Marcus Aurelius - "Meditations "

Steven Sills - "An American Papyrus: 25 Poems"

Padraic Colum - "The King of Ireland's Son"

Frank Pinkerton - "Jim Cummings"

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




A deep sigh, or rather moan, was the mother's only response. Her
daughter continued,

"Bad as I myself feel with this constant cough, pain in my side, and
weakness, I must go over again to-morrow and stay with her. She
ought not to be left alone. The dear children, too, require a great
deal of attention that she cannot possibly give to them."

"You had better bring little Ellen home with you, had you not, Mary?
I could attend to her much better than Ellen can."

"I was thinking of that myself, Ma. But you seemed so poorly, that I
did not feel like saying anything about it just now."

"O yes. Bring her home with you to-morrow evening, by all means. It
will take that much off of poor Ellen's hands."

"Then I will do so, Ma; at least if Ellen is willing," Mary said, in
a lighter tone--the idea of even that relief being extended to her
overburdened sister causing her mind to rise in a momentary
buoyancy.

"Anna is late to-night," she remarked, after a pause of a few
moments.

As she said this, the door opened, and the sister of whom she spoke
entered.

"You are late to-night, Anna," her mother said.

"Yes, rather later than usual. I had to take a few small articles
home for a lady, after I left the store, who lives in Sixth near
Spring Garden."

"In Sixth near Spring Garden!"

"Yes. The lad who takes home goods had gone, and the lady was
particular about having them sent home this evening."

"Do you not feel very tired?"

"Indeed I do," the poor girl said, sinking into a chair. "I feel,
sometimes, as if I must give up. No one in our store is allowed to
sit down from morning till night. The other girls don't appear to
mind it much; but before evening, it seems as if I must drop to the
floor. But I won't complain," she added, endeavouring to rally
herself, and put on a cheerful countenance. "How have you been
to-day, Ma?"

"If you won't complain, I am sure that I have no right to, Anna."

"You cannot be happy, of course, Ma; that I know too well. None of
us, I fear, will ever be again happy in this world!" Anna said, in a
tone of despondency, her spirits again sinking.

No one replied to this; and a gloomy silence of many minutes
followed--a quiet almost as oppressive as the stillness that reigns
in the chamber of death. Then Mary commenced busying herself about
the evening meal.

"Tea is ready, Ma and Anna," she at length said, after their frugal
repast had been placed upon the table.

"Has not Alfred returned yet?" Anna asked.

"No," was the brief answer.

"Hadn't we better wait for him?"

"He knows that it is tea-time, and ought to be here, if he wants
any," the mother said. "You are tired and hungry, and we will not,
of course, wait."

The little family, three in number, gathered around the table, but
no one eat with an appetite of the food that was placed before them.
There were two vacant places at the board. The husband and son--the
father and brother--where were they?

In regard to the former, the presentation of a scene which occurred
a few weeks previous will explain all. First, however, a brief
review of the past seven years is necessary. After Mr. Graham's
failure in business, he gave himself up to drink, and sunk, with his
whole family, down into want and obscurity with almost unprecedented
rapidity. He seemed at once to become strangely indifferent to his
wife and children--to lose all regard for their welfare. In fact, he
had become, in a degree, insane from the sudden reverses which had
overtaken him, combined with the bewildering effects of strong
drinks, under whose influence he was constantly labouring.

Thus left to struggle on against the pressure of absolute want,
suddenly and unexpectedly brought upon them, and with no internal or
external resources upon which to fall promptly back, Mrs. Graham and
her daughters were for a time overwhelmed with despair. Alfred, to
whom they should have looked for aid, advice, and sustenance, in
this hour of severe trial, left almost entirely to himself, as far
as his father had been concerned, for some two years, had sunk into
habits of dissipation from which even this terrible shock had not
the power to arouse him. Having made himself angry in his opposition
to, and resistance of, all his mother's admonitions, warnings, and
persuasions, he seemed to have lost all affection for her and his
sisters. So that a sense of their destitute and distressed condition
had no influence over him--at least, not sufficient to arouse him
into active exertions for their support. Thus were they left utterly
dependent upon their own resources--and what was worse, were
burdened with the support of both father and brother.

