Owen M. Edwards - "Yr Hwiangerddi"

G.A. Henty - "With Lee in Virginia; A Story Of The American Civil War"

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW - "MAJOR BARBARA"

J. Henri Fabre - "More Hunting Wasps"

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




"It is indeed very beautiful, Ellen," Mrs. Graham replied. But there
was an abstraction in her manner, that indicated, too plainly, that
something weighed upon her mind.

"You don't seem to enjoy a rich sunset as much as you used to do,
Ma," Anna said, for she felt the tone and manner in which her mother
had expressed her admiration of the scene.

"You only think so, perhaps," Mrs. Graham rejoined, endeavouring to
arouse herself, and to feel interested in the brilliant exhibition
of nature to which her daughter had alluded. "The scene is, indeed,
very beautiful, Anna, and reminds me strongly of some of
Wordsworth's exquisite descriptions, so full of power to awaken the
heart's deepest and purest emotions. You all remember this:

"'Calm is the evening air, and loth to lose
Day's grateful warmth, though moist with falling dews
Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none;
Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
And wonder how they could elude the sight.'"

"And this:

"'No sound is uttered,--but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.
Far distant images draw nigh,
Called forth by wondrous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues
Whate'er it strikes with gem-like hues!
In vision exquisitely clear,
Herds range along the mountain-side;
And glistening antlers are descried;
And gilded flocks appear.
Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!
But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe
That this magnificence is wholly thine!
From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won.'"

"How calm and elevating to the heart, like the hour he describes,"
Ellen said, in a musing tone, as she sat with her eyes fixed
intently on the slow-fading glories of the many-coloured clouds.

The influence of the tranquil hour gradually subdued them into
silence; and as the twilight began to fall, each sat in the
enjoyment of a pure and refined pleasure, consequent upon a true
appreciation of the beautiful in nature, combined with highly
cultivated tastes, and innocent and elevated thoughts.

"There comes Pa, I believe," Anna remarked, breaking the silence, as
the hall door opened and then closed with a heavy jar; and the
well-known sound of her father's footsteps was heard along the
passage and on the stairs.

None of her children observed the hushed intensity with which Mrs.
Graham listened, as their father ascended to the chamber. But they
noticed that she became silent and more thoughtful than at first. In
about ten minutes she arose and left the room.

"Something seems to trouble Ma, of late," Ellen observed, as soon as
their mother had retired.

"So I have thought. She is certainly, to all appearance, less
cheerful, "Mary replied.

"What can be the cause of it?"

"I hardly think there can be any very serious cause. We are none of
us always in the same state of mind."

"But I have noticed a change, in Ma, for some months past--and
particularly in the last few weeks," Anna said. "She is not happy."

"I remember, now, that I overheard her, about six weeks ago, talking
to Alfred about something--the company he kept, I believe--and that
he seemed angry, and spoke to her, I thought, unkindly. Since that
time she has not seemed so cheerful;" Ellen said.

"That may be the cause; but still I hardly think that it is," Anna
replied. "Alfred's principal associates are William Gray and Charles
Williams; and they belong to our first families. Pa, you know, is
very intimate with both Mr. Gray and Mr. Williams."

"It was to William Gray and Charles Williams, I believe, however,
that Ma particularly objected."

"Upon what ground?"

"Upon the ground of their habits, I think, she said."

"Their habits? What of their habits, I wonder?"

"I do not know, I am sure. I only remember having heard Ma object to
them on that account."

"That is strange!" was the remark of Anna. "I am sure that I have
never seen anything out of the way, in either of them; and, as to
William Gray, I have always esteemed him very highly."

"So have I," Mary said. "Both of them are intelligent, agreeable
young men; and such, as it seems to me, are in every way fitted to
be companions for our brother."

But Mrs. Graham had seen more of the world than her daughters, and
knew how to judge from appearances far better than they. Some recent
circumstances, likewise, had quickened her perceptions of danger,
and made them doubly acute. In the two young men alluded to, now
about the ages of eighteen and twenty, she had been pained to
observe strong indications of a growing want of strict moral
restraints, combined with a tendency towards dissipation; and, what
was still more painful, an exhibition of like perversions in her
only son, now on the verge of manhood,--that deeply responsible and
dangerous period, when parental authority and control subside in a
degree, and the individual, inexperienced yet self-confident,
assumes the task of guiding himself.

