ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of All the Way to Fairyland, by Evelyn SharpThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: All the Way to Fairyland       Fairy StoriesAuthor: Evelyn SharpIllustrator: Mrs. Percy DearmerRelease Date: November 3, 2009 [EBook#30400]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THE WAY TO FAIRYLAND ***Produced by Al Haines[Illustration: Cover art]Allthe Way to FairylandFairy StoriesBYEVELYN SHARPAUTHOR OF "WYMPS"WITH EIGHT COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONSAND A COVER BY MRS. PERCY DEARMERJOHNLANETHE BODLEY HEADLONDON AND NEW YORK1898COPYRIGHT, 1897, BYJOHN LANE.FIRST EDITIONUniversity Press:JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE,U.S.A._By the Same author:_WYMPS: FAIRY TALES.  With eight coloured illustrations by Mrs. PercyDearmer.THE MAKING OF A SCHOOLGIRL.AT THE RELTONARMS.THE MAKING OF A PRIG.[Illustration: A PRINCESS FLOATING ABOUT ON A SOFT WHITE CLOUD]THESE STORIESARE FORGEOFFREY ANDCHRISTOPHERTRISTAN AND ISEULTMARGARET AND BOYANDEVERARDAND ALL THE OTHER CHILDRENWHO WOULD LIKE TO GOALL THE WAY TOFAIRYLANDContentsCHAPTER    I.  THE COUNTRY CALLED NONAMIA   II.  WHY THE WYMPS CRIED  III.  THE STORY OF HONEY AND SUNNY   IV.  THE LITTLEPRINCESS AND THE POET    V.  THE WONDERFUL TOYMAKER   VI.  THE PROFESSOR OF PRACTICAL JOKES  VII.  THE DOLL THAT CAME STRAIGHT FROMFAIRYLAND VIII.  THOSE WYMPS AGAIN!List of IllustrationsBY MRS. PERCY DEARMER    I.  A PRINCESS FLOATING ABOUT ON A SOFT WHITE CLOUD ._Frontispiece_   II.  THE WYMPS SAY THAT QUEER BEGAN IT  III.  SUNNY WAS SO ASTONISHED THAT SHE STOPPED CRYING AT ONCE   IV.  "COME WITH ME,POET," SAID THE LITTLE PRINCESS    V.  THE ROCKING-HORSES RUSHED OVER THE GROUND   VI.  HE CURLED HIMSELF UP IN THE SUN AND CLOSED HISEYES  VII.  THE LADY EMMELINA IS ALWAYS KEPT IN HER PROPER PLACE NOW VIII.  "WILL YOU COME AND PLAY WITH ME, LITTLE WISDOM?"The CountryCalled NonamiaEver so long ago, in the wonderful country of Nonamia, there lived anabsent-minded magician.  It is not usual, of course, for a magician tobeabsent-minded; but then, if it were usual it would not have happenedin Nonamia.  Nobody knew very much about this particular magician, forhe lived in his castlein the air, and it is not easy to visit any onewho lives in the air.  He did not want to be visited, however; visitorsalways meant conversation, and he could notendure conversation.  This,by the way, was not surprising, for he was so absent-minded that healways forgot the end of his sentence before he was half-waythroughthe beginning of it; and as for his visitors' remarks--well, if he hadhad any visitors, he would never have heard their remarks at all.  So,when some onedid call on him, one day,--and that was when he had beenliving in his castle in the air for seven hundred and seventy-sevenyears and had almost forgotten whohe was and why he was there,--themagician was so astonished that he could not think of anything to say."How did you get here?" he asked at last; for even anabsent-mindedmagician cannot remain altogether silent, when he looks out of hiscastle in the air and sees a Princess in a gold and silver frock, witha bright littlecrown on her head, floating about on a soft white cloud."Well, I just came, that's all," answered the Princess, with aparticularly friendly smile.  "You see, I havenever been able to findmy own castle in the air, so when the West Wind told me about yours Iasked him to blow me here.  May I come in and see what it islike?""Certainly not," said the magician, hastily.  "It is not like anything;and even if it were, I should not let you come in.  Don't you knowthat, if you were toenter another person's castle in the air, it wouldvanish away like a puff of smoke?""Oh, dear!" sighed the Princess.  "I did so want to know what a realcastle in theair was like.  I wonder if yours is at all like mine!""Tell me about yours," said the magician.  "I may be able to help youto find it."  Of course, he only said this inorder to prevent her fromcoming inside his own castle.  At the same time, a little conversationwith a friendly Princess in a gold and silver gown is not atallunpleasant, when one has lived in a castle in the air for seven hundredand seventy-seven years."My castle in the air is much bigger than yours," sheexplained.  "Ithas ever so many rooms in it,--a large room to laugh in and a smallroom to cry in--""To cry in?" interrupted the magician.  "Why, no one everthinks ofcrying in a castle in the air!""One never knows," answered the Princess, gravely.  "Supposing I wereto prick my finger, what should I do if there was n't aroom to cry in?Then, there is a middling-sized room to be serious in; for there isjust a chance that I might want to be serious sometimes, and it wouldbe as wellto have a room, in case.""Perhaps it would," observed the magician, who had never listened soattentively to a conversation in the whole of his longlife.  "Whatelse will you have in your castle?""I shall have lots of nice books that end happily," answered thePrincess; "and they shall be talking books, so that Ineed not readthem to find out what they are about.  I shall have plenty of happythoughts in my castle, too, and lots of nice dreams piled up in heaps,and--well,there is just one thing more.""What is that?" asked the magician."Well, I think I should like to have a Prince in my castle, a nicePrince, who would not want to bejust dull and princely like all theprinces I have ever danced with, but a Prince who would like my castleexactly as I have built it and would play with me all daylong.  Thatwould be something like a Prince, wouldn't it?""You could not possibly have a Prince," said the magician.  "If youallowed some one else even to lookinto your castle in the air, itwould vanish away like a puff of smoke.  I have lived in my castle forseven hundred and seventy-seven years, and I have neverallowed any oneto put a foot in it.""Is it so beautiful, then, your castle in the air?" asked the Princess,wonderingly."I'm sure I don't know," said the absent-mindedmagician; "I don'tthink I ever noticed.  I came to live in it, because it was the onlyplace in which I could be left alone.  That reminds me, that if you donot goaway at once I shall be obliged to become exceedingly angry withyou.""By all means," said the Princess, who had the most charming manners inthe world; "but Ishould like to have my castle first.""I have n't got it here," said the magician, looking about him vaguely."I know I saw it somewhere not long ago, but I can'tremember what Idid with it.  However, if you ask the people of Nonamia, they will beable to tell you where it has gone.  You will find that they areveryobliging.""Will they not be surprised?" asked the Princess."Dear me, no!  The Nonamiacs are never surprised at anything," said themagician; and he drew inhis head from the window.  The Princess in thegold and silver frock sailed away on her cloud, and landed presently inthe flat, green country of Nonamia."Have youseen my castle in the air?" she asked, very politely, of thefirst Nonamiac she met."What is it like?" asked the Nonamiac, without showing the leastsurprise."It isever so large and ever so beautiful, and it is packed full ofhappiness, and there is a nice Prince inside," answered the Princess."Ah," said the Nonamiac; "then itmust be the one I saw being blownalong by the South Wind.  But there was no Prince inside."The Princess thanked him and hastened away in the direction oftheSouth Wind until she met another Nonamiac, to whom she explained aspolitely as before what she wanted to know."Ah," said the Nonamiac, "that must be thecastle I met just now as itwas being carried off by the North Wind.  But I saw no Prince inside."The Princess turned round and hurried after the North Wind as fastasshe could go.  As soon as she met another Nonamiac, however, she had toturn round once more, for he told her that her castle had just beenstolen by the EastWind; and when she had been walking quite a longtime in the direction of the East Wind, she met yet another Nonamiac,who told her that it was the West Windwho had taken away her castle inthe air."It is too bad!" said the little Princess, sitting down exhausted on alarge stone by the side of the road.  "Why should allthe winds beplaying with my castle in the air?""Castles in the air generally go to the winds," observed a traveller ina dusty brown cloak, who was sitting onanother large stone, not veryfar off.  She was quite sure he had not been there the moment before,but, in Nonamia, there was nothing remarkable aboutthat.  The Princesswiped the tears out of her eyes with a small lace handkerchief, andlooked at the stranger."Mine is a very particular castle in the air, you see,"she said.  "Itis ever so large and ever so beautiful, and it is packed with happinessand dreams, and _perhaps_ there is a Prince in it, too.""A Prince?" said thestranger.  "What sort of Prince?""A nice Prince," explained the Princess, "who can play games and tellstories and be amusing.  All the Princes I know can donothing butdance, and they are not at all amusing.  I am afraid, though," sheadded, sighing, "that I am going to have my castle without a Prince,after all.""Wouldit do," asked the traveller in the dusty brown cloak, "if youwere to have a Prince without a castle?""Oh, no!" answered the Princess, decidedly.  "If you knew howbeautifulmy castle in the air is, you would not even ask such a stupid question!"Then she again took up her small lace handkerchief, and she brushed thedustfrom her gold and silver gown, and polished up her bright littlegold crown, and made herself as neat and dainty as a Princess shouldbe; for, in Nonamia, onenever knows what may happen next, and it isjust as well to be prepared.  And, in fact, no sooner was she quitetidy than the West Wind came hurrying along withher castle in the air;and the Princess gave a shout of joy and sprang inside it; and the WestWind blew, and blew, and blew, until the castle that was packed fullofhappiness, and the little Princess in the gold and silver gown, wereboth completely out of sight.  The traveller looked after them and felta little forlorn; then hepicked up his stick and walked on until hecame to the magician's castle.  This may seem a little surprising, ashe had no wings of any kind and the magician'scastle was in the air;but it must be remembered that it all happened in Nonamia."Dear, dear!  Here 's another of them!" grumbled the magician, when helookedout of his window and saw the stranger standing below.  Afterbeing alone for seven hundred and seventy-seven years, it was a littleexhausting to have twovisitors on the same day.  Besides, a travellerin a dusty brown cloak is not at all the same thing as a daintyPrincess in a gold and silver gown."Good-day," said thestranger.  "Are you the magician who has given acastle in the air to a Princess in a gold and silver frock with abright little crown on her head?""Very likely; but Icannot say for certain," said the absent-mindedmagician.  "I believe there was something of the kind, now you come tomention it; but I could n't tell you what it


