, over which I had little
control, guided my feet, and I walked onward in the path that opened
before me, not doubting but that I was in the right way. If other
employment had offered; if I had received a good business education,
and been able, through that means, to have advanced myself in the
world, I would, like thousands of others who had an early fondness
for literary pursuits, soon have laid aside my pen and given to
trade the best energies of my mind. But Providence guided my feet
into other paths than these. They were rough and thorny at times,
and I often fainted by the way; yet renewed strength ever came when
I felt the weakest. If my earnest labor has not been so well
rewarded in a money-sense as it might have been had I possessed a
business education at the time of my entrance upon life, my reward
in another sense has been great. Though I have not been able to
accumulate wealth, I have gained what wealth alone cannot give, a
wide-spread acknowledgment that in my work I have done good to my
fellow men. This acknowledgment comes back upon me from all
directions, and I will not deny that it affords me a deep interior
satisfaction. Could it be otherwise? And with this heart-warming
satisfaction, there arises ever in my mind a new impulse, prompting
to still more earnest efforts in the cause of humanity.

My choice of temperance themes has not arisen from any experience in
my own person of the evils of intemperance, but from having been an
eye and ear witness to some of the first results of
Washingtonianism, and seeing, in the cause, one worthy the best
efforts of my pen. The temperance cause I recognized as a good
cause, and I gave it the benefit of whatever talent I possessed. And
I have the pleasant assurance, from very many who have had better
opportunities to know than myself, that my labor has not been in
vain. Thus much I have ventured to write of myself. Beyond this, let
my works speak for me. I can say no more.

Philadelphia, May, 1850.

T. S. A.






CONTENTS.





THE FACTORY GIRL.
THE TWO PICTURES.
BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE.
THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE.
TIME, FAITH, ENERGY.
FLUSHED WITH WINE.
SWEARING OFF.
THE FAILING HOPE.
TAKING TOLL.
THOU ART THE MAN.
THE TOUCHING REPROOF.
THE TEMPERANCE SONG.
THE DISTILLER'S DREAM.
THE RUINED FAMILY.
THE RUMSELLERS DREAM.
HOW TO CURE A TOPER.
THE BROKEN PLEDGE.
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE.
WINE ON THE WEDDING NIGHT.
THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT.
THE IRON WILL.
A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS.
THREE HUNDRED A YEAR.
I'LL SEE ABOUT IT.
THE FIERY TRIAL.
THE SISTERS.
THE MAIDEN'S ERROR.






THE FACTORY GIRL.





THERE was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. Bacon. His
farm, once the best tilled and most productive in the neighbourhood,
began to show evidences of neglect and unfruitfulness; and that he
was going behindhand in the world, was too apparent in the fact,
that, within two years he had sold twenty acres of good meadow, and,
moreover, was under the necessity of borrowing three hundred dollars
on a mortgage of his landed property. And yet, Mr. Bacon had not
laid aside his habits of industry. He was up, as of old, with the
dawn, and turned not his feet homeward from the field until the sun
had taken his parting glance from the distant hill-tops.

A kind-hearted, cheerful-minded man was old Mr. Bacon, well liked by
all his neighbours, and loved by his own household. His two oldest
children died ere reaching the age of manhood; three remained. Mary
Bacon, the eldest of those who survived, now in her nineteenth year,
had been from earliest childhood her father's favourite; and, as she
advanced towards womanhood, she had grown more and more into his
heart. In his eyes she was very beautiful; and his eyes, though
partial, did not deceive him very greatly, for Mary's face was fair
to look upon.

We have said that Mr. Bacon was a kind-hearted cheerful-minded man.
And so he was; kind-hearted and cheerful, even though clouds were
beginning to darken above him, and a sigh from the coming tempest
was in the air. Yet not so uniformly cheerful as of old, though
never moody nor perverse in his tempers. Of the change that was in
progress, the change from prosperity to adversity, he did not seem
to be _painfully_ conscious.

Yes, there was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. Bacon. A
habit indulged through many years, had acquired a dangerous
influence over him, and was gradually destroying his rational
ability to act well in the ordinary concerns of life. As a young
man, Mr. Bacon drank "temperately," and he drank "temperately" in
the prime of life; and now, at sixty, he continued to drink
"temperately," that is, in his own estimation. There were many,
however, who had reason to think differently. But Mr. Bacon was no
bar-room lounger; in fact, he rarely, if ever, went to a public
house; it was in his own home and among his household treasures,
that he placed to his lips the cup of confusion.

