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                                                 UP                                             Written by                             Pete Docter, BobPeterson & Thomas McCarthy                                                                                1.                    A 1930'sNEWSREEL.                                        NEWSREEL ANNOUNCER (V.O.)                    "Movietown News" presents...                    Spotlight onAdventure!          The mysterious SOUTH AMERICAN JUNGLE. A massive waterfall          cascades down a gigantic, flat-toppedmountain.                                        NEWSREEL ANNOUNCER (V.O.)                    What you are now witnessing is                    footagenever before seen by                    civilized humanity: a lost world in                    South America! Lurking in the                    shadow of majestic ParadiseFalls,                    it sports plants and animals                    undiscovered by science. Who would                    dare set foot on thisinhospitable                    summit?                    A painted portrait of a dashing young adventurer.                                        NEWSREELANNOUNCER (V.O.)                    Why, our subject today: Charles                    Muntz!          A massive DIRIGIBLE descends on anairfield.                                        NEWSREEL ANNOUNCER (V.O.)                    The beloved explorer lands his                    dirigible, the"Spirit of                    Adventure," in New Hampshire this                    week, completing a year long                    expedition to the lost


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Quality Street, 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.netTitle: Quality Street       A ComedyAuthor: J. M. BarrieRelease Date: February 12, 2010 [EBook #31266]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUALITY STREET ***Produced by Al HainesTHE PLAYS OF J. M. BARRIEQUALITY STREETA COMEDYCHARLES SCRIBNER'SSONSNEW YORK ::::::::: 1923COPYRIGHT, 1918, BYJ. M. BARRIEPrinted in the United States of America_All rights reserved under the International CopyrightAct.Performance forbidden and right of representation reserved.Application for the right of performing this play must be made toCharles Frohman, Inc., EmpireTheatre, New York.__THE WORKS OF J. M. BARRIE.__NOVELS, STORIES, AND SKETCHES.__Uniform Edition._  AULD LIGHT IDYLLS, BETTER DEAD.  WHEN AMAN'S SINGLE.  A WINDOW IN THRUMS, AN EDINBURGH ELEVEN.  THE LITTLE MINISTER.  SENTIMENTAL TOMMY.  MY LADY NICOTINE, MARGARETOGILVY.  TOMMY AND GRIZEL.  THE LITTLE WHITE BIRD.  PETER AND WENDY.  _Also_  HALF HOURS, DER TAG.  ECHOES OF THE WAR._PLAYS.__UniformEdition._  DEAR BRUTUS  A KISS FOR CINDERELLA  ALICE SIT-BY-THE-FIRE.  WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS.  QUALITY STREET.  THE ADMIRABLECRICHTON.  ECHOES OF THE WAR.  _Containing_: The Old Lady Shows Her Medals--The New  Word--Barbara's Wedding--A Well-Remembered Voice.  HALFHOURS.  _Containing_: Pantaloon--The Twelve-Pound  Look--Rosalind--The Will._Others in Preparation.__INDIVIDUAL EDITIONS._PETER PAN IN KENSINGTONGARDENS.  Illustrated by ARTHUR RACKHAM.PETER AND WENDY.  Illustrated by F. D. BEDFORD.PETER PAN AND WENDY.  Illustrated by MISS ATTWELL.TOMMYAND GRIZEL.  Illustrated by BERNARD PARTRIDGE.MARGARET OGILVY.*** For particulars concerning _The Thistle Edition_ of the Works of J.M. BARRIE, soldonly by subscription, send for circular.NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONSACT ITHE BLUE AND WHITE ROOM_The scene is the blue and white room in thehouse of the Misses Susanand Phoebe Throssel in Quality Street; and in this little country townthere is a satisfaction about living in Quality Street whichevenreligion cannot give.  Through the bowed window at the back we have aglimpse of the street.  It is pleasantly broad and grass-grown, and islinked to theouter world by one demure shop, whose door rings a bellevery time it opens and shuts.  Thus by merely peeping, every one inQuality Street can know at oncewho has been buying a Whimsy cake, andusually why.  This bell is the most familiar sound of Quality Street.Now and again ladies pass in their pattens, a maidperhaps protectingthem with an umbrella, for flakes of snow are falling discreetly.Gentlemen in the street are an event; but, see, just as we raise thecurtain,there goes the recruiting sergeant to remind us that we are inthe period of the Napoleonic wars.  If he were to look in at the windowof the blue and white room allthe ladies there assembled would drawthemselves up; they know him for a rude fellow who smiles at theapproach of maiden ladies and continues to smile afterthey havepassed.  However, he lowers his head to-day so that they shall not seehim, his present design being converse with the Misses Throssel's maid.__Theroom is one seldom profaned by the foot of man, and everything init is white or blue.  Miss Phoebe is not present, but here are MissSusan, Miss Willoughby andher sister Miss Fanny, and Miss HenriettaTurnbull.  Miss Susan and Miss Willoughby, alas, already wear caps; butall the four are dear ladies, so refined that weought not to bediscussing them without a more formal introduction.  There seems nosufficient reason why we should choose Miss Phoebe as our heroineratherthan any one of the others, except, perhaps, that we like hername best.  But we gave her the name, so we must support our choice andsay that she is slightly thenicest, unless, indeed, Miss Susan isnicer.__Miss Fanny is reading aloud from a library book while the others sewor knit.  They are making garments for our bravesoldiers now far awayfighting the Corsican Ogre._MISS FANNY.  '... And so the day passed and evening came, black,mysterious, and ghost-like.  The windmoaned unceasingly like ashivering spirit, and the vegetation rustled uneasily as if somethingweird and terrifying were about to happen.  Suddenly out ofthedarkness there emerged a _Man_.(_She says the last word tremulously but without looking up.  Thelisteners knit more quickly._)The unhappy Camilla wasstanding lost in reverie when, without pausingto advertise her of his intentions, he took both her hands in his.(_By this time the knitting has stopped, and all arelistening as ifmesmerised._)Slowly he gathered her in his arms----(MISS SUSAN _gives an excited little cry._)MISS FANNY.  And rained hot, burning----'MISSWILLOUGHBY.  Sister!MISS FANNY (_greedily_).  'On eyes, mouth----'MISS WILLOUGHBY (_sternly_).  Stop.  Miss Susan, I am indeed surprisedyou should bringsuch an amazing, indelicate tale from the library.MISS SUSAN (_with a slight shudder_).  I deeply regret, MissWilloughby----  (_Sees_ MISS FANNY _readingquickly to herself._)  Oh,Fanny!  If you please, my dear.(_Takes the book gently from her._)MISS WILLOUGHBY.  I thank you.(_She knits severely._)MISS FANNY(_a little rebel_).  Miss Susan is looking at the end.(MISS SUSAN _closes the book guiltily._)MISS SUSAN (_apologetically_).  Forgive my partiality forromance,Mary.  I fear 'tis the mark of an old maid.MISS WILLOUGHBY.  Susan, that word!MISS SUSAN (_sweetly_).  'Tis what I am.  And you also, Mary, mydear.MISS FANNY (_defending her sister_).  Miss Susan, I protest.MISS WILLOUGHBY (_sternly truthful_).  Nay, sister, 'tis true.  We areknown everywhere now,Susan, you and I, as the old maids of QualityStreet.  (_General discomfort._)MISS SUSAN.  I am happy Phoebe will not be an old maid.MISS HENRIETTA(_wistfully_).  Do you refer, Miss Susan, to V. B.?(MISS SUSAN _smiles happily to herself._)MISS SUSAN.  Miss Phoebe of the ringlets as he has called her.MISSFANNY.  Other females besides Miss Phoebe have ringlets.MISS SUSAN.  But you and Miss Henrietta have to employ papers, my dear.(_Proudly_) Phoebe,never.MISS WILLOUGHBY (_in defence of_ FANNY).  I do not approve of MissPhoebe at all.MISS SUSAN (_flushing_).  Mary, had Phoebe been dying you wouldhavecalled her an angel, but that is ever the way.  'Tis all jealousy tothe bride and good wishes to the corpse.  (_Her guests rise, hurt._)My love, I beg yourpardon.MISS WILLOUGHBY.  With your permission, Miss Susan, I shall put on mypattens.(MISS SUSAN _gives permission almost haughtily, and the ladiesretireto the bedroom,_ MISS FANNY _remaining behind a moment to ask aquestion._)MISS FANNY.  A bride?  Miss Susan, do you mean that V. B. hasdeclared?MISS SUSAN.  Fanny, I expect it hourly.(MISS SUSAN, _left alone, is agitated by the terrible scene with_ MISSWILLOUGHBY.)(_Enter_ PHOEBE _in herbonnet, and we see at once that she really isthe nicest.  She is so flushed with delightful news that she almostforgets to take off her pattens before crossing theblue and whiteroom._)MISS SUSAN.  You seem strangely excited, Phoebe.PHOEBE.  Susan, I have met a certain individual.MISS SUSAN.  V. B.?  (PHOEBE _nodsseveral times, and her gleaming eyestell_ MISS SUSAN _as much as if they were a romance from the library._)My dear, you are trembling.PHOEBE(_bravely_).  No--oh no.MISS SUSAN.  You put your hand to your heart.PHOEBE.  Did I?MISS SUSAN (_in a whisper_).  My love, has he offered?PHOEBE(_appalled_).  Oh, Susan.(_Enter_ MISS WILLOUGHBY, _partly cloaked._)MISS WILLOUGHBY.  How do you do, Miss Phoebe.  (_Portentously_)  Susan,I have nowish to alarm you, but I am of opinion that there is a man inthe house.  I suddenly felt it while putting on my pattens.MISS SUSAN.  You mean--a follower--in thekitchen?  (_She courageouslyrings the bell, but her voice falters._)  I am just a little afraid ofPatty.(_Enter_ PATTY, _a buxom young woman, who loves hermistresses andsmiles at them, and knows how to terrorise them._)Patty, I hope we may not hurt your feelings, but--PATTY (_sternly_).  Are you implicating,ma'am, that I have a follower?MISS SUSAN.  Oh no, Patty.PATTY.  So be it.MISS SUSAN (_ashamed_).  Patty, come back, (_Humbly_)  I told afalsehood justnow; I am ashamed of myself.PATTY (_severely_).  As well you might be, ma'am.PHOEBE (_so roused that she would look heroic if she did not spoil theeffect bywagging her finger at_ PATTY).  How dare you.  There is a manin the kitchen.  To the door with him.PATTY.  A glorious soldier to be so treated!PHOEBE.  Thedoor.PATTY.  And if he refuses?(_They looked perplexed._)MISS SUSAN.  Oh dear!PHOEBE.  If he refuses send him here to me.(_Exit PATTY._)MISSSUSAN.  Lion-hearted Phoebe.MISS WILLOUGHBY.  A soldier?  (_Nervously_) I wish it may not be thatimpertinent recruiting sergeant.  I passed him in the streetto-day.He closed one of his eyes at me and then quickly opened it.  I knewwhat he meant.PHOEBE.  He does not come.MISS SUSAN.  I think I hear their voices indispute.(_She is listening through the floor.  They all stoop or go on theirknees to listen, and when they are in this position the_ RECRUITINGSERGEANT _entersunobserved.  He chuckles aloud.  In a moment_ PHOEBE_is alone with him._)SERGEANT (_with an Irish accent_).  Your servant, ma'am.PHOEBE (_advancingsternly on him_).  Sir-- (_She is perplexed, as heseems undismayed._) Sergeant--  (_She sees mud from his boots on thecarpet._)  Oh! oh!  (_Brushes carpet._)Sergeant, I am wishful to scoldyou, but would you be so obliging as to stand on this paper while I doit?SERGEANT.  With all the pleasure in life, ma'am.PHOEBE(_forgetting to be angry_).  Sergeant, have you killed people?SERGEANT.  Dozens, ma'am, dozens.PHOEBE.  How terrible.  Oh, sir, I pray every night that theLord inHis loving-kindness will root the enemy up.  Is it true that theCorsican Ogre eats babies?SERGEANT.  I have spoken with them as have seen him do it,ma'am.PHOEBE.  The Man of Sin.  Have you ever seen a vivandiere, sir?(_Wistfully_)  I have sometimes wished there were vivandieres in theBritish Army.  (_Fora moment she sees herself as one._)  Oh, Sergeant,a shudder goes through me when I see you in the streets enticing thosepoor young men.SERGEANT.  If youwere one of them, ma'am, and death or glory was thecall, you would take the shilling, ma'am.PHOEBE.  Oh, not for that.SERGEANT.  For King and Country,ma'am?PHOEBE (_grandly_).  Yes, yes, for that.SERGEANT (_candidly_).  Not that it is all fighting.  The sack ofcaptured towns--the loot.PHOEBE (_proudly_).  AnEnglish soldier never sacks nor loots.SERGEANT.  No, ma'am.  And then--the girls.PHOEBE.  What girls?SERGEANT.  In the towns that--that we don'tsack.PHOEBE.  How they must hate the haughty conqueror.SERGEANT.  We are not so haughty as all that.PHOEBE (_sadly_).  I think I understand.  I am afraid,


<title>Gods and Monsters Script at IMSDb.</title><meta name="description" content="Gods and Monsters script at the Internet Movie ScriptDatabase."><meta name="keywords" content="Gods and Monsters script, Gods and Monsters movie script, Gods and Monsters film script"><metaname="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1" /><meta name="HandheldFriendly" content="true"><meta http-equiv="content-type"content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"><meta http-equiv="Content-Language" content="EN"><meta name=objecttype CONTENT=Document><metaname=ROBOTS CONTENT="INDEX, FOLLOW"><meta name=Subject CONTENT="Movie scripts, Film scripts"><meta name=rating CONTENT=General><metaname=distribution content=Global><meta name=revisit-after CONTENT="2 days"><link href="/style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"><bodytopmargin="0" bottommargin="0" id="mainbody">

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   <title>"Gods and Monsters", shooting draft, by Bill Condon</title><bodybgcolor="#FFFFFF">
                         "GODS ANDMONSTERS"                              Screenplay                                  by                             Bill Condon                          Based on thenovel                       "Father of Frankenstein"                                  by                           Christopher Bram                             May 30,1997                            SHOOTING DRAFT     NOTE: THE HARD COPY OF THIS SCRIPT CONTAINED SCENE NUMBERS     AND SOME"SCENE OMITTED" SLUGS. THEY HAVE BEEN REMOVED FOR     THIS SOFT COPY.     FADE IN:     MAIN TITLESBEGIN     Writhing pools of light and dark, out of which emerge images     from "The Bride of Frankenstein," directed by James Whale.     Elsa Lanchester, asthe Monster's Bride, looks up, down,     left, right, startled to be alive.  The Monster stares at     her.  "Friend?" he asks, tenderly, desperately.     EXT.COUNTRYSIDE - NIGHT (B & W)     Lightning splits the black-and-white sky, revealing a single     shattered oak in a desolate landscape.  Below, aHUMAN     SILHOUETTE stumbles through the darkness, the top of his     head flat, his arms long and heavy, his boots weighted with     mud.     Suddenly thestorm fades.  Light creeps into the scene, and     color, as we DISSOLVE TO:     THE PACIFIC OCEAN     melting into a hazy morning sky.  In a box


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Sentimental Journey through France andItaly, by Laurence Sterne, Edited by Henry MorleyThis eBook is for the use of anyoneanywhere in the United States and mostother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use itunder the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'llhaveto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.Title: A Sentimental Journey through France and ItalyAuthor: LaurenceSterneEditor: Henry MorleyRelease Date: April 7, 2015  [eBook #804][This file was first posted on February 12, 1997]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding:UTF-8***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY THROUGHFRANCE AND ITALY***Transcribed from the 1892 George Bell andSon edition by David Price,email ccx074@pglaf.org                                    A                           SENTIMENTALJOURNEY                                 THROUGH                            FRANCE AND ITALY;                              BY MR. YORICK.                     [THE REV. LAURENCESTERNE, M.A.]                        [FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1768.]THEY order, said I, this matter better in France.âYou have been inFrance? said my gentleman,turning quick upon me, with the most civiltriumph in the world.âStrange! quoth I, debating the matter with myself,That one and twenty miles sailing, forâtis absolutely no further fromDover to Calais, should give a man these rights:âIâll look into them: so,giving up the argument,âI went straight tomy lodgings, put up half adozen shirts and a black pair of silk breeches,ââthe coat I have on,âsaid I, looking at the sleeve, âwill do;ââtooka place in the Doverstage; and the packet sailing at nine the next morning,âby three I hadgot sat down to my dinner upon a fricaseed chicken, soincontestably inFrance, that had I died that night of an indigestion, the whole worldcould not have suspended the effects of the _droits dâaubaine_;{557}âmyshirts, and black pair of silk breeches,âportmanteau and all, must havegone to the King of France;âeven the little picture which I have solongworn, and so often have told thee, Eliza, I would carry with me into mygrave, would have been torn from my neck!âUngenerous! to seize upon thewreckof an unwary passenger, whom your subjects had beckoned to theircoast!âBy heaven! Sire, it is not well done; and much does it grieve me,âtis themonarch of a people so civilized and courteous, and so renownedfor sentiment and fine feelings, that I have to reason with!âBut I have scarce set a foot inyour dominions.âCALAIS.When I had fished my dinner, and drank the King of Franceâs health, tosatisfy my mind that I bore him no spleen, but, on thecontrary, highhonour for the humanity of his temper,âI rose up an inch taller for theaccommodation.âNoâsaid Iâthe Bourbon is by no means acruel race: they may be misled,like other people; but there is a mildness in their blood.  As Iacknowledged this, I felt a suffusion of a finer kind upon mycheekâmorewarm and friendly to man, than what Burgundy (at least of two livres abottle, which was such as I had been drinking) could haveproduced.âJust God! said I, kicking my portmanteau aside, what is there in thisworldâs goods which should sharpen our spirits, and make somanykind-hearted brethren of us fall out so cruelly as we do by the way?When man is at peace with man, how much lighter than a feather is theheaviest ofmetals in his hand! he pulls out his purse, and holding itairily and uncompressed, looks round him, as if he sought for an objectto share it with.âIn doing this,I felt every vessel in my framedilate,âthe arteries beat all cheerily together, and every power whichsustained life, performed it with so little friction, thatâtwould haveconfounded the most _physical prÃ©cieuse_ in France; with all hermaterialism, she could scarce have called me a machine.âIâmconfident, said I to myself, I should have overset her creed.The accession of that idea carried nature, at that time, as high as shecould go;âI was at peacewith the world before, and this finishâd thetreaty with myself.