Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. - "Memoir of John Lothrop Motley, v2"

Charlotte M. Yonge - "The Pillars of the House, V1"

Georges Duhamel - "The New Book Of Martyrs"

Clement Juglar - "A Brief History of Panics"

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
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Books: Lothair

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Lothair




Mr. Phoebus, who left the studio but had now returned, did not disturb
them. After a while he approached the group. His air was elate, and
was redeemed only from arrogance by the intellect of his brow. The
circle started a little as they heard his voice, for they had been
unaware of his presence.

"To-morrow," he said, "the critics will commence. You know who the
critics are? The men who have failed in literature and art."



CHAPTER 36


The lodge-gate of Belmont was opening as Lothair one morning approached
it; a Hansom cab came forth, and in it was a person whose countenance
was strongly marked on the memory of Lothair. It was that of his
unknown friend at the Fenian meeting. Lothair instantly recognized and
cordially saluted him, and his greeting, though hurriedly, was not
ungraciously returned; but the vehicle did not stop. Lothair called to
the driver to halt; but the driver, on the contrary, stimulated his
steed, and in the winding lane was soon out of sight.

Theodora was not immediately visible. She was neither in her usual
apartment nor in her garden; but it was only perhaps because Lothair was
so full of his own impressions from his recent encounter at the lodge,
that he did not observe that the demeanor of Mrs. Campian, when she
appeared, was hardly marked by her habitual serenity. She entered the
room hurriedly and spoke with quickness.

"Pray," exclaimed Lothair, rather eagerly, "do tell me the name of the
gentleman who has just called here."

Theodora changed color, looked distressed, and was silent; unobserved,
however, by Lothair, who, absorbed by his own highly-excited curiosity,
proceeded to explain why he presumed to press for the information. "I
am under great obligations to that person; I am not sure I may not say I
owe him my life, but certainly an extrication from great dander and very
embarrassing danger too. I never saw him but once, and he would not
give me his name, and scarcely would accept my thanks. I wanted to stop
his cab to-day, but it was impossible. He literally galloped off."

"He is a foreigner," said Mrs Campian, who had recovered herself; "be
was a particular friend of my dear father; and when he visits England,
which he does occasionally, he calls to see us."

"Ah!" said Lothair, "I hope I shall soon have an opportunity of
expressing to him my gratitude."

"It was so like him not to give his name and to shrink from thanks,"
said Mrs. Campian. "He never enters society, and makes no
acquaintances."

"I am sorry for that," said Lothair, "for it is not only that he served
me, but I was much taken with him, and felt that he was a person I
should like to cultivate."

"Yes, Captain Bruges is a remarkable man," said Theodora; "he is not one
to be forgotten."

"Captain Bruges. That, then, is his name?"

"He is known by the name of Captain Bruges," said Theodora, and she
hesitated; and then speaking more quickly she added: "I cannot
sanction, I cannot bear, any deception between you and this roof.
Bruges is not his real name, nor is the title he assumes his real rank.
He is not to be known, and not to be spoken of. He is one, and one of
the most eminent, of the great family of sufferers in this world, but
sufferers for a divine cause. I myself have been direly stricken in
this struggle. When I remember the departed, it is not always easy to
bear the thought. I keep it at the bottom of my heart; but this visit
to-day has too terribly revived every thing. It is well that you only
are here to witness my suffering, but you will not have to witness it
again, for we will never again speak of these matters."

Lothair was much touched: his good heart and his good taste alike
dissuaded him from attempting commonplace consolation. He ventured to
take her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Dear lady!" he murmured, and
he led her to a seat. "I fear my foolish tattle has added to pain which
I would gladly bear for you."

They talked about nothings: about a new horse which Colonel Campian had
just purchased, and which he wanted to show to Lothair; an old opera
revived, but which sounded rather flat; something amusing that somebody
had said, and something absurd which somebody had done. And then, when
the ruffled feeling had been quite composed, and all had been brought
back to the tenor of their usual pleasant life, Lothair said suddenly
and rather gayly. "And now, dearest lady, I have a favor to ask. You
know my majority is, to be achieved and to be celebrated next month. I
hope that yourself and Colonel Campian will honor me by being my
guests."

Theodora did not at all look like a lady who had received a social
attention of the most distinguished class. She looked embarrassed, and
began to murmur something about Colonel Campian, and their never going
into society.