The various temperance reforms had all found warm advocates among
his friends and neighbours; but Mr. Bacon stood aloof. He would have
nothing to do in these matters.

"Let them join temperance societies who feel themselves in danger,"
was his good natured answer to all argument or persuasion addressed
to him on the subject.

He did not oppose nor ridicule the movement. He thought it a good
thing; only, he had in it no personal interest.

And so Mr. Bacon went on drinking "temperately" until habit, from
claiming a moderate indulgence, began to make, so it seemed to his
friends, rather unreasonable demands. Besides this habit of
drinking, Mr. Bacon had another habit, that of industry; and, what
was unusual, the former did not abate the latter, though it must be
owned that it sadly interfered with its efficiency. He was up, as we
have said, with the dawn, and all the day he was busy at work; but,
somehow or other, his land did not produce as liberally as in former
times, and there was slowly creeping over every thing around him an
aspect of decay. Moreover, he did not manage, as well as formerly,
the selling part of his business. In fact, his shrewdness of mind
was gone. Alcohol had confused his brain. Gradually he was
retrograding; and, while more than half conscious of the ruin that
was in advance of him, he was not fully enough awake to feel
seriously alarmed, nor to begin anxiously to seek for the cause of
impending evil. And so it went on until Mr. Bacon, suddenly found
himself in the midst of real trouble. The value of his farm, which,
after parting with the twenty acres of meadow land, contained but
twenty-five acres, had been yearly diminishing in consequence of bad
culture, and defective management of his stock had reduced that
until it was of little consequence.

The holder of the mortgage was a man named Dyer, who kept a tavern
in the village that lay a mile distant from the little white
farm-house of Mr. Bacon. When Dyer commenced his liquor-selling
trade, for that was his principal business, he had only a few
hundred dollars; now he was worth thousands, and was about the only
man in the neighbourhood who had money to lend. His loans were
always made on bond and mortgage, and, it was a little remarkable,
that he was never known to let a sober, industrious farmer or
store-keeper have a single dollar. But, a drinking man, who was
gradually wasting his substance, rarely applied to him in vain; for
he was the cunning spider watching for the silly fly. More than one
worn-out and run-down farm had already come into his hands, through
the foreclosure of mortgages, at a time of business depression, when
his helpless victims could find no sympathizing friends able to save
them from ruin.

One day, in mid-winter, as Mr. Bacon was cutting wood at his rather
poorly furnished wood pile, the tavern-keeper rode up. There was
something in his countenance that sent a creeping sense of fear to
the heart of the farmer.

"Good morning, Mr. Dyer," said he.

"Good morning," returned the tavern-keeper, formally. His usual
smile was absent from his face.

"Sharp day, this."

"Yes, rather keen."

"Won't you walk in and take something?"

"No, thank you. H-h-e-em!"

There was a pause.

"Mr. Bacon."

The farmer's eye sunk beneath the cold steady look of Dyer.

"Mr. Bacon, I guess I shall have to call on you for them three
hundred dollars," said the tavern-keeper, in a firm voice.

"Can't pay that mortgage now, Mr. Dyer," returned Bacon, with a
troubled expression; "no use to think of it."

"Rather a cool way to treat a man after borrowing his money. I told
you when I lent it that I might want it at almost any time."

"Oh! no, Mr. Dyer. It was understood, distinctly, that from four to
six months' notice would be given," replied Mr. Bacon, positively.

"Preposterous!" ejaculated the tavern-keeper. "Never thought of such
a thing. Six months notice, indeed!"

"That was the agreement," said Mr. Bacon, firmly.

"Is it in the bond?"

"No, it was verbal, between us."

Dyer shook his head, as he answered,--

"No, sir. I never make agreements of that kind; the money was to be
paid on demand, and I have ridden over this morning to make the
demand."

"It is midwinter, Mr. Dyer," was replied in a husky voice.

"Well?"

"You know that a small farmer, like me, cannot be in possession, at
this season, of the large sum you demand."

"That is your affair, Mr. Bacon. I want my money now, and must have
it."

There was a tone of menace in the way this was said that Mr. Bacon
fully understood.

"I haven't thirty dollars, much less three hundred, in my
possession," said he.

"Borrow it, then."

"Impossible! money has not been so scarce for years. Every one is
complaining."