The little that each had been able to save from the general wreck,
was, as a means of sustenance, but small. Two or three gold watches
and chains, with various articles of (sic) jewelery, fancy
work-boxes, and a number of trifles, more valued than valuable, made
up, besides a remnant of household furniture, the aggregate of their
little wealth. Of course, the mother and daughters were driven, at
once, to some expedient for keeping the family together. A
boarding-house, that first resort of nearly all destitute females,
upon whom families are dependent, especially of those who have
occupied an elevated position in society, was opened, as the only
means of support that presented itself. The result of this
experiment, continued for a year and a half, was a debt of several
hundred dollars, which was liquidated by the seizure of Mrs.
Graham's furniture. But worse than this, a specious young man, one
of the boarders, had won upon the affections of Ellen, and induced
her to marry him. He, too soon, proved himself to have neither a
true affection for her, nor to have sound moral principles. He was,
moreover, idle, and fond of gay company.

On the day that Mrs. Graham broke up her boardinghouse, Markland,
her daughter's husband, was discharged from his situation as clerk,
on account of inefficiency. For six months previous, the time he had
been married, he had paid no boarding, thus adding himself as a dead
weight to the already overburdened family. As he had no house to
which he could take Ellen, he very naturally felt himself authorized
to share the house to which the distressed family of her mother
retired, seemingly regardless of how or by whom the food he daily
consumed was provided.

But Mrs. Graham was soon reduced to such extremities, that he was
driven off from her, with his wife, and forced to obtain employment
by which to support himself and her. As for the old man, he had
managed, in the wreck of affairs, to retain a large proportion of
his wines, and other choice liquors; and these, which no pressure of
want in his family could drive him to sell, afforded the means of
gratifying his inordinate love of drink. His clothes gradually
became old and rusty--but this seemed to give him no concern. He
wandered listlessly in his old business haunts, or lounged about the
house in a state of half stupor, drinking regularly all through the
day, at frequent periods, and going to bed, usually, at nights, in a
state of stupefaction.

When the boarding-house was given up, poor Mrs. Graham, whose health
and spirits had both rapidly declined in the past two years, felt
utterly at a loss what to do. But pressing necessities required
immediate action.

"Anna, child, what are we to do," she said, rousing herself, one
evening, while sitting alone with her daughters in gloomy
abstraction.

"Indeed, Ma, I am as much at a loss as you are. I have been thinking
and thinking about it, until my min--has become beclouded and
bewildered."

"I have been thinking, too," said Mary, "and it strikes me that Anna
and I might do something in the way of ornamental needlework. Both
of us, you know, are fond of it."

"Do you think that we can sell it, after it is done?" Anna asked,
with a lively interest in her tone.

"I certainly do. We see plenty of such work in the shops; and they
must buy it, of course."

"Let us try, then, Mary," her sister said with animation.

A week spent in untiring industry, produced two elegantly wrought
capes, equal to the finest French embroidery.

"And, now, where shall we sell them?" Anna inquired, in a tone of
concern.

"Mrs.--would, no doubt, buy them; but I, for one, cannot bear the
thought of going there."

"Nor I. But, driven by necessity, I believe that I could brave to go
there, or anywhere else, even though I have not been in
Chestnut-street for nearly two years."

"Will you go, then, Mary?" Anna asked, in an earnest, appealing
tone.

"Yes, Anna, as you seem so shrinkingly reluctant, I will go."

And forthwith Mary prepared herself; and rolling up the two elegant
capes, proceeded with them to the store of Mrs.--, in
Chestnut-street. It was crowded with customers when she entered, and
so she shrunk away to the back part of the store, until
Mrs.--should be more at leisure, and she could bargain with her
without attracting attention. She had stood there only a few
moments,--when her ear caught the sound of a familiar voice--that of
Mary Williams, one of her former most intimate associates. Her first
impulse was to spring forward, but a remembrance of her changed
condition instantly recurring to her, she turned more away from the
light, so as to effectually conceal herself from the young lady's
observation. This she was enabled to do, although Mary Williams came
once or twice so near as to brush her garments. How oppressively did
her heart beat, at such moments! Old thoughts and old feelings came
rushing back upon her, and in the contrast they occasioned between
the past and the present, she was almost overwhelmed with
despondency. Customer after customer came in, as one and another
retired, many of whose faces were familiar to Mary as old friends
and acquaintances. At last, however, after waiting nearly two hours,
she made out to get an interview with Mrs.--.

