B.W. Matz - "The Inns and Taverns of Pickwick"

Anatole France - "Monsieur Bergeret a Paris"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1582 84"

Louisa May Alcott - "On Picket Duty and Other Tales"

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: Lessons in Life

T >> Timothy Titcomb >> Lessons in Life




The difference between praise and flattery is as wide as that
between praise and blame. Praise is a legitimate tribute to worth
and worthy doing. It is entirely unselfish in its motive. It is
the discharge of a debt. Flattery originates always in a selfish
motive, and seeks by falsehood to feed an unhealthy desire for
praise. A man whom it is proper to praise cannot be flattered, and
a man who can be flattered ought not to be praised. It is always
safe to praise a man who really deserves praise. Such a man
usually knows how much he deserves, and will take only the exact
amount. Indeed, he will be very particular to give back the right
change. The flatterer is like the man who stands behind a bar to
deal out poison to a debased appetite for gain. The man who utters
honest praise is noble; the man who receives it does so without
humiliation, and is made strong by it. The flatterer is always a
scoundrel, and the glad receiver of his falsehoods is always a
fool--natural or otherwise.

The desire for praise is often very strong in those who never do
any thing to deserve it, and who are never ready to award it to
those who have earned it. There are men in every community who are
universally recognized as supremely selfish, yet supremely greedy
of praise. This desire does not arise from over-indulgence in the
article, for they never had even a taste of it. They are known to
be selfish and hard and mean, yet they long for praise and
popularity, with a desire that is almost ludicrous. They never
give a dollar to the poor, they never deny themselves for the good
of others, they are shut up in themselves--without any good or
great or generous qualities--yet they clutch at every word that
sounds like praise as if they were starved. The only use of the
desire in these men is to furnish the world with a nose by which
to lead them.

It is a mistake to suppose that praise should be rendered directly
in all cases to the persons to whom it is due, for the relations
between debtor and creditor may be such as to forbid it. I may be
a humble admirer of some great and good man, who has been the doer
of great and good deeds, but my personal relations to him may be
such that it is not proper for me to approach him, and pay my
tribute into his hands. Men are often careful of the channels
through which the response to their deeds, in the hearts of other
men, reaches them; but I may discharge my debt, nevertheless, by
sounding their praise in other ears. It is usually the work of
those who stand next to a man, to gather up the tributes of a
grateful and admiring community or people, and bear them to him to
whom they belong. Because I may not approach a praiseworthy man,
with the offering which I feel to be his due, it is none the less
incumbent upon me to discharge the debt. Just and generous praise
will come from every just and generous nature in some form, and
will be deposited in some bosom subject to the draft of the owner.

It is not easy for any man to work alone, out of the sight of
his fellows, and beyond the recognition of his deeds. However
self-sufficient he may be, he is stronger, and he feels stronger,
in the approbation of generous and appreciative hearts. We are very
much in the habit of thinking that men of great minds and noble
deeds and self-reliant natures do not need the approval of other
minds, and do not care for it; but God never lifted any man so far
above his fellows that their voices were not the most delightful
sounds that reached him. If this be true of great natures, how
much more evidently true is it of smaller natures! We, the people
of the world, go leaning on each other; and we totter sometimes,
even to falling, when a shoulder drops from underneath our hand.
We need encouragement with every step. In the path of worthy
doing, we need some loving voice to witness with our approving
consciences, that we have done that which becomes us as men and
women. We long to hear the sentence, "well done, thou good and
faithful servant," from day to day; and when we hear it, we are
ready for further labor. We need also to give this daily meed of
praise to those who deserve it, that we may keep ourselves
unselfish, and root out from ourselves all niggardliness. We owe
it to ourselves to pay off every debt as soon as it is incurred,
and never, under any selfish motive, to withhold it.

