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Dr. Lant Passed Away April 16, 2023

“Whether I Shall Turn Out To Be The Hero Of My Own Life”. Reflections At Three Score and Nine.

Contents
Preface / Introduction 4
Chapter One – Three Score and Nine 6
Chapter Two – “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life…” Thoughts on turning 65 February 16, 2012 and my most memorable birthday. 9
Chapter Three. – ‘Nobody wants you when you’re old and gray.” On the matter of turning 65… and other outrages. 11
Resource 13

Preface / Introduction
Well, another year has waned and died, and I find myself muttering the same old clichés and banalities that my relatives did, (“Where did the time go?”) when they seemed so antediluvian, though they were, in fact, younger than I am now.
Typically, I wanted more; I wanted to understand what happened and when things happened. You see, I was the curator of my memories from the moment I was old enough to have memories. People thought my behavior rather odd; I didn’t want baseball shoes, after all; I wanted scrapbooks with photographs that were awaiting the complete biographical details only I was interested in adding.
I was the boy who wanted to know, “Who’s that?” when presented with a photograph of a long dead distant cousin. I felt responsible for ensuring she was always remembered, and received her just position on the family tree. Yes, I felt responsible for keeping her alive, her memory green. And so while others of my Baby Boomer generation cavorted and indulged themselves in ways not yet completely acknowledged, I thought about who, where, why; what’s it all about, Alfie?
Maybe I was just a tad unusual for, say, a 12 year old. But someone had to do the work, for memories — and the people who provided the memories — died.
And that tormented me. I was a child of the light and had no intention to give it up without a fight, exploring every alternative Maybe that is one reason I write so much, each word, every story and book a red rocket shot into the dark forever. “Mayday! Mayday!” No, I shall not go gentle…
Internet Advent.
The advent of the Internet provided the greatest possible tool for me. I could find people fast, accurately, and in superb detail. And so I expanded my researches beyond my relatives of Lant, Marshall, Lauing, Burgess, and all the others. . I began (with the help of a great prince) to collect the photographs — always autographed — from the myriad of European royalties. Just because they had worn ribands and coronets didn’t excuse them from the invidious obliteration affecting commoners.
They were all disintegrating together. This alarmed me, alarmed and frightened me. To the greatest extent possible I would fight back and keep my pied-a-tier in the light. This is why I wrote this e-book, and why I urge you to write one for yourself with the help of the writing experts at www.writerssecrets.com
But, first, read this book, a succinct read in just 3 chapters. Your eyes may tear; your brain will surely pop with one idea after another, and most of all you will discover yourself… that most difficult, demanding process involving careful thought and consideration. However, as I can assure you, it will be the greatest journey of your life, keeping you alive; remembered in the sun that never sets.
Dr. Jeffrey Lant in the Blue Room Cambridge, Massachusetts January 13, 2016

Chapter One Three Score and Nine
Chapter Two “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life…” Thoughts on turning 65 February 16, 2012 and my most memorable birthday.
Chapter Three. ‘Nobody wants you when you’re old and gray.” On the matter of turning 65… and other outrages.
Brought to you with pride by www.writerssecrets.com
Where your most poignant memories are our most important business.

“Whether I Shall Turn Out To Be The Hero Of My Own Life”. Reflections At Three Score and Nine.
Chapter One – Three Score and Nine

