David Hume - "An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals"

Constant - "Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, V3"

Mary Roberts Rinehart - "K"

George Bernard Shaw - "Overruled"

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




"How selfish and wicked I am!" he said to himself, almost
involuntarily.

In a few minutes Jane returned, and with her hand under her apron,
passed through the room where he sat into her mother's chamber. An
impulse, almost irresistible, caused him to follow her in a few
moments after.

"It is so grateful!" he heard his wife say, as he opened the door.

On entering her chamber, he found her sitting up in bed eating the
orange, while little Jane stood by her looking into her face with an
air of subdued, yet heartfelt gratification. All this he saw at a
glance, yet did not seem to see, for he pretended to be searching
for something, which, apparently obtained, he left the room and the
house, with feelings of acute pain and self-upbraidings.

"Come, let us go and see these cold-water men," said a companion,
whom he met a few steps from his own door. "They are carrying all
the world before them."

"Very well, come along."

And the two men bent their steps towards Temperance Hall.

When little Jane's father turned from the door of that place, his
name was signed to the pledge, and his heart fixed to abide by it.
On his way home, he saw some grapes in a window,--he bought some of
them, and a couple of oranges and lemons. When he came home,
he--went into his wife's chamber, and opening the paper that
contained the first fruits of his sincere repentance, laid them
before her, and said, with tenderness, while the moisture dimmed his
eyes--

"I thought these would taste good to you, Mary, and so I bought
them."

"O, William!" and the poor wife started, and looked up into her
husband's face with an expression of surprise and trembling hope.

"Mary,"--and he took her hand, tenderly--"I have signed the pledge
to-night, and I will keep it, by the help of Heaven!"

The sick wife raised herself up quickly, and bent over towards her
husband, eagerly extending her hands. Then, as he drew his arm
around her, she let her head fall upon his bosom, with an emotion of
delight, such as had not moved over the surface of her stricken
heart for years.

The pledge taken was the total-abstinence pledge, and it has never
been violated by him, and what is better, we are confident never
will. How much of human hope and happiness is involved in that
simple pledge!






THE TEMPERANCE SONG.





"DEAR father," said Mary Edwards, "don't go out this evening!" and
the young girl, who had scarcely numbered fourteen years, laid her
hand upon the arm of her parent.

But Mr. Edwards shook her off impatiently, muttering, as he did so,

"Can't I go where I please?"

"O! yes, father!" urged Mary, drawing up to him again,
notwithstanding her repulse. "But there is going to be a storm, and
I wouldn't go out."

"Storm! Nonsense! That's only your pretence. But I'll be home
soon--long before the rain, if it comes at all."

And, saying this, Mr. Edwards turned from his daughter and left the
house. As soon as she was alone, Mary sat down and commenced
weeping. There had been sad changes since she was ten years old. In
that time, her father had fallen into habits of intemperance, and
not only wasted his substance, but abused his family; and, sadder
still, her mother had died broken-hearted, leaving her alone in the
world with a drunken father.

The young girl's trials, under these painful circumstances, were
great. Night after night her father would come home intoxicated, and
it was so rare a thing for her to get a kind word from him, that a
tone of affection from his lips would move her instantly to tears.
Daily the work of declension went on. Drunkenness led to idleness,
and gradually Mr. Edwards and his child sunk lower and lower in the
scale of comfort. The pleasant home where they had lived for years
was. given up, and in small, poorly furnished rooms, in a narrow
street, they hid themselves from observation. After this change, Mr.
Edwards moved along his downward way, more rapidly; earning less and
drinking more.

Mary grew old fast. Under severe trials and afflictions, her mind
rapidly matured; and her affection for her father, grew stronger and
stronger, as she realized more and more fully the dreadful nature
and ultimate tendency of the infatuation by which he was led.

At last, in the anguish of her concern, she ventured upon
remonstrance. This brought only angry repulse, adding bitterness to
her cup of sorrow. The appearance of a storm, on the evening to
which we have alluded, gave Mary an excuse for urging her father not
to go out. How her remonstrance was received has been seen. While
the poor girl sat weeping, the distant rolling of thunder indicated
the approach of the storm to which she had referred. But she cared
little for it now. Her father had gone out. She had spoken of it
only with the hope that he might have been induced to remain with
her. Now that he was away, the agitation within was too great to
leave any concern for the turbulent elements without.