It is notorious that the finest spirits of the world, and the
world's greatest benefactors, have gone through life unrecognized.
They have lain down in their graves at last without having
received a tithe of the debt which their generation owed to them.
When the turf has closed over their bosoms, and the mean
jealousies of their cotemporaries have been vanquished by death,
then whole nations have thronged to do them honor. Songs have been
sung to their memory; and the words of praise which would have
done so much to cheer and strengthen them once, are poured out in
abundance when the need of them is past. Stately monuments are
erected to them, and their children are petted and caressed, and a
tardy, jealous, and hypocritical world strives to win self-respect
by the payment of a debt long overdue. "Speak nothing but good of
the dead" is a proverb that had its birth in the world's sense of
its own meanness,--the consciousness that it had not done justice
to the dead while they were living. Many a man is systematically
abused during all his active life, only to lie down in his grave
amid the laudations of a nation. I know of nothing in all the
exhibitions of human nature meaner than this. It amounts to a
virtual confession of fraud. It is the acknowledgment of a debt,
which, while the creditor could get any benefit from it, the world
refused to pay. Posthumous fame may be a very fine thing; but I
have never known a really worthy man, with a healthy nature and a
healthy character, who did not prize far above it the love, the
confidence, and the praise of the generation to which he gave his
life.

It is the mark of a noble nature to be quick to recognize that
which is praiseworthy in others, and ready on the moment to award
to it its fitting meed. Such a nature looks for that which is good
in men, sees it, encourages it, and gives it the strength of its
indorsal. All that is noble in other men thrives in the presence
of such a nature as this. It is sunshine and showers and healthful
breezes to all that is amiable and laudable in the souls around
it. Woman grows more womanly and lovable and happy in its
presence. Men grow heroic and unselfish by its side. Children
gather from it encouragement and inspiration, and impulse and
direction into a beautiful life. What knows the charming wife whom
we lay in the tomb, of the tears we shed above her, of the
endearments we lavish upon her memory, and of the praises of her
virtue with which we burden the ears of our friends? This same
wife would have drunk such expressions during her life with
satisfaction and gratification beyond expression. Why can death
alone teach us that those whom we love are dear? Why must they be
placed forever beyond our sight before our lips can be unsealed?
Why must it be that in our public, social, and family life we have
penalties in abundance, but no rewards--censure in profusion, but
no praise--fault-finding without stint of freedom, but approbation
dealt out by constrained and niggardly hands?




LESSON XX.

UNNECESSARY BURDENS.


"I groan beneath this cowardice of heart
Which rolls the evil to be borne to-day
Upon to-morrow, loading it with gloom."
ALEXANDER SMITH.

"There are two ways of escaping from suffering; the one by
rising above the causes of conflict, the other by sinking below
them; for there is quiet in the soul when all its faculties are
harmonized about any centre. The one is the religious method; the
other is the vulgar, worldly method. The one is called Christian
elevation; the other, stoicism."--BEECHER.

There were few houses of the old time in New England that did not
contain a well-thumbed volume of the Pilgrim's Progress; and there
were few children who did not become acquainted with its contents,
either through its text or its pictures. I am sure that all the
children felt as I did--very tired with sympathy for the poor
pilgrim who was obliged to lug that ugly pack from picture to
picture, and very "glad and lightsome" when at last it fell from
his shoulders, and went tumbling down the hill. We did not marvel
that "he stood still awhile, to look and wonder," or that "he
looked, and looked again, even till the springs that were in his
head sent the waters down his cheeks." It was a great thing for a
man who was bent on progress to be freed from an unnecessary
burden; and it may be pleasant to know that at the foot of the
hill of life the same sepulchre which swallowed the burden of
Bunyan's Pilgrim, so that he "saw it no more," still stands open,
and has room in it for all the burdens of all the pilgrims there
are in the world.

I wonder whether all the pilgrims who have undertaken the journey
"from this world to that which is to come" ever lose the pack
whose fastenings were so quickly dissolved when our favorite old
Pilgrim looked upon the Cross? I doubt it. I hear many people
groaning throughout the whole course of their Christian experience
with the oppressive weight of this same burden. Instead of losing
it at the sight of the cross, they hold to it, and will not let it
go. They mean well enough; but they do not understand that the
cross was reared, and the meek sufferer nailed to it, that the
burden of the penitent soul might be forever rolled off. They
carry their own sins, and never yield the pack to Him who bore it
for them "in His own body, on the tree." They are never "light and
gladsome" with a sense of great relief; and their Christian
progress is sadly impeded by the burden from which the central
truth of the Christian scheme releases them. If there be any such
thing as forgiveness, then there is such a thing as release; but I
think there are many subjects of free and full forgiveness who
insist on carrying their old, dirty packs to their graves,
staggering under them all the way.

