G.A. Henty - "With Lee in Virginia; A Story Of The American Civil War"

Sir Samuel White Baker - "In the Heart of Africa"

Sir Winston S. Churchill - "The Story of the Malakand Field Force"

G. A. Henty - "In Freedom's Cause"

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




"Yet the risk would not be very great under those circumstances," said
Theodora.

"The destruction of this worlds foretold," said Lothair; "the stars are
to fall from the sky; but while I credit, I cannot bring my mind to
comprehend, such a catastrophe."

"I have seen a world created and a world destroyed," said Gozelius.
"The last was flickering ten years, and it went out as I was watching
it."

"And the first?" inquired Lothair, anxiously.

"Disturbed space for half a century -- a great pregnancy. William
Herschel told me it would come when I was a boy, and I cruised for it
through two-thirds of my life. It came at last, and it repaid me."

There was a stir. Euphrosyne was going to sing with her sister. They
swept by Lothair in their progress to the instrument, like the passage
of sultanas to some kiosk on the Bosporus. It seemed to him that he had
never beheld any thing so resplendent. The air was perfumed by their
movement and the rustling of their wondrous robes. "They must be of the
Aryan race," thought Lothair, "though not of the Phidian type." They
sang a Greek air, and their sweet and touching voices blended with
exquisite harmony. Every one was silent in the room, because every one
was entranced. Then they gave their friends some patriotic lay which
required chorus, the sisters, in turn, singing a stanza. Mr. Phoebus
arranged the chorus in a moment, and there clustered round the piano al
number of gentlemen almost as good-looking and as picturesque as
himself. Then, while Madame Phoebus was singing, Euphrosyne suddenly,
and with quickness, moved away and approached Theodora, and whispered
something to her, but Theodora slightly shook her head, and seemed to
decline.

Euphrosyne regained the piano, whispered something to Colonel Campian,
who was one of the chorus, and then commenced her own part. Colonel
Campian crossed the room and spoke to Theodora, who instantly, without
the slightest demur, joined her friends. Lothair felt agitated, as he
could not doubt Theodora was going to sing. And so it was; when
Euphrosyne had finished, and the chorus she had inspired had died away,
there rose a deep contralto sound, which, though without effort, seemed
to Lothair the most thrilling tone he had ever listened to. Deeper and
richer, and richer and deeper, it seemed to become, as it wound with
exquisite facility through a symphony of delicious sound, until it ended
in a passionate burst, which made Lothair's heart beat so tumultuously
that for a moment he thought he should be overpowered.

"I never heard any thing so fine in my life," said Lothair to the French
philosopher.

"Ah! if you had heard that woman sing the Marseillaise, as I did once,
to three thousand people, then you would know what was fine. Not one of
us who would not have died on the spot for her!"

The concert was over. The Princess of Tivoli had risen to say farewell.
She stood apart with Theodora, holding both her hands, and speaking with
earnestness. Then she pressed her lips to Theodora's forehead, and
said, "Adieu, my best beloved; the spring will return."

The princess had disappeared, and Madame Phoebus came up to say
good-night to her hostess.

"It is such a delicious night," said Theodora, "that I have ordered our
strawberries-and-cream on the terrace. You must not go."

And so she invited them all to the terrace. There was not a breath of
air, the garden was flooded with moonlight, in which the fountain
glittered, and the atmosphere was as sweet as it was warm.

"I think the moon will melt the ice to-night," said Theodora, as she led
Madame Phoebus to a table covered with that innocent refreshment in many
forms, and pyramids of strawberries, and gentle drinks which the fancy
of America could alone devise.

"I wonder we did not pass the whole evening on the terrace," said
Lothair.

"One must sing in a room," said Euphrosyne, "or the nightingales would
eclipse us."

Lothair looked quickly at the speaker, and caught the glance of a
peculiar countenance -- mockery blended with Ionian splendor.

"I think strawberries-and-cream the most popular of all food," said
Madame Phoebus, as some touched her beautiful lips.

"Yes; and one is not ashamed of eating it," said Theodora.

Soon there was that stir which precedes the breaking up of an assembly.
Mrs. Giles and some others had to return to town. Madame Phoebus and
Euphrosyne were near neighbors at Roehampton, but their carriage had
been for some time waiting. Mr. Phoebus did not accompany them. He
chose to walk home on such a night, and descended into the garden with
his remaining friends.