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                             FROZEN RIVER                              Written by                             Courtney Hunt    FADEIN:1   EXT. INTERNATIONAL SEAWAY BRIDGE - DAY                      1    A sign reads "Bridge to Canada."    A steep 1940's era customs bridgearches over the St.    Lawrence River.    Cars and trucks line up in different lanes. Customs    officials inspect and question impatient drivers.    Beyond them asmaller sign: "THANK YOU FOR VISITING    MASSENA NEW YORK, IT WORKS, for business, for family, for    you".2   EXT. BELOW THE BRIDGE -DAY                                 2    The river stretches for miles in either direction,    frozen, and still with trees on either side.3   EXT. RAY'S TRAILER YARD,MASSENA NEW YORK - DAY             3    RAY EDDY, 38, a bit worn for her years, with a long red    ponytail, wearing an old bathrobe, sits in thepassenger    seat of her RED PLYMOUTH HORIZON with the door open,    smoking a cigarette, thinking. Her breath is visible in    the cold morning air.    Her barefeet rest on the cold ground.    Her 1970's rusted out TRAILER HOME SITS in front of her    on CINDER BLOCKS AT A SLIGHT TILT. Beside it, a small    SHED andbehind it the CONCRETE FOUNDATION FOR A HOUSE.    Around her, the yard is littered with junk: a rusted ski    lift chair, the front end of a Plymouth Duster anda    SMILING DUCK Kiddie Ride.    Beyond the yard, flat, winterbare land.    After a moment, a lanky boy of 15, her son, TROY, JR.,    leans out the trailerdoor.                            T.J.               We're out of Capt'n Crunch.    His breath is visible in the cold.                             RAY               Just


