John Kendrick Bangs - "The Pursuit of the House Boat"

Anthony Trollope - "La Mere Bauche from Tales of All Countries"

Joseph Butler - "Human Nature and Other Sermons"

Unknown - "The First 100,000 Prime Numbers"

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: Our Friend the Charlatan

G >> George Gissing >> Our Friend the Charlatan




"I hadn't seen Lady Ogram for a long time," Constance pursued, "and
when I got my place of dispenser at Hollingford hospital, I had no
idea of recalling myself to her memory. But one day my friend Dr.
Baldwin told me that Lady Ogram had spoken of me, and wished to see
me. 'Very well,' said I, 'than let Lady Ogram invite me to come and
see her.'--'If I were you,' said the doctor, 'I think I shouldn't
wait for that.'--'Perhaps not, doctor,' I replied, 'but you are
not me, and I am myself.' The result of which was that Dr. Baldwin
told me I had as little grammar as civility, and we quarrelled--as
we regularly did once a week."

Dyce listened with amusement.

"And she did invite you?" he asked.

"Yes. A month afterwards, she wrote to the hospital, and, as the
letter was decent, though very dry, I went to Rivenoak. I could not
help a kindly feeling to Lady Ogram, when I saw her; it reminded me
of some of the happiest days of my childhood. All the same, that
first quarter of an hour was very dangerous. As you know, I have a
certain pride of my own, and more than once it made my ears tingle.
I dare say you can guess Lady Ogram's way of talking to me; we'll
call it blunt good-nature. 'What are you going to do?' she asked.
'Mix medicines all your life?' I told her that I should like to pass
my exams, and practise, instead of mixing medicines. That seemed to
surprise her, and she pooh'd the idea. 'I shan't help you to that,'
she said. 'I never asked you, Lady Ogram!'--It was a toss up
whether she would turn me out of the house or admire my courage: she
is capable of one or the other. Her next question was, where did I
live? I told her I lodged with my aunt, Mrs. Shufflebotham; and her
face went black. Mrs. Shufflebotham, I have been told, was somehow
the cause of a quarrel between my father and Lady Ogram. That was
nothing to me. My aunt is a kind and very honest woman, and I wasn't
going to disown her. Of course I had done the wise, as well as the
self-respecting, thing; I soon saw that Lady Ogram thought all the
better of me because I was not exactly a snob."

"This is the first I have heard of your aunt," remarked Dyce.

"Is it? Didn't your father let you know of the shocking revelation I
made to him the other day?"

"He told me nothing at all."

Constance reflected.

"Probably he thought it too painful. Mrs. Shufflebotham keeps a
little shop, and sells cakes and sweetmeats. Does it distress you?"

Distress was not the applicable word, for Lashmar had no deep
interest in Constance or her belongings. But the revelation
surprised and rather disgusted him. He wondered why Constance made
it thus needlessly, and, as it was, defiantly.

"I should be very stupid and conventional," he answered, with his
indulgent smile, "if such things affected me one way or another."

"I don't mind telling you that, when I first knew about it, I wished
Mrs. Shufflebotham and her shop at the bottom of the sea." Constance
laughed. "But I soon got over that. I happen to have been born with
a good deal of pride, and, when I began to think about myself--it
was only a few years ago--I found it necessary to ask what I
really had to be proud of. There was nothing very obvious--no
wealth, no rank, no achievements. It grew clear to me that I had
better be proud of _being_ proud, and a good way to that end was to
let people know I cared nothing for their opinion. One gets a good
deal of satisfaction out of it."

Lashmar listened in a puzzled and uneasy frame of mind.
Theoretically, it should have pleased him to hear a woman talking
thus, but the actual effect upon him was repellent. He did not care
to look at the speaker, and it became difficult for him to keep up
the conversation. Luckily, at this moment the first luncheon bell
sounded.

"Lady Ogram has returned," said Constance. They had wandered to the
rear of the house, and thus did not know of the arrival of the
carriage. "Shall we go in?"