ââNow, was I King of France, cried Iâwhat a moment for an orphan tohavebeggâd his fatherâs portmanteau of me!THE MONK.CALAIS.I HAD scarce uttered the words, when a poor monk of the order of St.Francis came intothe room to beg something for his convent.  No mancares to have his virtues the sport of contingenciesâor one man may begenerous, as another ispuissant;â_sed non quoad hanc_âor be it as itmay,âfor there is no regular reasoning upon the ebbs and flows of ourhumours; they may depend uponthe same causes, for aught I know, whichinfluence the tides themselves: âtwould oft be no discredit to us, tosuppose it was so: Iâm sure at least formyself, that in many a case Ishould be more highly satisfied, to have it said by the world, âI had hadan affair with the moon, in which there was neither sinnor shame,â thanhave it pass altogether as my own act and deed, wherein there was so muchof both.âBut, be this as it may,âthe moment I cast myeyes upon him, I waspredetermined not to give him a single sous; and, accordingly, I put mypurse into my pocketâbuttoned itâset myself a little moreupon my centre,and advanced up gravely to him; there was something, I fear, forbiddingin my look: I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and thinktherewas that in it which deserved better.The monk, as I judged by the break in his tonsure, a few scattered whitehairs upon his temples, being all that remainedof it, might be aboutseventy;âbut from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in them,which seemed more temperâd by courtesy than years, could beno more thansixty:âTruth might lie betweenâHe was certainly sixty-five; and thegeneral air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seemâd tohavebeen planting-wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted,âmild,paleâpenetrating,free from all commonplace ideas of fat contentedignorance looking downwards upon the earth;âit lookâd forwards; butlookâd as if it lookâd atsomething beyond this world.âHow one of hisorder came by it, heaven above, who let it fall upon a monkâs shouldersbest knows: but it would have suiteda Bramin, and had I met it upon theplains of Indostan, I had reverenced it.The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes; one might put itinto the hands ofany one to design, for âtwas neither elegant norotherwise, but as character and expression made it so: it was a thin,spare form, something above thecommon size, if it lost not thedistinction by a bend forward in the figure,âbut it was the attitude ofIntreaty; and, as it now stands presented to myimagination, it gainedmore than it lost by it.When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and laying hisleft hand upon his breast (a slender whitestaff with which he journeyâdbeing in his right)âwhen I had got close up to him, he introduced himselfwith the little story of the wants of his convent, andthe poverty of hisorder;âand did it with so simple a grace,âand such an air of deprecationwas there in the whole cast of his look and figure,âI wasbewitchâd notto have been struck with it.âA better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous.THE MONK.CALAIS.ââTIS verytrue, said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, withwhich he had concluded his address;ââtis very true,âand heaven be theirresource who haveno other but the charity of the world, the stock ofwhich, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many _great claims_ which arehourly made upon it.As I pronouncedthe words _great claims_, he gave a slight glance withhis eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic:âI felt the full force ofthe appealâI acknowledge it,said I:âa coarse habit, and that but once inthree years with meagre diet,âare no great matters; and the true point ofpity is, as they can be earnâd inthe world with so little industry, thatyour order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which isthe property of the lame, the blind, the aged and theinfirm;âthe captivewho lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions,languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the _orderofmercy_, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I,pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully should it have been openâd toyou, for theransom of the unfortunate.âThe monk made me a bow.âBut ofall others, resumed I, the unfortunate of our own country, surely, havethe first rights; and Ihave left thousands in distress upon our ownshore.âThe monk gave a cordial wave with his head,âas much as to say, Nodoubt there is misery enough inevery corner of the world, as well aswithin our conventâBut we distinguish, said I, laying my hand upon thesleeve of his tunic, in return for his appealâwedistinguish, my goodfather! betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their ownlabourâand those who eat the bread of other peopleâs, and have nootherplan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, _for the loveof God_.The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment passâd acrosshischeek, but could not tarryâNature seemed to have done with herresentments in him;âhe showed none:âbut letting his staff fall within hisarms, hepressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, andretired.THE MONK.CALAIS.MY heart smote me the moment he shut the doorâPsha! said I, withan airof carelessness, three several timesâbut it would not do: everyungracious syllable I had utterâd crowded back into my imagination: Ireflected, I hadno right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; andthat the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without theaddition of unkindlanguage.âI considerâd his gray hairsâhis courteousfigure seemâd to re-enter and gently ask me what injury he had doneme?âand why Icould use him thus?âI would have given twenty livres for anadvocate.âI have behaved very ill, said I within myself; but I have onlyjust set out upon mytravels; and shall learn better manners as I getalong.THE DESOBLIGEANT.CALAIS.WHEN a man is discontented with himself, it has one advantage however,that itputs him into an excellent frame of mind for making a bargain.Now there being no travelling through France and Italy without achaise,âand nature generallyprompting us to the thing we are fittestfor, I walkâd out into the coach-yard to buy or hire something of thatkind to my purpose: an old _dÃ©sobligeant_{562} in the furthest corner ofthe court, hit my fancy at first sight, so I instantly got into it, andfinding it in tolerable harmony with my feelings, I ordered thewaiter tocall Monsieur Dessein, the master of the hotel:âbut Monsieur Desseinbeing gone to vespers, and not caring to face the Franciscan, whom I sawon the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cask of Amontillado, by Edgar Allan PoeThis 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: The Cask of AmontilladoAuthor: Edgar Allan PoeRelease Date: June 6, 2010 [EBook #1063]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO ***Produced by Levent Kurnaz.  HTML version by Al Haines.The Cask of AmontilladobyEdgar AllanPoeThe thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, butwhen he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.  You, who so well knowthe nature of mysoul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utteranceto a threat.  _At length_ I would be avenged; this was a point definitelysettled--but the very definitivenesswith which it was resolved,precluded the idea of risk.  I must not only punish, but punish withimpunity.  A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakesitsredresser.  It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to makehimself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.It must be understood that neither byword nor deed had I givenFortunato cause to doubt my good will.  I continued, as was my wont, tosmile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile _now_was atthe thought of his immolation.He had a weak point--this Fortunato--although in other regards he was aman to be respected and even feared.  He pridedhimself on hisconnoisseurship in wine.  Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit.For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time andopportunity--topractise imposture upon the British and Austrian_millionaires_.  In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen,was a quack--but in the matter of oldwines he was sincere.  In thisrespect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful in theItalian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.It wasabout dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of thecarnival season, that I encountered my friend.  He accosted me withexcessive warmth, for he hadbeen drinking much.  The man wore motley.He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head wassurmounted by the conical cap and bells.  I was sopleased to see him,that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.I said to him--"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met.  How remarkablywell youare looking to-day!  But I have received a pipe of what passesfor Amontillado, and I have my doubts.""How?" said he.  "Amontillado?  A pipe?  Impossible!  And inthe middleof the carnival!""I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the fullAmontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You werenot tobe found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.""Amontillado!""I have my doubts.""Amontillado!""And I must satisfy them.""Amontillado!""As you areengaged, I am on my way to Luchesi.  