On leaving his home, Mr. Edwards, who had not taken any liquor for
three or four hours, and whose appetite was sharp for the accustomed
stimulus, walked quickly in the direction of a drinking-house where
he usually spent his evenings. On entering, he found that there was
a little commotion in the bar-room. A certain individual, not over
friendly to landlords, had intruded himself; and, his character
being known, the inmates were disposed to have a little sport with
him.

"Come now, old fellow!" said one, just as Edwards came in,--"mount
this table and make us a first rate temperance speech."

"Do; and I'll treat you to the stiffest glass of whisky toddy the
landlord can mix," added another. "Or perhaps you'd like a mint
julep or gin cocktail better? Any thing you please. Make the speech
and call for the liquor. I'll stand the treat."

"What d'ye say, landlord? Shall he make the speech?" said another,
who was eager for sport.

"Please yourselves," replied the landlord, "and you'll please me."

"Very well. Now for the speech, old fellow! Here! mount this table."
And two or three of the most forward took hold of his arms.

"I'm not just in the humor for making a speech," said the temperance
man, "but, if it will please you as well, I'll sing you a song."

"Give us a song then. Any thing to accommodate. But come, let's
liquor first."

"No!" said the other firmly, "I must sing the song first, if I sing
it at all."

"Don't you think your pipes will be clearer for a little drink of
some kind or other."

"Perhaps they would," was replied. "So, provided you have no
objection, I'll take a glass of cold water--if such a thing is known
in this place."

The glass of water was presented, and then the man, who was somewhat
advanced in years, prepared to give the promised song. All stood
listening attentively, Edwards among the rest. The voice of the old
man was low and tremulous, yet every word was uttered distinctly,
and with a pathos which showed that the meaning was felt. The
following well-known temperance song was the one that he sung; and
while his voice filled the bar-room every other sound was hushed.

"Where are the friends that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago--long, long ago?
Where are the hopes that my heart used to cheer,
Long, long ago--long ago!
Friends that I loved in the grave are laid low,
Hopes that I cherished are fled from me now,
I am degraded, for rum was my foe
Long, long ago--long ago!

"Sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head,
Long, long ago--long, long ago.
Oh! how I wept when I knew she was dead!
Long, long ago--long ago.
She was an angel! my love and my guide!
Vainly to save me from ruin she tried;
Poor, broken-hearted! 'twas well that she died
Long, long ago--long ago.

"Let me look back on the days of my youth,
Long, long ago--long, long ago,
I was no stranger to virtue and truth,
Long, long ago--long ago.
Oh! for the hopes that were pure as the day!
Oh! for the joys that were purer than they!
Oh! for the hours that I've squandered away
Long, long ago--long ago."

The silence that pervaded the room when the old man's voice died, or
might rather be said, sobbed away, was as the silence of death. His
own heart was touched, for he wiped his eyes, from which tears had
started. Pausing scarcely a moment, he moved slowly from the room,
and left his audience to their own reflections. There was not one of
them who was not more or less affected; but the deepest impression
had been made on the heart of Edwards. The song seemed as if it had
been made for him. The second verse, particularly, went thrilling to
the very centre of his feelings.

"Sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head!"

How suddenly arose before him the sorrow-stricken form of the wife
of his youth at these words! and when the old man's voice faltered
on the line--

"Poor, broken-hearted! 'twas well that she died!"

the anguish of his spirit was so great, that he only kept himself
from sobbing aloud by a strong effort at self-control. Ere the spell
was broken, or a word uttered by any one, he arose and left the
house.

For many minutes after her father's departure, Mary sat weeping
bitterly. She felt hopeless and deserted. Tenderly did she love her
parent; but this love was only a source of the keenest anguish, for
she saw him swiftly passing along the road to destruction without
the power to save him.

Grief wastes itself by its own violence. So it was in this instance.
The tears of Mary were at length dried; her sobs were hushed, and
she was about rising from her chair, when a blinding flash of
lightning glared into the room, followed instantly by a deafening
jar of thunder.

"Oh, if father were home!" she murmured, clasping her hands
together.

Even while she stood in this attitude, the door opened quietly, and
Mr. Edwards entered.

"I thought you would be afraid, Mary; and so I came home," said he
in a kind voice.

Mary looked at him with surprise. This was soon changed to joy as
she perceived that he was perfectly sober.

"Oh, father!" she sobbed, unable to control her feelings, and
leaning her face against his breast as she spoke--"if you would
never go away!"

