Monthly Archives: May 2016

Time to Join the Ranks of Published Authors Making a Reoccurring Passive Income for Life!

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Here’s where I first got my eyes open to the world of kindle publishing with Ty Cohen

Ty Cohen gives you a good introduction to the possibilities in Kindle publishing even giving you a walk through for signing up to Kindle Direct Publishing where you can set up a free account and start loading up your content – publishing your own books.

He gives you 3 simple steps to get you started with some wonderful tips to ensure you have success in your Kindle Publishing journey.

Once you have your book up on Kindle Direct Publishing Platform, Amazon has another source to get your book published with their print by demand service at Create Space.

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Excerpts from “Harvard, Oh Harvard” with the Power of Observation

Michael Harris had the privileged of visiting Dr. Jeffrey Lant at his home in Cambridge Massachusetts, right across from the Harvard Law School and wrote a beautiful passage which I’ll share part with you now.

These are the moments that I will most remember because it is Dr. Lant himself, who taught me how to fine tune my powers of observation. I have told Dr. Lant many times that his most poignant tool in his craft was his acute ability to pull meaning from almost meaningless situations to the untrained eye. Dr. Lant taught me that every moment has a meaning and a message. And those messages could range from a tender flower petal falling gently to the ground. From the vivacious colors of the simplest flower crying out to make itself known. Even to the whistling of the cold winter wind on the coldest wintry night. These are the details we so often miss. But not Dr. Lant. The acuteness of his eye is so ever present, watching, gazing, even on the slightest twitch of a muscle or an eye. My teacher, my friend, Dr. Lant was about to take me on a journey I had not expected.

See Michael’s complete write up shared at IBO Social at:

Dr. Lant stresses that point of taking in all the details around you in his Writers Secrets Course available at:

See more tips at:

all information is important picTake in all that information for every bit of information is grist for the mill when writing and will enrich your stories.

Thank you Michael for sharing your story!

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Excerpts from “No one was saved.” Memorial Day, 2016.

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Excerpts from “No one was saved.” Memorial Day, 2016. by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Available on Amazon at:


This day, Memorial Day, can be summarized in just a few words: liberty,freedom, self-determination, to enjoy the fruits of one’s labors, to praise God, each in his own way, and work together. It is a day for acute remembrance and to remind ourselves of fundamental truths we have
neglected and forgotten. It is a day when we recall how much has been done for each and every one of us, by the sacrifices of so many, and for
the great world beyond.

But today, I feel like Father McKenzie, in the Beatles famous song, “Eleanor
Rigby” (1966). The lines read as follow:

“Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands
as he walks from the grave, no one was saved.”

We live in a time when the community that was and should always be
America and its Great Republic is unraveling before our very eyes. We
look at the institutions of our government, and we see their increasing
flaws, and imperfections. We see our leaders diminished daily, by their
picayune concerns and language obscene, divisive, focusing on minute
political gain, instead of the great interests of our much diminished

Nations and peoples which once craved the American dream, now carp
at every aspect of our national affairs, and international mission. We are
dismissed, we are demeaned, we are insulted, and we are perplexed by
the contumely. Where did we go wrong?

We look in the looking glass, and what do we see? We are old, we are
tired, we have seemingly lost control. Our borders are infiltrated by people
who do not want our ideals, but only our wealth and our services, and who
take what we give; and no one is happy or better off. It is a dismal picture,
and all because a single word has evaporated from our national agenda:

We all say we will sacrifice to achieve what must be achieved. We all say
we know the need for sacrifice. We all proclaim that we’ll be the example for
our friends and neighbors, but it is just so many words, so many promises
made, so many promises unkept.

Can we go on like this? And if we go on like this, what terrible retribution will
there be for all that we had, and all that we carelessly lost? This is the reality
of Memorial Day, a day for remembering. So let us then remember.

Remember a nation, which saw far, and worked not for momentary gain, but
for long term measures of great consequence and worth. People saved today
to perfect tomorrow. People did their bit because by doing one’s bit, success
was ensured for all. We were not just a great nation, we were a great
community, the leader of an expectant world, where working together was the
preferred state of affairs. And together, we achieved miracles.

The contents of this book will move you. They advance the hard questions,
and review the hard realities. These chapters are not afraid of the harsh and
bitter truth; that we sacrificed far too many men and women in endeavors which,
at their outset, commanded the high rhetoric so obligatory in our wars and
national undertakings, but which in the event made these words an
acrimonious mockery.

They show how often these sacrifices failed, failed miserably, failed
completely… because we have lost our national purpose and vision, and now
detest each other, dismiss each other, disdain each other, and say to
ourselves, that is the way things must be for this America. But that is not so.

Think of this single outrage. I saw a picture in the newspaper some time
ago. It was a Pepsi-Cola sign in downtown Ho Chi Minh City, which my
generation knew as Saigon. We sacrificed some 58,000 men and women
to end up flaunting this beverage, a symbol of the nation. It made
me angry, so terribly angry, to think of all the pain, of all blood that was shed
for nothing, and for naught, to place such a sign so.

As I write today, the world is engrossed for a moment, by the latest hijacked
airplane, captured by terrorists, plunged by their suicidal command
into the depths of the Mediterranean Sea. We arrange our affairs so that
we tolerate murderers, and protect their rights, when their rights reign death
and destruction upon all of us. They care nothing for our rights, nothing for us,
and nothing for our sacrifices.

There is no clarity today. No general agreement… just acrid, futile, gyrations
which allow us no time or energy to recapture what made the nation great,
and what we said upon sending our best and brightest to early deaths. The
greatness of a great nation and its great purposes around the Earth is now
at stake.