If any one has acritical turn, it is he.  He will tell me--""Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.""And yet some foolswill have it that his taste is a match for yourown.""Come, let us go.""Whither?""To your vaults.""My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature.  Iperceiveyou have an engagement.  Luchesi--""I have no engagement;--come.""My friend, no.  It is not the engagement, but the severe cold withwhich I perceiveyou are afflicted.  The vaults are insufferably damp.They are encrusted with nitre.""Let us go, nevertheless.  The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado!You havebeen imposed upon.  And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguishSherry from Amontillado."Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on amaskof black silk, and drawing a _roquelaire_ closely about my person, Isuffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.There were no attendants at home; they hadabsconded to make merry inhonour of the time.  I had told them that I should not return until themorning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from thehouse.These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediatedisappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.I took from their sconcestwo flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato,bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led intothe vaults.  I passed down a long and windingstaircase, requesting himto be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of thedescent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs oftheMontresors.The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingledas he strode."The pipe," said he."It is farther on," said I; "but observe thewhite web-work whichgleams from these cavern walls."He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs thatdistilled the rheum ofintoxication."Nitre?" he asked, at length."Nitre," I replied.  "How long have you had that cough?""Ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh!ugh!--ugh!ugh! ugh!"My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes."It is nothing," he said, at last."Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back;your health isprecious.  You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, asonce I was.  You are a man to be missed.  For me it is no matter.  Wewill goback; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible.  Besides,there is Luchesi--""Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me.I shall not die of acough.""True--true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarmingyou unnecessarily--but you should use all proper caution. A draught ofthis Medoc willdefend us from the damps."Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row ofits fellows that lay upon the mould."Drink," I said, presentinghim the wine.He raised it to his lips with a leer.  He paused and nodded to mefamiliarly, while his bells jingled."I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose aroundus.""And I to your long life."He again took my arm, and we proceeded."These vaults," he said, "are extensive.""The Montresors," I replied, "were a great andnumerous family.""I forget your arms.""A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpentrampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel.""Andthe motto?""_Nemo me impune lacessit_.""Good!" he said.The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled.  My own fancy grewwarm with the Medoc.  We hadpassed through walls of piled bones, withcasks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses ofcatacombs.  I paused again, and this time I made bold toseizeFortunato by an arm above the elbow."The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases.  It hangs like moss upon thevaults.  We are below the river's bed.  The drops ofmoisture trickleamong the bones.  Come, we will go back ere it is too late.  Yourcough--""It is nothing," he said; "let us go on.  But first, another draught oftheMedoc."I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave.  He emptied it at abreath.  His eyes flashed with a fierce light.  He laughed and threwthe bottle upwardswith a gesticulation I did not understand.I looked at him in surprise.  He repeated the movement--a grotesque one."You do not comprehend?" he said."Not I," Ireplied."Then you are not of the brotherhood.""How?""You are not of the masons.""Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes.""You?  Impossible!  A mason?""A mason," Ireplied."A sign," he said, "a sign.""It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds ofmy _roquelaire_."You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a fewpaces.  "But let us proceedto the Amontillado.""Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and againoffering him my arm.  He leaned upon itheavily.  We continued ourroute in search of the Amontillado.  We passed through a range of lowarches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived ata deepcrypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather toglow than flame.At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared anotherlessspacious.  Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to thevault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris.  Threesides of this interiorcrypt were still ornamented in this manner.From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and laypromiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point amound of somesize.  Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, weperceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet in widththree, inheight six or seven.  It seemed to have been constructed forno especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval betweentwo of the colossal supports ofthe roof of the catacombs, and wasbacked by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavouredtopry into the depth of the recess.  Its termination the feeble light didnot enable us to see."Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado.  As for Luchesi--""He is anignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadilyforward, while I followed immediately at his heels.  In an instant hehad reached the extremity of theniche, and finding his progressarrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered.  A moment more and Ihad fettered him to the granite.  In its surface were two ironstaples,distant from each other about two feet, horizontally.  From one ofthese depended a short chain, from the other a padlock.  Throwing thelinks about hiswaist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secureit.  He was too much astounded to resist.  Withdrawing the key Istepped back from the recess."Pass yourhand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling thenitre.  Indeed, it is _very_ damp.  Once more let me _implore_ you toreturn.  No?  Then I must positivelyleave you.  But I must firstrender you all the little attentions in my power.""The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered fromhisastonishment."True," I replied; "the Amontillado."As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of whichI have before spoken.  Throwing themaside, I soon uncovered a quantityof building stone and mortar.  With these materials and with the aid ofmy trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance ofthe niche.I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discoveredthat the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. Theearliestindication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depthof the recess.  It was _not_ the cry of a drunken man. There was then along and obstinate silence.  Ilaid the second tier, and the third, andthe fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain.  Thenoise lasted for several minutes, during which, that Imight hearken toit with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down uponthe bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel,andfinished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventhtier.  The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast.  I againpaused, and holding theflambeaux over the mason-work, threw a fewfeeble rays upon the figure within.A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from thethroat of thechained form, seemed to thrust me violently back.  For abrief moment I hesitated--I trembled.  Unsheathing my rapier, I beganto grope with it about the recess;but the thought of an instantreassured me.  I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs,and felt satisfied.  