John Bunyan - "The Pharisee And The Publican"

Geneve L.A. Shaffer - "The Log of the Empire State"

Louis Antoine Fauvelet de Bourrienne - "Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte, v9"

George Barr McCutcheon - "The Prince of Graustark"

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




Well, she took it, said it was very kind, and would be a great help to
them; but that she didn't see what occasion there was to return the
money, for it was nothing but the fair profit of a trade, and the
clock was a most excellent one, kept capital time, and was still
standing in the old house.

Thinks I to myself, "You have taught me two things, my pretty friend;
first, how to give, and second, how to receive."

Well, we bid her good-bye, and after we had proceeded a short distance
I returned.

Sais I, "Mrs Steele, there is one thing I wish you would do for me; is
there any cranberries in this neighbourhood?"

"Plenty, Sir," she said; "at the head of this river there is an
immense bog, chock full of them."

"Well," sais I, "there is nothin' in natur I am so fond of as them; I
would give anything in the world for a few bushel. Tell your husband
to employ some people to pick me this fall a barrel of them, and send
them to me by one of our vessels, directed to me to Slickville, and
when I go on board I will send you a barrel of flour to pay for it.

"Dear me, Sir," said she, "that's a great deal more than their value;
why they ain't worth more than two dollars. We will pick them for you
with great pleasure. We don't want pay."

"Ain't they worth that?" said I, "so much the better. Well, then, he
can send me another barrel the next year. Why, they are as cheap as
bull beef at a cent a pound. Good bye; tell him to be sure to come and
see me the first time he goes to the States. Adieu."

"What do you think of that, Doctor?" said I, as we proceeded to the
boat; "ain't that a nice woman? how cheerful and uncomplaining she is;
how full of hope and confidence in the future. Her heart is in the
right place, ain't it? My old mother had that same sort of contentment
about her, only, perhaps, her resignation was stronger than her hope.
When anything ever went wrong about our place to home to Slickville,
she'd always say, 'Well, Sam, it might have been worse;' or, 'Sam, the
darkest hour is always just afore day,' and so on. But Minister used
to amuse me beyond anything, poor old soul. Once the congregation met
and raised his wages from three to four hundred dollars a-year. Well,
it nearly set him crazy; it bothered him so he could hardly sleep. So
after church was over the next Sunday, he sais, 'My dear brethren, I
hear you have raised my salary to four hundred dollars. I am greatly
obliged to you for your kindness, but I can't think of taking it on no
account. First, you can't afford it no how you can fix it, and I know
it; secondly, I ain't worth it, and you know it; and thirdly, I am
nearly tired to death collecting my present income; if I have to dun
the same way for that, it will kill me. I can't stand it; I shall die.
No, no; pay me what you allow me more punctually, and it is all I ask,
or will ever receive.'

"But this poor woman is a fair sample of her class in this country; I
do believe the only true friendship and hospitality is to be found
among them. They ain't rich enough for ostentation, and are too equal
in condition and circumstances for the action of jealousy or rivalry;
I believe they are the happiest people in the world, but I know they
are the kindest. Their feelings are not chilled by poverty or
corrupted by plenty; their occupations preclude the hope of wealth and
forbid the fear of distress. Dependent on each other for mutual
assistance, in those things that are beyond individual exertion, they
interchange friendly offices, which commencing in necessity, grow into
habit, and soon become the 'labour of love.' They are poor, but not
destitute, a region in my opinion in which the heart is more fully
developed than in any other. Those who are situated like Steele and
his wife, and commence a settlement in the woods, with the previous
training they have received in the rural districts, begin at the right
end; but they are the only people who are fit to be pioneers in the
forest. How many there are who begin at the wrong end; perhaps there
is no one subject on which men form such false notions as the mode of
settling in the country, whether they are citizens of a colonial town,
or strangers, from Great Britain.