But this is not what I started to write about. A great many men
carry their life as an author carries a book which he is writing--
never losing the sense of their burden. When a writer undertakes a
book, and feels the necessity of perfect continuity of thought and
symmetry of structure, he can never lay it wholly aside. When once
he has taken up the first chapter, and comprehended his materials
and machinery and end, he does not dare to lay down his work, or
diverge from the grand channel of his thought, until the last
chapter is finished. He can take no three months' vacation; he can
read no books that do not contribute to his progress in the chosen
direction; he can never wholly lay aside the burden that is on
him. It is like lifting upon one's shoulder the end of a long
pole, and then walking under it from end to end. The burden upon
the shoulder is not relieved until the whole length has been
passed, and it drops as we walk from under it. Such is the way
that many men, and, perhaps, most men, carry life. If their
business troubles them, they have no power to throw it off, and no
disposition to try to do it. They are entirely aware that they
gain nothing by carrying their tedious burden, but they carry it.
Not content with doing their duty, and trying their best while
actively engaged, they take home with them a long face, breathe
sighs around them in the saddest fashion, and really unfit
themselves for the healthy exercise of their reason, and the
active employment of their faculties.

With men of this stamp, it makes little difference whether they
are prosperous or otherwise. If times are good, and they really
have no fault to find with matters as they exist, they become
troubled about bad times that may possibly lie just ahead. "Oh,
it's all well enough to-day," they say, "but you can't tell what
is coming;" so they bind the burden of the future upon them, and
undertake to steal a march on God's providence. Such a thing as
doing the duty of a single day, and doing it well, and then
throwing off the burden of care, and having a good time in some
rational way, until the hour comes for the commencement of the
next day's duty, they are strangers to. They walk into their
houses with a cloud upon their faces. They have no words of cheer
for those whom they have left at home during the day. They are
moody and sullen and sad--absorbed by their troubled thoughts--
taking no interest in the schemes, and having no sympathy with the
trials, of their wives and children, and making no effort to
relieve themselves of their burdens. If they pray at all, they
practically pray like this: "Give us this day our daily bread, and
to-morrow, and next day, and the day after, and next year, and
fifty years to come; and lest Thou shouldst forget it, or neglect
to answer us, we have undertaken to look after the matter
ourselves."

To say nothing of the constant sadness, uneasiness, and discomfort
of such a life as this, to all those who lead it, and to all who
are intimately associated with them, the permanent effect of it
upon the character of its subjects is to make them selfish and
hard, and small and mean. Whatever may be their circumstances,
they become sensitive upon any expenditure of money for purposes
beyond the simplest necessities of personal and family life. This
result is both natural and inevitable. A man whose life, in and
out of his counting-room, is absorbed by business, ceases, at
last, to be any thing but a man of business; and his mind
contracts and hardens down to its central, motive idea. That which
becomes the dominant aim and the grand end of life, always
determines the character of life; and I have known young men, even
before they have approached middle age, to become mean and miserly
to such a degree as to disappoint and disgust their friends,
simply in consequence of a few years' absorption in business.
Business is not life, nor is it life's end. It is simply a means
of life; and all true living lies outside of it. Ministry is the
mission of business--ministry to necessity, to comfort, and to a
personal, family, and social life into which business never
enters, save with an unwelcome foot and a disturbing hand. This
everlasting hugging of the burden of business, is, therefore, not
only a painful task, but it is permanently damaging to all who
indulge in it.