"Well, Miss, what do you want?" asked that personage, as Mary came
up before her where she still stood at the counter, for she had
observed her waiting in the store for some time. Mrs.--either did
not remember, or cared not to remember, her old customer, who had
spent, with her sisters, many hundreds of dollars in her store, in
times past.

"I have a couple of fine wrought capes that I should like to sell,"
Mary said, in a timid, hesitating voice, unrolling, at the same
time, the articles she named.

"Are they French?" asked Mrs.--, without pausing in her employment
of rolling up some goods, to take and examine the articles proffered
her.

"No, ma'am; they are some of my own and sister's work."

"They won't do, then, Miss. Nothing in the way of fine collars and
capes will sell, unless they are French."

Mary felt chilled at heart as Mrs.--said this, and commenced
slowly rolling up her capes, faint with disappointment. As she was
about turning from the counter, Mrs.--said, in rather an
indifferent tone,

"Suppose you let me look at them."

"I am sure you will think them very beautiful," Mary replied,
quickly unrolling her little bundle. "They have been wrought with
great care."'

"Sure enough, they are quite well done," Mrs.--said, coldly, as
she glanced her eyes over the capes. "Almost equal in appearance to
the French. But they are only domestic; and domestic embroidered
work won't bring scarcely anything. What do you ask for these?"

"We have set no price upon them; but think that they are richly
worth five or six dollars apiece."

"Five or six dollars!" ejaculated Mrs.--, in well feigned
surprise, handing back; suddenly, the capes. "O! no, Miss;--American
goods don't bring arty such prices."

"Then what will you give for them, Madam?"

"If you feel like taking two dollars apiece for them, you can leave
them. But I am not particular," Mrs.--said, in a careless tone.

"Two dollars!" repeated Mary, in surprise. "Surely, Mrs.--, they
are worth more than two dollars apiece!"

"I'm not at all anxious to give you even that for them," said
Mrs.--. "Not at all; for I am by no means sure that I shall ever
get my money back again."

"You will have to take them, then, I suppose," Mary replied, in a
disappointed and desponding tone.

"Very well, Miss, I will give you what I said." And Mrs.--took the
capes, and handed Mary Graham four dollars in payment.

"If we should conclude to work any more, may we calculate on getting
the same money for them?"

"I can't say positively, Miss; but I think that you may calculate on
that price for as many as you will bring."

Mary took the money, and turned away. It was only half an hour
after, that Mrs.--sold one of them, as "French," for twelve
dollars!

Sadly, indeed, were the sisters disappointed at this result. But
nothing better offering that they could do, they devoted themselves,
late and early, to their needles, the proceeds of which rarely went
over five dollars per week; for two years they continued to labour
thus.

At the end of that period, Anna sunk under her self-imposed task,
and lay ill for many weeks. Especially forbidden by the physician,
on her recovery, to enter again upon sedentary employments, Anna
cast earnestly about her for some other means whereby to earn
something for the common stock. Necessity, during the past two
years, had driven her frequently into business parts of the city for
the purchase of materials such as they used. Her changed lot gave
her new eyes, and her observations were necessarily made upon a new
class of facts. She had seen shop-girls often enough before, but she
had never felt any sympathy with them, nor thought of gaining any
information about them. They might receive one dollar a week, or
twenty, or work for nothing--it was all the same to her. Even if any
one had given her correct information on the subject, she would have
forgotten it in ten minutes. But now, it was a matter of interest to
know how much they could make--and she had obtained a knowledge of
the fact, that they earned from three to six and seven dollars a
week, according to their capacities or the responsibility of their
stations.

When, therefore, her shattered health precluded her from longer
plying her needle, much as she shrank from the publicity and
exposure of the position, she resolutely set about endeavouring to
obtain a situation as saleswoman in some retail dry-goods store. One
of the girls in Mrs.--'s store, who knew all about her family, and
deeply commiserated her condition, interested herself for her, and
succeeded in getting her a situation, at four dollars a week, in
Second-street. To enter upon the employment that now awaited her,
was indeed a severe trial; but she went resolutely forward, in the
way that duty called.

The sudden change from a sedentary life to one of activity, where
she had to be on her feet all day, tried her feeble strength
severely. It was with difficulty that she could sometimes keep up at
all, and she went home frequently at night in a burning fever. But
she gradually acquired a kind of power of endurance, that kept her
up. She did not seem to suffer less, but had more strength, as it
were, to bear up, and hold on with unflinching resolution.

