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New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

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




Thus matters went on for several months. Mrs. Mayberry working late
and early. The natural result was, a gradual failure of strength. In
the morning, when she awoke, she would feel so languid and heavy,
that to rise required a strong effort, and even after she was up,
and attempted to resume her labors, her trembling frame almost
refused to obey the dictates of her will. At length, nature gave
way. One morning she was so sick that she could not rise. Her head
throbbed with a dizzy, blinding pain--her whole body ached, and her
skin burned with fever. Hiram got something for the children to eat,
and then taking the youngest, a little girl about two years old,
into the house of a neighbor who had showed them some good will,
asked her if she would take care of his sister until he returned
home at dinner time. This the neighbor readily consented to
do--promising, also, to call in frequently to see his mother.

At dinner time Hiram found his mother quite ill. She was no better
at night. For three days the fever raged violently. Then, under the
careful treatment of their old family physician, it was subdued.
After that she gradually recovered, but very slowly. The physician
said she must not attempt again to work as she had done. This
injunction was scarcely necessary. She had not the strength to do
so.

"I don't see what you will do, Mrs. Mayberry," a neighbor who had
often aided her by kind advice, said, in reply to the widows
statement of her unhappy condition. "You cannot maintain these
children, certainly. And I don't see how, in your present feeble
state, you are going to maintain yourself. There is but one thing
that I can advise, and that advice I give with reluctance. It is to
endeavor to get two of your children into some orphan asylum. The
youngest you may be able to keep with you. The oldest can support
himself at something or other."

The pale cheek of Mrs. Mayberry grew paler at this proposition. She
half sobbed, caught her breath, and looked her adviser with a
strange, bewildered stare in the face.

"O, no! I cannot do that! I cannot be separated from my dear little
children. Who will care for them like a mother?"

"It is hard, I know, Mrs. Mayberry. But necessity is a stern ruler.
You cannot keep them with you--that is certain. You have not the
strength to provide them with even the coarsest food. In an asylum,
with a kind matron, they will be better off than under any other
circumstances."

But Mrs. Mayberry shook her head.

"No--no--no," she replied--"I cannot think of such a thing. I cannot
be separated from them. I shall soon be able to work again--better
able than before."

The neighbor who felt deeply for her, did not urge the matter. When
Hiram returned at dinner time, his face had in it a more animated
expression than usual.

"Mother," he said, as soon as he came in, "I heard today that a boy
was wanted at the Gazette office, who could write a good hand. The
wages were to be four dollars a week."

"You did!" Mrs. Mayberry said, quickly, her weak frame trembling,
although she struggled hard to be composed.

"Yes. And Mr. Easy is well acquainted with the publisher, and could
get me the place, I am sure."

"Then go and see him at once, Hiram. If you can secure it, all will
be well, if not, your little brothers and sisters will have to be
separated, perhaps sent to an orphan asylum."

Mrs. Mayberry covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly
for some moments.

Hiram eat his frugal meal quickly, and returned to the store, where
he had to remain until his employer went home and dined. On his
return he asked liberty to be absent for half an hour, which was
granted. He then went direct to the counting room of Mr. Easy, and
disturbed him as has been seen. Approaching with a timid step, and a
flushed brow, he said in a confused and hurried manner--

"Mr Easy there is a lad wanted at the Gazette office."

"Well?" returned Mr. Easy in no very cordial tone.

"Mother thought you would be kind enough to speak to Mr. G--for
me."

"Havn't you a place in a store?"

"Yes sir. But I don't get any wages. And at the Gazette office they
will pay four dollars a week."

"But the knowledge of business to be gained where you are, will be
worth a great deal more than four dollars a week."

"I know that, sir. But mother is not able to board and clothe me. I
must earn something."

"Oh, aye, that's it. Very well, I'll see about it for you."

"When shall I call, sir?" asked Hiram.

"When? Oh, almost any time. Say to-morrow or next day."

The lad departed, and Mr. Easy's head fell back upon the chair, the
impression which had been made upon his mind passing away almost as
quickly as writing upon water.

With anxious trembling hearts did Mrs. Mayberry and her son wait for
the afternoon of the succeeding day. On the success of Mr. Easy's
application, rested all their hopes. Neither she nor Hiram eat over
a few mouthfuls at dinner time. The latter hurried away, and
returned to the store, there to wait with trembling eagerness until
his employer should return from dinner, and he again be free to go
and see Mr. Easy.