When Mrs. Graham left the room, she proceeded slowly up to the
chamber into which her husband had gone, where all had been silent
since his entrance. She found him lying upon the bed, and already in
a sound sleep. The moment she bent over him, she perceived the truth
to be that which her trembling and sinking heart so much dreaded. He
was intoxicated!

Shrinking away from the bed-side, she retired to a far corner of the
room, where she seated herself by a table, and burying her face in
her arms, gave way to the most gloomy, heart-aching thoughts and
feelings. Tears brought her no relief from these; for something of
hopelessness in her sorrow, gave no room for the blessing of tears.

Mr. Graham was a merchant of high standing in Philadelphia, where,
for many years, he had been engaged extensively in the East India
trade. Six beautiful ships floated for years upon the ocean,
returning at regular intervals, freighted with the rich produce of
the East, and filling his coffers, until they overflowed, with
accumulating wealth. But it was not wealth alone that gave to Mr.
Graham the elevated social position that he held. His strong
intelligence, and the high moral tone of his character, gave him an
influence and an estimation far above what he derived from his great
riches. In the education of his children, four in number, he had
been governed by a wise regard to the effect which that education
would have upon them as members of society. He early instilled into
their minds a desire to be useful to others, and taught them the
difference between an estimation of individuals, founded upon their
wealth and position in society, and an estimation derived from
intrinsic excellence of character. The consequence of, all this was,
to make him beloved by his family--purely and tenderly beloved,
because there was added to the natural affection for one in his
position, the power of a deep respect for his character and
principles.

At the time of his introduction to the reader, Mr. Graham was
forty-five years old. Alfred, his oldest child, was twenty-one;
Mary, nineteen; Ellen, eighteen; and Anna just entering her
sixteenth year. Up to this time, or nearly to this time, a happier
family circled no hearth in the city. But now an evil wing was
hovering over them, the shadow from which had already been perceived
by the mother's heart, as it fell coldly and darkly upon it, causing
it to shrink and tremble with gloomy apprehensions. From early
manhood up, it had been the custom of Mr. Graham to use wines and
brandies as liberally as he desired, without, the most remote
suspicion once crossing his mind that any danger to him could attend
the indulgence. But to the eye of his wife, whose suspicions had of
late been aroused, and her perceptions rendered, in consequence,
doubly acute, it had become apparent that the habit was gaining a
fatal predominance over him. She noted, with painful emotions, that
as each evening returned, there were to her eye too evident
indications that he had been indulging so freely in the use of
liquors, as to have his mind greatly obscured. His disposition, too,
was changing; and he was becoming less cheerful in his family, and
less interested in the pleasures and pursuits of his children.
Alfred, whom he had, up to this time, regarded with an earnest and
careful solicitude, was now almost entirely left to his own
guidance, at an age, too, when he needed more than ever the
direction of his father's matured experience.

All these exhibitions of a change so unlooked for, and so terrible
for a wife and mother to contemplate, might well depress the spirits
of Mrs. Graham, and fill her with deep and anxious solicitude. For
some weeks previous to the evening on which our story opens, Mr.
Graham had shown strong symptoms almost every day--symptoms
apparent, however, in the family, only to the eye of his wife--of
drunkenness. Towards the close of each day, as the hour for his
return from business drew near her feelings would become oppressed
under the fearful apprehension that when he came home, it would be
in a state of intoxication. This she dreaded on many accounts.
Particularly was she anxious to conceal the father's aberrations
from his children. She could not bear the thought that respect for
one now so deeply honoured by them, should be diminished in their
bosoms. She felt, too, keenly, the reproach that would rest upon his
name, should the vice that was now entangling, obtain full
possession of him, and entirely destroy his manly, rational freedom
of action. Of consequences to herself and children, resulting from
changed external circumstances, she did not dream. Her husband's
wealth was immense; and, therefore, even if he should so far abandon
himself as to have to relinquish business, there would be enough,
and more than enough, to sustain them in any position in society
they might choose to occupy.