She led the way into a small drawing-room, and excused herself for
leaving him alone. A moment later, there appeared a page, who
conducted him to a chamber where he could prepare for luncheon. When
he came out again into the hall, he found Lady Ogram standing there,
reading a letter. Seen from behind, her masses of elaborately
dressed hair gave her the appearance of a young woman; when she
turned at the sound of a footfall, the presentation of her parchment
visage came as a shock. She looked keenly at the visitor, and seemed
to renew her approval of him.

"How do you do?" was the curt greeting, as she gave her hand. "Have
you been over the mill?"

"Greatly to my satisfaction, Lady Ogram."

"I'm glad to hear it. We'll talk about that presently. I'm expecting
a gentleman to lunch whom you'll like to meet--Mr. Breakspeare,
the editor of our Liberal paper. Ah, here he comes."

A servant had just opened the hall door, and there entered a slight
man in a long, heavy overcoat.

"Well, Mr. Breakspeare!" exclaimed the hostess, with some
heartiness. "Why must I have the trouble of inviting you to
Rivenoak? Is my conversation so wearisome that you keep away as long
as you can?"

"Dear lady, you put me to shame!" cried Mr. Breakspeare, bending low
before her. "It's work, work, I assure you, that forbids me the
honour and the delight of waiting upon you, except at very rare
intervals. We have an uphill fight, you know."

"Pull your coat off," the hostess interrupted, "and let us have
something to eat. I'm as hungry as a hunter, whatever _you_ may be.
You sedentary people, I suppose, don't know what it is to have an
appetite."

The editor was ill-tailored, and very carelessly dressed. His rather
long hair was brushed straight back from the forehead, and curved up
a little at the ends. Without having exactly a dirty appearance, he
lacked freshness, seemed to call for the bath his collar fitted
badly, his tie was askew, his cuffs covered too much of the hand.
Aged about fifty, Mr. Breakspeare looked rather younger, for he had
a very smooth high forehead, a clear eye, which lighted up as he
spoke, and a pink complexion answering to the high-noted and rather
florid manner of his speech.

Walking briskly forward--she seemed more vigorous to day than
yesterday--the hostess led to the dining room, where a small
square table received her and her three companions. Lady Ogram's
affectation of appetite lasted only a few minutes; on the other
hand, Mr. Breakspeare ate with keen gusto, and talked very little
until he had satisfied his hunger. Whether by oversight, or
intentional eccentricity, the hostess had not introduced him and
Lashmar to each other; they exchanged casual glances, but no remark.
Dyce talked of what he had seen at the mill; he used a large,
free-flowing mode of speech, which seemed to please Lady Ogram, for
she never interrupted him and had an unusual air of attentiveness.
Presently the talk moved towards politics, and Dyce found a better
opportunity of eloquence.

"For some thirty years," he began, with an air of reminiscence, "we
have been busy with questions of physical health. We have been
looking after our bodies and our dwellings. Drainage has been a word
to conjure with, and athletics have become a religion--the only
one existing for multitudes among us. Physical exercise, with a view
to health, used to be the privilege of the upper class; we have been
teaching the people to play games and go in for healthy sports. At
the same time there has been considerable aesthetic progress.
England is no longer the stupidly inartistic country of early
Victorian times; there's a true delight in music and painting, and a
much more general appreciation of the good in literature. With all
this we have been so busy that politics have fallen into the
background--politics in the proper sense of the word. Ideas of
national advance have been either utterly lost sight of, or grossly
confused with mere material gain. At length we see the Conservative
reaction in full swing, and who knows where it will land us? It
seems to be leading to the vulgarest and most unintelligent form of
chauvinism. In politics our need now is of _brains_. A stupid
routine, or a rowdy excitability, had taken the place of the old
progressive Liberalism, which kept ever in view the prime interests
of civilisation. We want men with _brains_."

"Exactly," fell from Mr. Breakspeare, who began to eye the young man
with interest. "It's what I've been preaching, in season and out of
season, for the last ten years. I heartily agree with you."

"Look at Hollingford," remarked the hostess, smiling grimly.