Tenderly the father drew his arm around his weeping child, and
kissed her pure forehead.

"Mary," said he, as calmly as he could speak, "for your mother's
sake--" but he could not finish the sentence. His voice quivered,
and became inarticulate.

Solemnly, in the silence of his own heart, did the father, as he
stood thus with his child in his arms, repeat the vows he had
already taken. And he kept his vows.

Wonderful is the power of music! It is the heart's own language, and
speaks to it in a voice of irresistible persuasion. It is a good
gift from heaven, and should ever be used in a good cause.






THE DISTILLER'S DREAM.





FROM the time Mr. Andrew Grim opened a low grogshop near the
Washington Market, until, as a wealthy distiller, he counted himself
worth a hundred thousand dollars, every thing had gone on smoothly;
and now he might be seen among the money-lords of the day, as
self-complacent as any. He had stock, houses, and lands: and, in his
mind, these made up life's greatest good. And had he not obtained
them in honest trade? Were they not the reward of persevering
industry? Mr. Grim felt proud of the fact, that he was the architect
of his own fortunes. "How many had started in life side by side with
him; and yet scarcely one in ten of them had risen above the common
level."

Thoughts like these often occupied the mind of Mr. Grim. Such were
his thoughts as he sat in his luxurious parlor, one bleak December
evening, surrounded by every external comfort his heart could
desire, when a child not over seven or eight years of age was
brought into the room by a servant, who said, as he entered--

"Here's a little girl that says she wants to see you."

Mr. Grim, turned, and looked for a moment or two at the visiter. She
was the child of poor parents; that was evident from her coarse and
meager garments.

"Do you wish to see me?" he inquired, in a voice that was meant to
be repulsive.

"Yes, sir," timidly answered the child.

"Well, what do you want?"

"My mother wants you."

"Your mother! Who's your mother?"

"Mrs. Dyer."

The manner of Mr. Grim changed instantly; and he said--

"Indeed! What does your mother want?"

"Father is sick; and mother says he will die."

"What ails your father?"

"I don't know. But he's been sick ever since yesterday; and he
screams out so, and frightens us all."

"Where does your mother live?"

The child gave the street and number.

Mr. Grim walked about the room uneasily for some time.

"Didn't your mother say what she wanted with me?" he asked again,
pausing before the little girl, whose eyes had been following all
his movements.

"No, sir. But she cried when she told me to go for you."

Mr. Grim moved about the room again for some time. Then stopping
suddenly, he said--

"Go home and tell your mother I'll be there in a little while."

The child retired from the room, and Mr. Grim resumed his
perambulations, his eyes upon the floor, and a shadow resting on his
countenance. After the lapse of nearly half an hour he went into the
hall, and drawing on a warm overcoat, started forth in obedience to
what was evidently an unwelcome summons--for he muttered to himself
as he descended to the pavement--

"I wish people would take care of what they get, and learn to depend
on themselves."

Mr. Grim took an omnibus and rode as far as Canal street. Down Canal
street he walked to West Broadway, and along West Broadway for a
couple of blocks, when he stopped before an old brick house that
looked as if it had seen service for at least a hundred years, and
examined the number.

"This is the place, I suppose," said he, fretfully. And he stepped
back and looked up at the house. Then he approached the door, and
searched for a bell or knocker; but of neither of these appendages
could the dwelling boast. First, he rapped with his knuckles, then
with his cane. But no one responded to the summons. He looked up and
saw lights in the window. So he knocked again, and louder. After
waiting several minutes, and not being admitted, Mr. Grim tried the
door and found it unfastened; but the passage into which he stepped
was dark as midnight. After knocking on the floor loudly with his
cane, a door opened above, a gleam of light fell on an old stairway,
and a rough voice called out,

"Who's there?"

"Does Mr. Dyer live here?"

"Be sure he does!" was roughly answered.

"Will you be kind enough to show me his room?"

"You'll find it in the third story back," said the voice,
impatiently. The door was shut again, and all was dark as before.

Mr. Grim stood irresolute for a few moments, and then commenced
groping his way up stairs, slowly and cautiously. Just as he gained
the landing on the second flight, a stifled scream was heard in one
of the rooms on the third floor, followed by a sudden movement, as
if two persons were struggling in a murderous conflict. He stopped
and listened, while a chill went over him. A long shuddering groan
followed, and then all was still again. Mr. Grim was about
retreating, when a door opened, and the child who had called for him
came out with a candle in her hand. The light fell upon his form and
the child saw him.