"You'd better make the effort, Mr. Bacon, I shall be sorry to put
you to any trouble, but my money will have to be forthcoming."

"You will not enter up the mortgage?" said the farmer.

"It will certainly come to that, unless you can pay it."

"That is what I call oppression!" returned Mr. Bacon, in momentary
indignation, for the utterance of which he was as quickly repentant.

"Good morning," said Dyer, suddenly turning his horse's head, and
riding off at a brisk trot.

For nearly five minutes, old Mr. Bacon stood with his axe resting on
the ground, lost in painful thought. Then he went slowly into the
house, and sitting down before the fire, let his head sink upon his
breast, and there mused on the trouble that was closing around him.
But there came no ray of light, piercing the thick darkness that had
fallen so suddenly.

Nothing was then said to his family on the subject, but it was
apparent to all that something was wrong, for the lips that gave
utterance to so many pleasant words, and parted so often in cheerful
smiles, were still silent."

"Are you not well, to-day?" asked Mrs. Bacon, as the family gathered
around the dinner-table, and she remarked her husband's unusually
sober face.

"Not very well," he replied.

"What ails you, father?" said Mary, with tender concern in her
voice, and her eyes were turned upon him with affectionate
earnestness.

"Nothing of much consequence, child," was answered evasively. "I
shall be better after dinner."

And as Mr. Bacon spoke he poured out a larger glass of brandy than
usual--he always had brandy on the table at dinner time--and drank
it off. This soon took away the keen edge of suffering from his
feelings, and he was able to affect a measure of cheerfulness. But
he did not deceive the eyes of Mrs. Bacon and Mary.

"I wonder what ails father!" said Mary, as soon as she was alone
with her mother.

"I don't know," answered Mrs. Bacon, thoughtfully, "he seems
troubled about something."

"I saw that Mr. Dyer, who keeps tavern over in Brookville, talking
with father at the wood-pile this morning."

"You did!" Mrs. Bacon spoke with a new manifestation of interest.

"Yes; and I thought, as I looked at him out of the window, that he
appeared to be angry about something."

Mrs. Bacon did not reply to this remark. Soon after, on meeting her
husband, she said to him,

"What did Mr. Dyer want this morning?"

"Something that he will not get," replied Mr. Bacon.

"The money he loaned you?"

"Yes."

"It's impossible to pay it back now, in the dead of winter," said
Mrs. Bacon, in a troubled tone of voice, "he ought to know that."

"And he does know it."

"What did you tell him?"

"That to lift the mortgage now was out of the question."

"Won't he be troublesome? You remember how he acted towards poor old
Mr. Peabody."

"I know he's a hard-hearted, selfish man. I don't believe that there
is a spark of humanity about him. But he'll scarcely go to
extremities with me. I don't fear that."

"Did he threaten?"

"Yes. But I hardly think that he was in earnest."

How far this last remark of old Mr. Bacon was correct, the following
brief conversation will show. It took place between Dyer and a
miserable pettyfogging lawyer, in Brookville, named Grant.

"I've got a mortgage on old Bacon's farm that I wish entered up,"
said the tavern-keeper, on calling at the lawyer's office.

"Can't he pay it off?" inquired Grant.

"Of course not. He's being running down for the last six or seven
years, and is now on his last legs."

"And so you mean to trip him up before he falls of himself." The
lawyer spoke in an unfeeling tone and with a sinister smile.

"If you please to say so," returned Dyer. "I've wanted that farm of
his for some time past. When I took the mortgage on it my object was
not a simple investment at legal interest; you know that I can do
better with money than six per cent a year."

"I should think you could," responded the lawyer, with a chuckle.

"When I loaned Bacon three hundred dollars, of course I never
expected to get the sum back again. I understood, perfectly well,
that sooner or later the mortgage would have to be entered up."

"And the farm becomes yours for half its real value."

"Exactly."

"Are you not striking to soon?" suggested the lawyer.

"No."

"Some friend may loan him the amount."

Dyer shook his head.

"It's a tight time in Brookville."

"I know."

"And still better for my purpose," said Dyer, in a low, meaning,
voice; "drunkards have few friends; none, in fact, willing to risk
their money on them. Put the screws to Bacon, and his farm will drop
into my hands like a ripe cherry."

"You can hardly call Bacon a drunkard. You never see him staggering
about, nor lounging in bar-rooms."

"Do you remember his farm seven years ago?"

"Perfectly well."

"Look at it now."

"There's a great difference, certainly."