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Felix Holt, The Radical, by George EliotThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org/licenseTitle: Felix Holt, The RadicalAuthor: George EliotRelease Date: September 28, 2012 [EBook #40882]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL ***Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jane Robins and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net    [Illustration: ESTHER LYON.]    FELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL    BY GEORGE ELIOT    Upon the midlands now the industrious muse dothfall,    The shires which we the heart of England well may call.        *       *       *       *       *    My native country thou, which so brave spirits hast bred,    Ifthere be virtues yet remaining in the earth,    Or any good of thine thou bred'st into my birth,    Accept it as thine own, whilst now I sing of thee,    Of all thy laterbrood the unworthiest though I be.                                           --DRAYTON; _Polyolbion_.    _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_    BOSTON    DE WOLFE, FISKE &COMPANY    361 AND 365 WASHINGTON STREETFELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL.INTRODUCTION.Five-and-thirty years ago the glory had not yet departed from theoldcoach roads: the great roadside inns were still brilliant withwell-polished tankards, the smiling glances of pretty barmaids, and therepartees of jocose hostlers;the mail still announced itself by themerry notes of the horn; the hedge-cutter or the rick-thatcher mightstill know the exact hour by the unfailing yet otherwisemeteoricapparition of the pea-green Tally-ho or the yellow Independent; andelderly gentlemen in pony-chaises, quartering nervously to make way forthe rolling,swinging swiftness, had not ceased to remark that timeswere finely changed since they used to see the pack-horses and hear thetinkling of their bells on this veryhighway.In those days there were pocket boroughs, a Birmingham unrepresented inParliament and compelled to make strong representations out of it,unrepealedcorn-laws, three-and-sixpenny letters, a brawny andmany-breeding pauperism, and other departed evils; but there were somepleasant things, too, which havealso departed. _Non omnia grandior Ã¦tasquÃ¦ fugiamus habet_, says the wise goddess: you have not the best of itin all things, O youngsters! the elderly manhas his enviable memories,and not the least of them is the memory of a long journey in mid-springor autumn on the outside of a stage coach. Posterity may beshot, like abullet through a tube, by atmospheric pressure, from Winchester toNewcastle: that is a fine result to have among our hopes; but the slow,oldfashioned way of getting from one end of our country to the other isthe better thing to have in the memory. The tube-journey can never lendmuch to picture andnarrative; it is as barren as an exclamatory O!Whereas, the happy outside passenger, seated on the box from the dawn tothe gloaming, gathered enough storiesof English life, enough of Englishlabors in town and country, enough aspects of earth and sky, to makeepisodes for a modern Odyssey. Suppose only that hisjourney took himthrough that central plain, watered at one extremity by the Avon, at theother by the Trent. As the morning silvered the meadows with theirlonglines of bushy willows marking the water-courses, or burnished thegolden corn-ricks clustered near the long roofs of some midlandhomestead, he saw thefull-uddered cows driven from their pasture to theearly milking. Perhaps it was the shepherd, head-servant of the farm,who drove them, his sheep-dog followingwith a heedless, unofficial air,as of a beadle in undress. The shepherd, with a slow and slouching walk,timed by the walk of grazing beasts, moved aside, as ifunwillingly,throwing out a monosyllabic hint to his cattle; his glance, accustomedto rest on things very near the earth, seemed to lift itself withdifficulty to thecoachman. Mail or stage coach for him belonged to themysterious distant system of things called "Gover'ment," which, whateverit might be, was no business ofhis, any more than the most outlyingnebula or the coal-sacks of the southern hemisphere: his solar systemwas the parish; the master's temper and the casualtiesof lambing-timewere his region of storms. He cut his bread and bacon with hispocket-knife, and felt no bitterness except in the matter of pauperlaborers and thebad-luck that sent contrarious seasons and thesheep-rot. He and his cows were soon left behind, and the homestead,too, with its pond overhung by elder-trees,its untidy kitchen-gardenand cone-shaped yew-tree arbor. But everywhere the bushy hedgerowswasted the land with their straggling beauty, shrouded thegrassyborders of the pastures with catkined hazels, and tossed their longblackberry branches on the corn-fields. Perhaps they were white withMay, or starred withpale pink dog-roses; perhaps the urchins werealready nutting among them, or gathering the plenteous crabs. It wasworth the journey only to see thosehedgerows, the liberal homes ofunmarketable beauty--of the purple blossomed, ruby-berried nightshade,of the wild convolvulus climbing and spreading intendriled strengthtill it made a great curtain of pale-green hearts and white trumpets, ofthe many-tubed honey-suckle which, in its most delicate fragrance, hidacharm more subtle and penetrating than beauty. Even if it were winter,the hedgerows showed their coral, the scarlet haws, the deep-crimsonhips, with lingeringbrown leaves to make a resting-place for the jewelsof the hoar-frost. Such hedgerows were often as tall as the laborers'cottages dotted along the lanes, orclustered into a small hamlet, theirlittle dingy windows telling, like thick-filmed eyes, of nothing but thedarkness within. The passenger on the coach-box, bowledalong abovesuch a hamlet, saw chiefly the roofs of it: probably it turned its backon the road, and seemed to lie away from everything but its own patch ofearthand sky, away from the parish church by long fields and greenlanes, away from all intercourse except that of tramps. If its facecould be seen, it was most likelydirty; but the dirt was Protestantdirt, and the big, bold, gin-breathing tramps were Protestant tramps.There was no sign of superstition near, no crucifix or imageto indicatea misguided reverence: the inhabitants were probably so free fromsuperstition that they were in much less awe of the parson than of theoverseer. Yetthey were saved from the excess of Protestantism by notknowing how to read, and by the absence of handlooms and mines to be thepioneers of Dissent: theywere kept safely in the _via media_ ofindifference, and could have registered themselves in the census by abig black mark as members of the Church ofEngland.But there were trim cheerful villages too, with a neat or handsomeparsonage and gray church set in the midst; there was the pleasanttinkle of theblacksmith's anvil, the patient cart horses waiting at hisdoor; the basket-maker peeling his willow wands in the sunshine; thewheelwright putting his last touch toa blue cart with red wheels; hereand there a cottage with bright transparent windows showing pots full ofblooming balsams or geraniums, and little gardens infront all doubledaisies or dark wallflowers; at the well, clean and comely womencarrying yoked buckets, and toward the free school small Britonsdawdling on, andhandling their marbles in the pockets of unpatchedcorduroys adorned with brass buttons. The land around was rich andmarly, great corn-stacks stood in therick-yards--for the rick-burnershad not found their way hither; the homesteads were those of richfarmers who paid no rent, or had the rare advantage of a lease,andcould afford to keep the corn till prices had risen. The coach would besure to overtake some of them on their way to their outlying fields orto the market-town,sitting heavily on their well-groomed horses, orweighing down one side of an olive-green gig. They probably thought ofthe coach with some contempt, as anaccommodation for people who had nottheir own gigs, or who, wanting to travel to London and such distantplaces, belonged to the trading and less solid part ofthe nation. Thepassenger on the box could see that this was the district of protuberantoptimists, sure that old England was the best of all possible countries,andthat if there were any facts which had not fallen under their ownobservation, they were facts not worth observing: the district of cleanlittle market-towns withoutmanufactures, of fat livings, anaristocratic clergy, and low poor-rates. But as the day wore on thescene would change: the land would begin to be blackened withcoal-pits,the rattle of handlooms to be heard in hamlets and villages. Here werepowerful men walking queerly with knees bent outward from squatting inthe mine,going home to throw themselves down in their blackened flanneland sleep through the daylight, then rise and spend much of their highwages at the ale-housewith their fellows of the Benefit Club; here thepale eager faces of the handloom-weavers, men and women, haggard fromsitting up late at night to finish theweek's work, hardly begun tillthe Wednesday. Everywhere the cottages and the small children weredirty, for the languid mothers gave their strength to the loom;piousDissenting women, perhaps, who took life patiently, and thought thatsalvation depended chiefly on predestination, and not at all oncleanliness. The gables ofDissenting chapels now made a visible sign ofreligion, and of a meeting-place to counterbalance the ale-house, evenin the hamlets; but if a couple of oldtermagants were seen tearing eachother's caps, it was a safe conclusion that, if they had not receivedthe sacraments of the Church, they had not at least given intoschismatic rites, and were free from the errors of Voluntaryism. Thebreath of the manufacturing town, which made a cloudy day and a redgloom by night on thehorizon, diffused itself over all the surroundingcountry, filling the air with eager unrest. Here was a population notconvinced that old England was as good aspossible; here weremultitudinous men and women aware that their religion was not exactlythe religion of their rulers, who might therefore be better thantheywere, and who, if better, might alter many things which now made theworld perhaps more painful than it need be, and certainly more sinful.Yet there werethe gray steeples too, and the churchyards, with theirgrassy mounds and venerable headstones, sleeping in the sunlight; therewere broad fields and homesteads,and fine old woods covering a risingground, or stretching far by the roadside, allowing only peeps at thepark and mansion which they shut in from theworking-day world. In thesemidland districts the traveller passed rapidly from one phase of Englishlife to another: after looking down on a village dingy withcoal-dust,noisy with the shaking of looms, he might skirt a parish all of fields,high hedges, and deep rutted lanes; after the coach had rattled over thepavement ofa manufacturing town, the scenes of riots and trades-unionmeetings, it would take him in another ten minutes into a rural region,where the neighborhood of thetown was only felt in the advantages of anear market for corn, cheese, and hay, and where men with a considerablebanking account were accustomed to say that


