John Addington Symonds - "Percy Bysshe Shelley"

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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




"Why, you are not afraid of one man?" said the leaders, ashamed of their
following. "Whatever betides, no one unknown shall leave this room, or
it will be Bow Street to-morrow morning."

"Nevertheless," said the stranger, "two unknown men will leave this room
and with general assent. If any one touches this person or myself I
will shoot him dead," and he drew out his revolver, "and as for the
rest, look at that," he added, giving a paper to the leader of the
Fenian Lodge, "and then give it me back again."

The leader of the Fenian Lodge glanced at the paper; he grew pale, then
scarlet, folded the paper with great care and returned it reverentially
to the stranger, then looking round to the assembly and waving his hand
he said, "All right, the gentlemen are to go."

"Well, you have got out of a scrape, young air," said the stranger to
Lothair when they had escaped from the hall.

"And how can I express my gratitude to you?" Lothair replied.

"Poh!" said the stranger, "a mere affair of common duty. But what
surprises me is how you got your pass-ticket."

Lothair told him all.

"They manage their affairs in general wonderfully close," said the
stranger, "but I have no opinion of them. I have just returned from
Ireland, where I thought I would go and see what they really are after.
No real business in them. Their treason is a fairy tale, and their
sedition a child talking in its sleep."

They walked together about half a mile, and then the stranger said, "At
the end of this we shall get into the City Road, and the land again of
omnibus and public conveyances, and I shall wish you good night."

"But it is distressing to me to part thus," said Lothair. "Pray let me
call and pay my respects to my benefactor."

"No claim to any such title," said the stranger; "I am always glad to
be of use. I will not trouble you to call on me, for, frankly, I have
no wish to increase the circle of my acquaintance. So, good-night; and,
as you seem to be fond of a little life, take my advice, and never go
about unarmed."



CHAPTER 28


The Fenian adventure furnished the distraction which Lothair required
It broke that absorbing spell of sentiment which is the delicious but
enervating privilege of the youthful heart; yet, when Lothair woke in
the morning from his well-earned slumbers, the charm returned, and he
fell at once into a reverie of Belmont, and a speculation when he might
really pay his first visit there. Not to-day -- that was clearly out of
the question. They had separated only yesterday, and yet it seemed an
age, and the adventure of another world. There are moods of feeling
which defy alike time and space.

But on the morrow, Friday, he might venture to go. But, then, would
to-morrow ever come? It seemed impossible. How were the intervening
hours to pass? The world, however, was not so devoid of resources as
himself, and had already appropriated his whole day. And, first,
Monsignore Catesby came to breakfast with him, talking of every thing
that was agreeable or interesting, but in reality bent on securing his
presence at the impending ecclesiastical ceremony of high import, where
his guardian was to officiate, and where the foundation was to be laid
of the reconciliation of all churches in the bosom of the true one.
Then, in the afternoon, Lothair had been long engaged to a match of
pigeon-shooting, in which pastime Bertram excelled. It seemed there was
to be a most exciting sweepstakes to-day, in which the flower of England
were to compete; Lothair among them, and for the first time.

This great exploit of arms was to be accomplished at the Castle in the
Air, a fantastic villa near the banks of the Thames, belonging to the
Duke of Brecon. His grace had been offended by the conduct or the
comments of the outer world, which in his pastime had thwarted or
displeased him in the free life of Battersea. The Duke of Brecon was a
gentleman easily offended, but not one of those who ever confined their
sense of injury to mere words. He prided himself on "putting down" any
individual or body of men who chose to come into collision with him.
And so in the present instance he formed a club of pigeon-shooters, and
lent them his villa for their rendezvous and enjoyment. The society was
exquisite, exclusive, and greatly sought after. And the fine ladies,
tempted, of course, by the beauty of the scene, honored and inspired the
competing confederates by their presence.

The Castle in the Air was a colossal thatched cottage, built by a
favorite of, King George IV. It was full of mandarins and pagodas and
green dragons, and papered with birds of many colors and with vast
tails. The gardens were pretty, and the grounds park-like, with some
noble cedars and some huge walnut-trees.