Thus she had gone on for two or three years, at the time she was
again introduced, with her mother and sister, to the reader.

As for their father, his whole stock of liquors had been exhausted
for nearly two years, and, during that time, he had resorted to many
expedients to obtain the potations he so much loved. Finally, he
became so lost to all sense of right or feeling, that he would take
money, or anything he could carry off from the house, for the
purpose of obtaining liquor. This system had stripped them of many
necessary articles, as well as money, and added very greatly to
their distress, as well as embarrassments.

At last, everything that he could take had been taken, and as
neither his wife nor daughters would give him any money, his supply
of stimulus was cut off, and he became almost mad with the
intolerable desire that was burning within him for the fiery poison
which had robbed him of rationality and freedom.

"Give me some money!" he said, in an excited tone, to his wife,
coming in hurriedly from the street, one day about this time. His
face was dark and red, as if there were a congestion of the blood in
the veins of the skin, while his hands trembled, and his whole frame
was strongly agitated. Those who had been familiar with that old
man, years before, would hardly have recognized him now, in his old
worn and faded garments.

"I have no money for you," his wife replied. "You have already
stripped us of nearly everything."

"Buy me some brandy, then."

"No. I cannot do that either. Brandy has cursed you and your family.
Why do you not abandon it for ever?"

"I must have brandy, or die! Give me something to drink, in the name
of heaven!"

The wild look that her husband threw upon her, alarmed Mrs. Graham,
and she hesitated no longer, but handed him a small piece of money.
Quick as thought, he turned away and darted from the house.

It was, perhaps, after the lapse of about half an hour that he
returned. He opened the door, when he did so, quietly, and stood
looking into the room for a few moments. Then he turned his head
quickly from the right to the left, glancing fearfully behind him
once or twice. In a moment or two afterwards he started forward,
with a strong expression of alarm upon his countenance, and seated
himself close beside Mrs. Graham, evidently in the hope of receiving
her protection from some dreaded evil.

"What is the matter?" quickly exclaimed Mrs. Graham, starting up
with a frightened look.

"It is really dreadful!" he said. "What can it all mean?"

"What is dreadful?" asked his wife, her heart throbbing with an
unknown terror.

"There! Did you ever see such an awful sight? Ugh!" and he shrunk
behind her chair, and covered his eyes with his hands.

"I see nothing, Mr. Graham," his wife said, after a few moments of
hurried thought, in which she began to comprehend the fact that her
husband's mind was wandering.

"There is nothing here that will hurt you, father," Mary added,
coming up to him, as her own mind arrived at a conclusion similar to
her mother's.

"Nothing to hurt me!" suddenly screamed the old man, springing to
his feet, and throwing himself backwards half across the room; "and
that horrible creature already twining himself about my neck, and
strangling me! Take it off! take it off!" he continued, in a wild
cry of terror, making strong efforts to tear something away from his
throat.

"Take it off'! Why don't you take it off! Don't you see that it is
choking me to death! Oh! oh! oh!" (uttered in a terrific scream.)

Panting, screaming and struggling, he continued in this state of
awful alarm, vainly endeavouring to extricate himself from the toils
of an imaginary monster, that was suffocating him, until he sank
exhausted to the floor.

Happily for his alarmed and distressed family, two or three
neighbours, who had been startled by the old man's screams,--came
hurriedly in, and soon comprehended the nature of his aberration. A
brief consultation among themselves determined them, understanding,
as they did perfectly, the condition of the family, and his relation
to them, to remove him at once to the Alms-House, where he could get
judicious medical treatment, and be out of the sight and hearing of
his wife and children.

One of them briefly explained to Mrs. Graham, and Mary, the nature
of his mental affection, and the absolute necessity that there was
for his being placed where the most skilful and judicious management
of his case could be had. After some time, he gained their reluctant
consent to have him taken to the Alms-House. A carriage was then
obtained, and he forced into it, amid the tears and remonstrances of
the wife and daughter, who had already repented of their
acquiescence in what their judgment had approved. Old affection had
rushed back upon their hearts, and feelings became stronger than
reason.