I reapproached the wall; I replied to the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Return of the Soldier, by Rebecca WestThis 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.orgTitle: The Return of the SoldierAuthor: Rebecca WestRelease Date: August 24, 2011 [EBook #37189]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN OF THE SOLDIER ***Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net(This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)[Illustration: frontispiece]THE RETURNOF THESOLDIERBYREBECCA WESTNEW [Illustration: colophon] YORKGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANYCOPYRIGHT, 1918,BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANYTHE RETURN OFTHE SOLDIER-C-PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICALIST OF ILLUSTRATIONSHe lay there in the confiding relaxation ofachild                                     _Frontispiece_                                                    FACING                                                      PAGE"Give it a brush now andthen, like a goodsoul"                                                    6She would get into the four-foot punt thatwas used as a ferry and bring it oververyslowly                                                  66"I oughtn't to do it, ought I?"                        176THE RETURNOF THE SOLDIERCHAPTER I"Ah, don't begin tofuss!" wailed Kitty. "If a woman began to worry inthese days because her husband hadn't written to her for a fortnight!Besides, if he'd been anywhere interesting,anywhere where the fightingwas really hot, he'd have found some way of telling me instead of justleaving it as 'Somewhere in France.' He'll be all right."We weresitting in the nursery. I had not meant to enter it again, nowthat the child was dead; but I had come suddenly on Kitty as she slippedthe key into the lock, and Ihad lingered to look in at the high room,so full of whiteness and clear colors, so unendurably gay and familiar,which is kept in all respects as though there werestill a child in thehouse. It was the first lavish day of spring, and the sunlight waspouring through the tall, arched windows and the flowered curtains sobrightlythat in the old days a fat fist would certainly have beenraised to point out the new, translucent glories of the rosebud.Sunlight was lying in great pools on the bluecork floor and the softrugs, patterned with strange beasts, and threw dancing beams, whichshould have been gravely watched for hours, on the white paint andtheblue distempered walls. It fell on the rocking-horse, which had beenChris's idea of an appropriate present for his year-old son, and showedwhat a fine fellowhe was and how tremendously dappled; it picked outMary and her little lamb on the chintz ottoman. And along themantelpiece, under the loved print of thesnarling tiger, in attitudesthat were at once angular and relaxed, as though they were ready forplay at their master's pleasure, but found it hard to keep fromdrowsingin this warm weather, sat the Teddy Bear and the chimpanzee and thewoolly white dog and the black cat with eyes that roll. Everything wasthere exceptOliver. I turned away so that I might not spy on Kittyrevisiting her dead. But she called after me:"Come here, Jenny. I'm going to dry my hair." And when Ilooked again Isaw that her golden hair was all about her shoulders and that she woreover her frock a little silken jacket trimmed with rosebuds. She lookedso likea girl on a magazine cover that one expected to find a large "15cents" somewhere attached to her person. She had taken Nanny's bigbasket-chair from its placeby the high-chair, and was pushing it overto the middle window. "I always come in here when Emery has washed myhair. It's the sunniest room in the house. Iwish Chris wouldn't haveit kept as a nursery when there's no chance--" She sat down, swept herhair over the back of the chair into the sunlight, and held out tomeher tortoiseshell hair-brush. "Give it a brush now and then, like a goodsoul; but be careful. Tortoise snaps so!"I took the brush and turned to the window,leaning my forehead againstthe glass and staring unobservantly at the view. You probably know thebeauty of that view; for when Chris rebuilt Baldry Court afterhismarriage he handed it over to architects who had not so much the wildeye of the artist as the knowing wink of the manicurist, and betweenthem theymassaged the dear old place into matter for innumerablephotographs in the illustrated papers. The house lies on the crest ofHarrowweald, and from its windowsthe eye drops to miles of emeraldpasture-land lying wet and brilliant under a westward line of sleekhills; blue with distance and distant woods, while nearer itrange thesuave decorum of the lawn and the Lebanon cedar, the branches of whichare like darkness made palpable, and the minatory gauntnesses of thetopmostpines in the wood that breaks downward, its bare boughs a closetexture of browns and purples, from the pond on the edge of the hill.[Illustration: "Give it a brushnow and then, like a good soul"]That day its beauty was an affront to me, because, like mostEnglishwomen of my time, I was wishing for the return of asoldier.Disregarding the national interest and everything else except the keenprehensile gesture of our hearts toward him, I wanted to snatch myCousinChristopher from the wars and seal him in this green pleasantnesshis wife and I now looked upon. Of late I had had bad dreams about him.By nights I saw Chrisrunning across the brown rottenness ofNo-Man's-Land, starting back here because he trod upon a hand, not evenlooking there because of the awfulness of anunburied head, and not tillmy dream was packed full of horror did I see him pitch forward on hisknees as he reached safety, if it was that. For on the war-films Ihaveseen men slip down as softly from the trench-parapet, and none but thegrimmer philosophers could say that they had reached safety by theirfall. And when Iescaped into wakefulness it was only to lie stiff andthink of stories I had heard in the boyish voice of the modernsubaltern, which rings indomitable, yet has mostof its gay notesflattened: "We were all of us in a barn one night, and a shell camealong. My pal sang out, 'Help me, old man; I've got no legs!' and I hadtoanswer, 'I can't, old man; I've got no hands!'" Well, such are thedreams of Englishwomen to-day. I could not complain, but I wished forthe return of our soldier.So I said:"I wish we could hear from Chris. It is a fortnight since he wrote."And then it was that Kitty wailed, "Ah, don't begin to fuss!" and bentover her image ina hand-mirror as one might bend for refreshment overscented flowers.I tried to build about me such a little globe of ease as alwaysensphered her, and thought ofall that remained good in our lives thoughChris was gone. I was sure that we were preserved from the reproach ofluxury, because we had made a fine place forChris, one little part ofthe world that was, so far as surfaces could make it so, good enough forhis amazing goodness. Here we had nourished that surpassingamiabilitywhich was so habitual that one took it as one of his physicalcharacteristics, and regarded any lapse into bad temper as a calamity asstartling as thebreaking of a leg; here we had made happinessinevitable for him. I could shut my eyes and think of innumerableproofs of how well we had succeeded, for therenever was so visiblycontented a man. And I recalled all that he did one morning just a yearago when he went to the front.First he had sat in the morning-roomand talked and stared out on thelawns that already had the desolation of an empty stage, although he hadnot yet gone; then broke off suddenly and went aboutthe house, lookinginto many rooms. He went to the stables and looked at the horses and hadthe dogs brought out; he refrained from touching them or speakingtothem, as though he felt himself already infected with the squalor of warand did not want to contaminate their bright physical well-being. Thenhe went to theedge of the wood and stood staring down into the clumpsof dark-leaved rhododendrons and the yellow tangle of last year'sbracken and the cold winter black ofthe trees. (From this very window Ihad spied on him.) Then he moved broodingly back to the house to bewith his wife until the moment of his going, when Kittyand I stood onthe steps to see him motor off to Waterloo. He kissed us both. As hebent over me I noticed once again how his hair was of two colors, brownandgold. Then he got into the car, put on his Tommy air, and said: "Solong! I'll write you from Berlin!" and as he spoke his head droppedback, and he set a hardstare on the house. That meant, I knew, that heloved the life he had lived with us and desired to carry with him to thedreary place of death and dirt the completememory of everything abouthis home, on which his mind could brush when things were at their worst,as a man might finger an amulet through his shirt. Thishouse, this lifewith us, was the core of his heart."If he could come back!" I said. "He was so happy here!"And Kitty answered:"He could not have been happier."Itwas important that he should have been happy, for, you see, he wasnot like other city men. When we had played together as children in thatwood he had alwaysshown great faith in the imminence of the improbable.He thought that the birch-tree would really stir and shrink and quickeninto an enchanted princess, that hereally was a red Indian, and thathis disguise would suddenly fall from him at the right sundown, that atany moment a tiger might lift red fangs through thebracken, and heexpected these things with a stronger motion of the imagination than theordinary child's make-believe. And from a thousand intimations, fromhisoccasional clear fixity of gaze on good things as though they were aboutto dissolve into better, from the passionate anticipation with which hewent to newcountries or met new people, I was aware that this faith hadpersisted into his adult life. He had exchanged his expectation ofbecoming a red Indian for the equallywistful aspiration of becomingcompletely reconciled to life. It was his hopeless hope that some timehe would have an experience that would act on his life likealchemy,turning to gold all the dark metals of events, and from that revelationhe would go on his way rich with an inextinguishable joy. There hadbeen, ofcourse, no chance of his ever getting it. Literally therewasn't room to swing a revelation in his crowded life. First of all, athis father's death he had been obliged totake over a business that wasweighted by the needs of a mob of female relatives who were all uselesseither in the old way, with antimacassars, or in the newway, withgolf-clubs; then Kitty had come along and picked up his conception ofnormal expenditure, and carelessly stretched it as a woman stretches anew gloveon her hand. Then there had been the difficult task oflearning to live after the death of his little son. It had lain on us,the responsibility, which gave us dignity, tocompensate him for hislack of free adventure by arranging him a gracious life. But now, justbecause our performance had been so brilliantly adequate, howdreary wasthe empty stage!We were not, perhaps, specially contemptible women, because nothingcould ever really become a part of our life until it had been