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s Program Note
I was sleeping, but that doesn’t matter, though even a scribbler’s fitful sleep is precious. The squatters of memory are thick on the ground this early morning, and they are sharp, demanding, unrelenting.
They don’t have to say “Get up!” They have merely to insinuate and ensconce themselves on top of any artifact of my collecting and with finger pressed to lip urge general silence and consideration for the hapless master who hears everything, who is influenced by everything, and is putty in their insistent hands.
Thus I begin to sip the vintage that is Chateau Jeffrey 69, Limited Edition… and I begin to rummage through the scattered shards of memory, the well-remembered and the dim; the memories of total strangers as clear today as every day preceding whilst those of my dearest and beloved slip away despite every precaution. And I cannot bear it.
Prisoners of Memory.
We are the prisoners of memory, and memory is a cruel jailer, a jailer who tantalizes with our deepest memories… then snatches them away, replacing them with tears that are the truest indication I have lived.
“There are pancakes “.
To be the “Birthday Boy” beginning February 16,1947 was to be greeted at frigid dawn with mud, mud of every color and hue, of unyielding thickness, and an infinitude of particles that find apertures to cement, covering everything, forgetting nothing, boasting, especially on gray misted winter days, that mud rules the world and so it was “mind those muddy boots, Happy Birthday, son, I’ve just mopped that linoleum, give me a kiss, there’s something for you on the table”, the cacophony of daily life in the Land of Lincoln, the bedrock of the Great Republic, of Thee I sing.
Yearning.
And then Rimsky-Korsakov filled every space in that seemingly ordinary abode, each brick placed by the hands of those who loved me, father, grandfather, uncles, the stock of the great nation they were building one brick at a time.
There was nothing unusual about what they were doing or how they were doing it…. nothing but love and the cascading sounds that were Rimsky-Korsakov at his finest, for though we struggled in the barriers of mud, our minds were untrammeled and ruled a world of our meticulous fashioning. Mud was the price of empire, and we paid it gladly with sweat, sweat and determination the undoubted coin of this realm.
“That blueberry one is yours; I forgot to buy the syrup, so you’ll have to make do. Don’t pester the cat.”
It was time to throw open my bedroom windows, for I loved every kind of weather, torrential rain mixed with blueberry batter; punishing blizzards, portentous thunder, and the delicate wisps of fog that parted at my touch, new contortions, with new characters every minute.
I knew, I was told, there was a great world beyond, where the stories of Scheherazade for Sultan Schariar were set to the genius of Rimsky-Korsakov. (1844-1908). He was a master whose notes were carried by the fickle, tortuous winds. There they worked their magic for those sad places that had no magic, living but to die, untouched by God, ashes to ashes… But that was not me.
I was, you see, a lucky lad as one must be who has the great prairies and the infinite sky as his closest companions. I was never lonely, but I was nostalgic for things I had never seen but knew so well awaited me along with the people who longed to find me while knowing I was ardently looking for them too, right now, never flagging and always grateful for even a clue as to where such great souls could be found and how I should know them in the madding crowd where I begged for connection.
So did many, so many, give me their love, and I came to believe, as any ardent young man might, that such kindness and passion were inexhaustible. Yes, in my salad days I did so believe and defiantly do so still; against all odds, against Time itself which crushes all in due course, all but love which defies all to sustain all. And I am so sustained.
Life anywhere, everywhere else.
Like all good Midwesterners I believed that life was to be found anywhere, everywhere I was not.
That the high events, the pathetic dramas, the noble ideas and sublime impassioned thoughts, and all the people thereunto pertaining, were secretly briefed on my whereabouts so that I should never find them, never know them and remain forever in search of what forever I could not have… doomed to want, frustration my sure companion; bitterness and impatience increasing forever, a conspiracy to hold my destiny secret, unattainable; the longing terrible and unremitting.
I was enchained, lost, hopeless, doomed, trapped by mud and the general indifference of those who had given up and cared no longer. And I despaired. When did my life, real life begin and how could I be assured it had not already passed me by? And this was the most bitter thought of all… of all and every day.
However, it was not yet my only thought. I was young, there was hope; there were dreams to spare and the poetry that I could see in every clod, yes even there. Then reinforcements arrived, les gros battalions, in the shape of a 78 rpm record from a New York address that offered one free, if you purchased one each month, forever after.
Thus did a Queen named Scheherazade enter my life, a kindred spirit, for her quest, freedom, was mine, and I knew even then, to travel in the company of princes ensures adventure, and adventure I would have, especially that most enthralling, daunting, perilous adventure of all… the sharp and sweet search for love. For this is what I craved, what I have always craved most of all; what I must have wherever I am, whoever I am with.
Love. The single thing that is everything, the thing that enslaves and liberates; the thing that ennobles, the thing that maddens. The thing that proves God exists, and the Devil, too.
5:42 a.m. Eastern time, I have lived through this night, now giving way to the triumphal new day, where everything, every good and every horror awaits, a true smorgasbord of alternatives, from the small and insignificant to the awe inspiring and magnificent, all awaiting my selection and precise command.
But at this moment when the long night admits defeat, I am relieved, glad only about one thing: that I have not only lived through this night, I have written through this night, each word a step closer to my tale completed and my life, too.
For my life, like Scheherazade’s, is the life of 1001 tales. So long as she tells hers with exquisite care, one each night, she is allowed to live, and the Sultan’s vow to kill her if she falters in her demanding task, becomes night by night another, different vow, a promise to love, under the crescent moon, in a land where cloying jasmine smothers every other thought than passion and eternal Paradise.
This night Scheherazade achieved her objective. I achieved mine. And so this birthday, three score and nine, I will do what the longing young man of long ago did. I shall throw up the sashes and quaff in the air of ascending day.
Yes, I shall open these windows and invite the world to attend me. Most of all I shall invite Nicolai Rimsky-Korsakov to direct his music; unfetter every dream unleash every memory, for this is a special day, a special place, a place where hate and fear may yet become love if only we open the windows wide enough and let the Lady Scheherazade weave her lyric magic and cast every word, each an incantation, upon the soft breezes of early morning, each an emissary to a forlorn, forgotten place on this sad, burdened, encumbered planet where too many dreams have died. We must find them, all of them and dream them all over again. .
Envoi
In this wired age it is now rare that any person under 40 should have experienced the isolation of the great prairies, their punishing weather, and the deep longing for other human beings.
Into this world of grinding, back breaking, unceasing work the catalogs and direct mail solicitations came as immediate friends, each edition eagerly awaited, perused with care and an expert’s eye. So Scheherazade entered my world; was it from the Columbia Record Club? It was received with grateful thanks and so often consulted that its pages were tattered and in shreds, our lifeline to the world beyond, the world we knew so little about, anxious and impatient to experience it’s every aspect. Scheherazade went even further. The very name was exotic; no one by that magnetic name had ever come to prairie America, and we’d bet dollars to doughnuts ever would. This is why I made it known that this record, this Queen, this grandly named composer who was a real prince from the Russian empire, toting musical genius and an unlikely degree from the United States Naval Academy was seized by me and hidden, available to me only.
This birthday, my 69th, I shall sit here in the Blue Room and as dusk falls I shall play it again as I played it then, and it will all come back to me, not for the last time either, for Scheherazade has not finished with me yet. The windows are not closed, neither is my mind, while the great notes of Prince Nicolai sail on forever, pointing the way to love.
End