"Look at that officer at Halifax: he is the best dressed man in the
garrison; he is well got up always; he looks the gentleman every inch
of him; how well his horses are groomed; how perfect his turn-out
looks; how well appointed it is, as he calls it. He and his servant
and his cattle are a little bit of fashion imported from the park, and
astonish the natives. Look at his wife, ain't she a beautiful
creature? they are proud of, and were just made for each other. This
is not merely all external appearance either: they are accomplished
people; they sing, they play, they sketch, they paint, they speak
several languages, they are well read, they have many resources.
Soldiering is dull, and, in time of peace, only a police service. It
has disagreeable duties; it involves repeated removals, and the
alternation of bad climates--from Hudson's Bay to Calcutta's Black
Hole. The juniors of the regimental officers are mere boys, the
seniors great empty cartouch-boxes, and the women have cabals,--there
is a sameness even in its variety; but worse than all, it has no
home--in short, the whole thing is a bore. It is better to sell out
and settle in the province; land is cheap; their means are ample, and
more than sufficient for the requirements of the colony; country
society is stupid; there are no people fit to visit. It is best to be
out of the reach of their morning calls and their gossip. A few miles
back in the woods there is a splendid stream with a beautiful cascade
on it; there is a magnificent lake communicating with several others
that form a chain of many miles in extent. That swelling knoll that
slopes so gently to the water would be such a pretty site for a
cottage-orné, and the back-ground of hanging wood has an indescribable
beauty in it, especially in the autumn, when the trees are one
complete mass of variegated hues. He warms on the theme as he dilates
on it, and sings as he turns to his pretty wife:


'I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled
Above the green elms that a cottage was near;
And I said, if there's peace to be found in the world,
The heart that is humble might hope for it here.'


"How sweet to plan, how pleasant to execute. How exciting to see it
grow under one's own eye, the work of one's own hand, the creation of
one's own taste. It is decided on; Dechamps retires, the papers go in,
the hero goes out--what a relief! no inspection of soldiers' dirty
kits--no parade by day--no guards nor rounds by night--no fatigue
parties of men who never fatigue themselves--no stupid
court-martial--no horrid punishments--no reviews to please a colonel
who never is pleased, or a general who will swear--no marching through
streets, to be stared at by housemaids from upper windows, and by
dirty boys in the side paths--no procession to follow brass
instruments, like the train of a circus--no bearded band-master with
his gold cane to lead on his musicians, and no bearded white goat to
march at the head of the regiment. All, all are gone.

"He is out of livery, he has played at soldiering long enough, he is
tired of the game, he sells out, the man of business is called in, his
lawyer, as he terms him, as if every gentleman kept a lawyer as he
does a footman. He is in a hurry to have the purchase completed with
as little delay as possible. But delays will occur, he is no longer a
centurion and a man of authority, who has nothing to do but to say to
this one, Come, and he cometh; and another, Go, and he goeth; Do this,
and it is done. He can't put a lawyer under arrest, he is a man of
arrests himself. He never heard of an attachment for contempt, and if
he had, he couldn't understand it; for, when the devil was an
attorney, he invented the term, as the softest and kindest name for
the hardest and most unkind process there is. Attachment for contempt,
what a mockery of Christian forgiveness!

"A conveyancer is a slow coach, he must proceed cautiously, he has a
long journey to take, he has to travel back to a grant from the crown,
through all the 'mesne' conveyances. He don't want a mean conveyance,
he will pay liberally if it is only done quickly; and is informed
'mesne' in law signifies intermediate. It is hard to say what the
language of law does mean. Then there are searches to be made in the
record offices, and the--damn the searches, for he is in a hurry and
loses his patience--search at the bankers, and all will be found
right. Then there are releases and assignments and discharges. He can
stand it no longer, he releases his lawyer, discharges him, and
assigns another, who hints, insinuates, he don't charge; but gives him
to understand his predecessor was idle. He will lose no time, indeed
he has no time to lose, he is so busy with other clients' affairs, and
is as slow as the first man was.

"But at last it is done; the titles are completed. He is presented
with a huge pile of foolscap paper, very neatly folded, beautifully
engrossed and endorsed in black letters, and nicely tied up with red
tape, which, with sundry plans, surveys, and grants, are secured in a
large despatch box, on which are inscribed in gold letters the
'Epaigwit estate.' It is a pretty Indian word that, it means the 'home
on the wave.' It is the original name of that gem of the western ocean
which the vulgar inhabitants have christened Prince Edward's Island.