We can treat this Memorial Day merely as the unofficial opening of our
summer expeditions, and frolic accordingly, or we can use this day of
history and sad realities to re-instill in ourselves the urgent need for
regeneration and thorough renewal. Will our situation be that of Father
McKenzie, writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear, no one
comes near? Is this truly our destiny?

Are we so far gone, that this is now the best we can expect of ourselves,
or can we still call from deep within our collectivity, the will, the
determination, and the vision we must have, for that is what Memorial Day
should be about. Recognition of the past, and determination for the
future, for destiny is never certain, and may always be influenced for good
or ill by those who are the most determined.

Let this day, then, be about remembrance and rededication, both essential
if we are to rise again as the great nation we have been, the great nation we
must become again, the great nation that America must always be.

God bless America!

Dr. Jeffrey Lant
From the Blue Room
Cambridge, Massachusetts

Get a Copy of “”No one was saved.” Memorial Day, 2016.” for under $1 at:

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Excerpts from ” Treasures From The Lant Collection” Vol. 1 “They caw their lamentations in the eerie trees”

Proudly presented from Book Series

Excerpts from ” Treasures From The Lant Collection” Vol. 1

“They caw their lamentations in the eerie trees”. A pair of Russian ormolu and patinated-bronze twin branch candelabra circa 1810.

I asked the Christie’s representative when I saw these items in London, to tell me just what figures appeared on these startlingly bold candelabra.

Now remember, representatives of the auction houses are not history

specialists. Their knowledge is usually skin deep, or not even that. Thus, I was not at all surprised by the feeble answer I received. “Umm, Dr. Lant, it’s some kind of a winged creature.” This, of course, wasn’t any help whatsoever, since I could see that for myself.

I wanted to test my hypothesis that the winged creatures in question were some of my favorite creatures of all, Harpies. Now you may be of the generation that calls your mother-in-law an old Harpy, but even then you probably had no idea what they were, or what you had shouted at your little loved relation, for whom any insult was sufficient.

But in fact, some of the most frightening of classical creatures fall under the rubric of Harpies, and I for one was ecstatic to find their pernicious aspect on a pair of graceful Russian candelabra.

First, a word on Harpies

Harpies appear in Greek and Roman mythology, having cameo spots in Homer and Hesiod, who, however, do not agree in their conclusions. Homer says they were the most repellant of creatures, vicious, cruel, and violent, the personification of the destructive nature of wind. Hesiod carried a torch for them, thinking them “lovely haired”. Chacun a son gout.

Most classical writers insisted there were just two Harpies, sisters. Their names were “Storm Swift” and “the Swift Wing”. Roman writer Virgil added a third Harpy, called “the Dark”. Homer said that there was at least one more, and so the classicists argued and argued, and never agreed; typical of academics.

To begin at the beginning, almost everyone agreed, except Hesiod, that Harpies were female monsters in the form of a predatory bird with a human face. Their daily occupations consisted of killing evil-doers, particularly those who had killed their families, and shredding various victims limb from limb, enjoying the flesh of their bones as a delicacy few besides Harpies have ever tasted.

Of course Hesiod, often contrary, does not agree. He called them “lovely haired” creatures. Thus, to the confusion of today’s puzzled classicists, there is no general agreement on whether Harpies were lovely or not, grim menacing predators or not, but where would classical scholars be without such topics for their Ph.D. dissertations?

I, for one, have no qualms whatsoever in telling you they were stern visaged, frightening of face and feature, altogether a creature you wouldn’t want to invite home for dinner, especially if your guests requested their favorite dish, the flesh of suicides. Oh, my, that must have been an acquired taste.

Perhaps the most famous story about Harpies was that concerning King Phineus of Thrace. He had been given the gift of prophecy by Zeus, though if that is true, one wonders why he didn’t use it on his own behalf when the need arose. In any event, Zeus became angry with him when Phineus blabbed that he had received this special power, and was now one of the beloved of Zeus, a position often filled, but never for very long.

Zeus was angry, a situation in which he often found himself, for his was a most imperial temperament. Irritated, he blinded King Phineus, and put him on an offshore island known to none but illegal gamblers. There, his minions set a table of such magnificence that even a vegan would be tempted.

He plucked a morsel from the heap of delicacies, and just before it hit his lips, the Harpies flew in with such precision flying as the Navy’s Blue Angels, perhaps even better. In short, Phineus was in perpetual despair. Something must be done, or what’s the point of being a King anyway?

In this, as in so many other classical tales, a handsome young man appears with the solution, as he so often does throughout the classics. “Harpies,” he said, “What the hell is going on here?” Then, Phineus pointed to the black sockets where his eyes had once been, and the fact that he never had a single morsel to eat, though the repast was sumptuous, not to mention, bird feathers everywhere.

Now, you will know of course that nothing fazed Jason, a man who went off with his Argonauts to fight a dragon wearing a cute outfit from Brooks Brothers Athens division that left nothing to the imagination. But more than cute legs, he had craft.

Thus, he inflicted upon the Harpies a withering defeat. It reminds me of when a bat flew into my condominium, and I was forced to open the front door and go after it with a butterfly net, wearing nothing but a smile. I looked cute, too, as my neighbors informed me. So did the candelabra in question.

Lot 106

To achieve a noteworthy and eye-catching collection, you must know everything, know everyone, have gone everywhere, and listened, listened, listened, to every kind of expert on every kind of subject. There is no such thing as an expiration date on learning.

In this case, I knew at once that this particular design was rare or quite possibly unique. I had never before seen Harpies pictured on any piece of neo-classical furniture or any objet d’art of the period. Yes, they were very likely unique.

The bare facts are these:

They are designed in the manner of Friedrich Bergenfeldt (1768-1822). Each with two candle-sockets on winged masks issuing from a winged sphinx on a tapering plinth with classical mounts.