To Mrs. Mayberry, the afternoon passed slowly. She had forgotten to
tell her son to return home immediately, if the application should
be successful. He did not come back, and she had, consequently, to
remain in a state of anxious suspense until dark. He came in at the
usual hour. His dejected countenance told of disappointment.

"Did you see Mr. Easy?" Mrs. Mayberry asked, in a low troubled
voice.

"Yes. But he hadn't been to the Gazette office. He said he had been
very busy. But that he would see about it soon."

Nothing more was said. The mother and son, after sitting silent and
pensive during the evening, retired early to bed. On the next day,
urged on by his anxious desire to get the situation of which he had
heard, Hiram again called at the counting room of Mr. Easy, his
heart trembling with hope and fear. There were two or three men
present. Mr. Easy cast upon him rather an impatient look as he
entered. His appearance had evidently annoyed the merchant. Had he
consulted his feelings, he would have retired at once. But that was
too much at stake. Gliding to a corner of the room, he stood, with
his hat in his hand, and a look of anxiety upon his face, until Mr.
Easy was disengaged. At length the gentlemen with whom he was
occupied went away, and Mr. Easy turned towards the boy. Hiram
looked up earnestly in his face.

"I have really been so much occupied my lad," the merchant said, in
a kind of apologetic tone, "as to have entirely forgotten my promise
to you. But I will see about it. Come in again, to-morrow."

Hiram made no answer, but turned with a sigh towards the door. The
keen disappointment expressed in the boy's face, and the touching
quietness of his manner, reached the feelings of Mr. Easy. He was
not a hard hearted man, but selfishly indifferent to others. He
could feel deeply enough if he would permit himself to do so. But of
this latter failing he was not often guilty.

"Stop a minute," he said. And then stood in a musing attitude for a
moment or two. "As you seem so anxious about this matter," he added,
"if you will wait here a little while, I will step down to see Mr.
G--at once."

The boy's face brightened instantly. Mr. Easy saw the effect of what
he said, and it made the task he was about entering upon
reluctantly, an easy one. The boy waited for nearly a quarter of an
hour, so eager to know the result that he could not compose himself
to sit down. The sound of Mr. Easy's step at the door at length made
his heart bound. The merchant entered. Hiram looked into his face.
One glance was sufficient to dash every dearly cherished hope to the
ground.

"I am sorry," Mr. Easy said, "but the place was filled this morning.
I was a little too late."

The boy was unable to control his feelings. The disappointment was
too great. Tears gushed from his eyes, as he turned away and left
the counting-room without speaking.

"I'm afraid I've done wrong," said Mr. Easy to himself, as he stood,
in a musing attitude, by his desk, about five minutes after Hiram
had left. "If I had seen about the situation when he first called
upon me, I might have secured it for him. But it's too late now."

After saying this the merchant placed his thumbs in the arm-holes of
his waistcoat, and commenced walking the floor of his counting room
backwards and forwards. He could not get out of his mind the image
of the boy as he turned from him in tears, nor drive away thoughts
of the friend's widow whom he had neglected. This state of mind
continued all the afternoon. Its natural effect was to cause him to
cast about in his mind for some way of getting employment for Hiram
that would yield immediate returns. But nothing presented itself.

"I wonder if I couldn't make room for him here?" he at length
said--"He looks like a bright boy. I know Mr.--is highly pleased
with him. He spoke of getting four dollars a week. That's a good
deal to give to a mere lad. But, I suppose I might make him worth
that to me. And now I begin to think seriously about the matter, I
believe I cannot keep a clear conscience and any longer remain
indifferent to the welfare of my old friend's widow and children. I
must look after them a little more closely than I have heretofore
done."

This resolution relieved the mind of Mr. Easy a good deal.

When Hiram left the counting room of the merchant, his spirits were
crushed to the very earth. He found his way back, how he hardly
knew, to his place of business, and mechanically performed the tasks
allotted him, until evening.

Then he returned home, reluctant to meet his mother, and yet anxious
to relieve her state of suspense, even, if in doing so, he should
dash a last hope from her heart. When he came in Mrs. Mayberry
lifted her eyes to his, inquiringly; but dropped them instantly--she
needed no words to tell her that he had suffered a bitter
disappointment.

"You did not get the place?" she at length said, with forced
composure.