"They are going to smoke," said Theodora. "Is it your habit?"

"Not yet."

"I do not dislike it in the air and at a distance; but I banish them the
terrace. I think smoking must be a great consolation to a soldier;"
and, as she spoke, she moved, and, without formally inviting him, he
found himself walking by her side.

Rather abruptly he said, "You wore last night at the opera the same
ornament as on the first time I had the pleasure meeting you."

She looked at him with a smile, and a little surprised. "My solitary
trinket; I fear you will never see any other."

"But you do not despise trinkets?" said Lothair.

"Oh no; they are very well. Once I was decked with jewels and ropes of
pearls, like Titian's Queen of Cyprus. I sometimes regret my pearls.
There is a reserve about pearls which I like -- something soft and dim.
But they are all gone, and I ought not to regret them, for they went in
a good cause. I kept the star, because it was given to me by a hero;
and once we flattered ourselves it was a symbol."

"I wish I were a hero!" said Lothair.

"You may yet prove one."

"And if I do, may I give you a star?"

"If it be symbolical."

"But of what?"

"Of an heroic purpose."

"But what is an heroic purpose?" exclaimed Lothair. "Instead of being
here to-night, I ought, perhaps, to have been present at a religious
function of the highest and deepest import, which might have influenced
my destiny, and led to something heroic. But my mind is uncertain and
unsettled. I speak to you without reserve, for my heart always entirely
opens to you, and I have a sort of unlimited confidence in your
judgment. Besides, I have never forgotten what you said at Oxford about
religion -- that you could not conceive society without religion. It is
what I feel myself, and most strongly; and yet there never was a period
when religion was so assailed. There is no doubt the atheists are
bolder, are more completely organized, both as to intellectual and even
physical force, than ever was known. I have heard that from the highest
authority. For my own part, I think I am prepared to die for Divine
truth. I have examined myself severely, but I do not think I should
falter. Indeed, can there be for man a nobler duty than to be the
champion of God? But then the question of the churches interferes. If
there were only one church, I could see my way. Without a church, there
can be no true religion, because otherwise you have no security for the
truth. I am a member of the Church of England, and when I was at Oxford
I thought the Anglican view might be sustained. But, of late, I have
given ray mind deeply to these matters, for, after all, they are the
only matters a man should think of; and, I confess to you, the claim of
Rome to orthodoxy seems to me irresistible."

"You make no distinction, then, between religion and orthodoxy?" said
Theodora.

"Certainly I make no difference."

"And yet, what is orthodox at Dover is not orthodox at Calais or Ostend.
I should be sorry to think that, because there was no orthodoxy in
Belgium or France, there was no religion."

"Yes," said Lothair, "I think I see what you mean."

"Then again, if we go further," continued Theodora, "there is the whole
of the East; that certainly is not orthodox, according to your views.
You may not agree with all or any of their opinions, but you could
scarcely maintain that, as communities, they are irreligious."

"Well, you could not, certainly," said Lothair.

"So you see," said Theodora, "what is called orthodoxy has very little
to do with religion; and a person may be very religious without holding
the same dogmas as yourself, or, as some think, without holding any."

"According to you, then," said Lothair, "the Anglican view might be
maintained."

"I do not know what the Anglican view is," said Theodora. "I do not
belong to the Roman or to the Anglican Church."

"And yet, you are very religious," said Lothair.

"I hope so; I try to be so; and, when I fail in any duty, it is not the
fault of my religion. I never deceive myself into that; I know it is my
own fault."

There was a pause; but they walked on. The soft splendor of the scene
and all its accessories, the moonlight, and the fragrance, and the
falling waters, wonderfully bewitched the spirit of the young Lothair.

"There is nothing I would not tell you," he suddenly exclaimed, turning
to Theodora, "and sometimes I think there is nothing you would not tell
me. Tell me, then, I entreat you, what is your religion?"

"The true religion, I think," said Theodora. "I worship in a church
where I believe God dwells, and dwells for my guidance and my good -- my
conscience."

"Your conscience may be divine," said Lothair, "and I believe it is; but
the consciences of other persons are not divine, and what is to guide
them, and what is to prevent or to mitigate the evil they would
perpetrate?"

