Philip Gibbs - "Now It Can Be Told"

John Lothrop Motley - "History of the United Netherlands, 1585"

W. D. Howells - "The Albany Depot"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1577 78"

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




Day after day passed, until a month had expired, and still there was
no indication of a movement to return home. Once or twice a week her
father would come up from New York, and to the persuasions of the
relatives at whose house they were visiting, half-consented that
Constance and her mother should stay all summer. Finally, it was
decided, that Albany should be their place of residence for some
months.

Things assuming this decided appearance, Constance now set herself
resolutely to work to circumvent her mother's careful surveillance.
It was the first time in her life that she had seriously determined
to act towards the parent she had so long and so tenderly loved,
with duplicity. All at once she became more cheerful, and seemed to
enter with a joyful spirit into every plan proposed for spending the
time pleasantly. With a sprightly cousin, a young girl of her own
age, she cultivated a close intimacy, and finding her somewhat
romantic and independent, finally confided to her the secret that
was wearing into her heart from concealment. Readily did Ellen
Raymond enter into the scheme she at last proposed, which was to
write to Theodore, and give the letter into her charge. It was
promptly conveyed to the post-office. Theodore was directed to
address Ellen, and in the envelope to enclose a letter for
Constance. On the third day, the young ladies took a walk, and in
their way called at the post-office. A letter was handed out to
Ellen, and on breaking the seal, another appeared addressed to
Constance. She did not dare to open it in the street, but retired to
a confectioner's, and while Ellen was tasting an ice-cream,
Constance was devouring, with eager eyes, the first love-token she
had ever received from Theodore Wilmer.

This was the beginning of a correspondence which was regularly kept
up through the summer, of all of which both father and mother
remained profoundly ignorant. They were delighted to see their
daughter so soon recover from the first deep depression of spirits
which was occasioned by their sudden removal from New York, but
little suspected the cause. Less and less carefully did the mother
watch her daughter, and more frequently were the two young friends
alone in their chambers, even for hours together. Such times were
not spent idly by Constance. Thus the very
means--separation--resorted to by Mr. Jackson and his wife, to wean
the mind of their daughter from the "low-born" Wilmer, only proved,
from not having been thoroughly carried out, that which bound them
together in heart for ever. Give two lovers, pen, ink, and paper,
and their love will defy time and distance. The thousand expressed
fond regards, and weariness of absence, endear each to each; and
imagination, from affection, invests each with new and undiscovered
perfections. Three months had passed away since the hasty journey
from New York, and supposing Constance to be thoroughly weaned from
her foolish preference for a poor clerk, for she was now cheerful,
and expressed no wish to return--the parents proposed to go back to
the city. Preparation was accordingly made, and in a few days
Constance found herself, with a yearning desire to get home again,
gliding swiftly along the smooth surface of the Hudson. She had not
failed to inform Theodore of her return, and as the boat swept up to
the wharf, her quick eye caught his eager face bending over towards
her. A glance of glad, and yet painful recognition passed between
them, and in the next moment he had disappeared in the living mass
of human beings. For some time she was closely watched; but she
carefully lulled suspicion, and at last succeeded in managing to get
short and stolen interviews with Wilmer. Their first meeting was at
a young friend's, to whom she had confided her secret: this was not
Laura Wykoff, for her mother had managed to fall out with her
family, so as to have a good plea for denying to Constance the
privilege of visiting her. Regularly did the lovers meet, about once
every week, at this friend's; and, encouraged by her, they finally
took the hazardous and decisive step of getting married
clandestinely.

Three days after this event, Wilmer entered the store of the
merchants in whose service he had been for years, for the purpose of
resuming his regular duties which had been briefly interrupted. He
was met by the senior partner, with a manner that chilled him to the
heart.

"Is Mr. Wykoff in?" he asked.

"No," was the cold reply.

"He has not left town?"

"Yes. He went to New Orleans yesterday, and will not return for two
or three months."

"Did he leave a letter for me?"

"No."

Then came an embarrassing silence of some moments which was broken
by Wilmer's saying--

"I suppose that I can resume my duties, as usual?"

"We have supplied your place," was the answer to this.