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Lady With The Dog and Other Stories, by Anton ChekhovThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org/licenseTitle: The Lady With The Dog and Other StoriesAuthor: Anton ChekhovRelease Date: September 9, 2004 [EBook #13415][Lastupdated: July 29, 2017]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LADY WITH THE DOG ***Produced by James RuskTHE TALESOF CHEKHOVVOLUME 3THE LADY WITH THE DOG AND OTHER STORIESBYANTON TCHEKHOVTranslated by CONSTANCE GARNETTCONTENTSTHE LADY WITH THEDOGA DOCTOR'S VISITAN UPHEAVALIONITCHTHE HEAD OF THE FAMILYTHE BLACK MONKVOLODYAAN ANONYMOUS STORYTHE HUSBANDTHE LADY WITH THEDOGIIT was said that a new person had appeared on the sea-front: a lady witha little dog. Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov, who had by then been a fortnightat Yalta, andso was fairly at home there, had begun to take an interestin new arrivals. Sitting in Verney's pavilion, he saw, walking on thesea-front, a fair-haired young lady ofmedium height, wearing a _bÃ©ret_;a white Pomeranian dog was running behind her.And afterwards he met her in the public gardens and in the squareseveraltimes a day. She was walking alone, always wearing the same_bÃ©ret_, and always with the same white dog; no one knew who she was,and every one calledher simply "the lady with the dog.""If she is here alone without a husband or friends, it wouldn't be amissto make her acquaintance," Gurov reflected.He wasunder forty, but he had a daughter already twelve years old, andtwo sons at school. He had been married young, when he was a student inhis second year, andby now his wife seemed half as old again as he. Shewas a tall, erect woman with dark eyebrows, staid and dignified, and, asshe said of herself, intellectual. Sheread a great deal, used phoneticspelling, called her husband, not Dmitri, but Dimitri, and he secretlyconsidered her unintelligent, narrow, inelegant, was afraid ofher, anddid not like to be at home. He had begun being unfaithful to her longago--had been unfaithful to her often, and, probably on that account,almost alwaysspoke ill of women, and when they were talked about in hispresence, used to call them "the lower race."It seemed to him that he had been so schooled by bitterexperience thathe might call them what he liked, and yet he could not get on for twodays together without "the lower race." In the society of men he wasboredand not himself, with them he was cold and uncommunicative; butwhen he was in the company of women he felt free, and knew what to sayto them and how tobehave; and he was at ease with them even when he wassilent. In his appearance, in his character, in his whole nature, therewas something attractive andelusive which allured women and disposedthem in his favour; he knew that, and some force seemed to draw him,too, to them.Experience often repeated, trulybitter experience, had taught him longago that with decent people, especially Moscow people--always slow tomove and irresolute--every intimacy, which at firstso agreeablydiversifies life and appears a light and charming adventure, inevitablygrows into a regular problem of extreme intricacy, and in the long runthesituation becomes unbearable. But at every fresh meeting with aninteresting woman this experience seemed to slip out of his memory, andhe was eager for life,and everything seemed simple and amusing.One evening he was dining in the gardens, and the lady in the _bÃ©ret_came up slowly to take the next table. Herexpression, her gait, herdress, and the way she did her hair told him that she was a lady, thatshe was married, that she was in Yalta for the first time and alone,andthat she was dull there.... The stories told of the immorality in suchplaces as Yalta are to a great extent untrue; he despised them, and knewthat such storieswere for the most part made up by persons who wouldthemselves have been glad to sin if they had been able; but when thelady sat down at the next table threepaces from him, he rememberedthese tales of easy conquests, of trips to the mountains, and thetempting thought of a swift, fleeting love affair, a romance withanunknown woman, whose name he did not know, suddenly took possession ofhim.He beckoned coaxingly to the Pomeranian, and when the dog came up tohimhe shook his finger at it. The Pomeranian growled: Gurov shook hisfinger at it again.The lady looked at him and at once dropped her eyes."He doesn't bite,"she said, and blushed."May I give him a bone?" he asked; and when she nodded he askedcourteously, "Have you been long in Yalta?""Five days.""And I havealready dragged out a fortnight here."There was a brief silence."Time goes fast, and yet it is so dull here!" she said, not looking athim."That's only the fashion tosay it is dull here. A provincial will livein Belyov or Zhidra and not be dull, and when he comes here it's 'Oh,the dulness! Oh, the dust!' One would think he camefrom Grenada."She laughed. Then both continued eating in silence, like strangers, butafter dinner they walked side by side; and there sprang up betweenthemthe light jesting conversation of people who are free and satisfied, towhom it does not matter where they go or what they talk about. Theywalked and talkedof the strange light on the sea: the water was of asoft warm lilac hue, and there was a golden streak from the moon uponit. They talked of how sultry it was aftera hot day. Gurov told herthat he came from Moscow, that he had taken his degree in Arts, but hada post in a bank; that he had trained as an opera-singer, buthad givenit up, that he owned two houses in Moscow.... And from her he learntthat she had grown up in Petersburg, but had lived in S---- since hermarriage twoyears before, that she was staying another month in Yalta,and that her husband, who needed a holiday too, might perhaps come andfetch her. She was not surewhether her husband had a post in a CrownDepartment or under the Provincial Council--and was amused by her ownignorance. And Gurov learnt, too, that shewas called Anna Sergeyevna.Afterwards he thought about her in his room at the hotel--thought shewould certainly meet him next day; it would be sure tohappen. As he gotinto bed he thought how lately she had been a girl at school, doinglessons like his own daughter; he recalled the diffidence, theangularity, thatwas still manifest in her laugh and her manner oftalking with a stranger. This must have been the first time in her lifeshe had been alone in surroundings in whichshe was followed, looked at,and spoken to merely from a secret motive which she could hardly fail toguess. He recalled her slender, delicate neck, her lovely greyeyes."There's something pathetic about her, anyway," he thought, and fellasleep.IIA week had passed since they had made acquaintance. It was a holiday. Itwassultry indoors, while in the street the wind whirled the dust roundand round, and blew people's hats off. It was a thirsty day, and Gurovoften went into thepavilion, and pressed Anna Sergeyevna to have syrupand water or an ice. One did not know what to do with oneself.In the evening when the wind had dropped alittle, they went out on thegroyne to see the steamer come in. There were a great many peoplewalking about the harbour; they had gathered to welcome someone,bringing bouquets. And two peculiarities of a well-dressed Yalta crowdwere very conspicuous: the elderly ladies were dressed like young ones,and there weregreat numbers of generals.Owing to the roughness of the sea, the steamer arrived late, after thesun had set, and it was a long time turning about before itreached thegroyne. Anna Sergeyevna looked through her lorgnette at the steamer andthe passengers as though looking for acquaintances, and when sheturnedto Gurov her eyes were shining. She talked a great deal and askeddisconnected questions, forgetting next moment what she had asked; thenshe droppedher lorgnette in the crush.The festive crowd began to disperse; it was too dark to see people'sfaces. The wind had completely dropped, but Gurov and AnnaSergeyevnastill stood as though waiting to see some one else come from thesteamer. Anna Sergeyevna was silent now, and sniffed the flowers withoutlooking atGurov."The weather is better this evening," he said. "Where shall we go now?Shall we drive somewhere?"She made no answer.Then he looked at her intently,and all at once put his arm round herand kissed her on the lips, and breathed in the moisture and thefragrance of the flowers; and he immediately looked roundhim, anxiouslywondering whether any one had seen them."Let us go to your hotel," he said softly. And both walked quickly.The room was close and smelt of thescent she had bought at the Japaneseshop. Gurov looked at her and thought: "What different people one meetsin the world!" From the past he preservedmemories of careless,good-natured women, who loved cheerfully and were grateful to him forthe happiness he gave them, however brief it might be; and ofwomen likehis wife who loved without any genuine feeling, with superfluousphrases, affectedly, hysterically, with an expression that suggestedthat it was not lovenor passion, but something more significant; and oftwo or three others, very beautiful, cold women, on whose faces he hadcaught a glimpse of a rapaciousexpression--an obstinate desire tosnatch from life more than it could give, and these were capricious,unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in theirfirst youth,and when Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, andthe lace on their linen seemed to him like scales.But in this case there was stillthe diffidence, the angularity ofinexperienced youth, an awkward feeling; and there was a sense ofconsternation as though some one had suddenly knocked atthe door. Theattitude of Anna Sergeyevna--"the lady with the dog"--to what hadhappened was somehow peculiar, very grave, as though it were herfall--so itseemed, and it was strange and inappropriate. Her facedropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair hung downmournfully; she mused in a dejectedattitude like "the woman who was asinner" in an old-fashioned picture."It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now."There was a water-melonon the table. Gurov cut himself a slice andbegan eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour ofsilence.Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there wasabout her the purity of a good,simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning onthe table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clearthat she wasvery unhappy."How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you aresaying.""God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled withtears. "It'sawful.""You seem to feel you need to be forgiven.""Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't attemptto justify myself. It's notmy husband but myself I have deceived. Andnot only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. Myhusband may be a good, honest man, but he is aflunkey! I don't knowwhat he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I wastwenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by


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                                      THE GRUDGE                                                Written by                                     StephenSusco                                                                          Based on the films                         Ju-on, Ju-on 2 and Ju-on:The Grudge                                          By                                   Takashi Shimizu                                                         Production Draft -BLUE                                               Revised, January 26, 2004                              1   INT. PETER & MARIA'S BEDROOM -DAY                               1                        FADE IN on MARIA (late 20s), asleep in bed. She's              breathtakingly beautiful. Morning light fillsthe room.      The              sound of wind, and rippling cloth.                        Maria stirs, and opens her eyes.     She stretchescontentedly.                        Then she frowns.    Rolls over.    She's alone in the bed?                        No, she's not: PETER (20s) sits on theedge, his back to her.              Two fresh, steaming mugs of coffee sit on a tray nearhim.                                               MARIA                        Hey.     Are you okay?                        Peter doesn't turn. He slowlystands and walks forward              towards an OPEN WINDOW.                        There's something strange about the way he moves --stiffly,              almost jerkily, straining his joints and muscles.                        Maria gets out of bed,


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                             THE DEPARTED                                                         Writtenby                                     William Monahan                                                  Based on InfernalAffairs                              SCRIPT AS SHOT COMPILED SEPTEMBER 2006                                        FADE UPON                    THE SOUTH BOSTON HOUSING PROJECTS. A MAZE OF BUILDINGS          AGAINST THEHARBOR.                                           COSTELLO (V.O.)                       I don't want to be a product of my                       environment.I want my environment                       to be a product...of me.                    YELLOW RIPPLES PAST THE CAMERA AND WHEN IT CLEARS WESEE          THROUGH DIESEL SMOKE: A BUSING PROTEST IN PROGRESS. THE          SCHOOL-BUS, FULL OF BLACK KIDS, IS HIT WITHBRICKS, ROCKS.          N.B.: (THIS IS NOT SETTING THE LIVE ACTION IN 1974; IT IS A          HISTORICAL MONTAGE, THE BACKGROUNDFOR COSTELLO'S V.O.).                    INT. THE AUTOBODY SHOP. DAY.                    COSTELLO's profile passes in a darkroom.                                           COSTELLO (V.O.)                       Years ago, we had the Church. That                       was only a way ofsaying we had                       each other. The Knights of Columbus                       were head-breakers. They took over                       their piece of the


