Rev. James Hamilton - "Life of Bunyan"

Elbert Hubbard - "Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great, Volume 9"

Edmund Lester Pearson - "The Voyage of the Hoppergrass"

Hamlin Garland - "Main Travelled Roads"

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: Nature and Human Nature

T >> Thomas Chandler Haliburton >> Nature and Human Nature




The way cupidists scratch their head and open their eyes and stare
after they are married, reminds me of Felix Culpepper. He was a judge
at Saint Lewis, on the Mississippi, and the lawyers used to talk
gibberish to him, yougerry, eyegerry, iggery, ogerry, and tell him it
was Littleton's Norman French and Law Latin. It fairly onfakilised
him. Wedlock works just such changes on folks sometimes. It makes me
laugh, and then it fairly scares me.

Sophy, dear, how will you and I get on, eh? The Lord only knows, but
you are an uncommon sensible gall, and people tell me till I begin to
believe it myself, that I have some common sense, so we must try to
learn the chart of life, so as to avoid those sunk rocks so many
people make shipwreck on. I have often asked myself the reason of all
this onsartainty. Let us jist see how folks talk and think, and decide
on this subject. First and foremost they have got a great many cant
terms, and you can judge a good deal from them. There is the
honeymoon, now, was there ever such a silly word as that? Minister
said the Dutch at New Amsterdam, as they used to call New York,
brought out the word to America, for all the friends of the new
married couple, in Holland, did nothing for a whole month but smoke,
drink metheglin (a tipple made of honey and gin), and they called that
bender the honeymoon; since then the word has remained, though
metheglin is forgot for something better.

Well, when a couple is married now, they give up a whole month to each
other, what an everlastin' sacrifice, ain't it, out of a man's short
life? The reason is, they say, the metheglin gets sour after that, and
ain't palatable no more, and what is left of it is used for picklin'
cucumbers, peppers, and nastertions, and what not. Now, as Brother
Eldad, the doctor, says, let us dissect this phrase, and find out what
one whole moon means, and then we shall understand what this wonderful
thing is. The new moon now, as a body might say, ain't nothing. It's
just two small lines of a semicircle, like half a wheel, with a little
strip of white in it, about as big as a cart tire, and it sets a
little after sundown; and as it gives no light, you must either use a
candle or go to bed in the dark: now that's the first week, and it's
no great shakes to brag on, is it? Well, then there is the first
quarter, and calling that the first which ought to be second, unless
the moon has only three quarters, which sounds odd, shows that the new
moon counts for nothin'. Well, the first quarter is something like the
thing, though not the real genuine article either. It's better than
the other, but its light don't quite satisfy us neither. Well, then
comes the full moon, and that is all there is, as one may say. Now,
neither the moon nor nothin' else can be more than full, and when you
have got all, there is nothing more to expect. But a man must be a
blockhead, indeed, to expect the moon to remain one minute after it is
full, as every night clips a little bit off, till there is a
considerable junk gone by the time the week is out, and what is worse,
every night there is more and more darkness afore it rises. It comes
reluctant, and when it does arrive it hante long to stay, for the last
quarter takes its turn at the lantern. That only rises a little afore
the sun, as if it was ashamed to be caught napping at that hour--that
quarter therefore is nearly as dark as ink. So you see the new and
last quarter go for nothing; that everybody will admit. The first
ain't much better, but the last half of that quarter and the first of
the full, make a very decent respectable week.

Well, then, what's all this when it's fried? Why, it amounts to this,
that if there is any resemblance between a lunar and a lunatic month,
that the honeymoon lasts only one good week.

Don't be skeared, Sophy, when you read this, because we must look
things in the face and call them by their right name.

Well, then, let us call it the honey-week. Now if it takes a whole
month to make one honey-week, it must cut to waste terribly, mustn't
it? But then you know a man can't wive and thrive the same year. Now
wastin' so much of that precious month is terrible, ain't it? But oh
me, bad as it is, it ain't the worst of it. There is no insurance
office for happiness, there is no policy to be had to cover
losses--you must bear them all yourself. Now suppose, just suppose for
one moment, and positively such things have happened before now, they
have indeed; I have known them occur more than once or twice myself
among my own friends, fact, I assure you. Suppose now that week is
cold, cloudy, or uncomfortable, where is the honeymoon then? Recollect
there is only one of them, there ain't two. You can't say it rained
cats and dogs this week, let us try the next; you can't do that, it's
over and gone for ever. Well, if you begin life with disappointment,
it is apt to end in despair.