Friedrich Bergenfeldt was the celebrated bronzier who worked in St. Petersburg in the late 1790’s. His work was influenced by the designs executed by Andrei Voronikhin. Together, both gentlemen particularly liked designs featuring winged dragons, tritons, and other fanciful features, and perhaps, a Harpy or two. Such work always excites my interest.

Thus, I was front and center for the actual auction, where the low estimate was a shade over $10,000 dollars, but, as I was not surprised to see, sold for nearly $15,000 dollars, the high estimate. As usual, I sent them on after acquisition to Roddy McVittie in Kent, England, to be brought up to date and to have the annoying holes for electricity filled in and returned to their original condition. I will not drill any of my works for electricity, and certainly not these beauties.

Now they reside on dark green marble columns supporting the arch leading to my Red Drawing Room, where I recite Dante’s “Inferno”, X111. For this, I assume an Attic disposition. I point to the Harpies ready for their day’s flight of destructiveness, and recite Dante as if I were Florentine; the way Pietro Pezzati, the painter of my portrait, taught me how to do.

“Here the repellant Harpies make their nests…

They have broad wings with razor sharp talons and

a human neck and face,

Clawed feet, and swollen feathered bellies; they caw

Their lamentations in the eerie trees.”

They are condemned to reside in the seventh ring of Hell, where their punishment is grim and eternal, not at all what they’re used to in the Red Drawing Room.

Musical notes

To accompany this article, I have selected the theme music from the 1963 film “Jason and the Argonauts”. It is, admittedly, a cheesy production, some of it downright embarrassing.

Curiously enough, the section dealing with the Harpies is one of the best aspects of the whole film, for the Harpies are made to measure, squawking, screeching, shredding vulnerable flesh with invulnerable talons. Oh, yes, they make quite a good show as they grab the food right out of King Phineus’ mouth. And there’s nothing quite so disgusting as a Harpy’s sharp talon in your mouth, not that I know

personally, of course.

Nonetheless, the music is chipper and upbeat, the kind of thing heroes would appreciate, particularly when Jason, that comely lad, is near at hand. You can find it in any search engine where it’s ready for your deeds of derring–do.

Make sure you run it in tandem with this article. Here’s the link:

Before signing off, please be sure to join my Monarchy & Royalty Forum. King Phineus did, and he is enjoying himself amongst his royal peers and relations, having at last got a good meal.

Windsor book coverHe also received a free copy of my book, “Happy and Glorious. Encounters with the Windsors”, and so will you. Here’s the link:

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 university degrees, including the PhD from Harvard. He has taught at over 40 colleges and universities and is quite possibly the first to offer satellite courses. He has written over 30 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 …


His memoirs “A Connoisseur’s Journey” has garnered eight literary prizes that ensure its classic status. Its subtitle is “Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.” A good read by this man of so many letters. Such a man can offer you thousands of insights into the business of becoming a successful writer. Be sure to sign up now at


A George Quacker Production

Division of Jeffrey Lant Associates,Inc.