"But what can you expect of a people whose governor calls the gentry
'the upper crust of society,' and who in their turn see an affinity
between a Scotch and a Roman fiddle, and denounce him as a Nero? But
then who looks, as he says, for taste in a colony? it is only us
Englishmen who have any. Yes, he calls this place 'Epaigwit.' It has a
distingué appearance on his letters. It has now a name, the next thing
is 'a local habitation.' Well, we won't stop to describe it, but it
has an elegant drawing-room, if there was only company to collect in
it, a spacious dining-room, and though only two plates are on the
table there is room for twenty, and a charming study, only awaiting
his leisure to enjoy it, and so on.

"It is done and the design carried out, though not completed; prudence
forbids a further expenditure just now. It has cost five times as much
as was contemplated, and is not worth a tenth part of the outlay,
still it is very beautiful. Strangers go to see it, and every one
pronounces it the prettiest thing in the Lower provinces. There have
been some little drawbacks, but they are to be expected in a colony,
and among the Goths and Vandals who live there. The contractors have
repudiated their agreement on account of the extensive alterations
made in the design and the nature of the work, and he has found there
is law in the country if not justice. The servants find it too lonely,
they have no taste for the beauties of nature, and remain without
work, or quit without notice. If he refuses to pay he is sued, if he
pays he is cheated. The house leaks, for the materials are green; the
chimneys smoke, for the drafts are in the wrong place. The children
are tormented by black flies and musquitoes, and their eyes are so
swelled they can't see. The bears make love to his sheep, and the
minks and foxes devour his poultry. The Indians who come to beg are
supposed to come to murder, and the negroes who come to sell wild
berries are suspected of coming to steal. He has no neighbours, he did
not desire any, and if a heavy weight has to be lifted, it is a
little, but not much, inconvenience to send to the town for
assistance; and the people go cheerfully, for they have only five
miles to come, and five to return, and they are not detained more than
five minutes, for he never asks them into his house. The butcher won't
come so far to carry his meat, nor the baker his bread, nor the
postman to deliver his letters.

"The church is too far off, and there is no school. But the clergyman
is not fit to be heard, he is such a drone in the pulpit; and it is a
sweet employment to train one's own children, who thus avoid
contamination by not associating with vulgar companions.

"These are trifling vexations, and what is there in this life that has
not some little drawback? But there is something very charming in
perfect independence, in living for each other, and in residing in one
of the most delightful spots in America, surrounded by the most
exquisite scenery that was ever beheld. There is one thing however
that is annoying. The country people will not use or adopt that pretty
word Epaigwit, 'the home of the wave,' which rivals in beauty of
conception an eastern expression. The place was originally granted to
a fellow of the name of Umber, who was called after the celebrated
navigator Cook. These two words when united soon became corrupted, and
the magnificent sheet of water was designated 'the Cucumber Lake,'
while its splendid cataract, known in ancient days by the Indians as
the 'Pan-ook,' or 'the River's Leap,' is perversely called by way of
variation 'the Cowcumber Falls;' can anything be conceived more vulgar
or more vexatious, unless it be their awkward attempt at
pronunciation, which converts Epaigwit into 'a pig's wit,' and Pan-ook
into 'Pond-hook?'

"But then, what can you expect of such boors, and who cares, or what
does it matter? for after all, if you come to that, the 'Cumberland
Lakes' is not very euphonious, as he calls it, whatever that means. He
is right in saying it is a beautiful place, and, as he often observes,
what an immense sum of money it would be worth if it were only in
England! but the day is not far distant, now that the Atlantic is
bridged by steamers, when 'bag-men' will give place to tourists, and
'Epaigwit' will be the 'Killarney' of America. He is quite right, that
day will come, and so will the millennium, but it is a good way off
yet; and dear old Minister used to say there was no dependable
authority that it ever would come at all.

"Now and then a brother officer visits him. Elliott is there now, not
the last of the Elliotts, for there is no end of them, and though only
a hundred of them have been heard of in the world, there are a
thousand well known to the Treasury. But he is the last chum from his
regiment he will ever see. As they sit after dinner he hands the
olives to his friend, and suddenly checks himself, saying, I forgot,
you never touch the 'after-feed.' Then he throws up both eyes and
hands, and affects to look aghast at the mistake. 'Really,' he says,
'I shall soon become us much of a boor as the people of this country.
I hear nothing now but mowing, browsing, and 'after-feed,' until at
last I find myself using the latter word for 'dessert.' He says it
prettily and acts it well, and although his wife has often listened to
the same joke, she looks as if it would bear repetition, and her face
expresses great pleasure. Poor Dechamps, if your place is worth
nothing, she at least is a treasure above all price.

