Henry James - "Nona Vincent"

Padraic Colum - "The King of Ireland's Son"

Mark Rutherford - "The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford"

J.M. Barrie - "The Little Minister"

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: Lothair

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Lothair




"I think I must have some tea," she said, "and I like to go with my
kinsman."

Just before supper was announced, Lady St. Jerome told Lothair, to his
surprise, that he was to attend Miss Arundel to the great ceremony. "It
is Clare's ball," said Lady St. Jerome, "given in her honor, and you are
to take care of her."

"I am more than honored," said Lothair. "But does Miss Arundel wish it,
for, to tell you the truth, I thought I had rather abused her indulgence
this evening?"

"Of course she wishes it," said Lady St. Jerome. "Who should lead her
out on such an occasion -- her own ball -- than the nearest and dearest
relation she has in the world, except ourselves?"

Lothair made no reply to this unanswerable logic, but was as surprised
as he was gratified. He recalled the hour when the kinship was, at the
best, but coldly recognized, the inscrutable haughtiness, even distrust,
with which Miss Arundel listened to the exposition of his views and
feelings, and the contrast which her past mood presented to her present
brilliant sympathy and cordial greeting. But he yielded to the magic of
the flowing hour. Miss Arundel, seemed, indeed, quite a changed being
to-night, full of vivacity, fancy, feeling -- almost fun. She was
witty, and humorous, and joyous, and fascinating. As he fed her with
cates as delicate as her lips, and manufactured for her dainty beverages
which would not outrage their purity, Lothair, at last, could not
refrain from intimating his sense of her unusual but charming
joyousness.

"No," she said, turning round with animation, "my natural disposition,
always repressed, because I have felt overwhelmed by the desolation of
the world. But now I have hope; I have more than hope, I have joy. I
feel sure this idea of the restoration of Christendom comes from Heaven.
It has restored me to myself, and has given me a sense of happiness in
this life which I never could contemplate. But what is the climax of my
joy is, that you, after all my own blood, and one in whose career I have
ever felt the deepest interest, should be ordained to lay, as it were,
the first stone of this temple of divine love."

It was break of day when Lothair jumped into his brougham. "Thank
Heaves," he exclaimed, "it is at last Friday!"



CHAPTER 29


There is something very pleasant in a summer suburban ride in the valley
of the Thames. London transforms itself into bustling Knightsbridge,
and airy Brompton, brightly and gracefully, lingers cheerfully in the
long, miscellaneous, well-watered King's-road, and only says farewell
when you come to an abounding river and a picturesque bridge. The boats
were bright upon the waters when Lothair crossed it, and his dark
chestnut barb, proud of its resplendent form, curveted with joy when it.
reached a green common, studded occasionally with a group of pines and
well bedecked with gorse. After this he pursued the public road for a
couple of miles until he observed on his left hand a gate on which was
written "private road," and here he stopped. The gate was locked, but,
when Lothair assured the keeper that he was about to visit Belmont, he
was permitted to enter.

He entered a green and winding lane, fringed with tall elms, and dim
with fragrant shade, and, after proceeding about half a mile, came to a
long, low-built lodge, with a thatched and shelving roof, and surrounded
by a rustic colonnade covered with honeysuckle. Passing through the
gate at hand, he found himself in a road winding through
gently-undulating banks of exquisite turf, studded with rare shrubs,
and, occasionally, rarer trees. Suddenly the confined scene expanded;
wide lawns spread out before him, shadowed with the dark forms of many
huge cedars, and blazing with flower-beds of every hue. The house was
also apparent, a stately mansion of hewn stone, with wings and a portico
of Corinthian columns, and backed by deep woods.

This was Belmont, built by a favorite minister of state, to whom a
grateful and gracious sovereign had granted a slice of a royal park
whereon to raise a palace and a garden, and find occasionally Tusculan
repose.

The lady of the mansion was at home, and, though Lothair was quite
prepared for this, his heart beat. The inner hall was of noble
proportion, and there were ranged in it many Roman busts, and some
ancient slabs and altars of marble. These had been collected some
century ago by the minister; but what immediately struck the eye of
Lothair were two statues by an American artist, and both of fame, the
Sybil and the Cleopatra. He had heard of these, but had never seen
them, and could not refrain from lingering a moment to gaze upon their
mystical and fascinating beauty.