The Duke of Brecon was rather below the middle size, but he had a
singularly athletic frame not devoid of symmetry. His head was well
placed on his broad shoulders, and his mien was commanding. He was
narrow-minded and prejudiced, but acute, and endowed with an unbending
will. He was an eminent sportsman, and brave even to brutality. His
boast was that he had succeeded in every thing he had attempted, and he
would not admit the possibility of future failure. Though still a very
young man, he had won the Derby, training his own horse; and he
successfully managed a fine stud in defiance of the ring, whom it was
one of the secret objects of his life to extirpate. Though his manner
to men was peremptory, cold, and hard, he might be described as popular,
for there existed a superstitious belief in his judgment, and it was
known that in some instances, when he had been consulted, he had given
more than advice. It could not be said that he was beloved, but he was
feared and highly considered. Parasites were necessary to him, though
he despised them.

The Duke of Brecon was an avowed admirer, of Lady Corisande, and was
intimate with her family. The duchess liked him much, and was often
seen at ball or assembly on his arm. He had such excellent principles,
she said; was so straight-forward, so true and firm. It was whispered
that even Lady Corisande had remarked that the Duke of Brecon was the
only young man of the time who had "character." The truth is, the duke,
though absolute and hard to men, could be soft and deferential to women,
and such an exception to a general disposition has a charm. It was
said, also, that he had, when requisite, a bewitching smile.

If there were any thing or any person in the world that St. Aldegonde
hated more than another, it was the Duke of Brecon. Why St. Aldegonde
hated him was not very clear, for they had never crossed each other, nor
were the reasons for his detestation, which he occasionally gave,
entirely satisfactory: sometimes it was because the duke drove piebalds;
sometimes because he had a large sum in the funds, which St. Aldegonde
thought disgraceful for a duke; sometimes because he wore a particular
hat, though, with respect to this last allegation, it does not follow
that St. Aldegonde was justified in his criticism, for in all these
matters St. Aldegonde was himself very deficient, and had once strolled
up St. James's Street with his dishevelled looks crowned with a
wide-awake. Whatever might be the cause, St. Aldegonde generally wound
up -- "I tell you what, Bertha, if Corisande marries that follow, I have
made up my mind to go to the Indian Ocean. It is a country I never have
seen, and Pinto tells me you cannot do it well under five years."

"I hope you will take me, Grenville, with you," said Lady St. Aldegonde,
"because it is highly probable Corisande will marry the duke; mamma, you
know, likes him so much."

"Why cannot Corisande marry Carisbrooke?" said St. Aldegonde, pouting;
"he is a really good fellow, much better-looking, and so far as land is
concerned, which after all is the only thing, has as large an estate as
the duke."

"Well, these things depend a little upon taste," said Lady St.
Aldegonde.

"No, no," said St. Aldegonde; "Corisande must marry Carisbrooke. Your
father would not like my going to the Indian Archipelago and not
returning for five years, perhaps never returning. Why should Corisande
break up our society? -- why are people so selfish? I never could go to
Brentham again if the Duke of Brecon is always to be there, giving his
opinion, and being what your mother calls 'straightforward' -- I hate a
straightforward fellow. As Pinto says, if every man were
straightforward in his opinions, there would be no conversation. The
fun of talk is to find out what a man really thinks, then contrast it
with the enormous lies he has been telling all dinner, and, perhaps, all
his life."

It was a favorable day for the Castle in the Air; enough, but not too
much sun, and a gentle breeze. Some pretty feet, not alone, were
sauntering in the gardens, some pretty lips lingered in the rooms
sipping tea; but the mass of the fair visitors, marvellously attired,
were assembled at the scene of action, seated on chairs and in groups,
which assumed something of the form of an amphitheatre. There were many
gentlemen in attendance on them, or independent spectators of the sport.
The field was large, not less than forty competitors, and comprising
many of the best shots in England. The struggle therefore, was long and
ably maintained; but, as the end approached, it was evident that the
contest would be between Bertram, Lothair, and the Duke of Brecon.

Lady St. Aldegonde and Lady Montairy were there and their unmarried
sister. The married sisters were highly excited in favor of their
brother, but Lady Corisande said nothing. At last Bertram missed a
bird, or rather his bird, which he had hit, escaped, and fell beyond the
enclosure. Lothair was more successful, and it seemed that it might be
a tie between him and the duke. His grace, when called, advanced with
confident composure, and apparently killed both his birds, when, at this
moment, a dog rushed forward and chased one of the mortally-struck
pigeons. The blue-rock, which was content to die by the hand of a duke,
would not deign to be worried by a dog, and it frantically moved its
expiring wings, scaled the paling, and died. So Lothair won the prize.