"Presently Elliott sais, 'By-the-by, Dechamps, have you heard we are
ordered to Corfu, and embark immediately?'

"Dear me, what magic there is in a word. Sometimes it discloses in
painful distinctness the past, at others it reveals a prophetic page
of the future; who would ever suppose there was anything in that
little insignificant word to occasion a thought, unless it was whether
it is pronounced Corfoo or Corfew, and it's so little consequence
which, I always give it the go by and say Ionian Isles.

"But it startled Dechamps. He had hoped before he left the army to
have been ordered there, and from thence to have visited the classic
coasts of Greece. Alas, that vision has gone, and there is a slight
sigh of regret, for possession seldom equals expectation, and always
cloys. He can never more see his regiment, they have parted for ever.
Time and distance have softened some of the rougher features of
military life. He thinks of the joyous days of youth, the varied
scenes of life, his profession exposed to his view, and the friends he
has left behind him. The service he thinks not so intolerable after
all, and though regimental society is certainly not what he should
choose, especially as a married man, yet, except in a rollicking
corps, it may at least negatively be said to be 'not bad.'

"From this review of the past he turns to the prospect before him. But
he discerns something that he does not like to contemplate, a slight
shadow passes over his face, and he asks Elliott to pass the wine. His
wife, with the quickness of perception so natural to a woman, sees at
once what is passing in his mind; for similar, but deeper, far deeper
thoughts, like unbidden guests, have occupied hers many an anxious
hour. Poor thing, she at once perceives her duty and resolves to
fulfil it. She will be more cheerful. She at least will never murmur.
After all, Doctor, it's no great exaggeration to call a woman that has
a good head and kind heart, and the right shape, build, and bearings,
an angel, is it? But let us mark their progress, for we shall be
better able to judge then.

"Let us visit Epaigwit again in a few years. Who is that man near the
gate that looks unlike a servant, unlike a farmer, unlike a gentleman,
unlike a sportsman, and yet has a touch of all four characters about
him? He has a shocking bad hat on but what's the use of a good hat in
the woods, as poor Jackson said, where there is no one to see it. He
has not been shaved since last sheep-shearing, and has a short black
pipe in his mouth, and the tobacco smells like nigger-head or
pig-tail. He wears a coarse check shirt without a collar, a black silk
neck-cloth frayed at the edge, that looks like a rope of old ribbons.
His coat appears as if it had once been new, but had been on its
travels, until at last it had got pawned to a Jew at Rag-alley. His
waistcoat was formerly buff, but now resembles yellow flannel, and the
buttons, though complete in number are of different sorts. The
trowsers are homespun, much worn, and his boots coarse enough to swap
with a fisherman for mackarel. His air and look betokens pride
rendered sour by poverty.

"But there is something worse than all this, something one never sees
without disgust or pain, because it is the sure precursor of a
diseased body, a shattered intellect, and voluntary degradation. There
is a bright red colour that extends over the whole face, and reaches
behind the ears. The whiskers are prematurely tipt with white, as if
the heated skin refused to nourish them any longer. The lips are
slightly swelled, and the inflamed skin indicates inward fever, while
the eyes are bloodshot, the under lids distended, and incline to
shrink from contact with the heated orbs they were destined to
protect. He is a dram-drinker; and the poison that he imbibes with New
England rum is as fatal, and nearly as rapid in its destruction, as
strikline.

"Who is he; can you guess? do you give it up? He is that handsome
officer, the Laird of Epaigwit as the Scotch would say, the general as
we should call him, for we are liberal of titles, and the man that
lives at Cowcumber Falls, as they say here. Poor fellow, he has made
the same discovery Sergeant Jackson did, that there is no use of good
things in the woods where there is no one to see them. He is about to
order you off his premises, but it occurs to him that would be absurd,
for he has nothing now worth seeing. He scrutinises you however to
ascertain if he has ever seen you before. He fears recognition, for he
dreads both your pity and your ridicule; so he strolls leisurely back
to the house with a certain bull-dog air of defiance.