"Colonel Campian is going to Scotland, and you are going with him," said
Lothair. "I know it, for he told me so, and said he could manage the
visit to me, if you approved it, quite well. In fact, it will fit in
with this Scotch visit."

"There was some talk once about Scotland," said Theodora, "but that was
a long time ago. Many things have happened since then. I do not think
the Scotch visit is by any means so settled as you think."

"But, however that may be decided," said Lothair, "there can be no
reason why you should not come to me."

"It is presumptuous in me, a foreigner, to speak of such matters," said
Theodora; "but I fancy that, in such celebrations as you contemplate,
there is, or there should be, some qualification of blood or family
connection for becoming your guests. We should be there quite
strangers, and in everybody's way, checking the local and domestic
abandon which I should suppose is one of the charms of such meetings."

"I have few relations and scarcely a connection," said Lothair rather
moodily. "I can only ask friends to celebrate my majority, and there
are no friends whom I so much regard as those who live at Belmont."

"It is very kind of you to say that, and to feel it; and I know that you
would not say it if you did not feel it," replied Theodora. "But still,
I think it would be better that we should come to see you at a time when
you are less engaged; perhaps you will take Colonel Campian down some
day and give him some shooting."

"All I can say is that, if you do not come, it will be the darkest,
instead of the brightest, week in my life," said Lothair. "In short, I
feel I could not get through the business; I should be so mortified. I
cannot restrain my feelings or arrange my countenance. Unless you come,
the whole affair will be a complete failure, and worse than a failure."

"Well, I will speak to Colonel Campian about it," said Theodora, but
with little animation.

"We will both speak to him about it now," said Lothair, for the colonel
at that moment entered the room and greeted Lothair, as was his custom,
cordially.

"We are settling the visit to Muriel," said Lothair; "I want to induce
Mrs. Campian to come down a day or two before the rest, so that we may
have the benefit of her counsel."



CHAPTER 37


Muriel Tower crowned a wooded steep, part of a wild, and winding, and
sylvan valley, at the bottom of which rushed a foaming stream. On the
other side of the castle the scene, though extensive, was not less
striking, and was essentially romantic. A vast park spread in all
directions beyond the limit of the eye, and with much variety of
character -- ornate near the mansion, and choicely timbered; in other
parts glens and spreading dolls, masses of black pines and savage woods;
everywhere, sometimes glittering, and sometimes sullen, glimpses of the
largest natural late that inland England boasts, Muriel Mere, and in the
extreme distance moors, and the first crest of mountains. The park,
too, was full of life, for there were not only herds of red and fallow
deer, but, in its more secret haunts, wandered a race of wild-cattle,
extremely savage, white and dove-colored, and said to be of the time of
the Romans.

It was not without emotion that Lothair beheld the chief seat of his
race. It was not the first time he had visited it. He had a clear and
painful recollection of a brief, hurried, unkind glimpse caught of it in
his very earliest boyhood. His uncle had taken him there by some
inconvenient cross-railroad, to avail themselves of which they had risen
in the dark on a March morning, and in an east wind. When they arrived
at their station they had hired an open fly drawn by a single horse,
and, when they had thus at last reached the uninhabited Towers, they
entered by the offices, where Lothair was placed in the steward's room,
by a smoky fire, given something to eat, and told that he might walk
about and amuse himself, provided he did not go out of sight of the
castle, while his uncle and the steward mounted their horses and rode
over the estate; leaving Lothair for hours without companions, and
returning just in time, in a shivering twilight, to clutch him up, as it
were, by the nape of the neck, twist him back again into the one-horse
fly, and regain the railroad; his uncle praising himself the whole time
for the satisfactory and business-like manner in which he had planned
and completed the edition.

What a contrast to present circumstances! Although Lothair had wished,
and thought he had secured, that his arrival at Muriel should be quite
private, and even unknown, and that all ceremonies and celebrations
should be postponed for a few days, during which he hoped to become a
little more familiar with his home, the secret could not be kept, and
the county would not tolerate this reserve. He was met at the station
by five hundred horsemen, all well mounted, and some of them gentlemen
of high degree, who insisted upon accompanying him to his gates. His
carriage passed under triumphal arches, and choirs of enthusiastic
children; waving parochial banners, hymned his auspicious approach.