"Just so!" exclaimed the editor. "Look at Hollingford! True, it was
never a centre of Liberalism, but the Liberals used to make a good
fight, and they had so much intelligence on their side that the town
could not sink into utter dulness. What do we see now?" He raised
his hand and grew rhetorical. "The crassest Toryism sweeping all
before it, and everywhere depositing its mud--which chokes and
does _not_ fertilise. We have athletic clubs, we have a free
library, we are better drained and cleaner and healthier and more
bookish, with all, than in the old times; but for politics--alas!
A base level of selfish and purblind materialism--personified by
Robb!"

At the name of the borough member, Lady Ogram's dark eyes flashed.

"Ah, Robb," interjected Lashmar. "Tell me something about Robb. I
know hardly anything of him."

"Picture to yourself," returned the editor, with slow emphasis, "a
man who at his best was only a stolid country banker, and who now is
sunk into fatuous senility. I hardly know whether I dare trust
myself to speak of Robb, for I confess that he has become to me an
abstraction rather than a human being--an embodiment of all the
vicious routine, the foul obscurantism, the stupid prejudice, which
an enlightened Liberalism has to struggle against. There he sits, a
satire on our parliamentary system. He can't put together three
sentences; he never in his life had an idea. The man is a mere
money-sack, propped up by toadies and imbeciles. Has any other
borough such a contemptible representative? I perspire with shame
and anger when I think of him!"

Dyce asked himself how much of this vehemence was genuine, how much
assumed to gratify their hostess. Was Mr. Breakspeare inwardly
laughing at himself and the company? But he seemed to be an
excitable little man, and possibly believed what he said.

"That's very interesting," Dyce remarked. "And how much longer will
Hollingford be content with such representation?"

"I think," replied Breakspeare, gravely, "I really think, that at
the next election we shall floor him. It is the hope of my life. For
that I toil; for that I sacrifice leisure and tranquillity and most
of the things dear to a man philosophically inclined. Can I but see
Robb cast down, I shall withdraw from the arena and hum (I have no
voice) my _Nunc dimittis_."

Was there a twinkle in the editor's eye as it met Lashmar's smile?
Constance was watching him with unnaturally staid countenance, and
her glance ran round the table.

"I'm only afraid," said Lady Ogram, "that he won't stand again."

"I think he will," cried Breakspeare, "I think he will. The
ludicrous creature imagines that Westminster couldn't go on without
him. He hopes to die of the exhaustion of going into the lobby, and
remain for ever a symbol of thick-headed patriotism. But we will
floor him in his native market-place. We will drub him at the
ballot. Something assures me that, for a reward of my life's
labours, I shall behold the squashing of Robb!"

Lady Ogram did not laugh. Her sense of humour was not very keen, and
the present subject excited her most acrimonious feelings.

"We must get hold of the right man," she exclaimed, with a glance at
Lashmar.

"Yes, the right man," said Breakspeare, turning his eyes in the same
direction. "The man of brains, and of vigour; the man who can
inspire enthusiasm; the man, in short, who has something to say, and
knows how to say it. In spite of the discouraging aspect of things,
I believe that Hollingford is ready for him. We leading Liberals are
few in number, but we have energy and the law of progress on our
side."

Lashmar had seemed to be musing whilst he savoured a slice of
pine-apple. At Breakspeare's last remark, he looked up and said:

"The world moves, and always has moved, at the impulse of a very
small minority."

"Philosophically, I am convinced of that," replied the editor, as
though he meant to guard himself against too literal or practical an
application of the theorem.

"The task of our time," pursued Dyce, with a half absent air, "is to
make this not only understood by, but acceptable to, the multitude.
Political education is our pressing need, and political education
means teaching the People how to select its Rulers. For my own part,
I have rather more hope of a constituency such as Hollingford, than
of one actively democratic. The fatal thing is for an electorate to
be bent on choosing the man as near as possible like unto
themselves. That is the false idea of representation. Progress does
not mean guidance by one of the multitude, but by one of nature's
elect, and the multitude must learn how to recognise such a man."

He looked at Lady Ogram, smiling placidly.

"There's rather a Tory sound about that," said the hostess, with a
nod, "but Mr. Breakspeare will understand."

"To be sure, to be sure!" exclaimed the editor. "It is the
aristocratic principle rightly understood."