Now, Sophy, dear, as I said before, don't get skittish at seeing this,
and start and race off and vow you won't ever let the halter be put on
you, for I kinder sorter guess that, with your sweet temper, good
sense, and lovin' heart, and with the light-hand I have for a rein,
our honeymoon will last through life. We will give up that silly word,
that foolish boys and girls use without knowing its meanin', and we
will count by years and not by months, and we won't expect, what
neither marriage nor any other earthly thing can give, perfect
happiness. It tante in the nature of things, and don't stand to
reason, that earth is Heaven, Slickville paradise, or you and me
angels; we ain't no such a thing. If you was, most likely the first
eastwardly wind (and though it is a painful thing to confess it, I
must candidly admit there is an eastwardly wind sometimes to my place
to home), why you would just up wings and off to the sky like wink,
and say you didn't like the land of the puritans, it was just like
themselves, cold, hard, uncongenial, and repulsive; and what should I
do? Why most likely remain behind, for there is no marrying or giving
in marriage up there.

No, no, dear, if you are an angel, and positively you are amazingly
like one, why the first time I catch you asleep I will clip your wings
and keep you here with me, until we are both ready to start together.
We won't hope for too much, nor fret for trifles, will we? These two
things are the greatest maxims in life I know of. When I was a boy I
used to call them commandments, but I got such a lecture for that, and
felt so sorry for it afterwards, I never did again, nor will as long
as I live. Oh, dear, I shall never forget the lesson poor dear old
Minister taught me on that occasion.

There was a thanksgiving ball wunst to Slickville, and I wanted to go,
but I had no clothes suitable for such an occasion as that, and father
said it would cost more than it was worth to rig me out for it, so I
had to stop at home. Sais Mr Hopewell to me,

"Sam," said he, "don't fret about it, you will find it 'all the same a
year hence.' As that holds good in most things, don't it show us the
folly now of those trifles we set our hearts on, when in one short
year they will be disregarded or forgotten?"

"Never fear," said I, "I am not a going to break the twelfth
commandment."

"Twelfth commandment," said he, repeatin' the words slowly, laying
down his book, taking off his spectacles, and lookin' hard at me,
almost onfakilised. "Twelfth commandment, did I hear right, Sam," said
he, "did you say that?"

Well, I saw there was a squall rising to windward, but boy like,
instead of shortening sail, and taking down royals and topgallant
masts, and making all snug, I just braved it out, and prepared to meet
the blast with every inch of canvas set. "Yes, Sir," said I, "the
twelfth."

"Dear me," said he, "poor boy, that is my fault. I really thought you
knew there were only ten, and had them by heart years ago. They were
among the first things I taught you. How on earth could you have
forgotten them so soon? Repeat them to me."

Well, I went through them all, down to "anything that is his," to
ampersand without making a single stop.

"Sam," said he, "don't do it again, that's a good soul, for it
frightens me. I thought I must have neglected you."

"Well," sais I, "there are two more, Sir."

"Two more," he said, "why what under the sun do you mean? what are
they?"

"Why," sais I, "the eleventh is, 'Expect nothin', and you shall not be
disappointed,' and the twelfth is, 'Fret not thy gizzard.'"

"And pray, Sir," said he, lookin' thunder-squalls at me, "where did
you learn them?"

"From Major Zeb Vidito," said I.

"Major Zeb Vidito," he replied, "is the greatest reprobate in the
army. He is the wretch who boasts that he fears neither God, man, nor
devil. Go, my son, gather up your books, and go home. You can return
to your father. My poor house has no room in it for Major Zeb Vidito,
or his pupil, Sam Slick, or any such profane wicked people, and may
the Lord have mercy on you."

Well, to make a long story short, it brought me to my bearings that. I
had to heave to, lower a boat, send a white flag to him, beg pardon,
and so on, and we knocked up a treaty of peace, and made friends
again.

"I won't say no more about it, Sam," said he, "but mind my words, and
apply your experience to it afterwards in life, and see if I ain't
right. Crime has but two travelling companions. It commences its
journey with the scoffer, and ends it with the blasphemer: not that
talking irreverently ain't very improper in itself, but it destroys
the sense of right and wrong, and prepares the way for sin."