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when this occurred. Early
on the next morning, Mrs. Graham, with Mary and Anna, went out to
see him. Their inquiries about his condition were vaguely answered,
and with seeming reluctance, or as it appeared to them, with
indifference. At length the matron of the institution asked them to
go with her, and they followed on, through halls and galleries,
until they came to a room, the door of which she opened, with a
silent indication for them to enter.

They entered alone. Everything was hushed, and the silence that of
the chamber of death. In the centre of the room lay the old man. A
single glance told the fearful tale. He was dead! Dead in the
pauper's home! Seven years before, a millionaire--now sleeping his
last sleep in the dead-room of an Alms-House, and his beggared wife
and children weeping over him in heart-broken and hopeless sorrow.

From that time the energies of Mary and Anna seemed paralyzed; and
it was only with a strong effort that Mrs. Graham could rouse
herself from the stupor of mind and body that had settled upon her.

Mrs. Graham and her two daughters had nearly finished their evening
meal, at the close of the day alluded to some pages back, when the
sound of rapidly hurrying footsteps was heard on the pavement. In a
moment after, a heavy blow was given just at their door, and some
one fell with a groan against it. The weight of the body forced it
open, and the son and brother rolled in upon the floor, with the
blood gushing from a ghastly wound in his forehead. His assailant
instantly fled. Bloated, disfigured, in coarse and worn clothing,
how different, even when moving about, was he from the genteel,
well-dressed young man of a few years back! Idleness and dissipation
had wrought as great a change upon him as it had upon his father,
while he was living. Now he presented a shocking and loathsome
appearance.

The first impulse of Mary was to run for a physician, while the
mother and Anna attempted to stanch the flow of blood, that had
already formed a pool upon the floor. Assistance was speedily
obtained, and the wound dressed; but the young man remained
insensible. As the physician turned from the door, Mrs. Graham sank
fainting upon her bed. Over-tried nature could bear up no longer.

"Doctor, what do you think of him?" asked the mother, anxiously,
three days after, as the physician came out of Alfred's room. Since
the injury he had received, he had lain in a stupor, but with much
fever.

"His case, Madam, is an extremely critical one. I have tried in vain
to control that fever."

"Do you think him very dangerous, Doctor?" Mary asked, in a husky
voice.

"I certainly do. And, to speak to you the honest truth, have,
myself, no hope of his recovery. I think it right that you should
know this."

"No hope, Doctor!" Mrs. Graham said, laying her hand upon the
physician's arm, while her face grew deadly pale. "No hope!--My only
son die thus!--O! Doctor, can you not save him?"

"I wish it were in my power, Madam. But I will not flatter you with
false hopes. It will be little less than a miracle should he
survive."

The mother and sisters turned away with an air of hopelessness from
the physician, and he retired slowly, and with oppressed feelings.

When they returned to the sick chamber, a great change had already
taken place in Alfred. The prediction of the physician, it was
evident to each, as all bent eagerly over him, was about to be too
surely and too suddenly realized. His face, from being slightly
flushed with fever, had become sunken, and ghastly pale, and his
respiration so feeble that it was almost imperceptible.

The last and saddest trial of this ruined family had come. The son
and brother, for whom now rushed back upon their hearts the tender
and confiding affection of earlier years, was lingering upon life's
extremest verge. It seemed that they could not give him up. They
felt that, even though he were neglectful of them, they could not do
without him. He was a son and brother; and, while he lived, there
was still hope of his restoration. The strength of that hope,
entertained by each in the silent chambers of affection, was unknown
before--its trial revealed its power over each crushed and sinking
heart.

But the passage of each moment brought plainer and more palpable
evidence of approaching dissolution. For about ten minutes he had
lain so still, that they were suddenly aroused by the fear that he
might be already dead Softly did the mother lay her hand upon his
forehead. Its cold and clammy touch sent an icy thrill to her heart
Then she bent her ear to catch even the feeblest breath--but she
could distinguish none.

"He is dead!" she murmured, sinking down and burying her face in the
bed-clothes.

The cup of their sorrow was, at last, full--full and running over!






THE RUINED FAMILY

PART SECOND.





STUNNED by this new affliction, which seemed harder to bear than any
of the terrible ones that had gone before, Mrs. Graham sunk into a
state of half unconsciousness; but Anna still lingered over the
insensible body of her brother, and though reason told her that the
spirit had taken its everlasting departure, her heart still hoped
that it might not be so,--that a spark yet remained which would
rekindle.