Chapter Two – “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life…” Thoughts on turning 65 February 16, 2012 and my most memorable birthday.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. I have always liked Charles Dickens. Not only was he a writer able to make words do his bidding, but he roused multitudes of people, people who after reading this master could never see the world as before… but only through his eyes. That is power indeed. When I was a student living in London in the late ’60s, Charles Dickens’ house was right around the corner on Doughty Street; I went often, my mission clear: to see how the master of words lived his messy, turbulent, always productive life. That didn’t help; I had to wait until I lived my own to find out how it’s done….
But I resolved that when it came time for me, as an older man, looking back on my young and tender self, that I should incorporate the great beginning to “David Copperfield” (published 1850)… and so today I shall do so: “

Chapter 1. I am born.

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.” And so, very similarly, it went for me… and, no doubt for you, too; for at that moment we are all similar… something we ought to remember later, when we cultivate and embrace divisiveness instead of diversity.
Seeking clues, finding clues.
There is no adventure so thrilling, so personally significant, so completely fulfilling as going on expedition to find yourself, for the discovery of you cannot help but be the most important journey you will take. For this epic journey — for your life must always be that — I have selected the lush 1969 score by Sir Malcolm Arnold to one of the several filmed versions of “David Copperfield”. You can find it in any search engine. Play it now before going on… And so we begin…
I was born in Illinois February 16, 1947, making me a card-carrying Baby Boomer. It was the date of my parents’ first wedding anniversary; the date, too, when two of my paternal aunts gave birth to boys the same time. Family, fecundity, faith in the Great Republic and its devices were in the air. It is fashionable, particularly in political circles, to minimize what one’s parents had, while enhancing the struggles they faced; the deprivations many and humiliating visited upon the hapless children… but this is not my story, even if I stretched the truth.
When I see my life in its whole, the words that come to mind are words of security, amplitude, family… words about the Great Republic, its especial place in the firmament… and of small town life and verities… where everyone knew you, almost from the first moment of conception. There my father built us a rambling ranch house graced by a sign that said “This is the house that Don built, 4906 Woodward Avenue”.
It was set in the midst of acres of violets whose very color I can never see without a lump in my throat….if in such circumstances we may have lacked this or that, we didn’t know and it never mattered… because we were blessed in so many ways… No one more so than I.
“You looked at me,” she said, “with interest and intelligence, as if you had come to tell me something and know me better.”
Life revealed one of my important traits right from the start. My mother was young and feared delivery and the burdens of maternity. She told me often in later years that she didn’t want children, didn’t like them… and was resentful when her early pregnancy was discovered. But then…then… a nurse placed me in her arms for the first time… and that changed everything. She told me, always as if she had never told me before, I looked at her at that crucial moment of acknowledgement… not with fear, anxiety, trepidation or even uncertainty… but instead steadily, with empathy, as if I had come to cheer her and tell her all would be well.
Thus it came to be said that I had a special mission to humanity and the necessary skills and healing gifts. If so, I used them that day.
Prodigies
All mothers probably think their children prodigies, especially the first born… but my mother’s oft reiterated belief about what she saw on our first meeting put my feet upon the path I continue to tread this very day… a path that gave me what, age ten or so, I told them I wanted: to go to Harvard, to write books, to be a millionaire, all accomplished before thirty. This is how it happened…