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, by J. M. BarrieThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Peter Pan in Kensington GardensAuthor: J. M. BarriePosting Date: August 27, 2008 [EBook #1332]Release Date: May, 1998Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PETER PAN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS ***Produced by Ron BurkeyPETER PAN IN KENSINGTONGARDENSBy J. M. BarrieCONTENTS     Peter Pan     The Thrush's Nest     The Little House     Lock-Out TimePeter PanIf you ask your mother whether she knewabout Peter Pan when she was alittle girl she will say, "Why, of course, I did, child," and if youask her whether he rode on a goat in those days she will say,"Whata foolish question to ask, certainly he did." Then if you ask yourgrandmother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was a girl, shealso says, "Why, ofcourse, I did, child," but if you ask her whether herode on a goat in those days, she says she never heard of his having agoat. Perhaps she has forgotten, just asshe sometimes forgets your nameand calls you Mildred, which is your mother's name. Still, she couldhardly forget such an important thing as the goat. Thereforethere wasno goat when your grandmother was a little girl. This shows that, intelling the story of Peter Pan, to begin with the goat (as most peopledo) is as silly asto put on your jacket before your vest.Of course, it also shows that Peter is ever so old, but he is reallyalways the same age, so that does not matter in the least.His ageis one week, and though he was born so long ago he has never had abirthday, nor is there the slightest chance of his ever having one. Thereason is thathe escaped from being a human when he was seven days'old; he escaped by the window and flew back to the Kensington Gardens.If you think he was the onlybaby who ever wanted to escape, it showshow completely you have forgotten your own young days. When David heardthis story first he was quite certain that hehad never tried to escape,but I told him to think back hard, pressing his hands to his temples,and when he had done this hard, and even harder, hedistinctlyremembered a youthful desire to return to the tree-tops, and with thatmemory came others, as that he had lain in bed planning to escape assoon as hismother was asleep, and how she had once caught him half-wayup the chimney. All children could have such recollections if they wouldpress their hands hard totheir temples, for, having been birds beforethey were human, they are naturally a little wild during the first fewweeks, and very itchy at the shoulders, wheretheir wings used to be. SoDavid tells me.I ought to mention here that the following is our way with a story:First, I tell it to him, and then he tells it to me, theunderstandingbeing that it is quite a different story; and then I retell it with hisadditions, and so we go on until no one could say whether it is morehis story ormine. In this story of Peter Pan, for instance, the baldnarrative and most of the moral reflections are mine, though not all,for this boy can be a stern moralist, butthe interesting bits about theways and customs of babies in the bird-stage are mostly reminiscencesof David's, recalled by pressing his hands to his temples andthinkinghard.Well, Peter Pan got out by the window, which had no bars. Standingon the ledge he could see trees far away, which were doubtless theKensingtonGardens, and the moment he saw them he entirely forgot thathe was now a little boy in a nightgown, and away he flew, right over thehouses to the Gardens. It iswonderful that he could fly without wings,but the place itched tremendously, and, perhaps we could all fly if wewere as dead-confident-sure of our capacity to doit as was bold PeterPan that evening.He alighted gaily on the open sward, between the Baby's Palace and theSerpentine, and the first thing he did was to lie onhis back and kick.He was quite unaware already that he had ever been human, and thought hewas a bird, even in appearance, just the same as in his early days,andwhen he tried to catch a fly he did not understand that the reason hemissed it was because he had attempted to seize it with his hand, which,of course, a birdnever does. He saw, however, that it must be pastLock-out Time, for there were a good many fairies about, all too busyto notice him; they were getting breakfastready, milking their cows,drawing water, and so on, and the sight of the water-pails made himthirsty, so he flew over to the Round Pond to have a drink. Hestooped,and dipped his beak in the pond; he thought it was his beak, but, ofcourse, it was only his nose, and, therefore, very little water came up,and that not sorefreshing as usual, so next he tried a puddle, and hefell flop into it. When a real bird falls in flop, he spreads out hisfeathers and pecks them dry, but Peter couldnot remember what wasthe thing to do, and he decided, rather sulkily, to go to sleep on theweeping beech in the Baby Walk.At first he found some difficulty inbalancing himself on a branch, butpresently he remembered the way, and fell asleep. He awoke long beforemorning, shivering, and saying to himself, "I neverwas out in such acold night;" he had really been out in colder nights when he was a bird,but, of course, as everybody knows, what seems a warm night to a birdisa cold night to a boy in a nightgown. Peter also felt strangelyuncomfortable, as if his head was stuffy, he heard loud noises that madehim look round sharply,though they were really himself sneezing. Therewas something he wanted very much, but, though he knew he wanted it, hecould not think what it was. What hewanted so much was his mother toblow his nose, but that never struck him, so he decided to appeal to thefairies for enlightenment. They are reputed to know agood deal.There were two of them strolling along the Baby Walk, with their armsround each other's waists, and he hopped down to address them. Thefairies havetheir tiffs with the birds, but they usually give a civilanswer to a civil question, and he was quite angry when these two ranaway the moment they saw him.Another was lolling on a garden-chair,reading a postage-stamp which some human had let fall, and when he heardPeter's voice he popped in alarm behind atulip.To Peter's bewilderment he discovered that every fairy he met fled fromhim. A band of workmen, who were sawing down a toadstool, rushed away,leavingtheir tools behind them. A milkmaid turned her pail upside downand hid in it. Soon the Gardens were in an uproar. Crowds of fairieswere running this way andthat, asking each other stoutly, who wasafraid, lights were extinguished, doors barricaded, and from the groundsof Queen Mab's palace came the rubadub ofdrums, showing that the royalguard had been called out.A regiment of Lancers came charging down the Broad Walk, armed withholly-leaves, with which they jogthe enemy horribly in passing. Peterheard the little people crying everywhere that there was a human in theGardens after Lock-out Time, but he never thoughtfor a moment that hewas the human. He was feeling stuffier and stuffier, and more and morewistful to learn what he wanted done to his nose, but he pursuedthemwith the vital question in vain; the timid creatures ran from him, andeven the Lancers, when he approached them up the Hump, turned swiftlyinto aside-walk, on the pretence that they saw him there.Despairing of the fairies, he resolved to consult the birds, but now heremembered, as an odd thing, that allthe birds on the weeping beech hadflown away when he alighted on it, and though that had not troubled himat the time, he saw its meaning now. Every livingthing was shunninghim. Poor little Peter Pan, he sat down and cried, and even then he didnot know that, for a bird, he was sitting on his wrong part. It isablessing that he did not know, for otherwise he would have lost faithin his power to fly, and the moment you doubt whether you can fly, youcease forever to beable to do it. The reason birds can fly and we can'tis simply that they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to havewings.Now, except by flying, no one can reachthe island in the Serpentine,for the boats of humans are forbidden to land there, and thereare stakes round it, standing up in the water, on each of whichabird-sentinel sits by day and night. It was to the island that Peter nowflew to put his strange case before old Solomon Caw, and he alighted onit with relief, muchheartened to find himself at last at home, as thebirds call the island. All of them were asleep, including the sentinels,except Solomon, who was wide awake on oneside, and he listened quietlyto Peter's adventures, and then told him their true meaning."Look at your night-gown, if you don't believe me," Solomon said,andwith staring eyes Peter looked at his nightgown, and then at thesleeping birds. Not one of them wore anything."How many of your toes are thumbs?" saidSolomon a little cruelly, andPeter saw to his consternation, that all his toes were fingers. Theshock was so great that it drove away his cold."Ruffle your feathers,"said that grim old Solomon, and Peter tried mostdesperately hard to ruffle his feathers, but he had none. Then he roseup, quaking, and for the first time since hestood on the window-ledge,he remembered a lady who had been very fond of him."I think I shall go back to mother," he said timidly."Good-bye," replied SolomonCaw with a queer look.But Peter hesitated. "Why don't you go?" the old one asked politely."I suppose," said Peter huskily, "I suppose I can still fly?"You see, hehad lost faith."Poor little half-and-half," said Solomon, who was not reallyhard-hearted, "you will never be able to fly again, not even on windydays. You must livehere on the island always.""And never even go to the Kensington Gardens?" Peter asked tragically."How could you get across?" said Solomon. He promised verykindly,however, to teach Peter as many of the bird ways as could be learned byone of such an awkward shape."Then I sha'n't be exactly a human?" Peterasked."No.""Nor exactly a bird?""No.""What shall I be?""You will be a Betwixt-and-Between," Solomon said, and certainly he wasa wise old fellow, for that isexactly how it turned out.The birds on the island never got used to him. His oddities tickled themevery day, as if they were quite new, though it was really thebirdsthat were new. They came out of the eggs daily, and laughed at him atonce, then off they soon flew to be humans, and other birds came outof other eggs,and so it went on forever. The crafty mother-birds, whenthey tired of sitting on their eggs, used to get the young one to breaktheir shells a day before the righttime by whispering to them that nowwas their chance to see Peter washing or drinking or eating. Thousandsgathered round him daily to watch him do thesethings, just as you watchthe peacocks, and they screamed with delight when he lifted the cruststhey flung him with his hands instead of in the usual way withthemouth. All his food was brought to him from the Gardens at Solomon'sorders by the birds. He would not eat worms or insects (which theythought very silly ofhim), so they brought him bread in their beaks.Thus, when you cry out, "Greedy! Greedy!" to the bird that flies awaywith the big crust, you know now that you