He proceeded through two spacious and lofty chambers, of which it was
evident the furniture was new. It was luxurious and rich, and full of
taste; but there was no attempt to recall the past in the details; no
cabinets and clocks of French kings, or tables of French queens, no
chairs of Venetian senators, no candelabra, that had illumined Doges of
Genoa, no ancient porcelain of rare schools, and ivory carvings and
choice enamels. The walls were hung with master-pieces of modern art,
chiefly of the French school, Ingres and Delaroche and Scheffer.

The last saloon led into a room of smaller dimensions, opening on the
garden, and which Lothair at first thought must be a fernery, it seemed
so full of choice and expanding specimens of that beautiful and
multiform plant; but, when his eye had become a little accustomed to the
scene and to the order of the groups, be perceived they were only the
refreshing and profuse ornaments of a regularly furnished and inhabited
apartment. In its centre was a table covered with writing-materials and
books and some music. There was a chair before the table, so placed as
if some one had only recently quitted it; a book was open, but turned
upon its face, with an ivory cutter by its side. It would seem that the
dweller in the chamber might not be far distant. The servant invited
Lothair to be seated, and, saying that Mrs. Campian must be in the
garden, proceeded to inform his mistress of the arrival of a guest.

The room opened on a terrace adorned with statues and orange-trees, and
descending gently into a garden in the Italian style, in the centre of
which was a marble fountain of many figures. The grounds were not
extensive, but they were only separated from the royal park by a wire
fence, so that the scene seemed alike rich and illimitable. On the
boundary was a summer-house in the shape of a classic temple, one of
those pavilions of pleasure which nobles loved to raise in the last
century.

As Lothair beheld the scene with gratification, the servant reappeared
on the step of the terrace and invited him to descend. Guiding him
through the garden, the servant retired as Lothair recognized Mrs.
Campian approaching them.

She gave her hand to Lothair and welcomed him cordially but with
serenity. They mutually exchanged hopes that their return to town had
been agreeable. Lothair could not refrain from expressing how pleased
he was with Belmont.

"I am glad you approve of our hired home," said Theodora; "I think we
were fortunate in finding one that suits our tastes and habits. We love
pictures and statues and trees and flowers, and yet we love our friends,
and our friends are people who live in cities."

"I think I saw two statues to-day of which I have often heard," said
Lothair.

"The Sibyl and Cleopatra! Yes Colonel Campian is rather proud of
possessing them. He collects only modern art, for which I believe there
is a great future, though some of our friends think it is yet in its
cradle."

"I am very sorry to say," said Lothair, "that I know very little about
art, or indeed any thing else, but I admire what is beautiful. I know
something about architecture, at least church architecture."

"Well, religion has produced some of our finest buildings," said
Theodora; "there is no question of that; and as long as they are adapted
to what takes place in them they are admirable. The fault I find in
modern churches in this country is, that there is little relation between
the ceremonies and the structure. Nobody seems now conscious that every
true architectural form has a purpose. But I think the climax of
confused ideas is capped when dissenting chapels are built like
cathedrals."

"Ah! to build a cathedral!" exclaimed Lothair, "that is a great
enterprise. I wish I might show you some day some drawings I have of a
projected cathedral."

"A projected cathedral!" said Theodora. "Well, I must confess to you I
never could comprehend the idea of a Protestant cathedral."

"But I am not quite sure," said Lothair, blushing and agitated, "that it
will be a Protestant cathedral. I have not made up my mind about that."

Theodora glanced at him, unobserved, with her wonderful gray eyes; a
sort of supernatural light seemed to shoot from beneath their long dark
lashes and read his inmost nature. They were all this time returning,
as she had suggested, to the house. Rather suddenly she said,
"By-the-by, as you are so fond of art, I ought to have asked you whether
you would like to see a work by the sculptor of Cleopatra, which arrived
when we were at Oxford. We have placed it on a pedestal in the temple.
It is the Genius of Freedom. I may say I was assisting at its
inauguration when your name was announced to me."

Lothair caught at this proposal, and they turned and approached the
temple. Some workmen were leaving the building as they entered, and one
or two lingered.

Upon a pedestal of porphyry rose the statue of a female in marble.
Though veiled with drapery which might have become the Goddess of
Modesty, admirable art permitted the contour of the perfect form to be
traced. The feet were without sandals, and the undulating breadth of
one shoulder, where the drapery was festooned, remained uncovered. One
expected with such a shape some divine visage. That was not wanting;
but humanity was asserted in the transcendent brow, which beamed with
sublime thought and profound enthusiasm.