"It is the principle of nature," said Lashmar, "as revealed to us by
science. Science--as Mr. Breakspeare is well aware--teaches, not
levelling, but hierarchy. The principle has always been dimly
perceived. In our time, biology enables us to work it out with
scientific precision."

Mr. Breakspeare betrayed a little uneasiness.

"I regret," he said diffidently, "that I have had very little time
to give to natural science. When we have floored Robb, I fully
intend to apply myself to a study of all that kind of thing."

Lashmar bestowed a gracious smile upon him.

"My dear sir, the flooring of Robb--Robb in his symbolic sense--
can only he brought about by assiduous study and assimilation of
what I will call bio-sociology. Not only must we, the leaders, have
thoroughly grasped this science, but we must find a way of teaching
it to the least intelligent of our fellow citizens. The task is no
trifling one. I'm very much afraid that neither you nor I will live
to see it completed."

"Pray don't discourage us," put in Constance. "Comprehensive
theories are all very well, but Mr. Breakspeare's practical energy
is quite as good a thing."

The editor turned his eyes upon Miss Bride, their expression a
respectful gratitude. He was a married man, with abundant offspring.
Mrs. Breakspeare rose every morning at half-past six, and toiled at
her domestic duties, year in year out, till ten o'clock at night;
she was patient as laborious, and had never repined under her lot.
But her education was elementary; she knew nothing of political
theories, nothing of science or literature, and, as he looked at
Constance Bride, Breakspeare asked himself what he might not have
done, what ambition he might not have achieved, had it been his fate
to wed such a woman as _that_! Miss Bride was his ideal. He came to
Rivenoak less often than he wished, because the sight of her
perturbed his soul and darkened him with discontent.

"Discourage you!" cried Lashmar. "Heaven forbid! I'm quite sure Mr.
Breakspeare wouldn't take my words in that sense. I am all for zeal
and hopefulness. The curse of our age is pessimism, a result and a
cause of the materialistic spirit. Science, which really involves an
infinite hope, has been misinterpreted by Socialists in the most
foolish way, until we get a miserable languid fatalism, leading to
decadence and despair. The essential of progress is Faith, and Faith
can only be established by the study of Nature."

"That's the kind of thing I like to hear," exclaimed the editor,
who, whilst listening, has tossed off a glass of wine. (The pink of
his cheeks was deepening to a pleasant rosiness, as luncheon drew to
its end.) "_Hoc signo vinces_!"

Lady Ogram, who was regarding Lashmar, said abruptly, "Go on! Talk
away!" And the orator, to whose memory happily occurred a passage of
his French sociologist, proceeded meditatively.

"Two great revolutions in knowledge have affected the modern world.
First came the great astronomic discoveries, which subordinated our
planet, assigned it its place in the universe, made it a little
rolling globe amid innumerable others, instead of the one inhabited
world for whose behalf were created sun and moon and stars. Then the
great work of the biologists, which put man into his rank among
animals, dethroning him from a fantastic dignity, but at the same
time honouring him as the crown of nature's system, the latest
product of aeons of evolution. These conquests of science have put
modern man into an entirely new position, have radically changed his
conception of the world and of himself. Religion, philosophy,
morals, politics, all are revolutionised by this accession of
knowledge. It is no exaggeration to say that the telescope and the
microscope have given man a new heart and soul. _But_--" he paused,
effectively,--"how many are as yet really aware of the change? The
multitude takes no account of it, no conscious account; the average
man lives under the heaven of Joshua, on the earth of King Solomon.
We call our age scientific. So it is--for a few score human
beings."

Reflecting for a moment, Dyce felt that it would be absurd to charge
him with plagiarism, so vastly more eloquent was he than the author
to whom he owed his ideas. Conscience did not trouble him in the
least. He marked with satisfaction the attentiveness of his
audience.

