Constant - "The Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, v9"

G. K. Chesterton - "A Miscellany of Men"

Julian Hawthorne - "Hawthorne and His Circle"

William Harmon Norton - "The Elements of Geology"

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, a man went to him lately, and sais he: 'Are you the great John
Jacob?'

"'I am John Jacob,' said he, 'but I ain't great. The sun is so
almighty hot here in New York, no man is large; he is roasted down
like a race-horse.'

"'I don't mean that,' said the poor man, bowin' and beggin' pardon.

"'Oh,' sais he, 'you mean great-grandfather,' laughing. 'No, I hante
come that yet; but Astoria Ann Oregon, my grand-daughter, says I am to
be about the fore part of next June.'

"Well, the man see he was getting rigged, so he came to the pint at
once. Sais he, 'Do you want a clerk?'

"'I guess I do,' said he. 'Are you a good accountant?'

"'Have been accountant-book-keeper and agent for twenty-five years,'
sais stranger.

"Well, John Jacob see the critter wouldn't suit him, but he thought he
would carry out the joke. Sais he, 'How would you like to take charge
of my almighty everlastin' property?'

"'Delighted!' says the goney.

"'Well,' said Mr Astor, 'I am tired to death looking after it; if you
will relieve me and do my work, I'll give you what I get out of it
myself.'

"'Done!' said the man, takin' off his hat, and bowin' down to the
ground. 'I am under a great obligation to you; depend upon it you will
get a good account of it.'

"'I have no doubt of it,' said John Jacob. 'Do your part faithfully'
('Never fear me,' said the clerk) 'and honestly, and I will fulfil
mine. All I get out of it myself is my board and clothing, and you
shall have the same."

"Ah! my friend," the preacher might say, "how much wisdom there is in
John Jacob Astor's remark. What more has the Queen of England, or the
richest peer in the land, out of all their riches than their board and
clothing. 'So don't repine, my friend. Cheer up! I will come and fast
on canvas-back duck with you to-morrow, for it's Friday; and whatever
lives on aquatic food is fishy--a duck is twice-laid fish. A few
glasses of champaine at dinner, and a cool bottle or two of claret
after, will set you all right again in a jiffy."

If a man's wife races off and leaves him, which ain't the highest
compliment he can receive, he should visit him; but it's most prudent
not to introduce the subject himself. If broken-heart talks of it,
minister shouldn't make light of it, for wounded pride is mighty
tender, but say it's a dreadful thing to leave so good, so kind, so
indulgent, so liberal, so confidin' a man as you, if the case will
bear it (in a general way it's a man's own fault); and if it won't
bear it, why then there really is a guilty man, on whom he can indulge
himself, to expend a few flowers of speech. And arter restin' here
awhile, he should hint at the consolation that is always offered, "of
the sea having better fish than ever was pulled out of it," and so on.

Well, the whole catalogue offers similar topics, and if a man will,
while kindly, conscientiously, and strictly sticking to the truth,
offer such consolation as a good man may, taking care to remember that
manner is everything, and all these arguments are not only no good,
but do harm if the misfortunate critter is rubbed agin the grain; he
will then prepare the sufferer to receive the only true consolation he
has to offer--the consolation of religion. At least, that's my idea.

Now, instead of that, if he gets hold of a sinner, he first offends
his delicacy, and then scares him to death. He tells him to confess
all the nasty particulars of the how, the where, the when, and the who
with. He can't do nothing till his curiosity is satisfied, general
terms won't do. He must have all the dirty details. And then he talks
to him of the devil, an unpronouncible place, fire and brimstone, and
endless punishment. And assures him, if ever he hopes to be happy
hereafter, he must be wretched for the rest of his life; for the
evangelical rule is, that a man is never forgiven up to the last
minute when it can't be helped. Well, every man to his own trade.
Perhaps they are right and I am wrong. But my idea is you can coax,
but can't bully folks. You can win sinners, but you can't force them.
The door of the heart must be opened softly, and to do that you must
be the hinge and the lock.

Well, to get back to my story, and I hardly know where I left off, I
think the poor gall was speakin' of Indians in a way that indicated
she felt mortified at her descent, or that somehow or somehow else,
there was a sore spot there. Well, having my own thoughts about the
wounds of the heart and so on, as I have stated, I made up my mind I
must get at the secret by degrees, and see whether my theory of
treatment was right or not.

Sais I, "Miss, you say these sort of things are bartered at the
north-west for others of more use. There is one thing though I must
remark, they never were exchanged for anything half so beautiful."