All Rights Reserved

Excerpt from “The Lant Collection” – Vol. 1 Creme de la Creme

Proudly presented from Book series
Excerpt from “The Lant Collection” – Vol. 1 Creme de la Creme
Friends and connoisseurs, imagine if you will, that you had the high honor and distinct privilege of being received by Princess Borghese. That is to say by Napoleon Buonaparte’s youngest sister Pauline Buonaparte (1780-1825), the sixth child of Letizia Ramolino and Carlo Buonaparte.
That is to say, the Duchess of Guastalla, in her own right, then by marriage, Princess of Sulmona and Rossano, and then Imperial Princess of France, for she was all of these.
You would enter her presence and bow in reverence. While you did, her Imperial Highness would be fussing with her clothes, her hair, and ensuring that her footstool was arranged properly. And then you would notice that the footstool was a human being, a lady of the court, stripped, her gown pulled down so that her Imperial Highness might warm her toes upon the bosom of her lady in waiting.
And then you might well be surprised when this self same lady in waiting entered the conversation, though from an odd perspective, for she lay upon her back upon the floor, and twisted and turned to participate in the conversation as often as such contortions were necessary. Her breasts were artfully arranged each time her mistress moved her feet, the better to achieve maximum warmth.
You would notice that no comment was made upon this tableau, for it was not considered at all odd or noteworthy at the Court of Princess Pauline, and that is why you will enjoy this article, for you know nothing of the lady in question, and that is the thing that is truly odd, and shameful.
Princess Pauline is not the focus of this article, for should I cede that position to her, she would hijack this composition as she hijacked so many lives and situations in her colorful life. So I shall tell you a little bit, with the distinct understanding that this is but a fraction of what I could say, and would say, too, if I allowed myself to lose control. For this is an article about two silver gilt creme pots, from the Borghese service, and I must try to focus, difficult though that is.
A few facts about Pauline
Sculpture_of_Pauline_BuonaparteShe was perhaps the most beautiful woman of her time, and we have but to look at her naked sculpture, sculpted by Canova, to determine the matter for ourselves, for there is not an inch of that voluptuous body, not a half inch, that cannot be seen, and closely too. She was completely uneducated, never a day in school, could hardly write a letter, but what matter that, when she had the body of the century, and her brother was Emperor? She did what she would, when she would, the way she would, usually half naked, or more.
Of course she had lovers. But she approached them in a scientific fashion, measuring every pertinent male part and recording this information in a handy book, where the court ladies and their admirers might see, might compare, and might enjoy, purely in a scientific way of course, the data that are derived. M. Forbin was perhaps the most celebrated entry, for reasons I leave you to guess.
Now for such an indiscriminate lady who left nothing to the imagination, there must be a silver service of surpassing beauty and value, and in fact she had access to two, both given by Napoleon. The first, hers, the second, given to her husband, Prince Camillo (1775-1832), sixth Prince of Sulmona and
Rossano. He was as cute as she was, and as desirable, but predictably, they soon quarreled, because there could only be one star in that firmament, and Pauline particularly could brook no competition.
Splendor, piece by piece
Napoleon took a shine to Prince Camillo. He was, after all, a “real Prince”, from the papal nobility, and he was a snob. He had two things he wanted for his sister: a magnificent palace, and the famous Borghese diamonds, perhaps the most famous set of gems in Europe.
In addition, he put up with Pauline’s flagrant behaviors, so long as they weren’t in public, and never bothered Napoleon for more and more and more, as his siblings surely did. No, Prince Camillo was something of a find. Thus, Napoleon gave him a grand service of silver gilt, eye-popping in size, radiance, and cost.
The service was done in silver gilt, which is to say, solid silver coated with gold. It looks like gold, but was not as costly to produce. Unfortunately, the fumes for creating such beauty were toxic. No one knows how many men died crafting the Borghese service, but it must have been considerable. However, no one bothered to count, after all, you can’t make an omelette
without breaking eggs.
And so the celebrated French silversmith, frequently used by the Imperial family, Martin-Guillaume Biennais, started work on this service in Paris in 1809, and continued right until the end of the Empire to add new pieces, including this pair of French silver gilt pots-a-creme.
This is the description of these two eye-popping items:
Each flaring cylindrical, on three paw feet with anthemion joints with everted gadrooned rim, the slightly domed cover with leaf calyx and acorn finial, the wood side handle insert with mother-of-pearl, each body and cover engraved with a coat of arms, each marked base, body and cover bezel.
5 1/8 in. (13 cm.) long over handle; 8 oz. 10 dwt. (279 gr.) gross weight The arms are those of Borghese, as borne by Prince Camillo Borghese (2)
Gorgeous, aren’t they?
But almost as appealing as their form and luster, is the matter of their provenance, for these pieces, more than nearly any other silver service ever made, have been owned by one rich, celebrated person after another, beginning with Prince Camillo’s brother, Prince Francesco Borghese, and continuing through Don Antonio Licata, Prince Baucina, thence to Mrs. Edith Rockefeller McCormick.
Now if you’re a sharp cookie you will surmise which Rockefeller and which McCormick. Edith was the youngest child of John D. Rockefeller, once the richest man in the world, the titan who controlled oil, Standard Oil. Edith thereby came in for a packet.
McCormick was the heir of Cyrus McCormick, who created the McCormick Reaper in 1831. This immediately lengthened the lives of farmers everywhere by mechanizing the onerous harvest, and made one of America’s greatest fortunes.
Oil, grain, what did such wealth on wealth need? Why, the most elaborate silver service ever created, of course. Nothing but the best for these plutocratic whelps.
And so, before their made on Wall St. relationship dissolved in acrimony, Edith commissioned a palace named Turicum. It faced Lake Michigan in Lake Forest, Illinois. There she spent precisely one night and not a minute more.
I can only hope she came home to her abbreviated abode with at least some of the Borghese service in her pocketbook. Ah, that’s why I love my job so…
discovering these bits of cultural history and sharing them with you, dear friend. Edith, by the way, was the last person to attempt to reassemble the complete Borghese service, but even she failed to do so.
My turn
I am no snob, but I must confess I do like hanging with aristocrats, plutocrats, nobility, and sovereigns of every kind and variety. Thus, when in October 2004 I saw these silver gilt pots-a-creme in the Christie’s catalogue, I jumped at the opportunity to acquire not just an object, but provenance. Of course they would be expensive, with their unmatched provenance, they had to be expensive, or it wouldn’t have been worth acquiring. If you have to ask how much it costs, you shouldn’t play the game at all.
And so, I hardly gulped at all when I paid four times the high estimate. But what’s a man to do? I could not have them go to some yokel from Milwaukee. That would never do. Oh no, that would never, never do. And so I plunged and captured them for The Lant Collection, my name now linked forever with the
worthies who preceded me in ownership. But, you ask, “What possible use do these items have?” Well, consider this:
The original function of these pots, part of a group of seven from the Borghese service, has been much debated. The form is known in pre-Revolutionary France, and it has been suggested that these dishes held individual casseroles for truffles, eggs or ortollans to be served as condiments for the main course. However, 18th century menus and recipes suggest that pots of this type were used to hold cooked cream-flavored incomparable version of “La Follia”, “The Madness”. And, remember, as you listen, your future could well be determined, gentleman or lady, by just how you
move your every limb.

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 university degrees, including the PhD from Harvard. He has taught at over 40 colleges and universities and is quite possibly the first to offer satellite courses. He has written over 30 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 …


His memoirs “A Connoisseur’s Journey” has garnered eight literary prizes that ensure its classic status. Its subtitle is “Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.” A good read by this man of so many letters. Such a man can offer you thousands of insights into the business of becoming a successful writer. Be sure to sign up now at

George Quacker Production

Division of Jeffrey Lant Associates, Inc.

All Rights Reserved

Excerpt from “The Lant Collection” – Vol.1 The Naked Truth. William Etty, R.A. and me.

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Excerpt from “The Lant Collection” – Vol.1 The Naked Truth. William Etty, R.A. and me.

The first time I saw a work by William Etty, Royal Academy, (1787-1849) was on
the grand staircase of The Arts Club in London. It is a place where artists, their followers,
their mentors, and their mistresses (female and male) hang out. The conversation
is sleek and witty and fast moving. The aim is to demolish a reputation in a line
before anyone can demolish yours in a word. Whispers are frequent, so chic. Back
slapping and back stabbing on the same back, at the same time. Waiters deliver clever
lies on silver salvers, insisting you are The Next Great Talent.