"No--It was taken this morning. Mr. Easy promised to see about it.
But he didn't do so. When he went this afternoon, it was too late."

Hiram said this with a trembling voice and lips that quivered.

"Thy will be done!" murmured the widow, lifting her eyes upwards.
"If these tender ones are to be taken from their mother's fold, oh,
do thou temper for them the piercing blast, and be their shelter
amid the raging tempests."

A tap at the door brought back the thoughts of Mrs. Mayberry. A
brief struggle with her feelings enabled her to overcome them in
time to receive a visitor with composure. It was the merchant.

"Mr. Easy!" she said in surprise.

"Mrs. Mayberry, how do you do!" There was some restraint and
embarrassment in his manner. He was conscious of having neglected
the widow of his friend, before he came. The humble condition in
which he found her, quickened that consciousness into a sting.

"I am sorry, madam," he said after he had become seated and made a
few inquiries, "that I did not get the place for your son. In fact,
I am to blame in the matter. But, I have been thinking since that he
would suit me exactly, and if you have no objections, I will take
him and pay him a salary of two hundred dollars for the first year."

Mrs. Mayberry tried to reply, but her feelings were too much excited
by this sudden and unlooked for proposal, to allow her to speak for
some moments. Even then her assent was made with tears glistening on
her cheeks.

Arrangements were quickly made for the transfer of Hiram from the
store where he had been engaged, to the counting room of Mr. Easy.
The salary he received was just enough to enable Mrs. Mayberry, with
what she herself earned, to keep her little together, until Hiram,
who proved a valuable assistant in Mr. Easy's business, could
command a larger salary, and render her more important hid.






THE FIERY TRIAL.





"THE amount of that bill, if you please, sir."

The man thus unceremoniously addressed, lifted his eyes from the
ledger, over which he had been bending for the last six hours, with
scarcely the relaxation of a moment, and exhibited a pale, care-worn
countenance--and, though still young, a head over which were thickly
scattered the silver tokens of age. A sad smile played over his
intelligent features, a smile meant to shake the sternness of the
man who was troubling his peace, as he replied in a low, calm
voice--

"To-day, it will be impossible, sir."

"And how many times have you given me the same answer. I cannot
waste my time by calling day after day, for so paltry a sum."

A flush passed over the fine countenance of the man thus rudely
addressed. But he replied in the same low tone, which now slightly
trembled:

"I would not ask you to call, sir, if I had the money But what I
have not, I cannot give."

"And pray when _will_ you have the money?" The man paused for some
time, evidently calculating the future, and after a long-drawn sigh,
as if disappointed with the result, said:--

"It will be two or three months, before I can pay it and even then,
it will depend on a contingency."

"Two or three months?--a contingency? It must come quicker and surer
than that, sir."

"That is the best I can say."

"But not the best I can do, I hope.--Good-morning." After the
collector had gone, the man bent his head down, until his face
rested even upon the ponderous volume over which he had been poring
for hours. He thought, and thought, but thought brought no relief.
The most he could earn was ten dollars a week, and for his children,
two sweet babes, and for the comfort of a sick wife, he had to
expend the full sum of his wages. The debt for which he was now
troubled, was a rent-bill of forty dollars, held against him by a
man whose annual income was twenty thousand dollars. Finally, he
concluded to go and see Mr. Moneylove, and try to prevail upon him
to stop any proceedings that the collector might institute against
him. In the evening, he sought the dwelling of his rich creditor,
and after being ushered into his splendid parlour, waited with a
troubled heart for his appearance. Mr. Moneylove entered.

"How do you do, sir?"

"How do you do?" replied the debtor, in a low, troubled voice. The
manner of Mr. Moneylove changed, the moment he heard the peculiar
tone of his voice, although he did not know him. There was an
appealing language in its cadence that whispered a warning to his
ear, and he closed his heart on the instant.

"Well, sir," were his next words, "what is your will?"

"You hold a bill against me for rent."

"Well, sir, go to my agent."

"I have seen Mr.--."

"That will do, sir. He knows all about my business, and will arrange
to my entire satisfaction."

"But, sir, I cannot pay it now, and he threatens harsh measures."

"I have entire confidence in his judgment, sir, and am willing to
leave all such matters to his discretion."

"I am in trouble, sir, and in poverty beside, for the demands on me
are greater than I can meet."