"Well," said Lady Montairy to Lothair, "as Bertram was not to win, I am
glad it was you."

"And you will not congratulate me?" said Lothair to Lady Corisande.

She rather shook her head. "A tournament of doves," she said. "I would
rather see you all in the lists of Ashby."

Lothair had to dine this day with one of the vanquished. This was Mr.
Brancepeth, celebrated for his dinners, still more for his guests. Mr.
Brancepeth was a grave young man. It was supposed that he was always
meditating over the arrangement of his menus, or the skilful means by
which he could assemble together the right persons to partake of them.
Mr. Brancepeth had attained the highest celebrity in his peculiar
career. To dine with Mr. Brancepeth was a social incident that was
mentioned. Royalty had consecrated his banquets, and a youth of note
was scarcely a graduate of society who had not been his guest. There
was one person, however, who, in this respect, had not taken his degree,
and, as always happens under such circumstances, he was the individual
on whom Mr. Brancepeth was most desirous to confer it; and this was St.
Aldegonde. In vain Mr. Brancepeth had approached him with vast cards of
invitation to hecatombs, and with insinuating little notes to dinners
sans fa on; proposals which the presence of princes might almost
construe into a command, or the presence of some one even more
attractive than princes must invest with irresistible charm. It was all
in vain. "Not that I dislike Brancepeth," said St. Aldegonde; "I rather
like him: I like a man who can do only one thing, but does that well.
But then I hate dinners."

But the determined and the persevering need never despair of gaining
their object in this world. And this very day, riding home from the
Castle in the Air, Mr. Brancepeth overtook St. Aldegonde, who was
lounging about on a rough Scandinavian cob, as dishevelled as himself,
listless and groomless. After riding together for twenty minutes, St.
Aldegonde informed Mr. Brancepeth, as was his general custom with his
companions, that he was bored to very extinction, and that he did not
know what he should do with himself for the rest of the day. "If I
could only get Pinto to go with me, I think I would run down to the Star
and Garter, or perhaps to Hampton Court."

"You will not be able to get Pinto today," said Mr. Brancepeth, "for be
dines with me."

"What an unlucky fellow I am!" exclaimed St. Aldegonde, entirely to
himself. "I had made up my mind to dine with Pinto to-day."

"And why should you not? Why not meet Pinto at my house?"

"Well, that is not my way," said St. Aldegonde, but not in a decided
tone. "You know I do not like strangers, and crowds of wine-glasses,
and what is called all the delicacies of the season."

"You will meet no one that you do not know and like. It is a little
dinner I made for -- " and he mentioned Lothair.

"I like Lothair," said St. Aldegonde, dreamily. "He is a nice boy."

"Well, you will have him and Pinto to yourself."

The large fish languidly rose and swallowed the bait, and the exulting
Mr. Brancepeth cantered off to Hill Street to give the necessary
instructions.

Mr. Pinto was one of the marvels of English society; the most sought
after of all its members, though no one could tell you exactly why. He
was a little oily Portuguese, middle-aged, corpulent, and somewhat bald,
with dark eyes of sympathy, not unmixed with humor. No one knew who he
was, and in a country the most scrutinizing as to personal details, no
one inquired or cared to know. A quarter of a century ago an English
noble had caught him in his travels, and brought him young to England,
where he had always remained. From the favorite of an individual, he
had become the oracle of a circle, and then the idol of society. All
this time his manner remained unchanged. He was never at any time
either humble or pretentious. Instead of being a parasite, everybody
flattered him; and instead of being a hanger-on of society, society hung
on Pinto.

It must have been the combination of many pleasing qualities, rather
than the possession of any commanding one, that created his influence.
He certainly was not a wit yet he was always gay, and always said things
that made other people merry. His conversation was sparkling,
interesting, and fluent, yet it was observed he never gave an opinion on
any subject and never told an anecdote. Indeed, he would sometimes
remark, when a man fell into his anecdotage, it was a sign for him to
retire from the world. And yet Pinto rarely opened his mouth without
everybody being stricken with mirth. He had the art of viewing common
things in a fanciful light, and the rare gift of raillery which
flattered the self-love of those whom it seemed sportively not to spare.
Sometimes those who had passed a fascinating evening with Pinto would
try to remember on the morrow what he had said, and could recall
nothing. He was not an intellectual Croesus, but his pockets were full
of six-pences.