At the park gates his cavalcade quitted him with that delicacy of
feeling which always distinguishes Englishmen, however rough their
habit. As their attendance was self-invited, they would not intrude
upon his home.

"Your lordship will have enough to do to-day, without being troubled
with us," said their leader, as he shook hands with Lothair.

But Lothair would not part with them thus. With the inspiring
recollection of his speech at the Fenian meeting, Lothair was not afraid
of rising in his barouche and addressing them. What he said was said
very well and it was addressed to a people who, though the shyest in the
world, have a passion for public speaking, than which no achievement
more tests reserve. It was something to be a great peer and a great
proprietor, and to be young and singularly well-favored; but to be able
to make a speech, and such a good one, such cordial words in so strong
and musical a voice -- all felt at once they were in the presence of the
natural leader of the county. The enthusiasm of the hunting-field burst
forth. They gave him three ringing cheers, and jostled their horses
forward, that they might grasp his hand.

The park gates were open, and the postillions dashed along through
scenes of loveliness on which Lothair would fain have lingered, but be
consoled himself with the recollection that he should probably have an
opportunity of seeing them again. Sometimes his carriage seemed in the
heart of an ancient forest; sometimes the deer, startled at his
approach, were scudding over expanding lawns; then his course wound by
the margin of a sinuous lake with green islands and golden gondolas; and
then, after advancing through stately avenues, he arrived at mighty
gates of wondrous workmanship, that once had been the boast of a
celebrated convent on the Danube, but which, in the days of revolutions,
had reached England, and had been obtained by the grandfather of Lothair
to guard the choice demesne that was the vicinage of his castle.

When we remember that Lothair, notwithstanding his rank and vast wealth,
had never, from the nature of things, been the master of an
establishment, it must be admitted that the present occasion was a
little trying for his nerves. The whole household of the Towers were
arrayed and arranged in groups on the steps of the chief entrance. The
steward of the estate, who had been one of the cavalcade, had galloped
on before, and he was, of course, the leading spirit, and extended his
arm to his lord as Lothair descended from his carriage. The
house-steward, the chief butler, the head-gardener, the chief of the
kitchen, the head-keeper, the head-forester, and grooms of the stud and
of the chambers, formed one group behind the housekeeper, a grave and
distinguished-looking female, who courtesied like the old court; half a
dozen powdered gentlemen, glowing, in crimson liveries, indicated the
presence of my lord's footmen; while the rest of the household,
considerable in numbers, were arranged in two groups, according to their
sex, and at a respectful distance.

What struck Lothair -- who was always thinking, and who had no
inconsiderable fund of humor in his sweet and innocent nature -- was the
wonderful circumstance that, after so long an interval of neglect and
abeyance, he should find himself the master of so complete and
consummate a household.

"Castles and parks," he thought, "I had a right to count on, and,
perhaps, even pictures, but how I came to possess such a work of art as
my groom of the chambers, who seems as respectfully haughty, and as
calmly grateful, as if he were at Brentham itself, and whose coat must
have been made in Saville Row, quite bewilders me."

But Lothair, though he appreciated Putney Giles, had not yet formed a
full conception of the resource and all-accomplished providence of that
wondrous man, acting under the inspiration of the consummate Apollonia.

Passing through the entrance-hall, a lofty chamber, though otherwise of
moderate dimensions, Lothair was ushered into his armory, a gallery two
hundred feet long, with suits of complete mail ranged on each side, and
the walls otherwise covered with rare and curious weapons. It was
impossible, even for the master of this collection, to suppress the
delight and the surprise with which he beheld the scene. We must
remember, in his excuse, that be beheld it for the first time.

The armory led to a large and lofty octagonal chamber, highly decorated,
in the centre of which was the tomb of Lothair's grandfather. He had
raised it in his lifetime. The tomb was of alabaster surrounded by a
railing of pure gold, and crowned with a recumbent figure of the
deceased in his coronet -- a fanciful man, who lived in solitude,
building castles and making gardens.