"I am glad you like it," she said, "but look here;" and she took out
of her basket a pair of mocassins, the soles of which were of moose
leather, tanned and dressed like felt, and the upper part black
velvet, on which various patterns were worked with beads. I think I
never saw anything of the kind so exquisite, for those nick-nacks the
Nova Scotia Indians make are rough in material, coarse in workmanship,
and ineligant in design.

"Which do you prefer?" said she.

"Well," sais I, "I ain't hardly able to decide. The bark work is more
delicate and more tasteful; but it's more European in appearance. The
other is more like our own country, and I ain't sure that it isn't
quite as handsome as the other. But I think I prize the mocassins
most. The name, the shape, and the ornaments all tell of the prairie."

"Well, then," she said, "it shall be the mocassins, you must have
them, as the exchange for the book."

"Oh," said I, taking out of my pocket the first and second
"Clockmakers," I had no other of my books on board, and giving them to
her, "I am afraid, Miss, that I either said or did something to offend
you this morning. I assure you I did not mean to do so, and I am very
sorry for it."

"No, no," she said, "it was me; but my temper has been greatly tried
since I came to this country. I was very wrong, for you (and she laid
a stress on that word as if I was an exception) have been very kind to
me."

"Well," sais I, "Miss, sometimes there are things that try us and our
feelings, that we don't choose to talk about to strangers, and
sometimes people annoy us on these subjects. It wouldn't be right of
me to pry into any one's secrets, but this I will say, any person that
would vex you, let him be who he will, can be no man, he'd better not
do it while I am here, at any rate, or he'll have to look for his
jacket very quick, I know."

"Mr Slick," she said, "I know I am half Indian, and some folks want to
make me feel it."

"And you took me for one o' them cattle," said I, "but if you knew
what was passin' in my mind, you wouldn't a felt angry, I know."

"What was it?" said she, "for I know you won't say anything to me you
oughtn't to. What was it?"

"Well," sais I, "there is, between you and me, a young lady here to
the southern part of this province I have set my heart on, though
whether she is agoin' to give me hern, or give me the mitten, I ain't
quite sartified, but I rather kinder sorter guess the first, than
kinder sorter not so." I just throwed that in that she mightn't
misunderstand me. "Well, she is the most splendiferous gall I ever sot
eyes on since I was created; and," sais I to myself, "now, here is one
of a different style of beauty, which on 'em is, take her all in all,
the handsomest?"

Half Indian or half Gaelic, or whatever she was, she was a woman, and
she didn't flare up this time, I tell you, but taking up the work-bag
she said:

"Give this to her, as a present from me."

Thinks I, "My pretty brunette, if I don't get the heart opened to me,
and give you a better opinion of yourself, and set you all straight
with mankind in general, and the doctor in particular, afore I leave
Ship Harbour, I'll give over for ever undervalyin' the skill of
ministers, that's a fact. That will do for trial number one; by and by
I'll make trial number two."

Taking up the "Clockmaker," and looking at it, she said: "Is this book
all true, Mr Slick? Did you say and do all that's set down here?"

"Well," sais I, "I wouldn't just like to swear to every word of it,
but most of it is true, though some things are embellished a little,
and some are fancy sketches. But they are all true to nature."

"Oh, dear," said she, "what a pity! how shall I ever be able to tell
what's true and what ain't? Do you think I shall be able to understand
it, who know so little, and have seen so little?"

"You'll comprehend every word of it," sais I, "I wrote it on purpose,
so every person should do so. I have tried to stick to life as close
as I could, and there is nothin' like natur, it goes home to the heart
of us all."

"Do tell me, Mr Slick," said she, "what natur is, for I don't know."

Well, now that's a very simple question, ain't it? and anyone that
reads this book when you publish it, will say, "Why, everybody knows
what natur is," and any schoolboy can answer that question. But I'll
take a bet of twenty dollars, not one in a hundred will define that
tarm right off the reel, without stopping. It fairly stumpt me, and I
ain't easily brought to a hack about common things. I could a told her
what natur was circumbendibusly, and no mistake, though that takes
time. But to define it briefly and quickly, as Minister used to say,
if it can be done at all, which I don't think it can, all I can say
is, as galls say to conundrums, "I can't, so I give it up. What is
it?"

Perhaps it's my own fault, for dear old Mr Hopewell used to say, "Sam,
your head ain't like any one else's. Most men's minds resembles what
appears on the water when you throw a stone in it. There is a centre,
and circles form round it, each one a little larger than the other,
until the impelling power ceases to act. Now you set off on the outer
circle, and go round and round ever so often, until you arrive to the
centre where you ought to have started from at first; I never see the
beat of you."