One of the ingredients of his social spell was no doubt his manner,
which was tranquil even when he was droll. He never laughed except with
his eyes, and delivered himself of his most eccentric fancies in an
unctuous style. He had a rare gift of mimicry, which he used with
extreme reserve, and therefore was proportionately effective when
displayed. Add to all this, a sweet voice, a soft hand, and a
disposition both soft and sweet, like his own Azores. It was understood
that Pinto was easy in his circumstances, though no one know where these
circumstances were. His equipage was worthy of his position, and in his
little house in May Fair he sometimes gave a dinner to a fine lady, who
was as proud of the event as the Queen of Sheba of her visit to Solomon
the Great.

When St. Aldegonde arrived in Hill Street, and slouched into the saloon
with as uncouth and graceless a general mien as a handsome and naturally
graceful man could contrive to present, his keen though listless glance
at once revealed to him that he was as he described it at dinner to Hugo
Bohun in a social jungle, in which there was a great herd of animals
that he particularly disliked, namely, what he entitled "swells." The
scowl on his distressed countenance at first intimated a retreat; but
after a survey, courteous to his host, and speaking kindly to Lothair as
he passed on, he made a rush to Mr. Pinto, and, cordially embracing him,
said, "Mind we sit together."

The dinner was not a failure, though an exception to the polished
ceremony of the normal Brancepeth banquet. The host headed his table,
with the Duke of Brecon on his right and Lothair on his left hand, and
"swells" of calibre in their vicinity; but St. Aldegonde sat far away,
next to Mr. Pinto, and Hugo Bohun on the other side of that gentleman.
Hugo Bohun loved swells, but he loved St. Aldegonde more. The general
conversation in the neighborhood of Mr. Brancepeth did not flag: they
talked of the sport of the morning, and then, by association of ideas,
of every other sport. And then from the sports of England they ranged
to the sports of every other country. There were several there who had
caught salmon in Norway and killed tigers in Bengal, and visited those
countries only for that purpose. And then they talked of horses, and
then they talked of women.

Lothair was rather silent; for in this society of ancients, the youngest
of whom was perhaps not less than five-and-twenty, and some with nearly
a lustre added to that mature period, he felt the awkward modesty of a
freshman. The Duke of Brecon talked much, but never at length. He
decided every thing, at least to his own satisfaction; and if his
opinion were challenged, remained unshaken, and did not conceal it.

All this time a different scene was enacting at the other end of the
table. St. Aldegonde, with his back turned to his other neighbor, hung
upon the accents of Mr. Pinto, and Hugo Bohun imitated St. Aldegonde.
What Mr. Pinto said or was saying was quite inaudible, for he always
spoke low, and in the present case he was invisible, like an ortolan
smothered in vine-leaves; but every, now and then St. Aldegonde broke
into a frightful shout, and Hugo Bohun tittered immensely. Then St.
Aldegonde, throwing himself back in his chair, and talking to himself or
the ceiling, would exclaim, "Best thing I ever heard," while Hugo nodded
sympathy with a beaming smile.

The swells now and then paused in their conversation and glanced at the
scene of disturbance.

"They seem highly amused there," said Mr. Brancepeth. "I wish they
would pass it on."

"I think St. Aldegonde," said the Duke of Brecon, "is the least
conventional man of my acquaintance."

Notwithstanding this stern sneer, a practiced general like Mr.
Brancepeth felt he had won the day. All his guests would disperse and
tell the world that they had dined with him and met St. Aldegonde, and
to-morrow there would be a blazoned paragraph in the journals
commemorating the event, and written as if by a herald. What did a
little disturb his hospitable mind was that St. Aldegonde literally
tasted nothing. He did not care so much for his occasionally leaning on
the table with both his elbows, but that he should pass by every dish
was distressing. So Mr. Brancepeth whispered to his own valet -- a fine
gentleman, who stood by his master's chair and attended on no one else,
except, when requisite, his master's immediate neighbor -- and desired
him to suggest to St. Aldegonde whether the side-table might not
provide, under the difficulties, some sustenance. St. Aldegonde seemed
quite gratified by the attention, and said he should like to have some
cold meat. Now, that was the only thing the side-table, bounteous as
was its disposition, could not provide. All the joints of the season
were named in vain, and pies and preparations of many climes. But
nothing would satisfy St. Aldegonde but cold meat.