What charmed Lothair most as he proceeded were the number of courts and
quadrangles in the castle, all of bright and fantastic architecture, and
each of which was a garden, glowing with brilliant colors, and gay with
the voice of fountains or the forms of gorgeous birds. Our young friend
did not soon weary in his progress; even the suggestions of the steward,
that his lordship's luncheon was at command, did not restrain him.
Ballrooms, and baronial halls, and long libraries with curiously-stained
windows, and suites of dazzling saloons, where he beheld the original
portraits of his parents, of which he had miniatures -- he saw them all,
and was pleased, and interested. But what most struck and even
astonished him was the habitable air which pervaded the whole of this
enormous structure; too rare even when families habitually reside in
such dwellings; but almost inconceivable, when it was to be remembered
that more than a generation had passed without a human being living in
these splendid chambers, scarcely a human word being spoken in them.
There was not a refinement of modern furniture that was wanting; even
the tables were covered with the choicest publications of the day.

"Mr. Putney Giles proposes to arrive here to-morrow," said the steward.
"He thought your lordship would like to be a day or two alone."

"He is the most sensible man I know," said Lothair; "he always does the
right thing. I think I will have my luncheon now, Mr. Harvey, and I
will go ever the cellars to-morrow."



CHAPTER 38


Yes; Lothair wished to be alone. He had naturally a love of solitude,
but the events of the last few hours lent an additional inducement to
meditation. He was impressed, in a manner and degree not before
experienced, with the greatness of his inheritance. His worldly
position, until to-day, had been an abstraction. After all, he had only
been one of a crowd, which he resembled. But the sight of this proud
and abounding territory, and the unexpected encounter with his
neighbors, brought to him a sense of power and of responsibility. He
shrank from neither. The world seemed opening to him with all its
delights, and with him duty was one. He was also sensible of the
beautiful, and the surrounding forms of nature and art charmed him. Let
us not forget that extreme youth and perfect health were ingredients not
wanting in the spell any more than power or wealth. Was it, then,
complete? Not without the influence of woman.

To that gentle yet mystical sway the spirit of Lothair had yielded.
What was the precise character of his feelings to Theodora -- what were
his hopes, or views -- he had hitherto had neither the time nor the
inclination to make certain. The present was so delightful, and the
enjoyment of her society had been so constant and complete, that he had
ever driven the future from his consideration. Had the conduct of
Theodora been different, had she deigned to practise on his affections,
appealed to his sensibility, stimulated or piqued his vanity, it might
have been otherwise. In the distraction of his heart, or the
disturbance of his temper, he might have arrived at conclusions, and
even expressed them, incompatible with the exquisite and even sublime
friendship, which had so strangely and beautifully arisen, like a palace
in a dream, and absorbed his being. Although their acquaintance could
hardly be numbered by months, there was no living person of whom he had
seen so much, or to whom he had opened his heart and mind with such
profuse ingenuousness. Nor on her part, though apparently shrinking
from egotism, had there ever been any intellectual reserve. On the
contrary, although never authoritative, and, even when touching on her
convictions, suggesting rather than dictating them, Lothair could not
but feel that, during the happy period he had passed in her society, not
only his taste had refined but his mind had considerably opened; his
views had become larger, his sympathies had expanded; he considered with
charity things and even persons from whom a year ago he would have
recoiled with alarm or aversion.

The time during which Theodora had been his companion was the happiest
period of his life. It was more than that; he could conceive no
felicity greater, and all that he desired was that it should endure.
Since they first met, scarcely four-and-twenty hours had passed without
his being in her presence; and now, notwithstanding the novelty and the
variety of the objects around him and the vast, and urgent, and personal
interest which they involve he felt a want which meeting her, or the
daily prospect of meeting her, could alone supply. Her voice lingered
in his ear; he gazed upon a countenance invisible to others; and he
scarcely saw or did any thing without almost unconsciously associating
with it her opinion or approbation.

Well, then, the spell was complete. The fitfulness or melancholy which
so often is the doom of youth, however otherwise favored, who do not
love, was not the condition, capricious or desponding, of Lothair. In
him combined all the accidents and feelings which enchant existence.

He had been rambling in the solitudes of his park, and had thrown
himself on the green shadow of a stately tree, his cheek resting on his
arm, and lost in reverie amid the deep and sultry silence. Wealthy and
young, noble and full of noble thoughts, with the inspiration of health,
surrounded by the beautiful, and his heart softened by feelings as
exquisite, Lothair, nevertheless, could not refrain from pondering over
the mystery of that life which seemed destined to bring to him only
delight.