"It is very easy to talk," says my friend, with a load upon his
shoulders, "but talking does not pay notes at the bank, and keep
creditors easy, and provide for one's family." Granted: and now
will you be kind enough to tell me how many notes you ever paid at
bank, and how much provision you ever made for your family by
"mugging" over your troubles out of business hours? If your retort
is good for any thing, mine is. You never accomplished one good
thing in your life by making yourself and others unhappy through
constant dwelling upon trouble when not engaged in active efforts
to extricate yourself from it. You never gained a single inch of
progress by dwelling upon miscarriages in business which you could
not avoid. All your absorption, all your sad reflection, all your
misgivings about the future, all your care beyond the exercise of
your best ability in action, has not only been utterly useless,
but it has injured the comfort of all around you, destroyed the
peace of your life, cheated you out of the reward of your labor,
and made a smaller, harder, meaner man of you. If any good result
could be secured by carrying the burden of your business into all
your life, then there would be some apology for it; but you know
that no such result can be secured. "It is very easy to talk," my
friend persists in saying, "but one cannot always command one's
mind, in such a matter as this." Did you ever try? Have you ever
systematically tried to do this? Is it your regular aim, after you
have discharged the business of the day, to throw off care until
the next day's business is undertaken? No? Then how do you know
whether it is easy or not?

I believe it is in the power of every man, who has not too long
abused himself, to lay aside every night his pack of mental care
and anxiety, and enter into life. Not only this, but I believe
that it is absolutely essential to his business success that he do
this. A man who dwells constantly upon the dark side of his
affairs, and is troubled and gloomy in his apprehensions
concerning the future, becomes a weak and timid man--disqualified
in many essential respects for the work of his life. His mind
needs rest and revivification. Suppose an ass were to be treated
in the manner in which men treat themselves. Suppose the burden
which we place upon him during the day were kept lashed to his
back at night, so that he must bear it, either standing or lying,
off duty as well as on. How long would he be worth any thing for
labor? The illustration is apposite in every particular. If the
mind is to be kept fit for business, it is at regular periods to
be kept out of business. A great multitude of business failures
are attributable, I have no doubt, to the debilitating and
damaging effect of carrying the burdens of business between
business hours. Men become in a measure sick and insane by
dwelling upon their affairs, when they should be receiving rest
and refreshment.

Again, men who insist upon keeping their packs upon their
shoulders, practically deny the existence of the providence of a
Being superior to themselves, and dominant in all human affairs.
If I were to say to one of these men: "you do not believe in
Providence at all," he would accuse me of a harsh judgment, and
feel injured by it; but it is certainly legitimate for me to ask
him what evidence he gives of his belief. All, indeed, profess to
believe in Providence, in a certain general way. The popular idea
is very foggy upon the matter. We somehow imagine that God knows
every thing in general and nothing in particular--that He takes
interest in, supervision of, and controlling influence over,
matters at large, with an imperial disregard of details--that He
moulds with a majestic hand the character and destiny of nations,
but never condescends to meddle with the small and insignificant
affairs of individuals. Providence, in this view, would seem to be
very much like certain tongs used in a blacksmith's shop, whose
jaws do not wholly close--convenient for handling large pieces of
iron, but incapable of grasping a nail. Or, Providence is like a
great general, who only directs the movements of large bodies of
men, deals only with the officers, and never thinks of so small a
thing as looking after the blanket of a private soldier, or
dressing a wounded finger.

It is very easy to perceive that such a Providence as this has no
practical value in every-day, individual life. Very evidently it
is not that Providence which numbers the hairs of men's heads, and
without whose notice not a sparrow falls to the ground. One is a
Providence made by men who undertake to measure God by themselves;
the other is the Providence revealed in the Bible. God exercises a
special providence, which reaches to the minutest affairs of the
most insignificant man, or we are all in a condition of essential
orphanage. A special Providence denied, and prayer becomes a
mockery, devotion a deceit, and the sense of individual
responsibility slavery to a superstitious idea. Now I do not
pretend to address myself to men who do not believe in prayer. I
know men well enough to know that there are very few of them who
do not believe in prayer, and that there are very few of them who
do not, particularly in moments of danger, pray. Deep down under
the thickest crusts of depravity there lies the conviction, always
ready to rise in painful emergencies, that God takes cognizance of
every man, and is able to help him. Smooth away the idea of
Providence as we may, into an unmeaning generality, the time
comes, in every man's life, when he recognizes the fact that God
is dealing with him; and he may as well recognize the fact all the
time as when he is driven to feel that he has no help in himself.