Quick as thought, the young man turned away, and left the store, his
mind all in confusion. In marrying Constance in opposition to her
parents' wishes, he did so with a feeling of pride in the internal
power, and external facilities, which he possessed for rising
rapidly in the world, and showing ere long to old Mr. Jackson, that
he could stand upon an equal social eminence with himself. How
suddenly was this feeling of proud confidence dashed to the earth!
The external facilities upon which he had based his anticipations
were to be found in the friendship and ample means of the house of
Rensselaer, Wykoff & Co. That friendship had been suddenly
withdrawn, evidently in strong disapprobation of what he had done.

As he turned away, and walked slowly along, he knew not and scarcely
cared whither, a feeling of deep despondency took possession of his
mind. From a proud consciousness of ability to rise rapidly in the
world, and show to the friends of Constance that she had not chosen
one really beneath her, he sunk into that gloomy and depressing
state of mind in which we experience a painful inability to do
anything, while deeply sensible that unusual efforts are required at
our hands. The thought of not being able to lift his wife above the
obscure condition in which he must now inevitably remain, at least
for a long time, seemed as if it would drive him mad. Passing slowly
along, wrapped thus in gloomy meditations, he was suddenly aroused
by a hand upon his arm, and a cheerful voice, saying--

"Give us your hand, Theodore! Here's a hearty shake, and a hearty
congratulation at the same time! Run off with that purse--proud old
curmudgeon's daughter Ha! ha! I like you for that! You're a man of
mettle. But, halloo! What's the matter? You look as grave as a
barn-door, on the shady side. Not repenting, already, I hope?"

"Yes, Henry, I am repenting of that rash act from the very bottom of
my heart."

"O, no! Don't talk in that way, Theodore. Constance is one of the
sweetest girls in the city, and will make you a lovely wife. There
are hundreds who envy you."

"They need not; for this is the most wretched hour of my life."

"Why, what in the world is the matter, Wilmer?" his friend replied
to this. "You look as if you had buried instead of married a wife.
But come, you want a glass of something to revive you. Let us step
in here. I am a little dry myself."

Without hesitation or reply, Wilmer entered a drinking-house, with
the young man, where they retired to a box, and ordered brandy and
water. After this had been taken in silence, the friend, whose name
was Wilbert Arnold, said--

"The state of mind in which I find you, Theodore, surprises and
pains me greatly. If it is not trespassing too far upon private
matters, I should like very much to know the reason. I ask, because
I feel now, and always have felt, much interest in you."

It was some time before Wilmer replied to this. At length, he said--

"The cause of my present state of mind is of such recent occurrence,
and I have become so bewildered in consequence of it, that I can
scarcely rally my thoughts sufficiently to reply to your kind
inquiries. Suffice it to say, that, in consequence, I presume, of my
having run off with Mr. Jackson's daughter, I have lost a good
situation, and the best of friends. I am, therefore, thrown upon the
world at this very crisis, like a sailor cast upon the ocean, with
but a plank to sustain himself, and keep his head above the waves.
When I married Miss Jackson, it was with the resolution to rise
rapidly, and show to the world that she had not chosen
thoughtlessly. Of course, I expected the aid of Rensselaer, Wykoff &
Co. Their uniform kindness towards me seemed a sure guarantee for
this aid. But the result has been, not only their estrangement from
me, but my dismissal from their service. And now, what to do, or
where to turn myself, I do not know. Really I feel desperate!"

"That is bad, truly," Arnold rejoined, musingly, after Wilmer had
ceased speaking. Then ringing a little hand-bell that stood upon the
table, he ordered the waiter, was obeyed the summons, to bring some
more brandy. Nothing further was said until the brandy was served,
of which both of the young men partook freely.

"What do you intend doing?" Arnold at length asked, looking his
friend in the face.

"I wish you would answer that question for me, for it's more than I
can do," was the gloomy response.

"You must endeavour to rise in the world. It will never do to bring
Constance down to the comparatively mean condition in which a clerk
with a small salary is compelled to live."

"That I know, too well. But how am I to prevent it? That is what
drives me almost beside myself."

"You must hit upon some expedient for making money fast."

"I know of no honest expedients."

"I think that I do."

"Name one."

"Do you know Hardville?"

"Yes."

"He came as near failure as could possibly be, last week."

"He did?"

"Yes."

"And how did he get through?"

"It is the answer to that question which I wish you to consider. He
was saved from ruin in the last extremity, and by what some would
call a desperate expedient. Your case is a desperate one, and, if
you would save yourself, you must resort to desperate expedients,
likewise."

"Name the expedient."