"It's natur," sais I, "Minister."

"Natur," sais he, "what the plague has natur to do with it?"

"Why," sais I, "can one man surround a flock of sheep?"

"Why, what nonsense," sais he; "of course he can't."

"Well, that's what this child can do," sais I. "I make a good sizeable
ring-fence, open the bars, and put them in, for if it's too small,
they turn and out agin like wink, and they will never so much as look
at it a second time. Well, when I get them there, I narrow and narrow
the circle, till it's all solid wool and mutton, and I have every
mother's son of them. It takes time, for I am all alone, and have no
one to help me; but they are thar' at last. Now, suppose I went to the
centre of the field, and started off arter them, what would it end in?
Why, I'de run one down, and have him, and that's the only one I could
catch. But while I was a chasin' of him, all the rest would disperse
like a congregation arter church, and cut off like wink, each on his
own way, as if he was afraid the minister was a-goin' to run after
'em, head 'em, and fetch 'em back and pen 'em up again."

He squirmed his face a little at that part about the congregation, I
consaited, but didn't say nothin', for he knew it was true.

"Now, my reason," sais I, "for goin' round and round is, I like to
gather up all that's in the circle, carry it with me, and stack it in
the centre."

Lord! what fun I have had pokin' that are question of Jessie's sudden
to fellows since then! Sais I to Brother Eldad once--

"Dad, we often talk about natur; what is it?"

"Tut," sais he, "don't ask me; every fool knows what natur is."

"Exactly," sais I; "that's the reason I came to you."

He just up with a book, and came plaguy near lettin' me have it right
agin my head smash.

"Don't do that," sais I, "Daddy; I was only joking; but what is it?"

Well, he paused a moment and looked puzzled, as a fellow does who is
looking for his spectacles, and can't find them because he has shoved
them up on his forehead.

"Why," sais he, spreadin' out his arm, "it's all that you see, and the
law that governs it."

Well, it warn't a bad shot that, for a first trial, that's a fact. It
hit the target, though it didn't strike the ring.

"Oh," said I, "then there is none of it at night, and things can't be
nateral in the dark."

Well, he seed he had run off the track, so he braved it out. "I didn't
say it was necessary to see them all the time," he said.

"Just so," said I, "natur is what you see and what you don't see; but
then feelin' ain't nateral at all. It strikes me that if--"

"Didn't I say," said he, "the laws that govern them?"

"Well, where are them laws writ?"

"In that are receipt-book o' yourn you're so proud of," said he. "What
do you call it, Mr Wiseacre?"

"Then, you admit," sais I, "any fool can't answer that question?"

"Perhaps you can," sais he.

"Oh Dad!" sais I, "you picked up that shot and throwed it back. When a
feller does that it shows he is short of ammunition. But I'll tell you
what my opinion is. There is no such a thing as natur."

"What!" said he.

"Why there is no such a thing as natur in reality; it is only a figure
of speech. The confounded poets got hold of the idea and parsonified
it as they have the word heart, and talk about the voice of natur and
its sensations, and its laws and its simplicities, and all that sort
of thing. The noise water makes in tumblin' over stones in a brook, a
splutterin' like a toothless old woman scoldin' with a mouthful of hot
tea in her lantern cheek, is called the voice of natur speaking in the
stream. And when the wind blows and scatters about all the blossoms
from your fruit trees, and you are a ponderin' over the mischief, a
gall comes along-side of you with a book of poetry in her hand and
sais:

"'Hark! do you hear the voice of natur amid the trees? Isn't it
sweet?'

"Well, it's so absurd you can't help laughin' and saying, 'No;' but
then I hear the voice of natur closer still, and it says, 'Ain't she a
sweet critter?'

"Well, a cultivated field, which is a work of art, dressed with
artificial manures, and tilled with artificial tools, perhaps by
steam, is called the smiling face of nature. Here nature is strong and
there exhausted, now animated and then asleep. At the poles, the
features of nature are all frozen, and as stiff as a poker, and in the
West Indies burnt up to a cinder. What a pack of stuff it is! It is
just a pretty word like pharmacopia and Pierian spring, and so forth.
I hate poets, stock, lock, and barrel; the whole seed, breed, and
generation of them. If you see a she one, look at her stockings; they
are all wrinkled about her ancles, and her shoes are down to heel, and
her hair is as tangled as the mane of a two-year old colt. And if you
see a he one, you see a mooney sort of man, either very sad, or so
wild-looking you think he is half-mad; he eats and sleeps on earth,
and that's all. The rest of the time he is sky-high, trying to find
inspiration and sublimity, like Byron, in gin and water. I like folks
that have common-sense."