"Oh! mother! mother!" she cried, "Mr. Grim is here!"'

Instantly the form of a woman was seen in the door. Her look was
wild and distressed, and her hair, which had become loosened from
the comb, lay in heavy masses upon her shoulders.

"For heaven's sake, Mary! what is the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Grim,
as he approached the woman.

"The matter!" She looked sternly at the visiter. "Come and see!" And
she pointed into the room.

A cry of unutterable distress broke upon the air, and the woman
sprang back quickly into the room. Mr. Grim hurried after her. By
the feeble light of a single poor candle, he saw a half-clothed man
crouching fearfully in a corner of the room, with his hands raised
in the attitude of defence.

"Keep off! Keep off, I say!" he cried, despairingly. "Oh! oh! oh!
It's on me, Mary! Mary! Oh! Lord, help me! help me!"

And as these broken sentences fell from his lips, he shrunk closer
and closer into the corner, and then fell forward, writhing upon the
floor. By this time, his wife was bending down over him, and with
her assuring voice she soon succeeded in quieting him.

"They've all gone now, Henry," said she, in a tone of cheerful
confidence, assumed at what an effort! "I've driven them away. Come!
lie down upon the bed."

"They're under the bed," replied the sufferer, glancing fearfully
around. "Yes, yes! There! I see that blackest devil with the snake
in his hand. He's grinning at me from behind the bed post. Now he's
going to throw his horrible snake at me! There! oh-oh-oh-oh!"

The fearful, despairing scream that issued from the poor creature's
lips, as he clung to his wife, curdled the very blood in the veins
of Mr. Grim, who now comprehended the meaning of the scene. Dyer and
his wife were friends of other days. With the latter he had grown up
from childhood, and there were many reasons why he felt an interest
in her. Her husband had learned drinking and idleness in his
bar-room, many years before; and more than once during the time of
his declension, had she called upon Mr. Grim, and earnestly besought
him to do something to save the one she loved best on earth from
impending ruin. But, he had entered the downward way, and it seemed
that nothing could stop his rapid progress. Now he met him, after
the lapse of ten years, and found him mad with the drunkard's
madness.

The scene was too painful for Mr. Grim. He could not bear it. So,
hurriedly drawing his purse from his pocket, he threw it upon the
floor, and turning from the room made his way out of the house,
trembling in every nerve. When he arrived at home, the perspiration
stood cold and clammy on every part of his body. His mind was
greatly excited. Most vividly did he picture, in imagination, the
horrible fiend, striking the poor drunken wretch with his serpent
spear, or blasting him with his terrific countenance. For an hour he
walked the floor of his chamber, and then, exhausted in body and
mind, threw himself on a bed, and tried to find oblivion in sleep.
But, though he wooed the gentle goddess, she came not with her
soothing poppies. Too vivid was the impression of what he had seen,
and too painful were the accompanying reflections, to admit of sweet
repose. At last, however, exhaustion came, and he fell into that
half sleeping and waking state--in which the imagination remains
active, so painful to endure. In this state, one picture presented
by imagination was most vivid of all; it was the picture of poor
Dyer, shrinking from the fiend with the serpent, which latter was
now as plainly visible to him as it had been to the unhappy
drunkard. Presently the fiend began to turn his eyes upon him with a
malignant expression; then it glanced from him to the drunkard, and
pointing at the latter, said Grim heard the voice distinctly--

"_It is your work!_"

The distiller closed his eyes to hide from view the grinning
phantom. But it did not shut out the vision. The fiend was before
him still; and now it swung around its head a horrid serpent with
distended jaws, and seemed about to dash it upon him. He cowered and
groaned in fear. As he still gazed upon the dreadful form, it slowly
changed into a female of stern yet beautiful aspect. In one hand she
held a naked sword, and in the other a balance. Her knew her, and
trembled still more intensely.

"I am JUSTICE," said the figure. "You have been weighed in the
balance and found wanting. The world is sustained by mutual
benefits. No man can live wholly for himself. Each must serve the
others. What one man produces another enjoys. You have enjoyed, in
abundance, the good things produced by others; but what has been
your return? Let me show you the work of your hands. Look!"