Exemption, recognition

Boys in 1950’s Illinois needed to be good at sports, especially baseball, basketball or football, handy with cars, or at some practical subject like mathematics, a requirement for careers in engineering and the like. I was good at none of these… and yet it never mattered. I was, from the first day of school, the recognized school leader, master of words and thoughts which were always more adult than my schoolmates, who might so easily have derided… but never did, not least because I was always perceived as a friend, even confidante of my teachers, able to empathize and understand their situations; always, therefore a (young) colleague, never merely a pet. I used this influence for the good of my classmates, my instructors, the support staff… and myself. As such, I had the ear of all, for the benefit of all.
I learned what it took to assist authority and to achieve what I wanted… by helping such people get what they wanted. And this skill, once planted, has never deserted me… and as a result I have always been welcomed by the intelligent, the accomplished, the powerful, and all manner of people whose brains are fertile, whose visions are expansive, and for whom life is a grand thing, to be savored, improved, enhanced at every step and always shared, as I share mine with such people; now including you. In this way I lived a life enhanced by those good people and kind who have chosen to live it with me, as you perhaps will do, too.
My favorite birthday.
Have I then become the hero of my own life? Even now, it is too early to tell, though I remain resourceful and always hopeful. But I can resolutely tell you this: my favorite birthday is my actual birth day for from it everything else has come… and it all started with a look, two eyes just opened looking for the first time into two eyes anxious and frightened just a moment ago, now with a dawning realization that all will be well and with incipient happiness, too. That is why, so equipped, I approach each new day as a pilgrim to this planet; ready to smile, to laugh, to use my talents, to enhance life… and above all else to love… for love explains all, enables all, enhances all, forgives all, understands all, embraces all… which is why, just 65, the best is yet to come… the last of life for which the first is made. So Browning enlightened my mother; so my mother enlightened me… and so I trust, on this special day, I have now enlightened you.
For this is the only acceptable kind of life… where, one by one, we reach out to each other… determined to engage… to touch… to venture upon the ocean of time with hope, humility, and humanity. This is what I have learned in my first 65 years… and now it is my present to you… gratefully given… and I hope gratefully received and used for good… for this is the way if you, too, wish to become the hero of your own life, as I know you wish to do…
End