"Your own fault, I suppose," retorted the landlord, with a sneer.
"That, any one might know, who took half a glance at you."

This remark caused the blood to mount suddenly to the face of the
man.

"Let me be judged by what I am, not by what I have been," was the
meek reply, after the troubled pause of a few moments. Then in a
more decided tone of voice, he said:--

"Will you not interfere?"

"Will I? _No!_ I never interfere with my agent. He gives me entire
satisfaction, and while he does so, I shall not interfere." And Mr.
Moneylove smiled with self-satisfaction at the idea of his careful
and thrifty agent, and his own worldly policy.

The petitioner slowly left the house--murmuring to himself:
"_Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors._" It was more than
an hour before he could compose his mind sufficiently to be able to
meet his wife with a countenance that was not too deeply shadowed
with care.

She was ill, and besides, under the pressure of many causes, was
suffering from a nervous lowness of spirits. Against this
depression, her husband saw that she was striving with all the
mental energy she possessed, but striving almost in vain. To know
that she even had cause for the exercise of such an internal power,
was, to him, painful in the extreme; and he was bitter in his
self-reproaches for being the cause of suffering to one he loved
with a pure and fervent love.

Turning, at last, resolutely towards his dwelling, and striving with
a strong effort to keep down the troubles that were sweeping in
rough waves over his spirit; it was not long before he set his foot
upon his own doorstone.

To give force to this scene, and to throw around what follows its
true interest, it will be necessary to go back and sketch some
things in the history of the individual here introduced.

His name was Theodore Wilmer. In earlier years, he was clerk in the
large mercantile house of Rensselaer, Wykoff & Co., in New York.
Being a young man of intelligence, good address, and good
principles, he was much esteemed, and valued by his employers, who
took some pains to introduce him into society. In this way he was
brought into contact with some of the first families in New York,
and, in this way, he became acquainted with Constance Jackson, the
daughter of a wealthy merchant. Constance was truly a lovely girl,
and one for whom Theodore soon began to entertain feelings akin to
love.

Mr. Jackson, (the father of Constance,) was the son of a man who had
begun life in New York, at the very bottom of fortune's wheel. He
was a native of Ireland, and came to this country very poor. For
some years, with his pack on his back, he gained a subsistence by
vending dry-goods, and unimportant trifles, through the counties and
small towns in the vicinity of New York. Gradually he laid up dollar
after dollar, until he was able to open a very small shop in Maiden
Lane, a kind of thread-and-needle store. Careful in his purchases,
and constant in his attendance on business, he soon began to find
his tens counting hundreds; and but few years rolled away, before
his hundreds began to grow into thousands. After a while he took a
larger store, and suddenly became known. and respected as "a
merchant." At the end of twenty years from the time he carried his
pack out of New York, he could write himself worth fifty thousand
dollars. Success continued to crown his efforts in business, and
when his children came on the stage of active life, they were raised
to consider themselves as far superior to mere mechanics, or those
who had to labour for their daily bread.

The father of Constance was the eldest son of old Mr. Jackson, and
inherited from him a large share of haughty pride. His wife was out
of a family with notions equally aristocratic. Constance was their
only child, and they had bestowed no little care in endeavouring to
make her the most accomplished young lady in New York. They loved
her tenderly, but pride divided with affection their interest in
her. She had already declined the hands of two young men of the
first families in the city, much to the displeasure of both her
parents, when she met Theodore Wilmer, who resided in the family of
Mr. Wykoff, partner in the house that employed the young man in the
capacity of clerk. In this family, Constance visited regularly, and
the intimacy which sprung up between the young couple, had a chance
of maturing into a more permanent affection, before Mr. or Mrs.
Jackson had the slightest suspicion of such an event. Indeed, the
first knowledge they had of the real state of affairs was obtained
through Wilmer himself, in the form of an application for the hand
of their daughter. It was made to Mr. Jackson, on whom it fell with
the unexpected suddenness of a flash from a clear sky in June.

"And pray, sir, who are you?" was his hasty and excited answer.

"Theodore Wilmer, clerk in the house of Rensselaer, Wykoff & Co."

"Are you really in earnest, young man?" said Mr. Jackson, in a
calmer voice, though his lips trembled with suppressed anger.

"Never more so in my life, sir."

"And does my daughter know of this application?"

"She does."

"And is it made by her consent?"

"Of course."