"Let us follow him thither; but before we enter, observe there is some
glass out of the window, and its place supplied by shingles. The
stanhope is in the coach-house, but the by-road was so full of stumps
and cradle-hills, it was impossible to drive in it, and the moths have
eaten the lining out. The carriage has been broken so often it is not
worth repairing, and the double harness has been cut up to patch the
tacklin' of the horse-team. The shrubbery has been browsed away by the
cattle, and the rank grass has choked all the rose bushes and pretty
little flowers. What is the use of these things in the woods? That
remark was on a level with the old dragoon's intellect; but I am
surprised that this intelligent officer; this man of the world, this
martinet, didn't also discover, that he who neglects himself soon
becomes so careless as to neglect his other duties, and that to lose
sight of them is to create and invite certain ruin. But let us look at
the interior.

"There are some pictures on the walls, and there are yellow stains
where others hung. Where are they? for I think I heard a man say he
bought them on account of their handsome frames, from that
crack-brained officer at Cucumber Lake; and he shut his eye, and
looked knowing and whispered, 'Something wrong there, had to sell out
of the army; some queer story about another wife still living; don't
know particulars.' Poor Dechamps, you are guiltless of that charge at
any rate, to my certain knowledge; but how often does slander bequeath
to folly that which of right belongs to crime! The nick-knacks, the
antique china, the Apostles' spoons, the queer little old-fashioned
silver ornaments, the French clock, the illustrated works, and all
that sort of thing,--all, all are gone. The housemaids broke some, the
children destroyed others, and the rest were sent to auction, merely
to secure their preservation. The paper is stained in some places, in
others has peeled off; but where under the sun have all the
accomplishments gone to?

"The piano got out of tune, and there was nobody to put it in order:
it was no use; the strings were taken out, and the case was converted
into a cupboard. The machinery of the harp became rusty, and the cords
were wanted for something else. But what is the use of these things in
the woods where there is nobody to see them? But here is Mrs Dechamps.
Is it possible! My goody gracious as I am a living sinner! Well I
never in all my born days! what a dreadful wreck! you know how
handsome she was. Well, I won't describe her now, I pity her too much.
You know I said they were counterparts, just made for each other, and
so they were; but they are of different sexes, made of different
stuff, and trouble has had a different effect on them. He has
neglected himself, and she is negligent of her dress too, but not in
the same way. She is still neat, but utterly regardless of what her
attire is; but let it be what it may, and let her put on what she
will, still she looks like a lady. But her health is gone, and her
spirits too; and in their place a little, delicate hectic spot has
settled in her cheek, beautiful to look at, but painful to think of.
This faint blush is kindly sent to conceal consumption, and the faint
smile is assumed to hide the broken heart. If it didn't sound
unfeelin', I should say she was booked for an early train; but I think
so if I don't say so. The hour is fixed, the departure certain; she is
glad to leave Epaigwit.

"Somehow though I must say I am a little disappointed in her. She was
a soldier's wife; I thought she was made of better stuff, and if she
had died would have at least died game. Suppose they have been
unfortunate in pitching their tent 'on the home of the wave,' and got
aground, and their effects have been thrown overboard; what is that,
after all? Thousands hare done the same; there is still hope for them.
They are more than a match for these casualties; how is it she has
given up so soon? Well, don't allude to it, but there is a sad
tragical story connected with that lake. Do you recollect that
beautiful curly-headed child, her eldest daughter, that she used to
walk with at Halifax? Well, she grew up into a magnificent girl; she
was full of health and spirits, and as fleet and as wild as a hare.
She lived in the woods and on the lake. She didn't shoot, and she
didn't fish, but she accompanied those who did. The beautiful but
dangerous bark canoe was her delight; she never was happy but when she
was in it. Tom Hodges, the orphan boy they had brought with them from
the regiment, who alone of all their servants had remained faithful in
their voluntary exile, was the only one permitted to accompany her;
for he was so careful, so expert, and so good a swimmer. Alas! one
night the canoe returned not. What a long, eager, anxious night was
that! but towards noon the next day the upturned bark drifted by the
shore, and then it was but too evident that that sad event which the
anxious mother had so often dreaded and predicted had come to pass.
They had met a watery grave. Often and often were the whole chain of
lakes explored, but their bodies were never found. Entangled in the
long grass and sunken driftwood that covered the bottom of these
basins, it was not likely they would ever rise to the surface.