"Politics, to be a living thing, must be viewed in this new, large
light. The leader in Liberalism is the man imbued with scientific
truth, and capable of applying it to the every day details of
government. Science, I said, teaches hierarchic order--that is,
the rule of the few, of the select, the divinely appointed. But this
hierarchy is an open order--open to the select of every rank; a
process of perpetual renewal will maintain the health of the
political organism. The true polity is only in slow formation; for,
obviously, human reason is not yet a complete development. As yet,
men come to the front by accident; some day they will be advanced to
power by an inevitable and impeccable process of natural selection.
For my own part"--he turned slightly towards the hostess--"I
think that use will be made of our existing system of aristocracy;
in not a few instances, technical aristocracy is justified by
natural pre-eminence. We can all think of examples. Personally, I
might mention my friend Lord Dymchurch--a member of the true
aristocracy, in every sense of the word."

"I don't know him," said Lady Ogram.

"That doesn't surprise me. He leads an extremely retired life. But I
am sure you would find him a very pleasant acquaintance."

Lashmar occasionally had a fine discretion. He knew when to cheek
the flood of his eloquence: a glance at this face and that, and he
said within himself: _Sat prata biberunt_. Soon after this, Lady
Ogram rose, and led the company into her verdurous drawing-room. She
was beginning to show signs of fatigue; seated in her throne-like
chair, she let her head lie back, and was silent. Constance Bride,
ever tactful, began to take a more prominent part in the
conversation, and Breakspeare was delighted to talk with her about
ordinary things. Presently, Lashmar, in reply to some remark,
mentioned that he was returning to London this evening whereupon his
hostess asked:

"When are you coming back again?"

"Before long, I hope, Lady Ogram. The pleasure of these two days--"

She interrupted him.

"Could you come down in a fortnight?"

"Easily, and gladly."

"Then do so. Don't go to Hollingford; your room will be ready for
you here. Just write and let me know when you will arrive."

In a few minutes, both men took their leave, and went back to
Hollingford together, driving in a fly which Breakspeare had
ordered. For the first minutes they hardly talked; they avoided each
other's look, and exchanged only insignificant words. Then the
editor, with his blandest smile, said in a note of sudden
cordiality:

"It has been a great pleasure to me to meet you, Mr. Lashmar. May I,
without indiscretion, take it for granted that we shall soon be
fighting the good fight together?"

"Why, I think it likely," answered Dyce, in a corresponding tone. "I
have not _quite_ made up my mind--"

"No, no. I understand. There's just one point I should like to touch
upon. To-day we have enjoyed a veritable symposium--for me, I
assure you, a high intellectual treat. But, speaking to you as to
one who does not know Hollingford, I would suggest to you that our
Liberal electors are perhaps hardly ripe for such a new and bracing
political. philosophy--"

Dyce broke into gay laughter.

"My dear sir, you don't imagine that I thought of incorporating my
philosophy in an electioneering address? Of course one must use
common sense in these matters. Practical lessons come before theory.
If I stand for Hollingford--" he rolled the words, and savoured
them--"I shall do so as a very practical politician indeed. My
philosophical creed will of course influence me, and I shall lose no
opportunity of propagating it: but have no fear of my expounding
bio-sociology to Hollingford shopkeepers and artisans."

Breakspeare echoed the speaker's mirth, and they talked on about the
practical aspects of the next election in the borough.

Meanwhile, Lady Ogram had sat in her great chair, dozing. Constance,
accustomed to this, read for half an hour, or let her thoughts
wander. At length overcoming her drowsiness, the old lady fixed a
curious gaze upon Miss Bride, a gaze of benevolent meditation.

"We shall have several letters to write to-morrow morning," she said
presently.

"Political letters?" asked Constance.

"Yes. By the bye, do you know anything about Lord Dymchurch?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then find out about him as soon as possible.--What are Mr.
Lashmar's means?"

"I really can't tell you," answered Constance, slightly confused by
the unexpected question. "I believe his father is very well-to-do; I
have heard him spoken of as a man of private fortune."

"Then our friend is independent--or at all events not pinched. So
much the better."

Again Lady Ogram fell into musing; the countless wrinkles about her
eyes, eloquent as wrinkles always are, indicated that her thoughts
had no disagreeable tenor.

"Mr. Lashmar impresses you favourably?" Constance at length ventured
to ask.