"Life would be perfect," he at length exclaimed, "if it would only
last." But it will not last; and what then? He could not reconcile
interest in this life with the conviction of another, and an eternal
one. It seemed to him that, with such a conviction, man could have only
one thought and one occupation -- the future, and preparation for it.
With such a conviction, what they called reality appeared to him more
vain and nebulous than the scones and sights of sleep. And he had that
conviction; at least he had it once. Had he it now? Yes; he had it
now, but modified, perhaps, in detail. He was not so confident as he
was a few months ago, that he could be ushered by a Jesuit from his
deathbed to the society of St. Michael and all the angels. There might
be long processes of initiation -- intermediate states of higher
probation and refinement. There might be a horrible and apathetic
pause. When millions of ages appeared to be necessary to mature the
crust of a rather insignificant planet, it might be presumption in man
to assume that his soul, though immortal, was to reach its final
destination regardless of all the influences of space and time.

And the philosophers and distinguished men of science with whom of late
he had frequently enjoyed the opportunity of becoming acquainted, what
were their views? They differed among themselves: did any of them agree
with him? How they accounted for every thing except the only point on
which man requires revelation! Chance, necessity, atomic theories,
nebular hypotheses, development, evolution, the origin of worlds, human
ancestry -- here were high topics, on none of which was there lack of
argument; and, in a certain sense, of evidence; and what then? There
must be design. The reasoning and the research of all philosophy could
not be valid against that conviction. If there were no design, why, it
would all be nonsense; and he could not believe in nonsense. And if
there were design, there must be intelligence; and if intelligence, pure
intelligence; and pure intelligence was inconsistent with any
disposition but perfect good. But between the all-wise and the
all-benevolent and man, according to the new philosophers, no relations
were to be any longer acknowledged. They renounce in despair the
possibility of bringing man into connection with that First Cause which
they can neither explain nor deny. But man requires that there shall be
direct relations between the created and the Creator; and that in those
relations he should find a solution of the perplexities of existence.
The brain that teems with illimitable thought, will never recognize as
his creator any power of Nature, however irresistible, that is not
gifted with consciousness. Atheism may be consistent with fine taste,
and fine taste under certain conditions may for a time regulate a
polished society; but ethics with atheism are impossible; and without
ethics no human order can be strong or permanent.

The Church comes forward, and, without equivocation, offers to establish
direct relations between God and man. Philosophy denies its title, and
disputes its power. Why? Because they are founded on the supernatural.
What is the supernatural? Can there be any thing more miraculous than
the existence of man and the world? -- any thing more literally
supernatural than the origin of things? The Church explains what no one
else pretends to explain, and which, every one agrees, it is of first
moment should be made clear.

The clouds of a summer eve were glowing in the creative and flickering
blaze of the vanished sun, that had passed like a monarch from the
admiring sight, yet left his pomp behind. The golden and amber vapors
fell into forms that to the eye of the musing Lothair depicted the
objects of his frequent meditation. There seemed to rise in the horizon
the dome and campaniles and lofty aisles of some celestial fane, such as
he had often more than dreamed of raising to the revealed author of life
and death. Altars arose and sacred shrines, and delicate chantries and
fretted spires; now the flashing phantom of heavenly choirs, and then
the dim response of cowled and earthly cenobites:

"These are black Vesper's pageants!"



CHAPTER 39


Lothair was quite glad to see Mr. Putney Giles. That gentleman indeed
was a universal favorite. He was intelligent, acquainted with every
thing except theology and metaphysics, to oblige, a little to patronize,
never made difficulties, and always overcame them. His bright blue
eyes, open forehead, and sunny face, indicated a man fall of resources,
and with a temper of natural sweetness.

The lawyer and his noble client had a great deal of business to
transact. Lothair was to know his position in detail preparatory to
releasing his guardians from their responsibilities, and assuming the
management of his own affairs. Mr. Putney Giles was a first-rate man of
business. With all his pleasant, easy manner, he was precise and
methodical, and was not content that his client should be less master of
his own affairs than his lawyer. The mornings passed over a table
covered with dispatch boxes and piles of ticketed and banded papers, and
then they looked after the workmen who were preparing for the impending
festivals, or rode over the estate.