So, if there be a special Providence, it is a Providence to be
trusted; and the man who believes in it has no apology for
carrying a single unnecessary burden. This providence in all human
affairs, is like the principle of vitality in the vegetable world.
It does not release us from effort, in every legitimate and
needful way, for the accomplishment of our laudable purposes; but
when our efforts are complete, it takes care of the rest. What
should we think of the farmer who could never roll the burden of
his cornfield from his mind, and who, after hoeing his ground
repeatedly, and cutting or covering every weed, should go night
after night and sit up with it, and think of it, and dream of it
all the while? He has done all there is for him to do, and beyond
this he cannot control an hour of sunshine, a drop of dew, or a
single cloud-full of rain. He cannot influence the law of growth
in any particular. His field is in the control of a power entirely
above and beyond him; and every thought he gives to it, after
having done what he can for its prosperity, is utterly useless. It
is his business to trust. Having done what he can, the remainder
is in the hands of Him who feeds the springs of being with light
and heat and moisture. It is thus that man's affairs grow while he
sleeps. The hand that ministers to every plant will not fail to
minister to him for whose use the plant was made.

Why do not men trust in Providence? Simply because, in their usual
moods and in their usual circumstances, they do not believe in it.
There is no other explanation. You, my friend, who carry your
burdens around on your shoulders all the time, and who, perhaps,
pray every morning and every night, do not believe in Providence.
You do not feel that you can trust Providence. You assent to all
that I say upon the subject, but, after all, your belief in
Providence has no genuine vitality. You do not believe in it as
you believe in the purity of your wife or the honor of your
friend. You do not rely upon it for an hour. You do nod your head
and say--"yes, yes;" and you think you are sincere; but you
deceive yourself. So long as you persist in carrying your pack,
which is a very unpleasant burden, as you know, you do not believe
in Providence; else you would trust in it. You are tired and
harassed by your daily labor; and it is very natural to suppose
that if you could remove your burden each evening, and place it in
the charge of one whom you believe would take care of it, you
would do it with gladness. You fail to do it, and what is the
natural conclusion? It is that your belief in Providence is a
humbug. You believe in the honor of your friend, and you trust it.
You believe in the honesty and ability of your creditor, and you
trust him. You trust every thing and everybody that you firmly
believe in; and the only reason under heaven why you do not roll
off the burden that oppresses you, every day and every hour of
your life, and commit it to the care of Providence, is, that you
do not believe in Providence.

We are in the habit of talking about the world as a world of care,
and speaking of human life as inseparably accompanied by trouble.
This is, indeed, the truth; but if we were to remove from the
world all its useless care, and take from life all its unnecessary
trouble, they would be transformed into such bright and pleasant
things that we should hardly know them. I know very few men and
women who do not bear about with them care and trouble which God
never put upon them, and which He has no desire to see upon their
shoulders. It does not belong to them. It relates to things that
are in the realm of Providence alone, or to things over which they
have no control. The future is God's, but they voluntarily take it
upon their shoulders, and try to bear it. They pluck a section of
God's eternity out of His hands, and groan with the burden. They
assume care which is not their own--which belongs to the
Controller of their lives, and the Governor of the universe. It is
care for that which is beyond human care--anxiety for that which
anxiety cannot reach--trouble about that which we can neither
make nor mend--that oppresses humanity. We can bear our daily
burdens very well. We can go through our regular hours of bodily
and mental labor, and feel the better rather than the worse for
it; but to care for that which our care cannot touch, and to be
troubled about that which is entirely beyond our sphere--this is
the burden that breaks the back of the world--this is the burden
which we bind to our shoulders with obstinate fatuity.




LESSON XXI.

PROPER PEOPLE AND PERFECT PEOPLE.


"I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind
To blow on whom I please." SHAKSPEARE.

"They say best men are moulded out of faults."
THE SAME.