The calm, and "of course" manner of the young man was more than the
patience of Jackson could withstand. Hardly able to contain the
indignation that swelled within him, at the presumption of an
unknown clerk, thus to ask the hand of his daughter, he paused but a
moment, and then seizing Wilmer by the shoulder, and looking him
steadily in the face, while he almost foamed with anger, replied
thus to his last admission:--

"If that headstrong girl has dared to place her thoughts on you,
obscure underling! and dared, as you say, to consent to accept you,
I will cut her off this hour from fortune and affection. I will cast
her loose upon the world as unworthy. Go--go--and never presume to
come again into my presence!"

Opposition, denial, he had expected; but nothing like this. He had
hoped that when the parents saw a fixed resolution on the part of
Constance to accept none other, that gradually opposition would be
worn away. Such a termination he now saw to be hopeless. The father
did not seek an immediate interview with his child. Before meeting
her, he had found time to reflect upon the real position of affairs.
He was well enough taught in the theory, at least, of a woman's
affections. He had heard of instances where opposition in a love
affair had only added fuel to the flame; and one or two such cases
had fallen under his own eye. He, therefore, decided to make no
present show of opposition, and on no consideration to allow her to
know of the interview that had occurred between her lover and
himself. Mrs. Jackson, entering into her husband's view and
feelings, took upon herself the task of watching and silently
controlling all the movements of her daughter. Particular care was
taken to prevent her visiting the family of Mr Wykoff.

"Where are you going, love?" said her mother, to her the next day
after that of the interview, as Constance came out of her room,
dressed for a walk.

"I promised to walk with Laura Wykoff, ma, and am going to call for
her."

"I was just going to send for you to dress for a walk with me; I
want to make a call to-day on Madame Boyer. And this afternoon I am
to spend with Mrs. Claxton and her five daughters, and you must go
along, of course. So you will have to postpone your walk with Laura
today."

If it had only been the walk with Laura Wykoff, Constance would not
have hesitated a moment, but her heart almost ached with suspense to
know from Theodore the result of his interview with her father. He
had promised to leave a note for her with Laura, who was their
mutual confidante. The mother, of course, noticed an air of regret
at her disappointment, and ingeniously remarked--

"So you would rather walk with Miss Wykoff, than your mother?"

The tears started into the eyes of Constance, and twining her arms
around the neck of her mother, she murmured,

"No, no, dear mother! How could you think so?"

Hiding her anxious desire to know the result of that interview upon
which hung her fate, she passed with apparent cheerfulness through
the weary day; and late at night sought her pillow from which sleep
had fled. On the next morning, much to her distress of mind, she
learned that a visit of a few weeks to a relation in Albany had been
suddenly determined upon, and that in company with her mother she
had to set off in the first boat that day. Her suspicions were at
once roused as to the real cause for this hasty movement, and she
determined to write to Theodore immediately on her arrival at
Albany.

The beautiful scenery of the Hudson was unappreciated by one eye of
the many brilliant ones that looked out from the majestic boat,
that, in the language of Carlyle, "travelled on fire-wings," through
the looming highlands. The watchful mother strove hard to divert the
mind of her child, but in vain. Her heart was away from the present
reality; and no effort of her own could bring it back. It was night
when the boat arrived, and no chance offered for writing before
retiring to bed. It seemed, indeed, as if the mother, suspicious
that some communication would be made in this way, kept so about
Constance all the next day, that she had no chance of dropping
Theodore even a line to say where she was, and that she still
remembered him with affection. And the next day passed in the same
way; not an hour, not a moment could she get for privacy or
uninterrupted self-communion. At last she determined to write to
Laura Wykoff, to which, of course, her mother could make no
objection. But she dared not mention the name of Theodore, or allude
to her present restrained condition, except remotely, for fear that
her mother would ask to see the letter. This letter was given to a
servant to convey to the post-office, in the presence of her mother.
It never reached its destination. And the mother knew well the
reason why. In it, she asked an immediate answer. Day after day
passed, and no answer came. She wrote again, and with the same
success. Finally, she gained a few minutes to pen a line or two to
Theodore, which she concealed, suspecting that there was something
wrong about the transmission of the letters, until a chance offered
for having it certainly placed in the right channel of conveyance.
This note reached Theodore, and removed a mountain from his
feelings. He had learned of her hasty journey to Albany, but this
was all he could ascertain, and suspecting the cause, his mind was
in a state of racking and painful suspense.