On the occasion to which we have already referred, her heart was
throbbing with suspense as the hour drew nigh for his return, when,
sooner than she expected him, Mr. Graham opened the hall-door, and
instead of entering the parlour, as usual, proceeded at once to his
chamber. The quick ear of his wife detected something wrong in the
sound of his footsteps--the cause she knew too well. Oh, how deeply
wretched she felt, though she strove all in her power to seem
unmoved while in the presence of her children! Anxious to know the
worst, she soon retired, as has been seen, from the parlours, and
went up to the chamber above. Alas! how sadly were her worst fears
realized! The loved and honoured partner of many happy years, the
father of her children, lay before her, slumbering, heavily, in the
sleep of intoxication. It seemed, for a time, as if she could not
bear up under the trial. While seated, far from the bed-side,
brooding in sad despondency over the evil that had fallen upon
them--an evil of such a character that it had never been feared--it
seemed to her that she could not endure it. Her thoughts grew
bewildered, and reason for a time seemed trembling. Then her mind
settled into a gloomy calmness that, was even more terrible, for it
had about it something approaching the hopelessness of despair.

Thoughts of her children at last aroused her, as the gathering night
darkened the chamber in which she sat, and she endeavoured to rally
herself, and to assume a calmness that she was far from feeling. A
reason would have to be given for the father's non-appearance at the
tea-table. That could easily be done. Fatigue and a slight
indisposition had caused him to lie down: and as he had fallen
asleep, it was thought best not to awaken him. Such a tale was
readily told, and as readily received. The hardest task was to
school her feelings into submission, and so control the expression
of her face, and the tone of her voice, as to cause none to suspect
that there was anything wrong.

To do this fully, however, was impossible. Her manner was too
evidently changed; and her face wore too dreamy and sad an
expression to deceive her daughters, who inquired, with much
tenderness and solicitude, whether she was not well, or whether
anything troubled her.

"I am only a little indisposed," was her evasive reply to her
children's kind interrogatories.

"Can't I do something for you?" inquired Ellen, with an earnest
affection in her manner.

"No, dear," was her mother's brief response; and then followed a
silence, oppressive to all, which remained unbroken until the tea
things were removed.

"Alfred is again away at tea-time," Mrs. Graham at length said, as
they all arose from the table.

"He went out this afternoon with Charles Williams," Mary replied.

"Did he?" the mother rejoined quickly, and with something of
displeasure in her tone.

"Yes. Charles called for him in his buggy about four o'clock, and
they rode out together. I thought you knew it."

"No. I was lying down about that time."

"You do not seem to like Charles Williams much."

"I certainly do not, Anna, as a companion for Alfred. He is too fond
of pleasure and sporting, and I am very much afraid will lead your
brother astray."

"I never saw anything wrong about him, Ma."

"Perhaps not. But I have learned to be a much closer observer in
these matters than you, Mary. I have seen too many young men at
Alfred's age led away, not to feel a deep and careful solicitude for
him."

As the subject seemed to give their mother pain, her daughters did
not reply; and then another, and still more troubled silence
followed.

A chill being thrown thus over the feelings of all, the family
separated at an early hour. But Mrs. Graham did not retire to bed.
She could not, for she was strangely uneasy about her son. It was
about twelve o'clock when Alfred came in. His mother opened her door
as he passed it, to speak to him--but her tongue refused to give
utterance to the words that trembled upon it. He, too, was
intoxicated!

Brief were the hours given to sleep that night, and troubled the
slumber that locked her senses in forgetfulness. On the next
morning, the trembling hand of her husband, as he lifted his cup to
his lips, and the unrefreshed and jaded appearance of her son, told
but too plainly their abuse of nature's best energies. With her
husband, Mrs. Graham could not bring herself to speak upon the
subject. But she felt that her duty as a mother was involved in
regard to her son, and therefore she early took occasion to draw him
aside, and remonstrate against the course of folly upon which he was
entering.

"You were out late last night, Alfred," she said, in a mild tone.

"I was in at twelve, Ma."

"But that was too late, Alfred."

"I don't know, Ma. Other young men are out as late, and even later,
every night," the young man said, in a respectful tone. "I rode out
with Charles Williams in the afternoon, and then went with him to a
wine party at night."

"I must tell you frankly, Alfred, that I like neither your companion
in the afternoon, nor your company in the evening."