Some would have sighed that such beings could only be pictured in a
poet's or an artist's dream, but Lothair felt that what he beheld with
rapture was no ideal creation, and that he was in the presence of the
inspiring original.

"It is too like!" he murmured.

"It is the most successful recurrence to the true principles of art in
modern sculpture," said a gentleman on his right hand,

This person was a young man, though more than ten years older than
Lothair. His appearance was striking. Above the middle height, his
form, athletic though lithe and symmetrical, was crowned by a
countenance aquiline but delicate, and from many circumstances of a
remarkable radiancy. The lustre of his complexion, the fire of his eye,
and his chestnut hair in profuse curls, contributed much to this
dazzling effect. A thick but small mustache did not conceal his curved
lip or the scornful pride of his distended nostril, and his beard, close
but not long, did not veil the singular beauty of his mouth. It was an
arrogant face, daring and vivacious, yet weighted with an expression of
deep and haughty thought.

The costume of this gentleman was rich and picturesque. Such
extravagance of form and color is sometimes encountered in the
adventurous toilet of a country house, but rarely experienced in what
might still be looked upon as a morning visit in the metropolis.

"You know Mr. Phoebus?" asked a low, clear voice, and turning round
Lothair was presented to a person so famous that even Lothair had heard
of him.

Mr. Phoebus was the most successful, not to say the most eminent, painter
of the age. He was the descendant of a noble family of Gascony that had
emigrated to England from France in the reign of Louis XIV.
Unquestionably they had mixed their blood frequently during the interval
and the vicissitudes of their various life; but, in Gaston Phoebus,
Nature, as is sometimes her wont, had chosen to reproduce exactly the
original type. He was the Gascon noble of the sixteenth century, with
all his brilliancy, bravery, and boastfulness, equally vain, arrogant,
and eccentric, accomplished in all the daring or the graceful pursuits
of man, yet nursed in the philosophy of our times.

"It is presumption in my talking about such things," said Lothair; "but
might I venture to ask what you may consider the true principles of
art?"

"ARYAN principles," said Mr. Phoebus; "not merely the study of Nature,
but of beautiful Nature; the art of design in a country inhabited by a
first-rate race, and where the laws, the manners, the customs, are
calculated to maintain the health and beauty of a first-rate race. In a
greater or less degree, these conditions obtained from the age of
Pericles to the age of Hadrian in pure Aryan communities, but Semitism
began then to prevail, and ultimately triumphed. Semitism has destroyed
art; it taught man to despise his own body, and the essence of art is to
honor the human frame."

"I am afraid I ought not to talk about such things," said Lothair; "but,
if by Semitism you mean religion, surely the Italian painters inspired
by Semitism did something."

"Great things," said Mr. Phoebus -- "some of the greatest. Semitism gave
them subjects, but the Renaissance gave them Aryan art, and it gave that
art to a purely Aryan race. But Semitism rallied in the shape of the
Reformation, and swept all away. When Leo the Tenth was pope, popery
was pagan; popery is now Christian, and art is extinct."

"I cannot enter into such controversies," said Lothair. "Every day I
feel more and more I am extremely ignorant."

"Do not regret it," said Mr. Phoebus. "What you call ignorance is your
strength. By ignorance you mean a want of knowledge of books. Books
are fatal; they are the curse of the human race. Nine-tenths of
existing books are nonsense, and the clever books are the refutation of
that nonsense. The greatest misfortune that ever befell man was the
invention of printing. Printing has destroyed education. Art is a
great thing, and Science is a great thing; but all that art and science
can reveal can be taught by man and by his attributes -- his voice, his
hand, his eye. The essence of education is the education of the body.
Beauty and health are the chief sources of happiness. Men should live
in the air; their exercises should be regular, varied, scientific. To
render his body strong and supple is the first duty of man. He should
develop and completely master the whole muscular system. What I admire
in the order to which you belong is that they do live in the air; that
they excel in athletic sports; that they can only speak one language;
and that they never read. This is not a complete education, but it is
the highest education since the Greek."

"What you say I feel encouraging," said Lothair, repressing a smile,
"for I myself live very much in the air, and am fond of all sports; but
I confess I am often ashamed of being so poor a linguist, and was
seriously thinking that I ought to read."