"Hardville had one thousand dollars to pay, more than he could
possibly raise. He tried everywhere, but to no purpose. He could
neither borrow nor collect that sum. In a moment of desperation, he
put one hundred dollars into his pocket, and went to a regular
establishment near here, and staked that sum at play. In two hours
he came away with twelve hundred dollars in his pocket, instead of
one hundred. And thus he was saved from ruin."

When Arnold ceased speaking, Wilmer looked him in the face with a
steady, stern, half-angry look, but made no reply.

"Try another glass of this brandy," the former said, pouring out a
pretty liberal supply for each. Mechanically, Wilmer put the glass
to his lips, and turned off the contents.

"Well, what do you think of that plan?" asked the friend, after each
had sat musing for some time.

"I am not a gambler!" was the reply.

"Of course not. But your case, as I said, and as you admit, is a
desperate one; and requires desperate remedies. The fact of your
going to a regular establishment, and gaining there, in an
honourable way, something, as a capital to begin with, does not make
you a gambler. After you have got a start, you needn't go there any
more. And all you want is a start. Give you that, and, my word for
it, you will make your way in the world with the best of them."

"O, yes! Give me a start, as you say, and I'll go ahead as fast as
anybody. Give me that start, and I'll show old Mr. Jackson in a few
years that I can count dollars with him all day."

"Exactly. And that start you must have. Now, how are you going to
get it, unless in the way that I suggest?"

"I am not so sure that I can get it in that way."

"I am, then. Only make the trial. You owe it to your wife to do so.
For her sake, then, let me urge you to act promptly and
efficiently."

Thus tempted, while his mind was greatly obscured by the strong
potations he had taken, Theodore Wilmer began to waver. It did not
seem half so wrong, nor half so disgraceful, to play for money, as
it did at first. Finally, he agreed to meet his friend that evening,
and get introduced to some one of the many gambling establishments
that infest all large cities.

A reaction in his feelings now took place. The elation of mind
caused by the brandy, made him confident of success. He saw before
him a rapid elevation to wealth and standing in society, and,
consequently, a rapid restoration of Constance to the circle in
which she had moved.

Before marriage, he had rented a handsome house, and had it
furnished in very good style, upon means which he had prudently
saved from a liberal salary. Into this, he at once introduced his
young wife, who had already begun to feel her heart yearning for her
mother's voice, and her mother's smile. One young friend had been
with her all the morning, but had left towards the middle of the day
Alone, for the first time, since her hurried marriage, her feelings
became somewhat saddened in their hue. But as the hour approached
for her husband to come home, those feelings gate place, in a
degree, to an ardent desire for his return, the result of deep and
fervent love for him. She had sat for some moments, expecting to
hear him at the door, when the bell rung, and she started to her
feet, and stood on the floor, ready to spring forward the moment he
should enter the room. No one, however, came in, and her heart sunk
in her bosom with the disappointment. In a moment after, the servant
handed her a note, the seal of which she broke hastily. It was from
her husband, and ran thus:--

"DEAR CONSTANCE:--An accumulation of business in my absence so
presses upon me now, that I cannot possibly come so great a distance
to dinner, at least for this day. It may likewise keep me away until
eight or nine o'clock this evening. But keep a good heart, dear; our
meeting will be pleasanter for the long absence--Adieu,

THEODORE."

The note dropped from her hand, and she sank into a chair, overcome
with a feeling of strong disappointment. To wait until eight or nine
o'clock in the evening, before she should see him, when the morning
had appeared lengthened to a day! O, it seemed as if she could not
endure the wearisome interval!

As for Wilmer, the truth was, he found himself so much under the
influence of the liberal quantity of brandy which he had taken, that
he dared not go home to Constance. He would not have appeared before
her as he was, for the world. It was under the consciousness of his
condition, that he wrote the billet, which his young wife had
received. After doing so, he went to bed at a public house, and
slept until towards evening. When he awoke, Arnold was sitting in
the chamber. Some feelings of bitter regret for the pains which his
absence must have caused his young wife, passed through his mind, as
he aroused himself. These were soon drowned by a few glasses of
wine, which his friend had already ordered to be sent up. That
friend, let it here be remarked, was not a professed gambler--nor
had he any sinister designs in urging on Wilmer as he was doing. But
he was a man of loose morals, and, therefore, really believed that
he was doing him a service in urging him to make an effort to get
upon his feet by means of the gambling-table. Knowing the young
man's high-toned feelings--and how utterly he must, from his
character, condemn anything like play, he had purposely sought to
obscure his perceptions by inducing him to drink freely. In this, he
had succeeded.