Now, I won't call these commandments, for the old man was right, it's
no way to talk, I'll call them maxims. Now, we won't expect too much,
nor fret over trifles, will we, Sophy? It takes a great deal to make
happiness, for everything must be in tune like a piano; but it takes
very little to spoil it. Fancy a bride now having a tooth-ache, or a
swelled face during the honeymoon--in courtship she won't show, but in
marriage she can't help it,--or a felon on her finger (it is to be
hoped she hain't given her hand to one); or fancy now; just fancy, a
hooping-cough caught in the cold church, that causes her to make a
noise like drowning, a great gurgling in-draught, and a great
out-blowing, like a young sporting porpoise, and instead of being all
alone with her own dear husband, to have to admit the horrid doctor,
and take draughts that make her breath as hot as steam, and submit to
have nauseous garlic and brandy rubbed on her breast, spine, palms of
her hands, and soles of her feet, that makes the bridegroom, every
time he comes near her to ask her how she is, sneeze, as if he was
catching it himself. He don't say to himself in an under-tone damn it,
how unlucky this is. Of course not; he is too happy to swear, if he
ain't too good, as he ought to be; and she don't say, eigh--augh, like
a donkey, for they have the hooping-cough all the year round; "dear
love, eigh--augh, how wretched this is, ain't it? eigh--augh," of
course not; how can she be wretched? Ain't it her honeymoon? and ain't
she as happy as a bride can be, though she does eigh--augh her
slippers up amost. But it won't last long, she feels sure it won't,
she is better now, the doctor says it will be soon over; yes, but the
honeymoon will be over too, and it don't come like Christmas, once
a-year. When it expires, like a dying swan, it sings its own funeral
hymn.

Well, then fancy, just fancy, when she gets well, and looks as chipper
as a canary-bird, though not quite so yaller from the effects of the
cold, that the bridegroom has his turn, and is taken down with the
acute rheumatism, and can't move, tack nor sheet, and has camphor,
turpentine, and hot embrocations of all sorts and kinds applied to
him, till his room has the identical perfume of a druggist's shop,
while he screams if he ain't moved, and yells if he is, and his temper
peeps out. It don't break out of course, for he is a happy man; but it
just peeps out as a masculine he-angel's would if he was tortured.

The fact is, lookin' at life, with its false notions, false hopes, and
false promises, my wonder is, not that married folks don't get on
better, but that they get on as well as they do. If they regard
matrimony as a lottery, is it any wonder more blanks than prizes turn
up on the wheel? Now, my idea of mating a man is, that it is the same
as matching a horse; the mate ought to have the same spirit, the same
action, the same temper, and the same training. Each should do his
part, or else one soon becomes strained, sprained, and spavined, or
broken-winded, and that one is about the best in a general way that
suffers the most.

Don't be shocked at the comparison; but to my mind a splendiferous
woman and a first chop horse is the noblest works of creation. They
take the rag off the bush quite; a woman "that will come" and a horse
that "will go" ought to make any man happy. Give me a gall that all I
have to say to is, "Quick, pick up chips and call your father to
dinner," and a horse that enables you to say, "I am thar." That's all
I ask. Now just look at the different sorts of love-making in this
world. First, there is boy and gall love; they are practising the
gamut, and a great bore it is to hear and see them; but poor little
things, their whole heart and soul is in it, as they were the year
before on a doll or a top. They don't know a heart from a gizzard, and
if you ask them what a soul is, they will say it is the dear sweet
soul they love. It begins when they enter the dancing-school, and ends
when they go out into the world; but after all, I believe it is the
only real romance in life.

Then there is young maturity love, and what is that half the time
based on? vanity, vanity, and the deuce a thing else. The young lady
is handsome, no, that's not the word, she is beautiful, and is a
belle, and all the young fellows are in her train. To win the prize is
an object of ambition. The gentleman rides well, hunts and shoots
well, and does everything well, and moreover he is a fancy man, and
all the girls admire him. It is a great thing to conquer the hero,
ain't it? and distance all her companions; and it is a proud thing for
him to win the prize from higher, richer, and more distinguished men
than himself. It is the triumph of the two sexes. They are allowed to
be the handsomest couple ever married in that church. What an elegant
man, what a lovely woman, what a splendid bride! they seem made for
each other! how happy they both are, eyes can't show--words can't
express it; they are the admiration of all.