Dress to impress, which has nothing to do with how many clothes you wear, but
what those clothes reveal, or don’t. My conservator Simon Gillespie brought me,
perhaps because he owed me a lunch, or perhaps just to see how this Yank could
compete amidst the English, who make words seem effortless, and smooth
aphorisms an inevitability. I loved it, even before I reached the top of the staircase
where everyone moves as if everyone else is watching. Sometimes they even are…

The William Etty picture immediately arrested my eye, for it was flesh, more flesh,
oceans of flesh, flesh in every tint and disposition. One could not help but notice it.
It was, after all, the only picture chosen by the Club to grace its foyer, a gauntlet
to the censorious.

“Who dat?,” I asked Simon, and my relationship with William Etty was launched;
a very audacious thing for this prim Midwestern lad, for whom natural acts
were only meant to be mentioned behind closed doors and never in public,
art be damned.

The next time I encountered William Etty was in the sale catalogue of the Forbes
Collection of Victorian Pictures, Christie’s New York, February, 2003. It is always worth
seeing what the Forbes are up to, for they have unlimited funds, and informed taste.

(They also have one outstanding quirk. When they buy a work they hang it as is, warts
and all. Thus in their collections, you will see great works in less than pristine condition,
there potential covered in dust, dirt, frames cracked, degraded varnish, and despair.This
policy conclusively proves they are Scots, for they are neer with a penny indeed.)

Of course I saw something that I wanted. With a Forbes sale, I nearly always do.
And I have Mr. Gillespie to mop up any of the jolting imperfections they kept. It is
better for your self esteem and the welfare of your pictures that you do so, for
remember, we are but stewards, not merely owners.

William Etty, supremely talented, surpassingly ugly.

We all look into our looking glass with trepidation, fearing we will see another
furrow cut deep by time’s winged chariot. But it was worse for William Etty,
for he didn’t have a single day, not a single hour when he could admire
himself or have others admire him. He was ugly. And he knew it. He also
knew he was a master of canvass and brush. He had to forge a life built
upon these twin certainties… this is what genius does, and Mr. Etty was that.

He began, as so many 18th and 19th century artists did, by painting pictures
with Classical themes; pictures like “Cleopatra’s Arrival  in Cilicia” (1821). They
were grand, they were flagrant, they were wanton. They exuberantly celebrated
the flesh at a time when such renditions were condemned and their worldly artists
warned that the sin police were watching for any further transgressions. They
watched Etty closely his entire life, but he followed his Muse in his own way, his
obvious talent forging his way, providing a necessary shield from scurrilous

Soon every picture this prodigious master painted had at least one nude,
male or female. And not timid or hesitant either, but bold, audacious, free,

Thus, having withdrawn from the world, unmarried, detached, he peopled his
own inner sanction with the unmatched beauty of our species. This has always
unnerved and frightened the Philistines of each generation, but not braver souls
with a penchant for truth, to whom I adhere.

“Manlius Hurled From The Rock.”

The story of Marcus Manlius (died 384 BC) is well known, for it is a tale our
dwindling cadre of Latin teachers tells with enthusiasm. It is not merely a
story of Rome… but of all who stand forward at any time and place, risking
everything to achieve a better world.

Manlius was born into the upper class, called patricians, becoming in due course
Consul of Rome, the highest office, after his successful defence of the Eternal
City against the conquering Gauls. He was a national hero.

While in office he began to question a society, his homeland, that gave so much to so
few and so little to so many, the plebians. Thus he became a dangerous man.
Charges against him were trumped up and pressed home by those who loathed him
for deserting them, a recurring theme in human history, loyalty against truth, and back

Death to the traitor, ever lasting life from the painter.

In accordance with ancient tradition, Manlius was thrown, head first, onto the Tarpeian Rock,
another martyr to the cause of liberty, equality, fraternity,

Etty took these facts and turned them into a masterpiece, a chef d’oeuvre which allowed
him to make a point against injustice whilst showing his skill rendering the male body,
in all its beauty… and its terrible vulnerability.

Profit in five minutes.

I bought the picture, at the high estimate. I wasn’t a retired gentleman then and money
was (occasionally) no object. But a wondrous thing happened. Immediately upon my
purchase, a Christie’s representative called me and, mirabile dictu, offered me twice
the price should I sell it now. They had a client, a well-known decorator, who was charged
with acquiring this picture for his client come what may. “Can you accommodate this
gentleman, Dr. Lant?”.

I sensed I could get three times my purchase price, maybe even more. Never had
a toilet break proved so costly, so valuable to me. And why in my sleeping chamber
Manlius, one time Consul of Rome, is suspended in time, his beautiful head and
lithe body not yet crushed and disfigured by injustice, but a glorious work by Etty,
William Etty, the master of form and flesh. How could I ever have parted with it?


Musical note.

I have selected the brilliant musical score by Alex North from the 1960 film “Spartacus”
to accompany this article. It is a film which deals with the ravages of inequality and what
must be done, even unto death, to raise us all to a higher standard. He would have
been a perfect subject for Master Etty, and for The Lant Collection.

Photo from ” A Connoisseur’s Journey” available at:


George Quacker Production

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From Inside Windsor Castle – Excepts From “Happy and Glorious. Encounters with the Windsors”

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Dr. Lant is now writing his 31st book and he shares here some excerpts from his forth coming new book

“Happy and Glorious

Encounters with the Windsors”

Chapter 1

Everyone has the collywobbles their first day of work. I was no exception.

Consider where my new work had taken me: Windsor Castle.

You’ve seen this seat of kings on the television, in films, and as the ending
or beginning place for so many lavish pageants. Windsor Castle was
founded in 1070 and has over the centuries since become the reigning
monarch’s residence, their home sweet home.