Chapter Three. – ‘Nobody wants you when you’re old and gray.” On the matter of turning 65… and other outrages.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. In 1921, that sultry chanteuse with a silken voice seasoned with a touch of honky-tonk and life’s deflating experience — Ethel Waters (1896- 1977) — got up before the microphone one fine day and belted into history a little ditty by Billy Higgins and W. Benton Overstreet. It was a swinging song with attitude… and, it turned out, with “legs”, too; a song so potent in its magic that over 50 major recording artists couldn’t wait to get their vocal chords around it.
It was “There’ll be some changes made”, and it included the resonating line that made us all queasy… “Nobody wants you when you’re old and gray”… the line that justified an ocean or two of wild behavior, the wild oats you’d better indulge in when young and limber… before the Grim Reaper stamped your forehead with the iconic number 65 and measured you for eternity.
Go now to any search engine, review your recorded choices; then “choose your poison” as Grandpa Walt used to say… but, whoever you select, take time to pay homage to Miss Waters, for she was a game old bird and after all was the first to urge us to approach old age with dignity, composed, resigned, withered hands folded gently in your lap, glass for your false teeth at the ready — not! Oh, no, Miss Waters celebrated not just the “you” you were… but the “you” you could be with a few deft changes, tweaks and tucks… all necessary so that your “golden” years are even less demure (by a long shot) than your early days; that you don’t just read your Browning — “the best is yet to be” — but live him, with plenitude and a “hey, look me over” edge, your original and unique cocktail of defiance, insight, and allure.
Step-dad Jack and the chocolate box.
He was shrunken, smaller than he had been in life… in form that is, never in spirit. And he asked me –before “forever” took him — for chocolates. He craved them. I didn’t have to think twice about what to do. I was on the phone at once and ordered him an exuberant chocolate feast of Godiva’s best, the kind of assortment that a boy bent on the delights of love gives to the girl he wants to wash his shirts and cheat on for life. Yes, it was that big. And when I called to make sure he had the package… I was informed this man I hardly knew… had the box open, a few already nibbled, sampled, so he could make the best selection. And he was smiling… But that’s only a part of this tale…
The instant she heard ol’ Jack talking to me, my mother, that force of nature and approved behavior, grabbed the phone and Let Me Have It. Jack was ill, she said; Jack was dying, she said; Jack could die at any moment, she said, and face his Maker, as quick as you could say “Jack Robinson.” What did I mean by giving him, and on his death bed, too, the rich seduction that was chocolate, a food that could not be found amidst his recommended dietary choices, unappetizing all. Why, didn’t I know that could kill him….? Moreover, there was no mention in Emily Post sanctioning death-bed chocolates… and thus they could not be approved, unfitting objects as they were for such an event and its high mysteries and profound enigmas.
“But POM (Poor Old Mother)”, I said. His cancer is terminal, he could indeed die at any moment; every doctor said so, and at such a time if there’s a dance in the old galoot yet he ought to dance it… he ought to have what he wanted, the savor of life, not another moment of the semblance of life, measured out by tea spoons of this medicine, tablets of that. In short he wanted, with an insistence that comes when time is almost gone, one of life’s pleasures, not another indication and token of life’s finality.
… Jack died just hours later…
… POM became the Ice Queen to me for too long…
But I was the gainer here… for Jack had reaffirmed a profound truth we cannot hear and contemplate often enough… that life is for the living, that life must be lived, exulted, extolled, celebrated and savored… and that at the end, if you want chocolates, the very best chocolates (or their equivalent) no one — not even the well-meaning wife and scold — should be allowed even a moment of jeremiad, pontification, finger-pointing and condescension… “Proper behavior” be damned…. Easy to say, difficult to do.
Now, one can damn, and so easily, too, the bug-a-boo of “proper behavior”, but the truth of the matter, an independent course is difficult to pull off. Witness my darlin’ mama’s frosty reaction on the matter of chocolates an instant prior to demise. We geriatric life-savors need to face up to the shibboleths and prejudices of our rigid adversaries… and become as shrewd as we are aged. Thus, start from the proposition that for the bulk of the world… but never for ones as wicked cool and winsome as we are, Age 65 is regarded as the gate through which one passes, inexorably, inevitably, slowly on account of rheumatism, arthritis and assembled other maladies attendant upon bigger and bigger birthdays; the gate through which we enter aging… through which we depart dead… truly an inviting scenario… if you’re into the macabre pictures of Hieronymus Bosch (1450-1516) and other medieval horrors. . But Hieronymus and his scary ilk have never been my cup of tea, perhaps because of their unremitting focus on the darker side of life, its miseries, regrets, loneliness and angst about the eternity into which each of us must enter, like it or not. I am a creature of life and light… and aim to live my credo to the very last moment… for all that I may be able to do nothing more at that unique moment of finality than nibble a chocolate. Even that is enough to reaffirm my adamant belief in life, not life’s restrictions.
Yet these restrictions are everywhere, built into the very heart of our youth-centered culture. Folks over 65 are lesser beings, unable to do this, incapable of doing that; past it in ways as diverse as eating corn on the cob or satisfying even the least demanding of lovers. Even more than a baby (which after all does not know better) we are held thrall to the do-nots, the should-nots, the could-nots, instead of enjoying the thrills and growth of the why-nots.
But we are not, we crew of 65 plus, babies to be protected and instructed. We are people who have lived life — and often riotously too — with gusto and a zest that only begins when you realize that the life force within you is not unlimited or inexhaustible. It is its very limitation that makes it precious… and which drives us to use it… all of it … never letting a drop of it… any of it… drip away unused and unregarded.
We know the pleasures of life… and intend to explore each and every one of them until the engine that drives our magnificent being can do absolutely nothing more.
That’s why I tell you this: Miss Waters sings her song not for you and me who seize and savor life. For we do not need to make changes…
Rather, these changes must be made by the folks — “age-ists” every one of them — who want us to stop living before our time, pushing us out of life, anxious to get what we have had. These folks are in the business of denial, living to block us, restrict us and chide us for ideas, thoughts and actions they deem unsuitable to our age and station… They are the ones who would remove us from life, not help us engage it.
It is for these folks and their disapproval and disdain that Miss Waters sings her song, for they cannot be reminded often and enough…
“You’re here today and then tomorrow you’re gone” …
Thus I shall live my life while there is a crumb yet to enjoy. And if that bothers you or anyone, get over it… and make the changes which must be made today… for you have far greater need for them than I do…
Envoy
Dr. Lant turns 65 February 16, 2012.