Well, to get back to my story. Said Jessie to me: "Mr Slick, what is
natur?"

"Well," sais I, "Miss, it's not very easy to explain it so as to make
it intelligible; but I will try. This world, and all that is in it, is
the work of God. When he made it, he gave it laws or properties that
govern it, and so to every living or inanimate thing; and these
properties or laws are called their nature. Nature therefore is
sometimes used for God himself, and sometimes for the world and its
contents, and the secret laws of action imposed upon them when
created. There is one nature to men (for though they don't all look
alike, the laws of their being are the same), and another to horses,
dogs, fish, and so on. Each class has its own nature. For instance, it
is natural for fish to inhabit water, birds the air, and so on. In
general, it therefore means the universal law that governs everything.
Do you understand it?" says I.

"Not just now," she said, "but I will when I have time to think of it.
Do you say there is one nature to all men?"

"Yes, the same nature to Indian as to white men--all the same."

"Which is the best nature?"

"It is the same."

"Indian and white, are they both equal?"

"Quite--"

"Do you think so?"

"Every mite and morsel, every bit and grain. Everybody don't think so?
That's natural; every race thinks it is better than another, and every
man thinks he is superior to others; and so does every woman. They
think their children the best and handsomest. A bear thinks her nasty,
dirty, shapeless, tailless cubs the most beautiful things in all
creation."

She laughed at that, but as suddenly relapsed into a fixed gloom. "If
red and white men are both equal, and have the same nature," she said,
"what becomes of those who are neither red nor white, who have no
country, no nation, no tribe, scorned by each, and the tents and the
houses of both closed against them. Are they equal? what does nature
say?"

"There is no difference," I said; "in the eye of God they are all
alike."

"God may think and treat them so," she replied, rising with much
emotion, "but man does not."

I thought it was as well to change the conversation, and leave her to
ponder over the idea of the races which seemed so new to her. "So,"
sais I, "I wonder the doctor hasn't arrived; it's past four. There he
is, Jessie; see, he is on the beach; he has returned by water. Come,
put on your bonnet and let you and I go and meet him."

"Who, me!" she said, her face expressing both surprise and pleasure.

"To be sure," said I. "You are not afraid of me, Miss, I hope."

"I warn't sure I heard you right," she said, and away she went for her
bonnet.

Poor thing! it was evident her position was a very painful one to her,
and that her natural pride was deeply injured. Poor dear old Minister!
if you was now alive and could read this Journal, I know what you
would say as well as possible. "Sam," you would say, "this is a
fulfilment of Scripture. The sins of the fathers are visited on the
children, the effects of which are visible in the second and third
generation."



CHAPTER VII.

FIDDLING AND DANCING, AND SERVING THE DEVIL.


By the time we had reached the house, Cutler joined us, and we dined
off of the doctor's salmon, which was prepared in a way that I had
never seen before; and as it was a touch above common, and smacked of
the wigwam, I must get the receipt. The only way for a man who travels
and wants to get something better than amusement out of it, is to
notch down anything new, for every place has something to teach you in
that line. "The silent pig is the best feeder," but it remains a pig
still, and hastens its death by growing too fat. Now the talking
traveller feeds his mind as well as his body, and soon finds the less
he pampers his appetite the clearer his head is and the better his
spirits. The great thing is to live and learn, and learn to live.

Now I hate an epicure above all created things--worse than lawyers,
doctors, politicians, and selfish fellows of all kinds. In a giniral
way he is a miserable critter, for nothin' is good enough for him or
done right, and his appetite gives itself as many airs, and requires
as much waitin' on, as a crotchetty, fanciful, peevish old lady of
fashion. If a man's sensibility is all in his palate he can't in
course have much in his heart. Makin' oneself miserable, fastin' in
sackcloth and ashes, ain't a bit more foolish than makin' oneself
wretched in the midst of plenty, because the sea, the air, and the
earth won't give him the dainties he wants, and Providence won't send
the cook to dress them. To spend one's life in eating, drinking, and
sleeping, or like a bullock, in ruminating on food, reduces a man to
the level of an ox or an ass. The stomach is the kitchen, and a very
small one too, in a general way, and broiling, simmering, stewing,
baking, and steaming, is a goin' on there night and day. The
atmosphere is none of the pleasantest neither, and if a man chooses to
withdraw into himself and live there, why I don't see what earthly
good he is to society, unless he wants to wind up life by writin' a
cookery-book. I hate them--that's just the tarm, and I like tarms that
express what I mean.