"I have never heard from priests," said Theodora, "any truth which my
conscience had not revealed to me. They use different language from
what I use, but I find, after a time, that we mean the thing. What I
call time they call eternity; when they describe heaven, they give a
picture of earth; and beings whom they style divine, they invest with
all the attributes of humanity."

"And yet is it not true," said Lothair, "that -- "

But, at this moment, there were the sounds of merriment and of
approaching footsteps; the form of Mr. Phoebus appeared ascending the
steps of the terrace, followed by others. The smokers had fulfilled
their task. There were farewells, and bows, and good-nights. Lothair
had to retire with the others, and, as he threw himself into his
brougham, he exclaimed: "I perceive that life is not so simple an affair
as I once supposed."



CHAPTER 32


When the stranger, who had proved so opportune an ally to Lothair at the
Fenian meeting, separated from his companion, he proceeded in the
direction of Pentonville, and, after pursuing his way through a number
of obscure streets, but quiet, decent, and monotonous, he stopped at a
small house in a row of many residences, yet all of them, in, form,
size, color, and general character, so identical, that the number on the
door could alone assure the visitor that he was not in error when he
sounded the knocker.

"Ah! is it you, Captain Bruges?" said the smiling and blushing maiden
who answered to his summons. "We have not seen you for a long time."

"Well, you look as kind and as pretty as ever, Jenny," said the captain,
"and how is my friend?"

"Well," said the damsel, and she shrugged her shoulders, "he mopes. I'm
very glad you have come back, captain, for he sees very few now, and is
always writing. I cannot bear that writing; if he would only go and
take a good walk, I am sure he would be better."

"There is something in that," said Captain Bruges. "And is he at home,
and will he see me?"

"Oh! he is always at home to you, captain; but I will just run up and
tell him you are here. You know it is long since we have seen you,
captain -- coming on half a year, I think."

"Time flies, Jenny. Go, my good girl, and I will wait below."

"In the parlor, if you please, Captain Bruges. It is to let now. It is
more than a mouth since the doctor left us. That was a loss, for, as
long as the doctor was here, he always had some one to speak with."

So Captain Bruges entered the little dining-room with its mahogany
table, and half a dozen chairs, and cellaret, and over the fireplace a
portrait of Garibaldi, which had been left as a legacy to the landlady
by her late lodger, Dr. Tresorio.

The captain threw a quick glance at the print, and then, falling into
reverie, with his hands crossed behind him, paced the little chamber,
and was soon lost in thoughts which made him unconscious how long had
elapsed when the maiden summoned him.

Following her, and ascending the stair-case, he was ushered into the
front room of the first floor, and there came forward to meet him a man
rather below the middle height, but of a symmetrical and imposing mien.
His face was grave, not to say sad; thought, not time, had partially
silvered the clustering of his raven hair; but intellectual power
reigned in his wide brow, while determination was the character of the
rest of his countenance, under great control, yet apparently, from the
dark flashing of his eye, not incompatible with fanaticism.

"General," he exclaimed, "your presence always reanimates me. I shall
at least have some news on which I rely. Your visit is sudden -- sudden
things are often happy ones. Is there any thing stirring in the
promised land? Speak, speak! You have a thousand things to say, and I
have a thousand ears."

"My dear Mirandola," replied the visitor, "I will take leave to call
into council a friend whose presence is always profitable."

So saying, he took out a cigar-case, and offered it to his companion.

"We have smoked together in palaces," said Mirandola, accepting the
proffer with a delicate white hand.

"But not these cigars," replied the general. "They are superb, my only
reward for all my transatlantic work, and sometimes I think a sufficient
one."

"And Jenny shall give us a capital cup of coffee," said Mirandola; "it
is the only hospitality that I can offer my friends. Give me a light,
my general; and now, how are things?"

"Well, at the first glance, very bad; the French have left Rome, and we
are not in it."

"Well, that is an infamy not of today or yesterday," replied Mirandola,
"though not less an infamy. We talked over this six months ago, when
you were over here about something else, and from that moment unto the
present I have with unceasing effort labored to erase this stigma from
the human consciousness, but with no success. Men are changed; public
spirit is extinct; the deeds of '48 are to the present generations as
incomprehensible as the Punic wars, or the feats of Marius against the
Cimbri. What we want are the most natural things in the world, and easy
of attainment because they are natural. We want our metropolis, our
native frontiers, and true liberty. Instead of these, we have
compromises, conventions, provincial jealousies, and French prefects.
It is disgusting, heart-rending; sometimes I fear my own energies are
waning. My health is wretched; writing and speaking are decidedly bad
for me, and I pass my life in writing and speaking. Toward evening I
feel utterly exhausted, and am sometimes, which I thought I never could
be, the victim of despondency. The loss of the doctor was a severe
blow, but they hurried him out of the place. The man of Paris would
never rest till he was gone. I was myself thinking of once more trying
Switzerland, but the obstacles are great; and, in truth, I was at the
darkest moment when Jenny brought me the light of your name."