Resource
About the Author: Dr. Jeffrey Lant is known worldwide. He started in the media business when he was 5 years old, a Kindergartner in Downers Grove, Illinois, publishing his first newspaper article. Since then Dr. Lant has earned four college degrees, including the Ph.D. from Harvard. He has taught at over 40 colleges and universities, quite possibly the first to offer satellite courses. He has written over 50 books, thousands of articles and been a welcome guest on hundreds of radio and television programs. He has founded several successful corporations and businesses including his latest at … www.drjeffreylant.com

His memoirs “A Connoisseur’s Journey” have garnered nine prizes that ensure its classic status. Its subtitle is “Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.” You’ll enjoy the read by this man of so many letters. Such a man can offer you thousands of insights into the business of becoming a success. Be sure to sign up now at www.drjeffreylant.com

SPECIAL WRITERS SECRETS CATALOG
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A multi-awards winning, gloriously written and unique memoir by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Awarded FIRST in Class at Southern California Book Festival.
FIRST in Class Great Southwest Book Festival
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THIRD in Class at the London (England) Book Festival.
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Dr. Lant also was awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award with a focus on “A Connoisseur’s Journey” with this citation.
“Dr. Jeffrey Lant. On behalf of the citizens of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I congratulate you on the release of your Memoir, ‘A Connoisseur’s Journey’. Your work is a groundbreaking experiment into the use of musical citations in literature, adding depth and nuance to the reading experience.”
(signed) Charles D. Baker, Governor and Karyn E.Polito, Lieutenant Governor
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Treasures From The Lant Collection Series
– One of the most personal book ever written on art, artifacts,
auctions, conservators, and the great yarns that constitute the better part of provenance.
– Written by a man who has been privileged to visit many of the world’s great museums.
– A man who has had an interested in arts, its attributions, conservations, and sheer beauties since he was a young boy.
– What was written here is the result of constant exploration, research, gut hunches, and downright blind luck.
Dr. Lant can honestly say he has enjoyed every
moment in his quest to find not just objects of beauty, but objects of history, often fleshed out by himself, who is, after all, a history Ph.D. from Harvard.

What follows will sure to delight you.
Found in the Kindle Store at Amazon.com

Insubstantial Pageant: Ceremony and Confusion at Queen Victoria’s Court by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
269 pages
Both Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Charles read and liked “Insubstantial Pageant” and found it to be a very interesting book indeed especially since it was written by an American.
The author Dr. Jeffrey Lant was given unique access to the Royal Archive at Windsor Castle for his research of the material contained in this book.
A book that has always been and remains to be the most detailed book about the British Royal Events.
Throughout the reign of Queen Victoria, confusion and uncertainty marked the great ceremonials of the English Court. The young sovereign was, at her Coronation, recalled from refreshments to complete the service because a significant part of the ritual had been left out.
During her wedding, her bridegroom, Prince Albert, was wracked by nervous embarrassment about what he was supposed to do, while at the marriage of sir son the Prince of Wales troopers with drawn sabres charged into milling crowds and titled guests elbowed each other for a place.
As the Court’s at first limited ceremonies grew during the nineteenth century into great national pageants matters did not improve, exacerbating the situation after the Prince consort’s death was the Queen’s rooted position to display and royal pomp which gave her officials no chance to gain efficiency in organizing ceremonial. Matters came to a head in 1887, at the greatest royal pageant since the Coronation: the Queen’s Golden Jubilee had to be pulled together from scratch, in circumstances of the utmost dedication.
The next great royal event, the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee ten years later, had precedents to draw on and things went so much better that optimists thought the additional muddle had been laid to rest forever. Their expectations were confounded at the arrangement of Queen Victoria’s funeral, an event which in many respects converted to the traditional disorder.
In this remarkable book, Jeffrey L. Lant sees behind the scenes to set out in rich detail how great Victorian royal events developed. Drawn from a wide range of previously unpublished sources, the final result is a perceptive and rollicking piece of crucial history, which many of those involved might have hoped would go unrecorded, authoritative and thorough, this book will fascinate all who have ever marveled at the impressive discretion of Court officials.
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