Buckingham palace is the shop, Balmoral is a place for excessive exercise
and clean, clean air. But Windsor is home, as the Queen herself
acknowledged when the Waterloo Chamber caught fire (November 20th,
1992). There the Queen joined the bucket brigade, just like Charles II when
London was in flames (1666). The Queen did her bit; the nation admired the
Queen. Oh yes, Windsor was home.

Now I had my own room in the castle, specifically in the Round Tower,  and I
couldn’t have been happier, no doubt nauseously cheerful. I radiated good
cheer and high spirits on everyone, whether they liked it or not.

Once I had achieved the dignity of a Harvard PhD, I simply couldn’t wait to
escape from Cambridge, and to travel my own royal road to fame and glory.
Though it had never happened before, and I believe has not happened
since, I, a bona fide Yankee, was now to ascend the steps of the castle, an
ascension which could never have been imagined by my American
revolutionary antecedents, or perhaps by anyone in Britain.

To gain entry, I had to present my credentials to the powers that  be, namely
Sir Robin Mackworth-Young (1920-2000), GCVO, the Royal Librarian. He
was a man who had no doubt that I, indeed anyone, would be impressed by
him. For not even Toad of Toad’s Hall had greater majesty and  hauteur than
Sir Robin. It goes without saying, he hated me on sight. Equally it goes
without saying that I rendered irritating tit for supercilious tat. And this was
just the beginning.

I have always supposed that Mackworth-Young would have liked to have
trashed my unique application and passed on the opportunity of enjoying my
congenial company. Sadly for him, he could find no good reason for what
he so evidently desired.

After all, not only was I a Harvard PhD (admittedly of most recent vintage),
but I was also the select of His Excellency Walter Annenberg, the United
States Ambassador (1969-1974), a personal friend of Her Majesty.
Mackworth-Young may not have liked me, but those he needed to like him
most assuredly did.

Thus, one early morning, for I am of the early rising ilk, I took the train from
London to Slough, the only way to take the train from London to Windsor
and back again. Queen Victoria had a specially designed car for that bit of
track. It was feminine, stuffy, regal, and totally desirable. Alas, I only was in
that boudoir on wheels once, while it was stationary, and never was invited
for a more mobile journey.

Despite the fact that I was not travelling in the royal railway car, I exhibited
the most supreme happiness, for I, the prairie lad, was now en route to the
Queen’s residence and my destiny. Could someone please show me the

I walked up the slightly elevated pathway to the castle. I was about to show the
world what an ingenious Yankee could do when he had the chance.

Publish or Perish

All the great universities of the United States and beyond have an infallible
injunction: publish or perish. This meant that before academic advancement could
take place, you must present your peers with evidence of your dogged research
persistence, deft writing skills, and the ability to find and proclaim new truths.

I found a most remarkable way for altering the usual system to my decided
advantage. I created and perfected, and used to my utmost advantage, a new
way of doing business. Instead of writing one single refereed journal article, I
would use the same information in three different formats.

1) for my impending book

2) in a refereed journal, and

3) in what Sir Robin Mackworth-Young was pleased to call the ephemeral
press, that is to say newspapers and popular magazines.

For example, to give you but one illustration of many, namely the 1887 Golden
Jubilee coinage. You might suppose this was an unlikely place for an insight, but
you’d be wrong. I gathered all the information about this coinage from the
necessary information repositories, including the Mint, every British newspaper
of the period, the papers of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the designers
whose work would be vetted, including Boehm, Parliamentary debate minutes,
interdepartmental memoranda, etc., etc.

The result was impressive. Whereas my colleagues at Harvard and elsewhere
would work only on one article at a time, I, by contrast, would work on and benefit
from three.

Now imagine that every aspect of a great Royal Pageant could, upon research,
be divided into these three publication departments.

In short order, I produced dozens of articles which were first published in refereed
journals, second, in the popular press, and third, in my book which became
“Insubstantial Pageants”. As fast as you could say boiled asparagus, I was
publishing more such works of the highest quality than all my classmates at
Harvard put together. Honi soit qui mal y pense.

New Boy

This day, my first working day in the castle, I looked closely at Queen Victoria’s
1887 statue by Sir Joseph Edgar Boehm, Baronet, RA. Here’s the story.

Boehm was a favorite of Queen Victoria’s and she selected his effigy for the new
coinage to be released upon the occasion of her 1887 Golden Jubilee on the

Unfortunately, the whole business of sculpture and new coinage design
became a complete muddle, all played out in public. Only the Queen liked the
statue, no one cared for the new coinage design, which suffered from lack of
denomination. As a result, the coinage lasted only six years, the shortest period
for any coinage in the 19th Century. I know all this because I literally wrote the
book on the subject.

“The Jubilee Coinage of 1887” by Jeffrey L. Lant, published in “The British
Numismatic Journal”, 1972

I felt right at home at Windsor, and for good reason. I had already published the
definitive article on how this inelegant, overfed sculpture was developed. For I
had resolved I would not write a book of reverence, but absolute truth, liberally
sprinkled with my own sheer wit.

And so I enquired, “Where, sir, would a likely lad like me find entrance to the
castle?” And the guard smiled, for there was no dishonor in hoodwinking a
Yankee amongst the troops of Her Majesty’s brigades.

“So Her Majesty’s waiting for you?” I could only nod in satisfaction, though
even I felt the incongruity of the moment. But I was a dogged boy, from the
great Midwest, and I was here for a purpose I intended to achieve.

I was directed to the tradesmen’s entry, not precisely what I had in mind. If
the Windsor’s know one thing and know it well, it is keeping a person
squarely where they want that person to be. Thus, within my very first
moment, my status with the Queen and her courtiers was established. Her
Majesty top, Dr. Lant bottom. Bet the long odds.