Lady Ogram delayed her answer for a moment, then, speaking thickly
in her tired voice, .aid with slow emphasis

"I'm glad to know him. Beyond a doubt, he is the coming man."





CHAPTER VII




On his return, Lashmar found a letter from Mrs. Woolstan awaiting
him at Upper Woburn Place. The lady wrote in rather an agitated
strain; she had to report that Leonard was already packed off to
school, the imperious Wrybolt having insisted on sending him away as
soon as he had recovered from his cold, on a pretence that the boy
ought not to lose any part of the new term. "It is really very hard
on me, don't you think? I know nothing whatever about the school,
which is a long way off, right away in Devonshire: And it does so
grieve me that you couldn't say good-bye to the poor little fellow.
He says he shall write to you, and it would be so kind, dear Mr.
Lashmar, if you could find a moment to answer him. I know how
grateful dear Len would be. But we will _talk_ about these things,
for of course you will come and lunch all the same, at least I hope
you will. Shall we say Thursday? I am not at all pleased with Mr.
Wrybolt's behaviour. Indeed it seems to me very high-handed, very!
And I told him very plainly what I thought. You can have no idea how
galling is a woman's position left at the mercy of a trustee--a
stranger too. And now that I am quite alone in the house--but I
know you don't like people who complain. It's all very well for
_you_, you know. Ah! if I had your independence! What I would make
of my life!--Till Thursday, then, and don't, please, be bored with
my letters."

This Mrs. Woolstan wrote and posted before luncheon. At three
o'clock in the afternoon, just when she was preparing to go out, the
servant made known to her that Mr. Wrybolt had called. What, Mr.
Wrybolt again! With delay which was meant to be impressive, she
descended to the drawing-room, and coldly greeted the gentleman of
the red neck and heavy eyelids. Mr. Wrybolt's age was about five and
forty; he had the well-groomed appearance of a flourishing City man,
and presented no sinister physiognomy; one augured in him a
disposition to high-feeding and a masculine self-assertiveness.
Faces such as his may be observed by the thousand round about the
Royal Exchange; they almost invariably suggest degradation, more or
less advanced, of a frank and hopeful type of English visage; one
perceives the honest, hearty schoolboy, dimmed beneath
self-indulgence, soul-hardening calculation, debasing excitement and
vulgar routine. Mr. Wrybolt was a widower, without children; his
wife, a strenuous sportswoman, had been killed in riding to hounds
two or three years ago. This afternoon he showed a front all
amiability. He had come, he began by declaring, to let Mrs. Woolstan
know that the son of a common friend of theirs had just, on his
advice, been sent to the same school as Leonard; the boys would be
friends, and make each other feel at home. This news Mrs. Woolstan
received with some modification of her aloofness; she was very glad;
after all, perhaps it had been a wise thing to send Leonard off with
little warning; she would only have made herself miserable in the
anticipation of parting with him. That, said Mr. Wrybolt, was
exactly what he had himself felt. He was quite sure that in a few
days Mrs. Woolstan would see that all was for the best. The fact of
the matter was that Len's tutor, though no doubt a very competent
man, had been guilty of indiscretion in unsettling the boy's ideas
on certain very important subjects. Well, admitted the mother,
perhaps it was so; she would say no more; Mr. Wrybolt, as a man of
the world, probably knew best. And now--as he was here, she would
use the opportunity to speak to him on a subject which had often
been in her mind of late. It was a matter of business. As her
trustee was aware, she possessed a certain little capital which was
entirely at her own disposal. More than once Mr. Wrybolt had spoken
to her about it--had been so kind as to express a hope that she
managed that part of her affairs wisely, and to offer his services
if ever she desired to make any change in her investments. The truth
was, that she had thought recently of trying to put out her money to
better advantage, and she would like to talk the matter over with
him. This they proceeded to do, Mr. Wrybolt all geniality and apt
suggestiveness. As the colloquy went on, a certain change appeared
in the man's look and voice; he visibly softened, he moved his chair
a little nearer, and all at once, before Mrs. Woolstan had had time
to reflect upon these symptoms, Wrybolt was holding her hand and
making her an offer of marriage.