If it is in England, they have two courses of pleasure before them--to
retire to a country-house or to travel. The latter is a great bore, it
exposes people, it is very annoying to be stared at. Solitude is the
thing. They are all the world to each other, what do they desire
beyond it--what more can they ask? They are quite happy. How long does
it last? for they have no resources beyond excitement. Why, it lasts
till the first juicy day comes, and that comes soon in England, and
the bridegroom don't get up and look out of the window, on the cloudy
sky, the falling rain, and the inundated meadows, and think to
himself, "Well, this is too much bush, ain't it? I wonder what de
Courcy and de Lacy and de Devilcourt are about to-day?" and then turn
round with a yawn that nearly dislocates his jaw. Not a bit of it. He
is the most happy man in England, and his wife is an angel, and he
don't throw himself down on a sofa and wish they were back in town. It
ain't natural he should; and she don't say, "Charles, you look dull,
dear," nor he reply, "Well, to tell you the truth, it is devilish dull
here, that's a fact," nor she say, "Why, you are very complimentary,"
nor he rejoin, "No, I don't mean it as a compliment, but to state it
as a fact, what that Yankee, what is his name? Sam Slick, or Jim Crow,
or Uncle Tom, or somebody or another calls an established fact!" Her
eyes don't fill with tears at that, nor does she retire to her room
and pout and have a good cry; why should she? she is so happy, and
when the honied honeymoon is over, they will return to town, and all
will be sunshine once more.

But there is one little thing both of them forget, which they find out
when they do return. They have rather just a little overlooked or
undervalued means, and they can't keep such an establishment as they
desire, or equal to their former friends. They are both no longer
single. He is not asked so often where he used to be, nor courted and
flattered as he lately was; and she is a married woman now, and the
beaus no longer cluster around her. Each one thinks the other the
cause of this dreadful change. It was the imprudent and unfortunate
match did it. Affection was sacrificed to pride, and that deity can't
and won't help them, but takes pleasure in tormenting them. First
comes coldness, and then estrangement; after that words ensue, that
don't sound like the voice of true love, and they fish on their own
hook, seek their own remedy, take their own road, and one or the
other, perhaps both, find that road leads to the devil.

Then, there is the "ring-fence match," which happens everywhere. Two
estates, or plantations, or farms adjoin, and there is an only son in
one, and an only daughter in the other; and the world, and fathers,
and mothers, think what a suitable match it would be, and what a grand
thing a ring-fence is, and they cook it up in the most fashionable
style, and the parties most concerned take no interest in it, and,
having nothing particular to object to, marry. Well, strange to say,
half the time it don't turn out bad, for as they don't expect much,
they can't be much disappointed. They get after a while to love each
other from habit; and finding qualities they didn't look for, end by
getting amazin' fond of each other.

Next is a cash match. Well, that's a cheat. It begins in
dissimulation, and ends in detection and punishment. I don't pity the
parties; it serves them right. They meet without pleasure, and part
without pain. The first time I went to Nova Scotia to vend clocks, I
fell in with a German officer, who married a woman with a large
fortune; she had as much as three hundred pounds. He could never speak
of it without getting up, walking round the room, rubbing his hands,
and smacking his lips. The greatest man he ever saw, his own prince,
had only five hundred a-year, and his daughters had to select and buy
the chickens, wipe the glasses, starch their own muslins, and see the
fine soap made. One half of them were Protestants, and the other half
Catholics, so as to bait the hooks for royal fish of either creed.
They were poor and proud, but he hadn't a morsel of pride in him, for
he had condescended to marry the daughter of a staff surgeon; and she
warn't poor, for she had three hundred pounds. He couldn't think of
nothin' but his fortune. He spent the most of his time in building
castles, not in Germany, but in the air, for they cost nothing. He
used to delight to go marooning1 for a day or two in Maitland
settlement, where old soldiers are located, and measured every man he
met by the gauge of his purse. "Dat poor teevil," he would say, "is
wort twenty pounds, well, I am good for tree hundred, in gold and
silver, and provinch notes, and de mortgage on Burkit Crowse's farm
for twenty-five pounds ten shillings and eleven pence
halfpenny--fifteen times as much as he is, pesides ten pounds
interest." If he rode a horse, he calculated now many he could
purchase; and he found they would make an everlastin' cahoot.2 If he
sailed in a boat, he counted the flotilla he could buy; and at last he
used to think, "Vell now, if my vrow would go to de depot (graveyard)
vat is near to de church, Goten Himmel, mid my fortune I could marry
any pody I liked, who had shtock of cattle, shtock of clothes, and
shtock in de Bank, pesides farms and foresht lands, and dyke lands,
and meadow lands, and vind-mill and vater-mill; but dere is no chanse
she shall die, for I was dirty (thirty) when I married her, and she
was dirty-too (thirty-two). Tree hundred pounds! Vell, it's a great
shum; but vat shall I do mid it? If I leave him mid a lawyer, he say,
Mr Von Sheik, you gub it to me. If I put him into de pank, den de ting
shall break, and my forten go smash, squash--vot dey call von shilling
in de pound. If I lock him up, den soldier steal and desert away, and
conetry people shall hide him, and I will not find him no more. I
shall mortgage it on a farm. I feel vary goot, vary pig, and vary
rich. If I would not lose my bay and commission, I would kick de
colonel, kiss his vife, and put my cane thro' his vinder. I don't care
von damn for nopoty no more."