"You certainly do not object to Charles Williams. He stands as high
in society as I do."

"His family is one of respectability and standing. But his habits, I
fear, Alfred, are such as will, ere long, destroy all of his title
to respectful estimation."

"You judge harshly," the young man said, colouring deeply.

"I believe not, Alfred. And what is more, I am convinced that you
stand in imminent danger from your association with him."

"How?" was the quick interrogatory.

"Through him, for instance, you were induced to go to a wine party
last night."

"Well?"

"And there induced to drink too much."

"Mother!"

"I saw you when you came in, Alfred. You were in a sad condition."

For a few moments the young man looked his mother in the face, while
an expression of grief and mortification passed over his own.

"It is true," he at length said, in a subdued tone, "that I did
drink to excess, last evening. But do not be alarmed on that
account. I will be more guarded, in future. And let me now assure
you, most earnestly, that I am in no danger: that I am not fond of
wine. I was led to drink too much, last evening, from being in a
company where wine was circulated as freely as water. I thought you
looked troubled, this morning, but did not dream that it was on my
account. Let me, then, urge you to banish from your mind all fears
in regard to me."

"I cannot banish such fears, my son, so long as I know that you have
dangerous associates. No one is led off, no one is corrupted
suddenly."

"But I do not think that I have dangerous associates."

"I am sure you have, Alfred. If they had not been such, you would
not have been led astray, last night. Go not into the way of
temptation. Shun the very beginnings of evil. Remember Pope's
warning declaration:--

"'Vice, to be hated, needs but to be seen,' &c."

"Indeed, indeed, Ma, you are far too serious about this matter."

"No, my son, I cannot be!"

"Well, perhaps not. But, as I know the nature of my associations far
better than you possibly can, you must pardon me for thinking that
they involve no danger. I have arrived to years of discretion, and
certainly think that I am, or at least ought to be, able to judge
for my self."

There was that in the words and tone of the young man, that made the
mother feel conscious that it would be no use for her to urge the
matter further, at that time. She merely replied--

"For your mother's sake, Alfred, guard yourself more carefully, in
future."

It is wonderful, sometimes, how rapidly a downward course is run.
The barrier, against which the waters have been driven for years, is
rapidly washed away, so soon as even the smallest breach is made. A
breach had been made in Mr. Graham's resolution to be only a sober
drinker of intoxicating liquors; and the consequence was, that he
had less power to resist the strong inclination to drink, that had
become almost like a second nature to him. A few weeks only elapsed,
before he came home so drunk as to expose himself in the street, and
before his children and servants, in a most disgusting and degrading
manner.

Terrible indeed was the shock to his children--especially to Mary,
Ellen and Anna. His sudden death could not have been a more fearful
affliction. Then, they would have sorrowed in filial respect and
esteem, made sacred by an event that would embalm the memory of
their father in the permanent regard of a whole community: now, he
stood degraded in their eyes; and they felt that he was degraded in
the eyes of all. In his presence they experienced restraint, and
they looked for his coming with a shrinking fear. It was, indeed, an
awful affliction--such as few can realize in imagination; and
especially for them, as they occupied a conspicuous position in
society, and were conscious that all eyes were upon them, and that
all tongues would be busy with the story of their father's
degradation.

It is wonderful, we have said, how rapidly a downward course is
sometimes run. In the case of Mr. Graham, many circumstances
combined to hasten his ruin. It was nearly a year after he had given
way to the regular indulgence of drink, so far as to be kept almost
constantly in a state of half-intoxication through the business
hours of almost every day, that he received news of the loss of a
vessel richly laden with teas from China. At the proper time he
presented the requisite documents to his underwriters, and claimed
the loss, amounting, on ship and cargo, to one hundred and
twenty-five thousand dollars. On account of alleged improper conduct
on the part of the captain, united with informality in the papers,
the underwriters refused to pay the loss. A suit at law was the
consequence, in which the underwriters were sustained. An appeal was
made, but the same result followed-thus sweeping away, at a single
blow, property to the amount of over one hundred thousand dollars.
During the progress of the trial, Mr. Graham was much excited, and
drank more freely than ever. When the result was finally
ascertained, he sank down into a kind of morose inactivity for some
months, neglecting his large and important business, and indulging,
during the time, more deeply than ever in his favourite potations.
It was in vain that his distressed family endeavoured to rouse him
into activity. All their efforts were met by an irritability and a
moroseness of temper so unlike what he had been used to exhibit
towards them, that they gave up all idea of influencing him in
despair.