As soon as night had thrown her dark shadows over the city, the two
young men took their steps towards one of those haunts, known, too
appropriately, by the name of "hells." At eight o'clock, Theodore
went in, with two hundred dollars in his pocket--all the money he
possessed;--and at ten o'clock, came out penniless.

Lonely and long was the afternoon to the young bride, giving
opportunity to many thoughts of a sober, and even saddening nature.
Evening came at last, and then night with its deeper gloom. Eight
o'clock arrived, and nine, but her husband did not return. And then
the minutes slowly passed, until the clock struck ten.

"O, where can he be!" Constance ejaculated, rising to her feet, and
beginning to pace the room to and fro, pausing every moment to
listen to the sound of passing footsteps. Thus she continued for the
space of something like half an hour, when she sunk exhausted upon a
chair. It was twelve o'clock when he at length came in. As he opened
the door, his young wife sprung to his side, exclaiming--

"O, Theodore! Theodore! Why have you staid away so very long?"

As she said this, he staggered against her, almost throwing her
over, and then passed on to the parlors without a word in return to
her earnest and affectionate greeting.

Poor Constance was stunned for the moment. But she quickly
recovered, her woman's heart nerving itself involuntarily, and
followed after her husband. He had thrown himself upon a sofa, and
sat, half-reclining, with his head upon his bosom.

"Are you sick, dear Theodore?" his young wife asked, in a tone of
deep and earnest affection, laying her hand upon him, and bending
down and kissing his forehead.

"Yes, I am sick, Constance," was the half-stupid reply--

"Come, then, let me assist you up to bed. A good night's rest will
do you good," she said, gently urging him to rise.

She understood perfectly his condition. She knew that it was
intoxication. But while it pained her young heart deeply, it awoke
in her bosom no feelings of alarm. She felt convinced that it was
the result of accident, and had no expectation of ever again seeing
its recurrence. She asked him if he were sick, to spare him the
mortification of knowing that she perceived the true nature of his
indisposition.

Thus urged, he at once arose, and supported by the weak arm of his
young wife, slowly ascended the stairs, and entered his chamber. It
was not many minutes before his senses were locked in profound
slumber.

Not so, however, Constance. The earnestness with which she had
looked for evening to come, that she might again see the face, and
hear the voice of her husband, had greatly excited her mind. This
excitement was increased by the condition in which he had so
unexpectedly returned. The effect was, to keep her awake, in spite
of strong efforts to sink away into sleep. Many sad and desponding
thoughts forced themselves upon her, as she lay, hour after hour, in
a state of half-waking consciousness. It was nearly day-dawn, when,
from all this, she found relief in a deep slumber.

The next day was one of heart-aching reflections to Theodore Wilmer.
In his eager, but half-insane effort to elevate himself rapidly for
the sake of his young wife, he had sunk into actual want, and not
only forfeited his own self-respect, but degraded himself, he felt,
in the eyes of her whose love was dearer to him than life.

The events of two years must now be passed over, with but a brief
notice. There will be enough in the after history of Wilmer and his
young wife, to awaken the reader's keenest sympathies, without
unveiling the particular incidents of this period.

Suffice it, then, to say,--that the first night's experience at the
gambling-table was not enough to satisfy Wilmer, that it was neither
the right way, nor the most successful way of elevating himself in
the world. So anxious did he feel on account of Constance, that be
borrowed money of his false friend Arnold, on the evening of the
very next day, and after drinking, freely, to nerve himself up,
sought again the gambling-table. At ten o'clock, he left, the winner
by fifty dollars. He left thus early on account of his wife, who
would be, he knew, anxiously looking for his return. This encouraged
him to go on, and he did go on. But he could never feel sanguine of
success, or be able to still the troubled whispers within, until he
had drunken freely. Of course, he was every day more or less under
the influence of liquor. For a year, he managed, in this way, to
keep up the style of living in which he had commenced, but he could
get nothing ahead. None could imagine how this was done, for the
young man was exceedingly cautious. He looked to some good turn of
fortune by which he should be enabled to abandon for ever a course
of life that he hated and despised. No such lucky turn, however, met
his anxious expectations. After the first year of this course of
life, his health, which had never been very good, began rapidly to
fail. His cheeks became hollow, and a racking cough began to show
itself. Still he went on keeping late hours, and drinking more and
more freely, while his mind was all the time upon the rack. Towards
the close of the second year, he was taken down with a severe
illness, the result of all this abuse of mind and body. He lingered
long upon the brink of the grave; but the little energy which his
system retained, rallied at last, and he began slowly to recover.
During convalescence, he had full time for reflection. For full two
years, he had been almost constantly so much under the influence of
brandy, as really to be unable to think rationally upon any subject,
and he had, in consequence, pursued a course of life, injurious,
both to his own moral and physical health, and to the happiness of
her for whom he would, at any moment of that time, have sacrificed
everything, even life itself. In rising from that bed of sickness,
it was with a solemn vow never again to enter a gaming-house, and
never again to touch the bewildering poison that had been the
secondary, if not, indeed, the primary cause of two years'
folly--nay, madness.