I shall never forget when I was up to Michelimackinic. A thunderin'
long word, ain't it? We call it Mackinic now for shortness. But
perhaps you wouldn't understand it spelt that way, no more than I did
when I was to England that Brighton means Brighthelmeston, or
Sissiter, Cirencester, for the English take such liberties with words,
they can't afford to let others do the same; so I give it to you both
ways. Well, when I was there last, I dined with a village doctor, the
greatest epicure I think I ever see in all my born days. He thought
and talked of nothing else from morning till night but eatin'.

"Oh, Mr Slick," said he, rubbin' his hands, "this is the tallest
country in the world to live in. What a variety of food there is
here,--fish, flesh, and fowl,--wild, tame, and mongeral,--fruits,
vegetables, and spongy plants!"

"What's that?" sais I. I always do that when a fellow uses strange
words. "We call a man who drops in accidently on purpose to dinner a
sponging fellow, which means if you give him the liquid he will soak
it up dry."

"Spongy plants," sais he, "means mushrooms and the like."

"Ah!" said I, "mushrooms are nateral to a new soil like this. Upstarts
we call them; they arise at night, and by next mornin' their house is
up and its white roof on."

"Very good," said he, but not lookin' pleased at havin' his oratory
cut short that way. "Oh, Mr Slick!" said he, "there is a poor man here
who richly deserves a pension both from your government and mine. He
has done more to advance the culinary art than either Ude or Soyer."

"Who on earth now were they?" said I. I knew well enough who they
were, for when I was to England they used to brag greatly of Soyer at
the Reform Club. For fear folks would call their association house
after their politics, "the cheap and dirty" they built a very splash
affair, and to set an example to the state in their own establishment
of economy and reform in the public departments, hired Soyer, the best
cook of the age, at a salary that would have pensioned half-a-dozen of
the poor worn-out clerks in Downing Street. Vulgarity is always showy.
It is a pretty word, "Reformers." The common herd of them I don't mind
much, for rogues and fools always find employment for each other. But
when I hear of a great reformer like some of the big bugs to England,
that have been grinning through horse-collars of late years, like
harlequins at fairs, for the amusement and instruction of the public,
I must say I do expect to see a super-superior hypocrite.

Yes, I know who those great artists Soyer and Ude were, but I thought
I'd draw him out. So I just asked who on earth they were, and he
explained at great length, and mentioned the wonderful discoveries
they had made in their divine art.

"Well," sais I, "why on earth don't your friend the Mackinic cook go
to London or Paris, where he won't want a pension, or anything else,
if he excels them great men?"

"Bless you, Sir," he replied, "he is merely a voyageur."

"Oh dear," sais I, "I dare say then he can fry ham and eggs and serve
'em up in ile, boil salt beef and pork, and twice lay cod-fish, and
perhaps boil potatoes nice and watery like cattle turnips. What
discoveries could such a rough-and-tumble fellow as that make?"

"Well," said the doctor, "I didn't want to put myself forward, for it
ain't pleasant to speak of oneself."

"Well, I don't know that," sais I, "I ain't above it, I assure you. If
you have a horse to sell, put a thunderin' long price on him, and
folks will think he must be the devil and all, and if you want people
to vally you right, appraise yourself at a high figure. Braggin' saves
advertising'. I always do it; for as the Nova Scotia magistrate said,
who sued his debtor before himself, 'What's the use of being a
justice, if you can't do yourself justice.' But what was you sayin'
about the voyageur?"

"Why, Sir," said he, "I made the discovery through his
instrumentality. He enabled me to do it by suffering the experiments
to be made on him. His name was Alexis St Martin; he was a Canadian,
and about eighteen years of age, of good constitution, robust, and
healthy. He had been engaged in the service of the American Fur
Company as a voyageur, and was accidentally wounded by the discharge
of a musket, on the 9th of June, 1822. The charge, consisting of
powder and duck-shot, was received in his left side; he being at a
distance of not more than one yard from the muzzle of the gun. The
contents entered posteriorly, and in an oblique direction, forward and
inward, literally blowing off integuments and muscles, of the size of
a man's hand, fracturing and carrying away the anterior half of the
sixth rib, fracturing the fifth, lacerating the lower portion of the
left lobe of the lungs, the diaphragm, and perforating the stomach."