"Well, now I shall begin my dinner," he said to Pinto, when he was at
length served. "What surprises me most in you is your English. There
is not a man who speaks such good English as you do."

"English is an expressive language," said Mr. Pinto, "but not difficult
to master. Its range is limited. It consists, as far as I can observe,
of four words: 'nice,' 'jolly,' 'charming,' and 'bore;' and some
grammarians add 'fond.'"

When the guests rose and returned to the saloon, St. Aldegonde was in
high spirits, and talked to every one, even to the Duke of Brecon, whom
he considerately reminded of his defeat in the morning, adding that from
what he had seen of his grace's guns he had no opinion of them, and that
he did not believe that breech-loaders suited pigeon-shooting.

Finally, when he bade farewell to his host, St. Aldegonde assured him
that he "never in his life made so good a dinner, and that Pinto had
never been so rich."

When the party broke up, the majority of the guests went, sooner or
later, to a ball that was given this evening by Lady St. Jerome.
Others, who never went to balls, looked forward with refined
satisfaction to a night of unbroken tobacco. St. Aldegonde went to play
whist at the house of a lady who lived out of town. "I like the drive
home," he said; "the morning air is so refreshing when one has lost
one's money."

A ball at St. Jerome House was a rare event, but one highly appreciated.
It was a grand mansion, with a real suite of state apartments, including
a genuine ballroom in the Venetian style, and lighted with chandeliers
of rock-crystal. Lady St. Jerome was a woman of taste and splendor and
romance, who could do justice to the scene and occasion. Even Lord St.
Jerome, quiet as he seemed, in these matters was popular with young men.
It was known that Lord St. Jerome gave, at his ball suppers, the same
champagne that he gave at his dinners, and that was of the highest
class. In short, a patriot. We talk with wondering execration of the
great poisoners of past ages, the Borgias, the inventor of aqua tofana,
and the amiable Marchioness de Brinvilliers; but Pinto was of opinion
that there were more social poisoners about in the present day than in
the darkest, and the most demoralized periods, and then none of them are
punished; which is so strange, he would add, as they are all found out.

Lady St. Jerome received Lothair, as Pinto said, with extreme unction.
She looked in his eyes, she retained his hand, she said that what she
had heard had made her so happy. And then, when he was retiring, she
beckoned him back and said she must have some tea, and, taking his arm,
they walked away together. "I have so much to tell you," she said, "and
every thing is so interesting. I think we are on the eve of great
events. The monsignore told me your heart was with us. It must be.
They are your own thoughts, your own wishes. We are realizing your own
ideal. I think next Sunday will be remembered as a great day in
English history; the commencement of a movement that may save every
thing. The monsignore, I know, has told you all."

Not exactly; the Oxford visit had deranged a little the plans of the
monsignore, but he had partially communicated the vast scheme. It seems
there was a new society to be instituted for the restoration of
Christendom. The change of name from Christendom to Europe had proved a
failure and a disastrous one. "And what wonder?" said Lady St. Jerome.
"Europe is not even a quarter of the globe, as the philosophers
pretended it was. There is already a fifth division, and probably there
will be many more, as the philosophers announce it impossible." The
cardinal was to inaugurate the institution on Sunday next at the
Jesuits' Church, by one of his celebrated sermons. It was to be a
function of the highest class. All the faithful of consideration were
to attend, but the attendance was not to be limited to the faithful.
Every sincere adherent of church principles who was in a state of prayer
and preparation, was solicited to be present and join in the holy and
common work of restoring to the Divine Master His kingdom upon earth
with its rightful name.

It was a brilliant ball. All the "nice" people in London were there.
All the young men who now will never go to balls were present. This was
from respect to the high character of Lord St. Jerome. Clare Arundel
looked divine, dressed in a wondrous white robe garlanded with violets,
just arrived from Paris, a present from her god-mother, the Duchess of
Lorrain-Sehulenbourg. On her head a violet-wreath, deep and radiant as
her eyes, and which admirably contrasted with her dark golden-brown
hair.

Lothair danced with her, and never admired her more. Her manner toward
him was changed. It was attractive, even alluring. She smiled on him,
she addressed him in tones of sympathy, even of tenderness. She seemed
interested in all he was doing; she flattered him by a mode which is
said to be irresistible to a man, by talking only of himself. When the
dance had finished, he offered to attend her to the tea-room. She
accepted the invitation even with cordiality.