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                                  FRIGHT NIGHT                                   Written by                                   Marti Noxon          EXT. SUBURBANNEIGHBORHOOD -- NIGHT                         FADE UP:          Moving through a tract development. The houses are like          Mexican food -- thebasic elements are all the same, just          mixed differently.          A gloomy night, no moon. And a slightly ominous pattern          emerges...          Green,thriving lawns and meticulously tended homes abut          brown yards and porches littered with old newspapers and          pizza joint flyers.          Each third orfourth house is FOR SALE or, worse, seemingly          abandoned. This area is in danger of becoming a ghost town.          A deep, commanding voice pierces thesilence:          VOICE (O.S.)          Defy reason. Defy everything you          know.          Now we move in on one of the homes. Not the nicest onthe          block, but inhabited. Lights on in the windows.          INT. SUBURBAN HOME/VARIOUS -- NIGHT          Inside the house. A middle-classfamily lives here. The          living room is empty, but the TV's on.          ON THE TELEVISION          A commercial for PETER VINCENT. A Las Vegasinstitution,          he's a magician whose show is all Gothic, horror-movie          imagery.          Peter's wiry, hot -- a rock and roll bad boy. He's cuttinga          girl up with a chain saw. And grinning like a mad man.                         TELEVISION ANNOUNCER          Peter Vincent's "FRIGHTNIGHT."          The family DOG is up on the coffee table eating what's left          of a fast food burger and fries, still in the box.          TELEVISION


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                          LAST CHANCE HARVEY                                                            Writtenby                                       Joel Hopkins                                        Sound of a piano being played. Sparse butbeautiful.                                                                     FADE IN:                              INT. RECORDING ROOM -DAY                    HARVEY SHINE, mid-60's, sits at a piano in a scruffy          recording room, tinkering. We hold on his slightly sad,          intensegaze. Just then a shaft of crude light illuminates          him, accompanied by a knocking sound. From behind a studio          window, JOHNNIE, a young rockertype in his 20's beckons.          Harvey closes the piano lid.                              INT. STUDIO - DAY                    Johnnie,unpacking his lunch and turning on various buttons,          sits at a mixing desk. In front of him are 2 large TV          monitors. Harvey joinshim.                                        HARVEY                    Put my score upfirst.                                        JOHNNIE                    They don't want to hear it,Harvey.                                        HARVEY                    I know, but I want to hear it. Put                    itup.                                        JOHNNIE                    I'm backed up already,


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<title>Fletch - by Phil Alden Robinson from a draft by Andrew Bergman.  May 4, 1986 draft</title><tableborder="0" width="650">

May 4, 1986

PRODUCERS:PETERDOUGLASALANGREISMANDIRECTOR:MICHAEL RITCHIE

FLETCH

FinalDraftScreenplay

by

PHIL ALDEN ROBINSON

From a Draft
<palign="center">by

ANDREW BERGMAN

Based on the novel

by
<palign="center">GREGORY MC DONALD

FLETCH

FADEIN

EXT.CALIFORNIA BEACH –        DAY 1
Seagulls        squawk, and the waves pound, but we’re not talking        about MalibuColony, here. This is a fairly rundown beach        area, catering to lower-echelon surfers, vagrants, and        strung out druggies of all ages, several of whomstand or        sit on their haunches by a dilapidated old hamburger        stand. Over the stand is a faded sign: "FAT        SAM’SHAMBURGERS".

A simple but haunting        electronic melody plays in the b.g.

INT. "FAT        SAM’S"