"No doubt every man should combine an intellectual with a physical
training," replied Mr. Phoebus; "but the popular conception of the means
is radically wrong. Youth should attend lectures on art and science by
the most illustrious professors, and should converse together afterward
on what they have heard. They should learn to talk; it is a rare
accomplishment, and extremely healthy. They should have music always at
their meals. The theatre, entirely remodelled and reformed, and, under
a minister of state, should be an important element of education. I
should not object to the recitation of lyric poetry. That is enough. I
would not have a book in the house, or even see a newspaper."

"These are Aryan principles?" said Lothair.

"They are," said Mr. Phoebus; "and of such principles, I believe, a great
revival is at hand. We shall both live to see another Renaissance."

"And our artist here," said Lothair, pointing to the statue, "you are of
opinion that he is asserting these principles?"

"Yes; because he has produced the Aryan form by studying the Aryan
form. Phidias never had a finer model, and he has not been unequal to
it."

"I fancied," said Lothair, in a lower and inquiring tone, though Mrs.
Campian had some time before glided out of the pavilion, and was giving
directions to the workmen -- "I fancied I had heard that Mrs. Campian
was a Roman."

"The Romans were Greeks," said Mr. Phoebus, "and in this instance the
Phidian type came out. It has not been thrown away. I believe Theodora
has inspired as many painters and sculptors as any Aryan goddess. I
look upon her as such, for I know nothing more divine."

"I fear the Phidian type is very rare," said Lothair.

"In nature and in art there must always be surpassing instances," said
Mr. Phoebus. "It is a law, and a wise one; but, depend upon it, so
strong and perfect a type as the original Aryan must be yet abundant
among the millions, and may be developed. But for this you want great
changes in your laws. It is the first duty of a state to attend to the
frame and health of the subject. The Spartans understood this. They
permitted no marriage the probable consequences of which might be a
feeble progeny; they even took measures to secure a vigorous one. The
Romans doomed the deformed to immediate destruction. The union of the
races concerns the welfare of the commonwealth much too nearly to be
intrusted to individual arrangement. The fate of a nation will
ultimately depend upon the strength and health of the population. Both
France and England should look to this; they have cause. As for our
mighty engines of war in the hands of a puny race, it will be the old
story of the lower empire and the Greek fire. Laws should be passed to
secure all this, and some day they will be. But nothing can be done
until the Aryan races are extricated from Semitism."



CHAPTER 30


Lothair returned to town in a not altogether satisfactory state of mind.
He was not serene or content. On the contrary, he was rather agitated
and perplexed. He could not say he regretted his visit. He had seen
her, and he had seen her to great advantage. He had seen much too that
was pleasing, and had heard also many things that, if not pleasing, were
certainly full of interest. And yet, when he cantered back over the
common, the world somehow did not seem to him so bright and exhilarating
as in the ambling morn. Was it because she was not alone? And yet why
should he expect she should be alone? She had many friends, and she was
as accessible to them as to himself. And yet a conversation with her,
as in the gardens of Blenheim, would have been delightful, and he had
rather counted on it. Nevertheless, it was a great thing to know men
like Mr. Phoebus, and hear their views on the nature of things. Lothair
was very young, and was more thoughtful than studious. His education
hitherto had been, according to Mr. Phoebus, on the right principle, and
chiefly in the open air; but he was intelligent and susceptible, and in
the atmosphere of Oxford, now stirred with many thoughts, he had imbibed
some particles of knowledge respecting the primeval races which had
permitted him to follow the conversation of Mr. Phoebus not absolutely in
a state of hopeless perplexity. He determined to confer with Father
Coleman on the Aryan race and the genius of Semitism. As he returned
through the park, he observed the duchess, and Lady Corisande in their
barouche, resting for a moment in the shade, with Lord Carisbrooke on
one side and the Duke of Brecon on the other.

As he was dressing for dinner, constantly brooding on one thought, the
cause of his feeling of disappointment occurred to him. He had hoped in
this visit to have established some basis of intimacy, and to have
ascertained his prospect and his means of occasionally seeing her. But
he had done nothing of the kind. He could not well call again at
Belmont under a week, but even then Mr. Phoebus or some one else might be
there. The world seemed dark. He wished he had never gone to Oxford.
However a man may plan his life, he is the creature of circumstances.
The unforeseen happens and upsets every thing. We are mere puppets.