A second heavy loss, of nearly equal amount, altogether consequent
upon this neglect of business, seemed to awaken up the latent
energies of his character, and he returned to himself with something
of his former clear-sighted energy of character. But his affairs had
already become, to him, strangely entangled. The machinery of his
extensive operations had been interrupted; and now, in attempting to
make the wheels move on again, it was too apparent that much of it
had become deranged, and the parts no longer moved in harmonious
action with the whole. The more these difficulties pressed upon him,
the deeper did he drink, as a kind of relief, and, in consequence,
the more unfit to extricate himself from his troubles did he become.
Every struggle, like the efforts of a large animal in a quagmire,
only tended to involve him deeper and deeper in inextricable
embarrassment.

This downward tendency continued for about three years, when his
family was suddenly stunned by the shock of his failure. It seemed
impossible for them to realize the truth--and, indeed, almost
impossible for the whole community to realize it. It was only three
or four years previous that his wealth was estimated, and truly so,
at a million and a half. He was known to have met with heavy losses,
but where so much could have gone, puzzled every one. It seems
almost incredible that any man could have run through such an estate
by mismanagement, in so brief a period. But such was really the
case. Accustomed to heavy operations, he continued to engage in only
the most liberal transactions, every loss in which was a matter of
serious moment. And towards the last, as his mind grew more and more
bewildered in consequence of is drinking deeper and deeper, he
scarcely got up a single voyage, that did not result in loss; until,
finally, he was driven to an utter abandonment of business--but not
until he had involved his whole estate in ruin.

The beautiful family mansion on Chestnut-street had to be given
up--the carriage and elegant furniture sold under the hammer, while
the family retired, overwhelmed with distress, to an humble dwelling
in an obscure part of the city.

Seven years from the day on which Mrs. Graham and her children were
thus thrown suddenly down from their elevation, and driven into
obscurity, that lady sat alone, near the window of a
meanly-furnished room in a house on the suburbs of the city,
overlooking the Schuylkill. It was near the hour of sunset.
Gradually the day declined, and the dusky shadows of evening fell
gloomily around. Still Mrs. Graham sat leaning her head upon her
hand, in deep abstraction of mind. Alas! seven years had wrought a
sad change in her appearance, and a sadder one in her feelings. Her
deeply-sunken eye, and pale, thin face, told a tale of wretchedness
and suffering, whose silent appeal made the very heart ache. Her
garments, too, were old and faded, and antiquated in style.

She sat thus for about half-an-hour, when the door of the room was
opened slowly, and a young woman entered, carrying on her arm a
small basket. She seemed, at first sight, not over twenty-three or
four years of age; but, when observed more closely, her hollow
cheek, pale face, and languid motions, indicated the passage of
either many more years over her head, or the painful inroads of
disease and sorrow. Mrs. Graham looked up, but did not speak, as the
young woman entered, and, after placing her basket on a table, laid
aside her bonnet and faded shawl.

"How did you find Ellen, to-day?" she at length said.

"Bad enough!" was the mournful reply. "It makes my heart ache, Ma,
whenever I go to see her."

"Was her husband at home?"

"Yes, and as drunk and ill-natured as ever."

"How is the babe, Mary?"

"Not well. Dear little innocent creature! it has seen the light of
this dreary world in an evil time. Ellen has scarcely any milk for
it; and I could not get it to feed, try all I could. It nestles in
her breast, and frets and cries almost incessantly, with pain and
hunger. Although it is now six weeks old, yet Ellen seems to have
gained scarcely any strength at all. She has no appetite, and creeps
about with the utmost difficulty. With three little children hanging
about her, and the youngest that helpless babe, her condition is
wretched indeed. It would be bad enough, were her husband kind to
her. But cross, drunken and idle, scarcely furnishing his family
with food enough to sustain existence, her life with him is one of
painful trial and suffering. Indeed, I wonder, with her sensitive
disposition and delicate body, how she can endure such a life for a
week."