1 Marooning differs from pic-nicing in this--the former continues
several days, the other lasts but one.

2 Cahoot is one of the new coinage, and in Mexico, means a band or
cavalcade.


Well, his wife soon after that took a day and died; and he followed
her to the grave. It was the first time he ever gave her precedence,
for he was a disciplinarian; he knew the difference of "rank and
file," and liked to give the word of command, "Rear rank, take open
order--march!" Well, I condoled with him about his loss. Sais he: "Mr
Shlick, I did'nt lose much by her: the soldier carry her per order, de
pand play for noting, and de crape on de arm came from her ponnet."

"But the loss of your wife?" said I.

Well, that excited him, and he began to talk Hessian. "Jubes renovare
dolorem," said he.

"I don't understand High Dutch," sais I, "when it's spoke so almighty
fast."

"It's a ted language," said he.

I was a goin' to tell him I didn't know the dead had any language, but
I bit in my breath.

"Mr Shlick," said he, "de vife is gone" (and clapping his waistcoat
pocket with his hand, and grinning like a chissy cat), he added, "but
de monish remain."

Yes, such fellows as Von Sheik don't call this ecclesiastical and
civil contract, wedlock. They use a word that expresses their meaning
better--matri-money. Well, even money ain't all gold, for there are
two hundred and forty nasty, dirty, mulatto-looking copper pennies in
a sovereign; and they have the affectation to call the filthy
incrustation, if they happen to be ancient coin, verd-antique. Well,
fine words are like fine dresses; one often covers ideas that ain't
nice, and the other sometimes conceals garments that are a little the
worse for wear. Ambition is just as poor a motive. It can only be
gratified at the expense of a journey over a rough road, and he is a
fool who travels it by a borrowed light, and generally finds he takes
a rise out of himself.

Then there is a class like Von Sheik, "who feel so pig and so
hugeaciously grandiferous," they look on a wife's fortune with
contempt. The independent man scorns connection, station, and money.
He has got all three, and more of each than is sufficient for a dozen
men. He regards with utter indifference the opinion of the world, and
its false notions of life. He can afford to please himself; he does
not stoop if he marries beneath his own rank; for he is able to
elevate any wife to his. He is a great admirer of beauty, which is
confined to no circle and no region. The world is before him, and he
will select a woman to gratify himself and not another. He has the
right and ability to do so, and he fulfils his intention. Now an
independent man is an immoveable one until he is proved, and a soldier
is brave until the day of trial comes. He however is independent and
brave enough to set the opinion of the world at defiance, and he
marries. Until then society is passive, but when defied and disobeyed,
it is active, bitter, and relentless.

The conflict is only commenced--marrying is merely firing the first
gun. The battle has yet to be fought. If he can do without the world,
the world can do without him, but, if he enters it again bride in
hand, he must fight his way inch by inch, and step by step. She is
slighted and he is stung to the quick. She is ridiculed and he is
mortified to death. He is able to meet open resistance, but he is for
ever in dread of an ambuscade. He sees a sneer in every smile, he
fears an insult in every whisper. The unmeaning jest must have a
hidden point for him. Politeness seems cold, even good-nature looks
like the insolence of condescension. If his wife is addressed, it is
manifestly to draw her out. If her society is not sought, it is
equally plain there is a conspiracy to place her in Coventry. To
defend her properly, and to put her on her guard, it is necessary he
should know her weak points himself.

But, alas, in this painful investigation, his ears are wounded by
false accents, his eyes by false motions and vulgar attitudes, he
finds ignorance where ignorance is absurd, and knowledge where
knowledge is shame, and what is worse, this distressing criticism has
been forced upon him, and he has arrived at the conclusion that beauty
without intelligence is the most valueless attribute of a woman. Alas,
the world is an argus-eyed, many-headed, sleepless, heartless monster.
The independent man, if he would retain his independence, must retire
with his wife to his own home, and it would be a pity if in thinking
of his defeat he was to ask himself, Was my pretty doll worth this
terrible struggle after all? wouldn't it? Well, I pity that man, for
at most he has only done a foolish thing, and he has not passed
through life without being a public benefactor. He has held a reversed
lamp. While he has walked in the dark himself, he has shed light on
the path of others.