He sat next to an agreeable woman at dinner, who gave him an interesting
account of a new singer she had heard the night before at the opera -- a
fair Scandinavian, fresh as a lily and sweet as a nightingale.

"I was resolved to go and hear her," said the lady; "my sister Feodore,
at Paris, had written to me so much about her. Do you know, I have
never been to the opera for an age! That alone was quite a treat to me.
I never go to the opera, nor to the play, nor to any thing else.
Society has become so large and so exacting, that I have found out one
never gets any amusement."

"Do you know, I never was at the opera?" said Lothair.

"I am not at all surprised; and when you go -- which I suppose you will
some day -- what will most strike you is, that you will not see a single
person you ever saw in your life."

"Strange!"

"Yes; it shows what a mass of wealth and taste and refinement there is
in this wonderful metropolis of ours, quite irrespective of the circles
in which we move, and which we once thought entirely engrossed them."

After the ladies had retired, Bertram, who dined at the same house,
moved up to him; and Hugo Bohun came over and took the vacant seat on
his other side.

"What have you been doing with yourself?" said Hugo. "We have not seen
you for a week."

"I went down to Oxford about some horses," said Lothair.

"Fancy going down to Oxford about some horses in the heart of the
season," said Hugo. "I believe you are selling us, and that, as the
Scorpion announces, you are going to be married."

"To whom?" said Lothair.

"Ah! that is the point. It is a dark horse at present, and we want you
to tell us."

"Why do not you marry, Hugo?" said Bertram.

"I respect the institution," said Hugo, "which is admitting something in
these days; and I have always thought that every woman should marry, and
no man."

"It makes a woman and it mars a man, you think?" said Lothair.

"But I do not exactly see how your view would work practically," said
Bertram.

"Well my view is a social problem," said Hugo, "and social problems are
the fashion at present. It would be solved through the exceptions,
which prove the principle. In the first place, there are your swells
who cannot avoid the halter -- you are booked when you are born; and
then there are moderate men like myself, who have their weak moments. I
would not answer for myself if I could find an affectionate family with
good shooting and first-rate claret."

"There must be many families with such conditions," said Lothair.

Hugo shook his head. "You try. Sometimes the wine is good and the
shooting bad; sometimes the reverse; sometimes both are excellent, but
then the tempers and the manners are equally bad."

"I vote we three do something to-morrow," said Bertram.

"What shall it be?" said Hugo.

"I vote we row down to Richmond at sunset and dine, and then drive our
teams up by moonlight. What say you, Lothair?"

"I cannot, I am engaged. I am engaged to go to the opera."

"Fancy going to the opera in this sweltering weather!" exclaimed
Bertram.

"He must be going to be married," said Hugo.

And yet on the following evening, though the weather was quite as sultry
and he was not going to be married, to the opera Lothair went. While
the agreeable lady the day before was dilating at dinner on this once
famous entertainment, Lothair remembered that a certain person went
there every Saturday evening, and he resolved that be should at least
have the satisfaction of seeing her.

It was altogether a new scene for Lothair, and, being much affected by
music, he found the general influence so fascinating that some little
time elapsed before he was sufficiently master of himself to recur to
the principal purpose of his presence. His box was on the first tier,
where he could observe very generally and yet himself be sufficiently
screened. As an astronomer surveys the starry heavens until his
searching sight reaches the desired planet, so Lothair's scrutinizing
vision wandered till his eye at length lighted on the wished-for orb.
In the circle above his own, opposite to him but nearer the stage, he
recognized the Campians. She had a star upon her forehead, as when he
first met her some six months ago; it seemed an age.

Now what should he do? He was quite unlearned in the social habits of
an opera-house. He was not aware that he had the privilege of paying
the lady a visit in her box, and, had he been so, he was really so shy
in little things that he never could have summoned resolution to open
the door of his own box and request an attendant to show him that of
Mrs. Campian. He had contrived to get to the opera for the first time
in his life, and the effort seemed to have exhausted his social
enterprise. So h remained still, with his glass fixed very constantly
on Mrs. Campian, and occasionally giving himself up to the scene. The
performance did not sustain the first impression. There were rival
prima-donnas, and they indulged in competitive screams; the choruses
were coarse, and the orchestra much too noisy. But the audience were
absorbed or enthusiastic. We may be a musical nation, but our taste
would seem to require some refinement.