Suddenly there was a murmur of voices; the sound came nearer and
nearer, and a crowd of men and women came eagerly toward the
prostrate distiller--all eyes upon him, and all countenances
expressive of anger, rebuke, or despair. One poor mother held
towards him her ragged, starving child, and cried--

"Your cursed trade has murdered his father. Give him back to us!"

Another marred and degraded wretch called, with clenched hand--

"Where is my money, my good name, my all?" You have robbed me of
every thing!"

By his side was a poor drunkard, supporting the pale form of his
sick wife, while their starving children stood weeping before them--

"Look at us?" said he. "It is _your_ handy-work!"

And there were dozens of others in the squalid crowd who called to
him with bitter execrations, or pointed to their ruined homes and
cried--

"It is your work! Your work! Rum--rum has cursed us!"

"Yes, this is your work," said Justice, sternly. "For the good
things of life you received on all hands from your fellow-men, you
gave them back a stream of fire to consume them. Wealth is the
representative of use to society. It comes, or should come, as a
reward for serving the common good. So earned, it is a blessing; and
he who thus gains it has a right to its possession. But, in your
eager pursuit of gain you have cursed every man who brought you a
blessing; and now your ill-gotten wealth must be given up. See!"

And, as she spoke, she pointed to an immense bag of gold.

"It is all there!" continued Justice. "Your houses and lands, your
stocks and your merchandise, have been converted into gold; and I
now distribute it once more among the people, to be gathered by
those more worthy to possess it than thou!"

Then a troop of fiends came rushing down through the air, and,
seizing the bag, were bearing it off in triumph, when the agonized
sleeper sprang towards his gold, and in the effort threw off the
terrible nightmare that was almost crushing out his life.

There was no sleep for him during the hours that intervened until
the daylight broke. The images he had seen, and the words he had
heard, were before him all the time, crushing his heart like the
pressure of heavy footsteps. As soon as the day had dawned he
started forth and sought the dwelling he had so hastily left on the
night before. All was silent as he ascended the stairway. The door
of the room where he had been stood partly open. He listened a
moment--all was silent. He moved the door, but nothing stirred
within. Then he entered. His purse lay upon the floor where he had
thrown it; that was the first object which met his sight. The next
was the ghastly face of death! The wretched drunkard had passed to
his account; and his body lay upon the bed. Close beside was the
form of her who had been to Mr. Grim, in early years, as a tender
sister. She was in a profound sleep; and on the floor lay the child,
also wrapped in deep forgetfulness of the misery with which she was
surrounded.--

"And this is the work I have been doing!" sighed the distiller;
whose mind could not lose the vivid impression made by his dream.

A little while he contemplated the scene around him, and then taking
up his purse he silently withdrew. But ere returning home he made
known to a benevolent person the fact of the unhappy death which had
occurred, and, placing money in his hand, asked him to do all that
humanity required, and to do it at his expense.

Few men went about their daily business with a heavier heart than
Mr. Andrew Grim. He felt that he was the possessor of ill-gotten
gain; and felt, besides, a sense of insecurity.

"_Wealth is the representative of use to society. It comes, or
should come, as a reward for serving the common good_," he repeated
to himself, in the words he had heard in his dream. "And how have I
served the common good? What good have I performed that corresponds
to the blessings I have received and enjoy? Ah, me! I wish it were
otherwise."

With such thoughts, how could the man be happy! When night came
round again he feared to trust himself in the arms of sleep; and
when exhausted nature yielded, painful dreams haunted him until
morning. Weeks elapsed before the vivid impression he had received
wore off, and before he enjoyed any thing like a quiet slumber. But,
though he had a better sleep, his waking thoughts ceased to be
peaceful and self-satisfying. A year went by, and then, fretted
beyond endurance at his position of manufacturer of death and
destruction, both natural and spiritual, for his fellow men, he
broke up his distillery, and invested his money in a business that
could be followed with benefit to all.






THE RUINED FAMILY.

PART FIRST.





"HOW beautiful!" ejaculated Mary Graham, as she fixed her eyes
intently on the western sky, rich with the many-coloured clouds of a
brilliant sunset in June.

"Beautiful indeed!" responded her sister Anna.

"I could gaze on it for ever!" Ellen, a younger and more
enthusiastic sister remarked, with fervent admiration. "Look, Ma!
was ever anything more gorgeous than that pure white cloud, fringed
with brilliant gold, and relieved by the translucent and sparkling
sky beyond?"