In a moment, a footman in full powder, reminiscent of the high days of the
18th Century, popped his head out and said “Are you expected, Guvnah?”
I was forced to say of course I was. Then he said “What’s your purpose?” I
should have said “To take you down a step or two, you twit!” But I was a
polite boy from the great Midwest, and manners were my forte.

He then directed me to the great tradesmen’s book, into which he bade me
write my name with a quill pen he handed me. And so I did: Dr. Jeffrey Ladd
Lant. He then gathered a candelabrum, and a giant key that was right out of
Charles Dickens. Indeed, I felt the entire experience was crafted by Dickens
himself. It had his macabre touch.

My jolly footman escorted me to the massive door of the Round Tower, and with
the giant key, the largest I had ever seen, proceeded to unlock it. I felt sure
Merlin or some other wizard of consequence was there awaiting my arrival.

The powdered flunky then retreated, locking me in the Round Tower. Oh
mama, now I wondered if I had done the right thing after all, for the room
was dark, susceptible to dangerous consequences. Even my young eyes
could hardly make out the proper outlines of the chamber and its Poe-like
staircase, cold, massive, sunk in the darkest gloom, unpredictable.

I felt just then a tiny trembling of my untested pluck, and so I ascended the
great concrete stairs, leading to the very top of the castle with weariness
and timidity. Anything might happen…

Then, just as night gives way to day, the lurking darkness of the staircase gave
way to a door opened by Miss Jane Langton. “Hello, Dr. Lant,” she said with
aplomb and practiced friendliness. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Now I am a boy of the following description: my father, Donald Marshall Lant,
used to say, “If you drop Jeffrey on his head on the outskirts of Ulan Bator, by
dinner he would have the Prime Minister eating out of his hand.” I was a Harvard
man, and this was my right.

Thus for the first time in the history of the dynasty and the castle itself, an
American, born in the U.S. of A., had come to parlay and must needs be
given the limited hospitality for which the Windsors are famous. It was a
moment as significant, as important as Henry M. Stanley greeting Dr.
Livingstone in the depths of the Congo (1871). She might have said, “Dr.
Lant, I presume?”

She immediately gave me the conditions under which I was allowed to be in such
an exalted place, and woe if I did not attend to them precisely. No mistake allowed.

I must arrive upon the striking of the 10 o’clock hour. I must take tea with the
staff. I must inform the staff whenever I have found a document of importance,
for historians were allowed in, in part, to help identify and explicate hitherto
unpublished documents.

I must leave my little room in the castle tidy to go out for lunch; skipping any
meal not permitted. And so on, through a series of minute do’s and don’t’s,
above all else, I was to remember that every piece of paper I touched, every
manuscript, every hitherto lost letter found, was the property of Her Majesty
the Queen.

I must also understand and acknowledge that I could only work in the Round
Tower up to three particular days each week, that I must tell them what
documents I desired to see when I left for the evening to prepare for my next
visit, and that Sir Robin Mackworth-Young would expect periodic reports,
the more eagerly awaited, because I was the Yankee Doodle boy, as unwelcome
as the voracious hordes of Asia. And I must always remember, never forget,
I was there at H.M.’s distinct invitation. None of this fazed me.

I, however, had been a judicious breaker of such rules for a lifetime, mere Brits
would not deter me now. I have my own sacred conditions, after all

Tea, whether I liked it or not

Despite the fact we were two people speaking a common language, we managed
to jog along fairly well. But there are things I did not like, including one very
important matter that I found intolerant. Miss Langton and the staff, soft-footed,
highly curious, probably sent in by the MI5 staff, were interested in me to a degree,
for after all, they had never seen an American before, much less on who could
speak the Queen’s English with a semblance of wit and insight, as indeed I could.

I often had the distinct feeling that they were closely scrutinizing me. When, for instance,
they would bring me a new box of documents, they would often come in and ask
me what I had found, as if I were a scientist in a gilded cage. Sometimes, I even
told them.

The first problem came about because they made me take tea, everyday.
Everyday, to suffer through the chit chat, which perhaps all officers exhibit when
the mammals are munching. But I let it be known that I had not come thousands
of miles to drink tea at the 11 o’clock hour, no matter how fine it was. I had a purpose,
I meant to achieve it. Of course I got no cooperation whatsoever. “You will drink tea,
and you will like it!”, a sentiment which in Boston, my city, once led to the Boston
Tea Party, and the sundering of the first Great British Empire.  Alas it was a pity
they never saw the analogy.

I intensely disliked being thrown out of the castle at lunch time. I had come
thousands and thousands of miles to do the necessary research, to write up
the necessary research, to publish the necessary research, and wandering
the precincts of Windsor Castle for sixty minutes was not on my agenda.

In this case I learned to cope with crossing the little foot bridge to Eaton, where
the famous school is located. Doing so so often, I came to have a sympathetic
regard for the monument to Prince Christian Victor (1867-1900), who was killed
in the Boer War.

Making the best use as I could with what I regarded as purely
wasted time, I scoured the antique markets of Eaton and Windsor. In one particular
coup, I befriended a fellow in the hyper market who had a quantity of hand colored
historic prints of the monarchy, many relating to the Victorian monarchy. The
charge? Twenty five cents a piece. I scoffed the lot, and have them still. I was so
proud the day I saw at the royal academy a colored print identical to one I had.
It was deemed rare, and I felt smug as a Cheshire cat. Thus, even exile may have
its victories.

Things jogged along equitably and calm, but a storm was gathering. It concerned
Britain’s relationship to the United States in the period of the Second World War,
before Pearl Harbor. The accusation, whether implicit or advanced explicitly, was
simply this: that the United States had only joined the war when the British, exhausted,
distressed, disabled, had already finished the hard labor, and left us to reap the rewards.
We had said we were Britain’s friend, but treated her like a shabby relation we might
move about to whatever purpose we ordered.