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Good Shepherd, by AnonymousThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Good Shepherd       A Life of Christ for ChildrenAuthor: AnonymousRelease Date: June 11, 2006 [EBook #18558]Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOOD SHEPHERD ***Produced by Al Haines[Frontispiece: "I am the good shepherd. . ."]THEGOOD SHEPHERDA LIFE OF CHRIST FOR CHILDRENFLEMING H. REVELL COMPANYNEW YORK : : CHICAGO : : TORONTOPublishers of Evangelical LiteratureTABLEOF CONTENTSCHAPTER    I.  WHY JESUS CAME TO THIS WORLD   II.  JESUS IS BORN IN BETHLEHEM  III.  THE BOYHOOD OF JESUS   IV.  JOHN THEBAPTIST    V.  JESUS BEGINS HIS WORK   VI.  SOME WORDS AND WORKS OF JESUS  VII.  A FRIEND FOR THE SORROWFUL VIII.  MORE WONDERFUL WORKSAND WORDS   IX.  THE MAN BORN BLIND, AND LAZARUS    X.  THE PRODIGAL SON, AND OTHER STORIES   XI.  THE LAST DAYS IN JERUSALEM  XII.  THECRUCIFIXION AND THE RESURRECTION   XX   SELECTED SONGS, PSALMS, AND PRAYERSLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS"I am the good shepherd . . ." . . . . . ._Frontispiece_Map of Palestine at the time of ChristThe shepherd's careBethlehemNazareth, from hill aboveJewish women grinding cornThe River JordanJericho,from plains aboveA modern Jew's wedding party in GalileeJacob's wellRuins of CapernaumThe good SamaritanBethanyChild at prayerThe shepherd's care (2ndversion)The shepherd's care (3rd version)The Jordan near BethabaraMount of Olives and JerusalemGethsemaneCalvaryThe empty tombThe Sea of GalileeTheMount of OlivesCHAPTER IWHY JESUS CAME TO THIS WORLDIn the beginning, before the world was made, the Lord Jesus lived inheaven.  He lived in that happyplace with God.  Then God made theworld.  He told the hills to come up out of the earth, and the seas torun down into the deep places which He had made forthem.  He made thegrass, the trees, and all the pretty flowers.  He put the sun, themoon, and the stars in the sky.  He filled the water with swimmingfish, the airwith flying birds, and the dry land with walking andcreeping animals.  And then He said, 'Let _Us_ make man.'  Who weremeant by 'Us'?  Who was with God whenHe made the world?  It was Jesus.The Bible says:'THE WORD (that means Jesus) WAS WITH GOD, AND THE WORD WAS GOD.  THESAME WAS IN THEBEGINNING WITH GOD.  ALL THINGS WERE MADE BY HIM.'So after He had made everything else, God made a man, and named himAdam.  God put Adam intothe beautiful Garden of Eden, and at first hewas good and very happy.  God also made a woman, named Eve, to be hiswife, and to help him to take care of thegarden.  All the fruit in thegarden, except what grew on one tree, was given to Adam and Eve to eat;all the animals were their servants; and God was theirFriend.A wicked angel, who had been turned out of heaven, saw how happy Adamand Eve were, and he was angry, and thought, 'I will make them as badandunhappy as I am; I will make them do what God has told them not todo.  Then he will turn them out of Eden, and they and their childrenwill be my servants forever, and I shall be king of the world.'So the wicked angel, whose name was Satan, came into Eden.  He got Adamand Eve to take the fruit which God had toldthem not to eat, and Godhad to send them out of the beautiful garden; for God had said He wouldpunish Adam and Eve if they took that fruit, and God alwayskeeps Hisword.But God went on loving Adam and Eve even when He knew that He mustpunish them, and He tried to make them good in this way.  He thought,'Iwill send My dear Son down to the earth.  He shall become a littlechild, and grow up to be a man, and shall die for the sins of theworld.'Hundreds and hundreds ofyears passed away before Jesus came.  But agreat many of the people who lived in Palestine were expecting Him.God had said that when Jesus came, He wouldbe a Jew.  The Jews werevery proud about that.  They often talked about the coming of Jesus.When they talked about Him, they called Him the Messiah.Justbefore Jesus was born, the Jews were very unhappy.  Roman soldiershad been fighting with them, and had conquered them, and made themservants of the greatRoman king.  He was called Augustus Caesar, andhe gave the Jews another king called Herod.  He was very wicked.[Illustration: Map of Palestine at the time ofChrist.]The Jews longed to get rid of Herod, and many of them thought, 'It willbe all right when the Messiah comes.  The Messiah will fight againstthe Romans; Hewill drive them away from our land; and then He will beour King instead of that wicked Herod.'  But only a few Jews rememberedthat Jesus was coming to fightagainst Satan and against sin.The place where the Jews lived had four or five names.  It was calledthe Land of Canaan at the first, then the Land of Promise, andthen theLand of Israel.  But we call it the Holy Land, or Palestine.If you look at the map of Palestine, you will see a river running fromthe north of Palestine to thesouth.  That river is called the Jordan.And Palestine is divided into four parts,--one at the top (we call thatthe north), one at the bottom (we call that the south),one in themiddle, and one on the other or eastward side of the Jordan.The part in the North is called Galilee.  The part in the south iscalled Judaea.  The part inthe middle is called Samaria.  The part onthe other side of the Jordan is called Perea.Palestine is full of hills, with great holes, called caves, in theirsides.  Palestineis not very big; England is about six times, and NewYork State about five times larger.  Washington is called the capitalof the United States.  The capital ofPalestine was Jerusalem.Jerusalem was a very beautiful city.  It was built on four or fivehills which were very close together.  One of these hills was calledMountMoriah.  On the top of Mount Moriah there was a great Templewhere the Jews went to pray.  Part of the Temple was called the HolyPlace, the part at the very topof the mountain.  It was splendid withits shining gold and white marble, but it was not very large, for thepeople were not allowed to go into it.  When it was timefor the Jewsto go to the Temple, silver trumpets were blown once, twice, threetimes, and then the gates were thrown open, and the people crowded intothecourts.CHAPTER IIJESUS IS BORN IN BETHLEHEMMary, the mother of Jesus, lived in the little town of Nazareth, amongthe hills of Galilee.  She was going to bemarried to a carpentercalled Joseph, who, like herself, lived in Nazareth.  One day God sentthe angel Gabriel to Mary with a message.  Mary, when she saw andheardthe angel, was a little frightened.  But the angel told her he had someglad news for her.  Jesus, the Son of God, the Messiah, was coming intothe world verysoon, and He was to come in the form of a baby, asMary's little child.  And Gabriel said that when He was born, Mary mustcall Him JESUS.Mary had a cousinnamed Elizabeth, who lived more than a hundred milesaway from Nazareth, and Mary longed to talk with her about all thesewonderful things.  So she got readyfor a long journey, and went offinto the hill country of Judaea to see Elizabeth.And God had also promised to send Elizabeth a son.  And soon afterMary's visit thebaby was born, and all Elizabeth's friends were glad,and came to see her, and to thank God with her for His great kindness.The little Jew babies have a namegiven to them when they are eightdays old.  And Elizabeth's son was named John.One night, soon after Mary got back from her cousin Elizabeth's house,the angelof the Lord spoke to Joseph in a dream.  The angel toldJoseph to marry Mary, and he told him Mary's secret about the Son ofGod coming to earth as her littlechild, and he said to Joseph, 'THOUSHALT CALL HIS NAME JESUS, FOB HE SHALL SAVE HIS PEOPLE FROM THEIRSINS.'  When Joseph woke up, his first thoughtwas to do what the angelhad told him, and he at once took Mary to his own home as his wife.About this time Caesar Augustus, the great Emperor at Rome, sentwordto Herod that he was to take a census of the Jews.  Everybody's namehad to be written down and his age, and many other things about him.Every twentyyears Augustus had a census taken, so that he might knowhow much money the Jews ought to pay him, and how many Jew soldiers heought to have.InPalestine, at census time, people had to go to the towns where theirfathers' fathers lived a long time ago, and had to have their names putdown there instead ofhaving them put down in their own homes.  Now,both Joseph and Mary belonged to the family of the great king David,who was born in Bethlehem.  So Mary hadto prepare for a long journey,and go with her husband to Bethlehem.  Bethlehem is six miles fromJerusalem.  It is on the top of a hill, and people have to climbup asteep road to get into the town.An inn is a large house that people stay at when they are on a journey.The inns in Palestine have four walls, with a door infront, and with agreat empty space for camels and horses inside.  In the middle of theempty space is a fountain; and all round the walls, a little bit higherthan thepart where the animals are, there are a number of places likeempty stone arbors.  These empty places are called _leewans_, and theyare open in front, so thateverybody can see into them.  Yet Mary andJoseph, after all their long journey from Nazareth, could not find evenan empty _leewan_ to lie down in.[Illustration:The shepherd's care.]Near that inn there was a place in which asses and camels were kept.It was perhaps a cave in the side of the hill.  And because there wasnoroom for them in the inn, Mary and Joseph had to go into that stableto sleep, and in that stable Jesus Christ was born.  Mary wrapped Himin swaddling clothes,and laid Him in the manger in the place where theanimals' food was kept.On the hill where Bethlehem stands there are green places whereshepherds feed theirflocks.  There are wild animals in Palestine; andall night long the shepherds of Bethlehem watched to see that no harmhappened to their sheep.  One night anangel of the Lord stood by themand a bright light shown round about them.  The shepherds were afraid;but the angel said, 'FEAR NOT; FOR BEHOLD, I BRINGYOU GOOD TIDINGS (ORNEWS) OF GREAT JOY, WHICH SHALL BE TO ALL PEOPLE.  FOR UNTO YOU IS BORNTHIS DAY IN THE CITY OF DAVID A SAVIOUR,WHICH is CHRIST THE LORD.'And suddenly there was seen with the angel a number of the angels ofheaven.  And they praised God, and said, 'GLORY TO GOD INTHE HIGHEST,AND ON EARTH PEACE, GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN.'When the light faded, and the song ended, and the angels had gone backinto heaven, theshepherds climbed quickly over the hillside toBethlehem.  And there, in the stable near the inn, they found Mary andJoseph, and the Babe lying in the manger, asthe angels had said.Jesus was the eldest son of His mother.  And the eldest sons in Jewishhouses, when they were forty days old, were taken to the Temple,andgiven to God.So now, when Jesus was nearly six weeks old, He was brought fromBethlehem by Mary and Joseph to the Temple at Jerusalem.  The