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Germania and Agricola, by Caius Cornelius TacitusThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostother partsof the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg Licenseincluded with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll haveto check the laws of the country where you arelocated before using this ebook.Title: Germania and AgricolaAuthor: Caius Cornelius TacitusPosting Date: February 24, 2015 [EBook #9090]Release Date:October, 2005First Posted: September 4, 2003Language: Latin*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GERMANIA AND AGRICOLA ***Produced byDavid Starner, Tapio Riikonen and Distributed ProofreadersThe GERMANIA and AGRICOLAOfCaius Cornelius TacitusWith Notes for CollegesBy W. S. TylerProfessorof the Greek and Latin Languages in Amherst CollegePREFACE.This edition of the Germania and Agricola of Tacitus is designed to meetthe following wants, which,it is believed, have been generally felt byteachers and pupils in American Colleges.1. A Latin text, approved and established by the essential concurrence ofall themore recent editors. The editions of Tacitus now in use in thiscountry abound in readings purely conjectural, adopted without due regardto the peculiarities of theauthor, and in direct contravention of thecritical canon, that, other things being equal, the more difficultreading is the more likely to be genuine. The recentGerman editionslabor to exhibit and explain, so far as possible, the reading of the bestMSS.2. A more copious illustration of the grammatical constructions, alsoofthe rhetorical and poetical usages peculiar to Tacitus, withouttranslating, however, to such an extent as to supersede the properexertions of the student. Fewbooks require so much illustration of thiskind, as the Germania and Agricola of Tacitus; few have received more inGermany, yet few so little here. In a writer soconcise and abrupt asTacitus, it has been deemed necessary to pay particular regard to theconnexion of thought, and to the particles, as the hinges ofthatconnexion.3. A comparison of the writer and his cotemporaries with authors of theAugustan age, so as to mark concisely the changes which had beenalreadywrought in the language and taste of the Roman people. It is chiefly witha view to aid such a comparison, that it has been thought advisable toprefix a Lifeof Tacitus, which is barren indeed of personal incidents,but which it is hoped may serve to exhibit the author in his relation tothe history, and especially to theliterature, of his age.4. The department in which less remained to be done than any other, forthe elucidation of Tacitus, was that of Geography, History,andArchaeology. The copious notes of Gordon and Murphy left little to bedesired in this line; and these notes are not only accessible to Americanscholars in theiroriginal forms, but have been incorporated, more orless, into all the college editions. If any peculiar merit attaches tothis edition, in this department, it will befound in the frequentreferences to such classic authors as furnish collateral information, andin the illustration of the private life of the Romans, by the help ofsuchrecent works as Becker's Gallus. The editor has also been able toavail himself of Sharon Turner's History of the Anglo Saxons, which shedsnot a little light on themanners of the Germans.5. Many of the ablest commentaries on the Germania and Agricola haveappeared within a comparatively recent period, some of themremarkableexamples of critical acumen and exegetical tact, and others, models ofschool and college editions. It has been the endeavor of the editor tobring downthe literature pertaining to Tacitus to the present time, andto embody in small compass the most valuable results of the labors ofsuch recent German editors asGrimm, GÃ¼nther, Gruber, Kiessling, Dronke,Roth, Ruperti, and Walther.The text is, in the main, that of Walther, though the other editors justnamed have beenconsulted; and in such minor differences as exist betweenthem, I have not hesitated to adopt the reading which seemed best toaccord with the usage and geniusof Tacitus, especially when sanctionedby a decided preponderance of critical suffrage. Other readings have beenreferred to in the Notes, so far as they are of anyconsiderableimportance, or supported by respectable authority. Partly forconvenience, but chiefly as a matter of taste, I have ventured to followthe Germaneditions in dispensing entirely with diacritical marks, and insome peculiarities of less importance, which if not viewed with favor, itis hoped, will not be judged withseverity. The punctuation is the resultof a diligent comparison of the best editions, together with a carefulstudy of the connexion of language and of thought.TheGerman editions above mentioned, together with several French,English, and American works, have not only been constantly before me, buthave been used withgreat freedom, and credit awarded to themaccordingly. Some may think their names should have appeared lessfrequently; others that they should have receivedcredit to a stillgreater extent. Suffice it to say, I have never intended to quote thelanguage, or borrow the thoughts of an author, without giving his name;and inmatters of fact or opinion, I have cited authorities not only whenI have been indebted to them for the suggestion, but whenever, in a caseof coincidence of views,I thought the authorities would be of anyinterest to the student.I have not considered it needful, with German scrupulosity, todistinguish between my ownreferences and those of others. It may safelybe taken for granted, that the major, perhaps the better, part of themhave been derived from foreign sources. Butno references have beenadmitted on trust. They have been carefully verified, and it is hopedthat numerous as they are, they will be found pertinent anduseful,whether illustrative of things, or of mere verbal usage. Some, who usethe book, will doubtless find occasion to follow them out either in wholeor in part;and those who do not, will gain a general impression as tothe sources from which collateral information may be obtained, that willbe of no small value.Thefrequent references to the Notes of Professor Kingsley, will show theestimation in which I hold them. Perhaps I have used them too freely. Myonly apology is, thatso far as they go, they are just what is wanted;and if I had avoided using them to a considerable extent, I must havesubstituted something less perfect of myown. Had they been more copious,and extended more to verbal and grammatical illustrations, these Notesnever would have appeared.The editor is convinced,from his experience as a teacher, that thestudent of Tacitus will not master the difficulties, or appreciate themerits, of so peculiar an author, unless hispeculiarities are distinctlypointed out and explained. Indeed, the student, in reading any classicauthor, needs, not to be carried along on the broad shoulders ofanindiscriminate translator, but to be guided at every step in learning hislessons, by a judicious annotator, who will remove his difficulties, andaid his progress;who will point out to him what is worthy of attention,and guard him against the errors to which he is constantly exposed; forfirst impressions are lively andpermanent, and the errors of the study,even though corrected in the recitation, not unfrequently leave animpression on the mind which is never effaced.Besidesthe aid derived from books, to which the merit of this edition,if it have any merit, will be chiefly owing, the editor takes thisopportunity to acknowledge his manyobligations to those professors andother literary gentlemen, who have extended to him assistance andencouragement. To Prof. H. B. Hackett, of NewtonTheological Seminary,especially, he is indebted for favors, which, numerous and invaluable inthemselves, as the results of a singularly zealous andsuccessfuldevotion to classical learning, are doubly grateful as the tokens of apersonal friendship, which began when we were members of the same classincollege. The work was commenced at his suggestion, and has beencarried forward with his constant advice and co-operation. His ampleprivate library, and,through his influence, the library of the Seminary,have been placed at my disposal; and the notes passed under his eye andwere improved in not a fewparticulars, at his suggestion, though he isin no way