And Constance, what of her, all that time? the reader asks. It would
be a difficult task to give even a feeble idea of all she patiently
endured, and of all she suffered. Not once in that long period did
she either see, or hear from her parents. Three or four times had
she written to them, but no answer was returned. At last she
ventured under the yearning anxiety that she felt once more to see
her mother, and to hear the voice that lingered in her memory like
old familiar music to go to her, and ask her forgiveness and her
love. But she was coldly and cruelly repulsed--not even being
permitted to gain her mother's presence.

In regard to her husband, her love was like a deep, pure stream. Its
course was never troubled by passion, or obstructed in its onward
course. Though he would come home often and often in a state of
stupor from drink--though it was rarely earlier than midnight when
he returned to make glad with his presence her watching and waiting
heart, she never felt a reproaching thought. And to her, his words
and tones, and manner, were ever full of tenderness. Deeply did he
love her--and for her sake more than for his own, was he struggling
thus against a powerful current daily exhausting his strength,
without moving onward.

Thus much, briefly, of those two years of toil, and struggle, and
pain. On recovering, with a shattered constitution, from the serious
attack of illness that had resulted from the abuse of himself during
that period, Wilmer felt compelled to give up his fondly-cherished
ideas of rising with Constance to the position from which he had
dragged her down, and to be content with a humbler lot. He,
therefore, sought, and obtained a situation as a clerk at a salary
of eight hundred dollars per annum. Already he had been compelled to
move into a smaller house than the one at first taken, and in this
he was now able to remain.

But seeing, with a clearer vision than before, Wilmer perceived that
much of the bloom had faded from his wife's young cheek, and that
her heart had not ceased to yearn for the home and loved ones of her
earlier years.

Another year passed away, and during the whole of that time not one
word of kindness or censure reached the ears of Constance from her
parents. They seemed to have not only cast her off, abut to have
forgotten the fact of her existence. To a mind like that of Theodore
Wilmer's, any condition in which a beloved one was made to suffer
keenly, and as he believed, alone through him, could not be endured
without serious inroads upon a shattered constitution; and much to
his alarm, by the end of the year he found that he was less able
than usual to attend through the whole day to the fatiguing duties
of the counting-room. Frequently he would return home at night with
a pain in his breast, that often continued accompanied by a
troublesome cough through a greater part of the night. The morning,
too, often found him feverish and debilitated, and with no appetite.

The engrossing love of a mother for her first-born, relieved, during
this year, in a great degree, the aching void of Constance Wilmer's
breast. The face of her sweet babe often reflected a smile of deep,
heart-felt happiness, lighting up, ere it faded away into the sober
cast of thought, a feeble ray upon the face of her husband. The
steady lapse of days, and weeks, and months, brought a steady
development of the mind and body of their little one. He was the
miniature image of his father, with eyes, in which Wilmer could see
all the deep love which lay in the dark depths of those that had won
his first affections. Happy would they have been but (who would not
be happy were it not for that little word?) for one yearning desire
in the heart of Constance for the lost love of her mother--but for
the trembling fear of want that stared Theodore daily in the face.
His salary as clerk was small, and to live in New York cost them no
trifle. At last, owing to the failure of the house by which he was
employed, the dreaded event came. He was out of a situation, and
found it impossible to obtain one. the failure had been a very bad
one, and there was a strong suspicion of unfair dealing. The
prejudice against the house, extended even to the clerks, and
several of them, finding it very difficult to get other places that
suited them, left New York for other cities. One of them, a friend
to Wilmer, came to Baltimore, and got into a large house; a vacancy
soon occurring, he recommended Wilmer, who was sent for. He came at
once, for neither to him nor his wife was there anything attractive
in New York. His salary was to be five hundred dollars.