The general, who had bivouacked on a group of small chairs, his leg on
one, his elbow on another, took his cigar from his mouth and delivered
himself of a volume of smoke, and then said dryly: "Things may not be so
bad as they seem, comrade. Your efforts have not been without fruit. I
have traced them in many quarters, and, indeed, it is about their
possible consequences that I have come over to consult with you."

"Idle words, I know, never escape those lips," said Mirandola; "speak
on."

"Well," said the general, "you see that people are a little exhausted by
the efforts of last year; and it must be confessed that no slight
results were accomplished. The freedom of Venice -- "

"A French intrigue," exclaimed Mirandola. "The freedom of Venice is the
price of the slavery of Rome. I heard of it with disgust."

"Well, we do not differ much on that head," said the general. "I am not
a Roman as you are, but I view Rome, with reference to the object of my
life, with feelings not less ardent and absorbing than yourself, who
would wish to see it again the empress of the world. I am a soldier,
and love war, and, left to myself, would care little perhaps for what
form of government I combated, provided the army was constituted on the
principles of fraternity and equality; but the passion of my life, to
which I have sacrificed military position, and perhaps," he added in a
lower tone, "perhaps even military fame, has been to destroy
priestcraft, and, so long as the pope rules in Rome, it will be
supreme."

"We have struck him down once," said Mirandola.

"And I hope we shall again, and forever," said the general, "and it is
about that I would speak. You are in error in supposing that your
friends do not sympathize with you, or that their answers are dilatory
or evasive. There is much astir; the old spirit is not extinct, but the
difficulties are greater than in former days when we had only the
Austrians to encounter, and we cannot afford to make another failure."

"There could be no failure if we were clear and determined. There must
be a hundred thousand men who would die for our metropolis, our natural
frontiers, and true liberty. The mass of the pseudo-Italian army must
be with us. As for foreign interference, its repetition seems to me
impossible. The brotherhood in the different countries, if well guided,
could alone prevent it. There should be at once a manifesto addressed
to the peoples. They have become absorbed in money-grubbing and what
they call industry. The external life of a nation is its most important
one. A nation, as an individual, has duties to fulfil appointed by God
and His moral law; the individual toward his family, his town, his
country; the nation toward the country of countries, humanity -- the
outward world. I firmly believe that we fail and renounce the religious
and divine element of our life whenever we betray or neglect those
duties. The internal activity of a nation is important and sacred
because it prepares the instrument for its appointed task. It is mere
egotism if it converges toward itself, degrading and doomed to expiation
-- as will be the fate of this country in which we now dwell," added
Mirandola in a hushed voice. "England had a mission; it had belief, and
it had power. It announced itself the representative of religious,
commercial, and political freedom, and yet, when it came to action, it
allowed Denmark to be crushed by Austria and Prussia, and, in the most
nefarious transaction of modern times, uttered the approving shriek of
'Perish Savoy!'"

"My dear Mirandola," said the general, trimming his cigar, "there is no
living man who appreciates your genius and your worth more than myself;
perhaps I might say there is no living man who has had equal
opportunities of estimating them. You formed the mind of our country;
you kindled and kept alive the sacred flame when all was gloom, and all
were without heart. Such prodigious devotion, so much resource and
pertinacity and patience, such unbroken spirit, were never before
exhibited by man; and, whatever may be said by your enemies, I know that
in the greatest hour of action you proved equal to it; and yet at this
moment, when your friends are again stirring, and there is a hope of
spring, I am bound to tell you that there are only two persons in the
world who can effect the revolution, and you are not one of them."

"I am ardent, my general, perhaps too sanguine, but I have no self-love,
at least none when the interests of the great cause are at stake. Tell
me, then, their names, and count, if required, on my cooperation."

"Garibaldi and Mary-Anne."