responsible for their remaining imperfections. I have alsoreceived counsel and encouragement in all mylabors from my esteemedcolleague, Prof. N. W. Fiske, whose instructions in the same departmentwhich has since been committed to my charge, first taught meto love theGreek and Latin classics. I have only to regret that his ill health andabsence from the country have prevented me from deriving still greateradvantagesfrom his learning and taste. An unforeseen event has, in likemanner, deprived me of the expected cooperation of Prof. Lyman Coleman,now of Nassau HallCollege in N. J., in concert with whom this work wasplanned, and was to have been executed, and on whose ripe scholarship,and familiarity with the Germanlanguage and literature, I chiefly reliedfor its successful accomplishment.I should not do justice to my feelings, were I to omit the expression ofmy obligations tothe printer and publishers for the unwearied patiencewith which they have labored to perfect the work, under all thedisadvantages attending the superintendanceof the press, at such adistance. If there should still be found in it inaccuracies andblemishes, it will not be because they have spared any pains to make it acorrectand beautiful book.It is with unfeigned diffidence that I submit to the public this firstattempt at literary labor. I am fully sensible of its many imperfections,at thesame time I am conscious of an ability to make it better at somefuture day, should it meet the favorable regard of the classical teachersof our land, to whom it isdedicated as an humble contribution to thatcause in which they are now laboring, with such unprecedented zeal.Should it contribute in any measure to a betterunderstanding, or ahigher appreciation by our youthful countrymen of a classic author, fromwhom, beyond almost any other, I have drawn instruction anddelight, Ishall not have labored in vain._Amherst College, June 1, 1847_.PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITIONThe text of this edition has been carefully revisedand compared withthose of DÃ¶derlein, Halle, 1847, Orelli, Zurich, 1848, and Ritter, Bonnand Cambridge, 1848. The notes also have been re-examined and, toaconsiderable extent, re-written; partly to correspond with the progressof my own mind, partly in accordance with suggestions derived from theabove namededitions, and from friendly criticisms either by letter or inthe public journals. Among the journals, I am particularly indebted tothe Bibliotheca Sacra and theNew-Englander; and for communications byletter, I am under especial obligations to Professors Crosby and Sanbornof Dartmouth College, Robbins of Middlebury,and Lincoln of BrownUniversity.In revising the geography of the Germania, I have consulted, withouthowever entering much into detail, Ukert's invaluable treatiseon theGeography of the Greeks and Romans, whose volume on Germany contains atranslation and running commentary on almost the entire work of


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Revised Screenplay 17thJanuary, 1983.ALEXANDER SALKINDpresentsSUPERGIRLbyDavid OdellCopyright 1983CANTHARUS PRODUCTIONS N.V.All RightsReservedEXT. SPACE THE CAMERA PULLS BACK. . . INT. ARGO CITYAND REVEALS THE inside of a domed city honeycombed withfantastic arches. The city is inhabited by young beautiful people in luxurious but simple costumes.THE CAMERA ROAMS through the City, observing some peopleseated at a kind of cafe sipping drinks and relaxing; other people are in some kind of exercise class doing beautiful graceful movement; and finally a class of fiveyear old children listen intently to a teacher who is demonstrating a molecular model. TEACHER And now, who can give me the electron wave functionsfor Kryptonian covalent bonding?The five year olds eagerly raise their hands. The teacher points to one.CHILD The cube root of the wavelength over thenatural log of the integral of the speed of light squared.The teacher smiles.TEACHER Well, maybe that was a bit too easy...THE CAMERA ROAMS ONthrough the city, following the sound of a strange, ethereally beautiful singing. The CAMERA discovers the source of the sound: an ARTIST sculpting a beautifulcrystalline object with a MATTERWAND. The wand makes the singing noise as it creates matter out of energy. The Artist, whose name is ZALTAR, sometimeswhistles along in counterpoint. .A small girl is watching him with fascination. Her name is Kara, and she is seven.Behind her, the dome, which encloses the City,marks the edge of the limbo outside.KARAWhat are you making: ZALTARIt's going to be a tree, I think.KARA What's a tree?


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    <TITLE>"LITTLENICKY" -- by Tim Herlihy, Adam Sandler & Steven Brill</TITLE>
 FADE IN: EXT. SUBURBIA - NIGHT A beautiful late summernight.  Crickets chirping, sprinklers sprinkling. We PAN across one particular lawn, up one particular tree, where we see THE PEEPER (Jon Lovitz) sitting on alimb.  He has a bottle of wine, some sandwiches, a Walkman.  Suddenly the lights turn on. PEEPER (whispering) Showtime! We see a young motherwalk into the room outside the Peeper's window.  She is wearing business attire. PEEPER (CONT'D) Rough day at the office Mrs. Dunleavy? (takes biteof sandwich) Well you'll feel better once you slip off those work clothes and get into some sweats. The mother sits on the bed and pulls off her shoes, rubbing herfeet. PEEPER (CONT'D) Oh my G-D, yes!  I wish you would let me rub those feet.  Of course I wouldn't use my hands.  Heh heh heh heh... He sips somewine. The mother starts to unbutton her blouse.  She takes it off, revealing a nice bra. PEEPER (CONT'D) Looks like Victoria just told me her secret. Thepeeper frantically writes in a dirty notebook.  Mouthing the words as he goes. PEEPER (CONT'D) Thursday the ninth, eight-thirty p.m., first brassieresighting... (stops writing) I will pleasure myself to this image for months.  MONTHS I TELL YOU! The mother starts to unbutton her pants.  Her young son walks inwearing a scouts uniform. PEEPER (CONT'D) Young Scottie Dunleavy.  What unfortunate timing.  You mother was just getting comfy. The son talks to


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<title>Air Force One</title>
                                    Air Force One                                      Andrew Marlow                FADEIN:               INT. C-130 HERCULES TURBO-PROP - NIGHT               Eighteen combat-ready special forces, wearing assault black,                jumppacks and combat gear, stare down the deep end of a                greasy ramp into the night sky.  Village lights flicker 19,000                feet below.               TheSTRIKE FORCE LEADER signals to his team.               Without a moment's hesitation, they dive into the darkness                and plummet towardearth.               EXT. MANSION - NIGHT               A military GUARD, old Soviet-style uniform, rounds the corner                of the large estate toting anAK-47.               A red laser dot appears briefly on his forehead and, after a                beat, the red dot seems to bleed.  The Guard collapsesdead.                 Two other GUARDS are dispatched with single, silenced shots.               A Strike Team member at a junction box awaits asignal.               Through infra-red binoculars the strike Force Leader watches                his assault troops as they takepositions.                                     STRIKE FORCE LEADER                              (intoheadset/in                               Russian)                         GO!               On the estate - as the power goes out.  The team on the                mansion's


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lure of the Mask, by Harold MacGrathThis 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.orgTitle: The Lure of the MaskAuthor: Harold MacGrathIllustrator: Harrison Fisher             Karl AndersonRelease Date: July 27, 2007 [EBook#22158][Last updated: July 22, 2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LURE OF THE MASK ***Produced by Rick Niles,Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net                      _The_ LURE OF THE MASK                      _By_ HAROLD MACGRATH                      WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY                         HARRISON FISHER                               AND                          KARLANDERSON                          INDIANAPOLIS                   THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY                           PUBLISHERS                         COPYRIGHT1908                            PRESS OF                        BRAUN WORTH & CO.                     BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS                         BROOKLYN, N.Y.TOMYFELLOW TRAVELERANDGENTLE CRITICCONTENTS       I THE VOICE IN THE FOG      II OBJECT, MATRIMONY     III MADAME ANGOT      IV BLINDFOLDED       VTHE MASK      VI INTO THE FOG AGAIN     VII THE TOSS OF A COIN    VIII WHAT MERRIHEW FOUND      IX MRS. SANDFORD WINKS       X CARABINIERI      XITHE CITY IN THE SEA     XII A BOX OF CIGARS    XIII KITTY ASKS QUESTIONS     XIV GREY VEILS      XV MANY NAPOLEONS     XVI O'MALLY SUGGESTS    XVIIGIOVANNI   XVIII THE ARIA FROM IL TROVATORE     XIX TWO GENTLEMEN FROM VERONA      XX KITTY DROPS A BANDBOX     XXI AN INVITATION TO ABALL    XXII TANGLES   XXIII THE DÃNOUEMENT    XXIV MEASURE FOR MEASURE     XXV FREE    XXVI THE LETTER   XXVII BELLAGGIOTHE LURE OF THEMASKCHAPTER ITHE VOICE IN THE FOGOut of the unromantic night, out of the somber blurring January fog,came a voice lifted in song, a soprano, rich, full andround, young, yetmatured, sweet and mysterious as a night-bird's, haunting and elusive asthe murmur of the sea in a shell: a lilt from _La Fille deMadameAngot_, a light opera long since forgotten in New York. Hillard,genuinely astonished, lowered his pipe and listened. To sit dreaming byan open window,even in this unlovely first month of the year, in thatgrim unhandsome city which boasts of its riches and still accepts withsmug content its rows upon rows of uglyarchitecture, to sit dreaming,then, of red-tiled roofs, of cloud-caressed hills, of terracedvineyards, of cypresses in their dark aloofness, is not out of thenaturalorder of things; but that into this idle and pleasant dreamthere should enter so divine a voice, living, feeling, pulsing, this wasnot ordinary at all.And Hillard wasglad that the room was in darkness. He rose eagerly andpeered out. But he saw no one. Across the street the arc-lamp burneddimly, like an opal in the matrix,while of architectural outlines notone remained, the fog having kindly obliterated them.The Voice rose and sank and soared again, drawing nearer and nearer.Itwas joyous and unrestrained, and there was youth in it, the touch ofspring and the breath of flowers. The music was Lecocq's, that is tosay, French; but thetongue was of a country which Hillard knew to bethe garden of the world. Presently he observed a shadow emerge from theyellow mist, to come within the circleof light, which, faint as it was,limned in against the nothingness beyond the form of a woman. She walkeddirectly under his window.As the invisible comessuddenly out of the future to assume distinctproportions which either make or mar us, so did this unknown cantatricecome out of the fog that night and enter intoHillard's life, toreadjust its ambitions, to divert its aimless course, to give impetus toit, and a directness which hitherto it had not known."Ah!"He leaned over thesill at a perilous angle, the bright coal of his pipespilling comet-wise to the area-way below. He was only subconscious ofhaving spoken; but this syllable wassufficient to spoil theenchantment. The Voice ceased abruptly, with an odd break. The singerlooked up. Possibly her astonishment surpassed even that ofheraudience. For a few minutes she had forgotten that she was in New York,where romance may be found only in the book-shops; she had forgottenthat it wasnight, a damp and chill forlorn night; she had forgotten thepain in her heart; there had been only a great and irresistible longingto sing.Though she raised herface, he could distinguish no feature, for thelight was behind. However, he was a man who made up his mind quickly.Brunette or blond, beautiful or otherwise, itneeded but a moment tofind out. Even as this decision was made he was in the upper hall,taking the stairs two at a bound. He ran out into the night,bareheaded.Up the street he saw a flying shadow. Plainly she had anticipated hisimpulse and the curiosity behind it. Even as he gave chase the shadowmelted inthe fog, as ice melts in running waters, as flame dissolves insunshine. She was gone. He cupped his ear with his hand; in vain, therecame no sound as ofpattering feet; there was nothing but fog andsilence."Well, if this doesn't beat the Dutch!" he murmured.He laughed disappointedly. It did not matter that he wasthree andthirty; he still retained youth enough to feel chagrined at such atrivial defeat. Here had been something like a genuine adventure, and ithad slipped likewater through his clumsy fingers."Deuce take the fog! But for that I'd have caught her."But reason promptly asked him what he should have done had he caughtthesinger. Yes, supposing he had, what excuse would he have had to offer?Denial on her part would have been simple, and righteous indignation atbeing accostedon the street simpler still. He had not seen her face,and doubtless she was aware of this fact. Thus, she would have had allthe weapons for defense and he notone for attack. But though reasonargued well, it did not dislodge his longing. He would have beenperfectly happy to have braved her indignation for a singleglance ather face. He walked back, lighting his pipe. Who could she be? Whatpeculiar whimsical freak had sent her singing past his window at oneo'clock of themorning? A grand opera singer, returning home from a latesupper? But he dismissed this opinion even as he advanced it. He knewsomething about grand operasingers. They attend late suppers, it istrue, but they ride home in luxurious carriages and never risk theirgolden voices in this careless if romantic fashion. And inNew Yorknobody took the trouble to serenade anybody else, unless paid in advanceand armed with a police permit. As for being a comic-opera star, herefused toadmit the possibility; and he relegated this well-satisfiedconstellation to the darks of limbo. He had heard a Voice.A vast, shadow loomed up in the middle of thestreet, presently to takeupon itself the solid outlines of a policeman who came lumbering over toadd or subtract his quota of interest in the affair. Hillardwiselystopped and waited for him, pulling up the collar of his jacket, as hebegan to note that there was a winter's tang to the fog."Hi, what's all this?" thepoliceman called out roughly."To what do you refer?" Hillard counter-questioned, puffing. He slippedhis hands into the pockets of his jacket."I heard a womansingin', that's what!" explained the guardian of thelaw."So did I.""Oh, you did, huh?""Certainly. It is patent that my ears are as good as yours.""Huh! Seeher?""For a moment," Hillard admitted."Well, we can't have none o' this in the streets. It's disorderly.""My friend," said Hillard, rather annoyed at the policeman'stone, "youdon't think for an instant that I was directing this operetta?""Think? Where's your hat?"Hillard ran his hand over his head. The policeman had him here."I didnot bring it out.""Too warm and summery; huh? It don't look good. I've been watchin' theseparts fer a leddy. They call her Leddy Lightfinger; an' she hassome O'the gents done to a pulp when it comes to liftin' jools an' trinkets.Somebody fergits to lock the front door, an' she finds it out. Why didyou come outwithout yer lid?""Just forgot it, that's all.""Which way'd she go?""You'll need a map and a search-light. I started to run after hermyself. I heard a voice from mywindow; I saw a woman; I made for thestreet; _niente_!""Huh?""_Niente_, nothing!""Oh! I see; Dago. Seems to me now that this woman was singin'I-taly-an,too." They were nearing the light, and the policeman gazed intently atthe hatless young man. "Why, it's Mr. Hillard! I'm surprised. Well,well! Some dayI'll run in a bunch o' these chorus leddies, jes' fer alesson. They git lively at the restaurants over on Broadway, an' thinthey raise the dead with their singin',which, often as not, is anythin'but singin'. An' here it is, after one.""But this was not a chorus lady," replied Hillard, thoughtfully reachinginto his vest for acigar."Sure, an' how do you know?" with renewed suspicions."The lady had a singing voice.""Huh! They all think alike about that. But mebbe she wasn't bad atthebusiness. Annyhow....""It was rather out of time and place, eh?" helpfully."That's about the size of it. This Leddy Lightfinger is a case. She hasus all thinkin' onour nights off. Clever an' edjicated, an' jabbers inhalf a dozen tongues. It's a thousan' to the man who jugs her. But shedon't sing; at least, they ain't any reportto that effect. Perhaps yourleddy was jes' larkin' a bit. But it's got to be stopped."Hillard passed over the cigar, and the policeman bit off the end,nodding withapproval at such foresight. The young man then profferedthe coal of his pipe and the policeman took his light therefrom,realizing that after such a peace-offeringthere was nothing for him todo but move on. Yet on dismal lonesome nights, like this one, it is agodsend and a comfort to hear one's own voice against thedarkness. Sohe lingered."Didn't get a peep at her face?""Not a single feature. The light was behind her." Hillard tapped one toeand then the other."An' how wasshe dressed?""In fog, for all I could see.""On the level now, didn't you know who she was?" The policeman gaveHillard a sly dig in the ribs with his club."On myword!""Some swell, mebbe.""Undoubtedly a lady. That's why it looks odd, why it brought me into thestreet. She sang in classic Italian. And what's more, for theprivilegeof hearing that voice again, I should not mind sitting on this cold curbtill the milkman comes around in the morning.""That wouldn't be fer long," laughedthe policeman, taking out his watchand holding it close to the end of his cigar. "Twenty minutes after one.Well, I must be gittin' back to me beat. An' you'd betterbe goin' in;it's cold. Good night.""Good night," Hillard responded cheerfully."Say, what's I-taly-an fer good night?" still reluctant to go on."_Buona notte._""Bonynotty; huh, sounds like Chinese fer rheumatism. Been to Italy?""I was born there," patiently."No! Why, you're no Dago!""Not so much as an eyelash. The storkhappened to drop the basket there,that's all.""Ha! I see. Well, Ameriky is good enough fer me an' mine," complacently."I dare say!""An' if this stogy continues t'behave, we'll say no more about thevanishin' leddy." And with this the policeman strolled off into the fog,his suspicions in nowise removed. He knew many rich