This charge is not without merit. Reading Winston Churchill’s letters to Franklin
Roosevelt is often painful, Churchill so often looking like the impecunious relation
who would kiss any part of Roosevelt’s anatomy, say any cringing phrase, do any
humiliating deed to get what he needs for his tatty empire to sail on, oh ship of state.

Roosevelt so enjoyed this ruleless game, for Roosevelt played with kings and thrones as
if he were playing dice. Today he wants to reestablish the Austro-Hungarian Empire,
and dandles Archduke Otto, the imperial heir on his knee, until he decides what to
do with Poland, Greece, and Czechoslovakia, and a whole string of possibilities. Roosevelt was
destiny’s darling, and Roosevelt so loved the game of musical chairs that he
played it for its own sake, and didn’t care whose feelings he may have hurt,
or whose territory he may have given to someone else. It was all a part of the
great game, and Churchill had the name, the veneration, the respect of his great
nation, but he could not play the game of guns and butter like we could.


Annoyingly, everyday during tea time, some reference was made to this gnawing proposition. It was
America who left the British to die in their own blood, hardly a finger lifted. When the land of “Hope and
Glory” was on its knees, America waited just long enough to take everything it wanted.
In short, it made the Louisiana Purchase look puny and insignificant. I was vividly aware
that I, as the first American ever to work in the Queen’s private papers, had an acute
responsibility to build a bridge, and maintain it.

But I was that Yankee Doodle Dandy, I was that Yankee Doodle Boy. And one day,
upon hearing this commentary, meant as a sneer, and acute criticism, I exploded
with rage. It was primal, it was fiery, it was from deep within my heart. I heard them
as British, I responded as an American. I stood up in the Round Tower, and reeled
off the names of the menfolk of my clan who had all gone to France, to Iwo Jima,
to Normandy, to the Rhineland; uncle Bob, uncle Dwight, uncle Roy, uncle Will,
uncle Donny, any my own father, Donald Marshall Lant. I told them every male
relation I had had gone to war in defense of England, our Allies, and a better world.

But I chose to tell them just one story in detail, and that was the story of my uncle
Will, the handsomest man in Henderson County, Illinois, the swiftest player on the gridiron.

He was blinded by mustard gas when he served in the Great War as part of the
American Expeditionary Force, “Lafayette we are here.” Everyday that he lived
without sight was part of what he did for England, for France, and for peace. And if
politicians like Roosevelt and Churchill play games, why, that is what they do best.

As for me, while I spoke in anger, in rage, in long suppressed emotion now exhumed,
there was no sound in that room, but the sound of the first American to work in
this symbol of monarchy. Perhaps my auditors were anxious, perhaps they may have
even felt threatened by my ardor and fury, but there was no response then, and
as far as I knew, no further commentary on the matter thereafter, at least in my

But I learned this: that no one, absolutely no one, will be allowed to tread on my
nation or its flag. And while we may make mistakes, terrible, bruising, pernicious
mistakes, we still constitute the best and greatest chance of the survival of mankind.

You might have thought that such an incident would have sundered any professional
role, but in fact, it cleared the air and allowed us to work together more as equals than
as the prim and proper Brits and the bumptious prairie corn fed American. But then again,
this is where our Ambassador Annenberg so assisted me. For about this time, his excellency
granted me the unrivaled boon inviting me to accompany him to any of the
great orders of chivalry or other royal pageants, including the Most Honourable
Order of the Bath, The Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George,
The Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, and
most importantly of all, the service in honor of the 25th wedding anniversary of
Her Majesty the Queen, held in St. Paul’s Cathedral. I sat literally just behind Prince
Phillip’s sister Sophie, Princess of Hanover, for all the world like a sprig of the house of Windsor.
The irony is that I descend from Hanover and Folk. What would they have thought of my proximity.

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 PhD from Harvard. He has taught at over 40 colleges and universities, quite possibly the first to offer satellite courses. He has written over 30 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 …


His memoirs “A Connoisseur’s Journey” available at: has garnered eight prizes that ensure its classic status. Its subtitle is “Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.” I hope you enjoyed your read by this man of so many letters. Such a man can offer you thousands of insights into the business of becoming a successful writer. Be sure to sign up now at

Get a FREE Copy of “Create An E-Book Today. Publish It On Profit From It for the Rest Of Your Life!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant Get Your FREE Copy CLICK HERE

Jeffrey Lant Associates, Inc.

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31st Book Underway “Happy And Glorious. Encounter With The Windsors.”

Friends and deeply appreciated readers, good morrow.
I am delighted to report that my 31st book is now well
and truly launched. Here are its opening words…

Title: Happy and Glorious

Encounters with the Windsors

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant


I little thought, so many years ago, when I first encountered the Queen and the royal Windsors, that I should be, so many decades later, writing my own memoirs of my several encounters. But I am.

How did I begin my connection with the Windsor dynasty? In just this way: to get a doctoral degree at Harvard, you must write a work of intellectual distinction  that is closely evaluated and reviewed by an intimidating jury of high-ranking academics.

The drill goes like this… You present a list of possible doctoral dissertation topics  you feel yourself able to write about with new insights, new data, and the certainty  of a front page review in the New York Times, always our sure objective.

… In my usual way, I shall be using the creation of this book as a splendid opportunity to assist you with yours.

Visit now. And remember,
“Ich dien” is not the credo of the Prince of Wales alone…

Get a FREE Copy of “Create An E-Book Today. Publish It On Profit From It for the Rest Of Your Life!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant Get Your FREE Copy CLICK HERE

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