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Self-control, by Mary BruntonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Self-controlAuthor: Mary BruntonRelease Date: October 27, 2012 [EBook #41196]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK SELF-CONTROL ***Produced by Delphine Lettau, fh and the Online DistributedProofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net    SELF-CONTROL    _A Novel by_    MARY BRUNTON    His warfare is within.--There unfatigued    His fervent spirit labours.--There hefights,    And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,    And never-withering wreaths, compared with which    The laurels that a Caesar reaps areweeds                                                   Cowper                           TO                   MISS JOANNA BAILLIEMADAM,You would smile to hear the insect of a day paythe tribute of itspraise to the lasting oak which aided its first feeble soaring--Smilethen;--for a person whom nature, fortune, and inclination, alike, havemarkedfor obscurity, one whose very name may never reach your ear,offers this tribute of respect to the author of PLAYS on the PASSIONS.The pleasure of expressingheart-felt admiration is not, however, myonly motive for inscribing this tale to you. Unknown to the world bothas an individual and as an author, I own myselfdesirous of giving apledge of spotless intention in my work, by adorning it with the name ofone whose writings force every unvitiated heart to glow with awarmerlove of virtue. On one solitary point I claim equality with you:--Inpurity of intention I yield not even to JOANNA BAILLIE.May I venture to avow anotherfeeling which has prompted this intrusion?What point so small that vanity cannot build on it a resting-place! Willyou believe that this trifle claims affinity with thePlays on thePassions?--Your portraitures of the progress and of the consequences ofpassion,--portraitures whose exquisite truth gives them the force oflivingexamples,--are powerful warnings to watch the first risings ofthe insidious rebel. No guard but one is equal to the task. Theregulation of the passions is theprovince, it is the triumph ofRELIGION. In the character of Laura Montreville the religious principleis exhibited as rejecting the bribes of ambition; bestowingfortitude inwant and sorrow; as restraining just displeasure; overcomingconstitutional timidity; conquering misplaced affection; and triumphingover the fear ofdeath and of disgrace.This little tale was begun at first merely for my own amusement. It ispublished that I may reconcile my conscience to the time which ithasemployed, by making it in some degree useful. Let not the term soimplied provoke a smile! If my book is read, its uses to the author areobvious. Nor is a workof fiction necessarily unprofitable to thereaders. When the vitiated appetite refuses its proper food, thealternative may be administered in a sweetmeat. It may beimprudent toconfess the presence of the medicine, lest the sickly palate, thuswarned, turn from it in loathing. But I rely in this instance on theworld of thephilosopher, who avers that 'young ladies never readprefaces'; and I am not without hope, that with you, and with all whoform exceptions to this rule, the avowalof a useful purpose may be aninducement to tolerate what otherwise might be thought unworthy ofregard.Perhaps in an age whose lax morality, declining theglorious toils ofvirtue, is poorly 'content to dwell in decencies for ever', emulationmay be repressed by the eminence which the character of Laura claimsover theordinary standard of the times. A virtue which, thoughessentially Christian, is certainly not very popular in this Christiancountry, may be stigmatized as romantic;a chilling term of reproach,which has blighted many a fair blossom of goodness ere it ripened intofruit. Perhaps some of my fair countrywomen, finding it difficulttotrace in the delineation of Self-Control any striking feature of theirown minds, may pronounce my picture unnatural. It might be enough toreply, that I do notascribe any of the virtues of Laura to nature, and,least of all, the one whose office is to regulate and control nature.But if my principal figure want the air, andvivacity of life, the blamelies in the painter, not in the subject. Laura is indebted to fancy forher drapery and attitudes alone. I have had the happiness ofwitnessing,in real life, a self-command operating with as much force, permanence,and uniformity, as that which is depicted in the following volumes. Toyou,Madam, I should perhaps further apologize for having left in mymodel some traces of human imperfection; while, for the generality of myreaders, I breathe afervent wish, that these pages may assist inenabling their own hearts to furnish proof that the character of Laura,however unnatural, is yet not unattainable.  Ihave the honour to be,    with great respect,      Madam,        Your obedient Servant,          The AUTHOR                                          January1811.CONTENTS  Chapter I               1  Chapter II             10  Chapter III            18  Chapter IV             23  Chapter V              33  ChapterVI             39  Chapter VII            45  Chapter VIII           56  Chapter IX             62  Chapter X              73  Chapter XI             82  ChapterXII            90  Chapter XIII          102  Chapter XIV           116  Chapter XV            132  Chapter XVI           147  Chapter XVII          161  ChapterXVIII         185  Chapter XIX           201  Chapter XX            215  Chapter XXI           229  Chapter XXII          242  Chapter XXIII         260  ChapterXXIV          270  Chapter XXV           283  Chapter XXVI          298  Chapter XXVII         312  Chapter XXVIII        329  Chapter XXIX          346  ChapterXXX           367  Chapter XXXI          387  Chapter XXXII         402  Chapter XXXIII        413  Chapter XXXIV         426CHAPTER IIt was on a still evening in June,that Laura Montreville left herfather's cottage, in the little village of Glenalbert, to begin asolitary ramble. Her countenance was mournful, and her step languid;forher health had suffered from long confinement, and her spirits wereexhausted by long attendance on the deathbed of her mother. That labourof duty had beenlessened by no extrinsic circumstance; for Lady HarrietMontreville was a peevish and refractory patient; her disorder had beentedious as well as hopeless; andthe humble establishment of a half-payofficer furnished no one who could lighten to Laura the burden ofconstant attendance. But Laura had in herself that whichsoftens alldifficulty, and beguiles all fatigue--an active mind, a strong sense ofduty, and the habit of meeting and of overcoming adverse circumstances.CaptainMontreville was of a family ancient and respectable, but so farfrom affluent, that, at the death of his father, he found his wealth, asa younger son, to consist onlyof Â£500, besides the emoluments arisingfrom a lieutenancy in a regiment of foot. Nature had given him a fineperson and a pleasing address; and to the nationalopinions of a Scotishmother, he was indebted for an education, of which the liberality suitedbetter with his birth than with his fortunes. He was inLondonnegotiating for the purchase of a company, when he accidentally met withLady Harriet Bircham. Her person was shewy, and her manners had theglare,even more than the polish of high life. She had a livelyimagination, and some wit; had read a little, and knew how to shew thatlittle to advantage. The fine personof Montreville soon awakened theonly sort of sensibility of which Lady Harriet was possessed; and herpreference was sufficiently visible in every step of itsprogress. To bedistinguished by a lady of such rank and attractions, raised inMontreville all the vanity of three-and-twenty; and, seen through thatmedium, LadyHarriet's charms were magnified to perfections. Montrevillesoon was, or fancied himself, desperately in love. He sued, and wasaccepted with a frankness, to whichsome stiff advocates for femaledecorum might give the harsh name of forwardness. Montreville was inlove, and he was pleased to call it the candour of a noblemind.As his regiment was at this time under orders for the West Indies, LadyHarriet prevailed on him to exchange to half-pay; and her fortune beingno more thanÂ£5000, economy, no less than the fondness for solitudenatural in young men in love, induced him to retire to the country withhis bride, who had reasons of herown for wishing to quit London. He hadbeen educated in Scotland, and he remembered its wild scenery with theenthusiasm of a man of taste, and a painter. Hesettled therefore in thevillage of Glenalbert, near Perth; and to relieve his conscience fromthe load of utter idleness at twenty-three, began the superintendenceofa little farm. Here the ease and vivacity of Lady Harriet made her for awhile the delight of her new acquaintance. She understood all the artsof courtesy; and,happy herself, was for a while content to practisethem. The store of anecdote, which she had accumulated in herintercourse with the great, passed with hercountry neighbours forknowledge of the world. To Scotish ears, the accent of the higher ranksof English conveys an idea of smartness, as well as of gentility;andLady Harriet became an universal favourite.Those who succeed best in amusing strangers, are not, it has beenremarked, the most pleasing in domestic life:they are not even alwaysthe most entertaining. Lady Harriet's spirits had ebbs, which commonlytook place during her tÃªte-Ã -tÃªtes with Captain Montreville.Outwardattractions, real or imaginary, are the natural food of passion: butsound principles must win confidence, and kindness of heart engageaffection. PoorMontreville soon gave a mournful assent to these truths;for Lady Harriet had no principles, and her heart was a mere 'pulsationon the left side.' Her passion forher husband soon declined; and hermore permanent appetite for admiration finding but scanty food in asolitary village, her days passed in secret discontent oropenmurmurings. The narrowness of their finances made her feel the necessityof economy, though it could not immediately instruct her in the art ofit; andMontreville, driven from domestic habits by the turmoil of ahousehold, bustling without usefulness, and parsimonious withoutfrugality, was on the point ofreturning to his profession, or ofseeking relief in such dissipation as he had the means of obtaining,when the birth of a daughter gave a new turn to all his hopesandwishes.'I should not wish the girl to be a beauty,' said he to his friend, thevillage pastor. 'A pretty face is of no use, but to blind a lover';--andhe sighed, as herecollected his own blindness. Yet he was delighted tosee that Laura grew every day more lovely. 'Wit only makes womentroublesome,' said he;--but before Laurawas old enough to shew theuncommon acuteness of her understanding, he had quite forgotten that heever applied the remark to her. To amuse her infancybecame his chosenrecreation; to instruct her youth was afterwards his favouriteemployment. Lady Harriet, too, early began to seek food for her vanityin thesuperior endowments of her child, and she forthwith determinedthat Laura should be a paragon. To perfect her on Nature's plan, neverentered the head of this