"A Polchinello and a Bayadere!" exclaimed Mirandola, and, springing from
his seat, he impatiently paced the room.

"And yet," continued the general calmly, "there is no manner of doubt
that Garibaldi is the only name that could collect ten thousand men at
any given point in Italy; while in France, though her influence is
mythical, the name of Mary-Anne is a name of magic. Though never
mentioned, it is never forgotten. And the slightest allusion to it
among the initiated will open every heart. There are more secret
societies in France at this moment than at any period since '85, though
you hear nothing of them; and they believe in Mary-Anne, and in nothing
else."

"You have been at Caprera?" said Mirandola.

"I have been at Caprera."

"And what did he say?"

"He will do nothing without the sanction of the Savoyard."

"He wants to get wounded in his other foot," said Mirandola, with savage
sarcasm. "Will he never weary of being betrayed?"

"I found him calm and sanguine," said the general.

"What of the woman?"

"Garibaldi will not move without the Savoyard, and Mary-Anne will not
move without Garibaldi; that is the situation."

"Have you seen her?"

"Not yet; I have been to Caprera, and I have come over to see her and
you. Italy is ready for the move, and is only waiting for the great
man. He will not act without the Savoyard; he believes in him. I will
not be skeptical. There are difficulties enough without imagining any.
We have no money, and all our sources of supply are drained; but we have
the inspiration of a sacred cause, we have you -- we may gain others --
and, at any rate, the French are no longer at Rome."



CHAPTER 33


"The Goodwood Cup, my lord -- the Doncaster. This pair of flagons for
his highness the Khedive -- something quite new -- yes, parcel-gilt, the
only style now -- it gives relief to design -- yes, by Monti, a great
man, hardly inferior to Flaxman, if at all. Flaxman worked for. Rundell
and Bridge in the old days -- one of the principal causes of their
success. Your lordship's gold service was supplied by Rundell and
Bridge. Very fine service indeed, much by Flaxman -- nothing of that
kind seen now."

"I never did see it," said Lothair. He was replying to Mr. Ruby, a
celebrated jeweller and goldsmith, in a celebrated street, who had
saluted him when he had entered the shop, and called the attention of
Lothair to a group of treasures of art.

"Strange," said Mr. Ruby smiling. "It is in the next room, if your
lordship would like to see it. I think your lordship should see your
gold service. Mr. Putney Giles ordered it here to be examined and put
in order."

"I should like to see it very much," said Lothair, "though I came to
speak to you about something else."

And so Lothair, following Mr. Ruby into an inner apartment, had the
gratification, for the first time, of seeing his own service of gold
plate laid out in completeness, and which had been for some time
exhibited to the daily admiration of that favored portion of the English
people who frequent the brilliant and glowing counters of Mr. Ruby.

Not that Lothair was embarrassed by their presence at this moment. The
hour of their arrival had not yet come. Business had not long commenced
when Lothair entered the shop, somewhat to the surprise of its master.
Those who know Bond Street only in the blaze of fashionable hours can
form but an imperfect conception of its matutinal charm when it is still
shady and fresh -- when there are no carriages, rarely a cart, and
passers-by gliding about on real business. One feels as in some
Continental city. Then there are time and opportunity to look at the
shops; and there is no street in the world that can furnish such a
collection, filled with so many objects of beauty, curiosity, and
interest. The jewellers and goldsmiths and dealers in rare furniture,
porcelain, and cabinets, and French pictures, have long fixed upon Bond
Street as their favorite quarter, and are not chary of displaying their
treasures; though it may be a question whether some of the magazines of
fancy food -- delicacies culled from all the climes and regions of the
globe -- particularly at the matin hour, may not, in their picturesque
variety, be the most attractive. The palm, perhaps, would be given to
the fish-mongers, with their exuberant exhibitions, grouped with skill,
startling often with strange forms, dazzling with prismatic tints, and
breathing the invigorating redolence of the sea.

"Well, I like the service," said Lothair, "and am glad, as you tell me,
that its fashion has come round again, because there will now be no
necessity for ordering a new one. I do not myself much care for plate.
I like flowers and porcelain on a table, and I like to see the guests.
However, I suppose it is all right, and I must use it. It was not about
plate that I called; I wanted to speak to you about pearls."

"Ah!" said Mr. Ruby, and his face brightened; and, ushering Lothair to
some glass cases, he at the same time provided his customer with a seat.