North & South : 'The Tapestry' - a N+S tale, lovingly woven by the members of this board

The contents of this thread actually exists on the board under a different name: New ABC Game 2011: Game 01. It was started by LancashireRose who received the idea from another ABC game on this board called Discovering Dixon where we had a blast writing a story with multiple contributors. The only rules back then were that ones contribution to the story had to begin with the next letter of the alphabet, had to be, of course, about North and South and had to connect to the preceding entry in some way, which would ensure some continuity in our crazy story, lol. We had great fun!

On this new thread started by Rose, the same rules applied. It was not always easy to adapt to the twists and turns in the plot presented by previous contributors and to keep the story moving forward, while following the alphabetical template, but we managed it somehow!

Before the "ABC Game - 01" thread, in which our story is enclosed, falls off the board and our efforts lost forever, Ive decided to repost the story under a new name, since the ABC Game title lacks pizazz and doesnt hint at the fun story enclosed at all. Since only Rose can change the name of the original thread because she was the one who started it and since shes been AWOL far too long, I am taking the liberty of doing it for her, giving credit to all contributors, of course. Hopefully, some newcomers will take a few moments to read through our creation - and some old timers as well.

The initial entries were quite concise, but you will notice they grew longer with each round until the challenge of writing the longest sentence possible without it being considered a run on sentence by creatively utilizing a multitude of commas, semi-colons and conjunctions became a game all its own. We never suspected how long-winded we could be!

Enjoy!

Part I: "A - W"

First entry by Lancashire Rose: A

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers.

~

By Heartfelt: B

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, could be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise know as Sleazeytown Mills.

~

By Alphaghetti: C

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat.

~

By Heartfelt: D

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens.

~

By Lederniermetro: E

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.

~

By Laura: F

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat.Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret. FINDING Margaret unattended lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

~

By LancashireRose: G

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret. Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

~

By Laura: H

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret. Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard. She knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her. Wait a minute who is that? She's not from around these parts. What is she doing here? she thought spying Margaret coming out of the mill.

~

By LancashireRose: I

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret. Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature.

~

By Heartflet: J

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret. Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the mass production of cloth formerly produced by small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

~

Part I: K - M

By LancashireRose: K

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.
Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.


Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.


Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.

~


By Heartfelt: L

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret. Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.


Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.


Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.


Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.


"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she has rejected," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him.

~

By LancashireRose: M

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret. Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.
Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.


"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.

~

By Heartfelt: N

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.
Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.


"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.


Nagging reminders of how cruel she had been haunted her as she walked along the high street, and she scolded herself for her incivility toward a fellow creature who deserved, at the very least, to be given the benefit of the doubt before she condemned him so horridly, but a moment later, rebelling against the uncomfortable guilt, as well as the strange stirrings she experienced whenever she thought of his handsome countenance, she congratulated herself on knocking him off his perch with an audible, "Well done, Emma!" after which she wondered if she was losing her mind, for "Who in the world is Emma?" she asked as she stared fearfully at her reflection in a window of the mercantile, only to discover the reflection of a tall, dark and humbled man standing behind her, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her to turn and face him.

~

By Lanashire Rose: O

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret. Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.


"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.

~

Nagging reminders of how cruel she had been haunted her as she walked along the high street, and she scolded herself for her incivility toward a fellow creature who deserved, at the very least, to be given the benefit of the doubt before she condemned him so horridly, but a moment later, rebelling against the uncomfortable guilt, as well as the strange stirrings she experienced whenever she thought of his handsome countenance, she congratulated herself on knocking him off his perch with an audible, "Well done, Emma!" after which she wondered if she was losing her mind, for "Who in the world is Emma?" she asked as she stared fearfully at her reflection in a window of the mercantile, only to discover the reflection of a tall, dark and humbled man standing behind her, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her to turn and face him.

'Oh heck,' she thought (see how the lovely lass is picking up the lyrical, nay poetical, turns of phrase unique to the region), and did turn and did face him (she was never lacking in courage whatever else could be said about her), her heart aflutter, her face a dusky, deep (and most becoming, thought John) shade of pink, her knees atremble and her loins'goodness!' she exclaimed silently, 'this is eighteen-fifty-one, time of the Great Exhibition, marmosets in Mozambique (of all places, she must at some point set him right on that), good quality linen (who would want cotton?) and public hangings for anyone so foolishly brazen as to be caught snogging the face off a gentleman in a railway station in broad daylight - there will be no talk of loins here!' so she drew herself up to her full height and sneered (again! she's rather good at this isn't she?) down her pretty little nose at the man before her who was not in the least bit handsome, oh no, (wasn't that a shaving rash on his strong, manly chin?) and had only his trade to recommend him to the world which, she was determined to opine, was nothing, well, perhaps, no, she gripped her frisbee hat in her hands and wrung it to a pulp - it was nothing at all!

By Heartfelt: P

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.
Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.


"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.


Nagging reminders of how cruel she had been haunted her as she walked along the high street, and she scolded herself for her incivility toward a fellow creature who deserved, at the very least, to be given the benefit of the doubt before she condemned him so horridly, but a moment later, rebelling against the uncomfortable guilt, as well as the strange stirrings she experienced whenever she thought of his handsome countenance, she congratulated herself on knocking him off his perch with an audible, "Well done, Emma!" after which she wondered if she was losing her mind, for "Who in the world is Emma?" she asked as she stared fearfully at her reflection in a window of the mercantile, only to discover the reflection of a tall, dark and humbled man standing behind her, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her to turn and face him.

'Oh heck,' she thought (see how the lovely lass is picking up the lyrical, nay poetical, turns of phrase unique to the region), and did turn and did face him (she was never lacking in courage whatever else could be said about her), her heart aflutter, her face a dusky, deep (and most becoming, thought John) shade of pink, her knees atremble and her loins'goodness!' she exclaimed silently, 'this is eighteen-fifty-one, time of the Great Exhibition, marmosets in Mozambique (of all places, she must at some point set him right on that), good quality linen (who would want cotton?) and public hangings for anyone so foolishly brazen as to be caught snogging the face off a gentleman in a railway station in broad daylight - there will be no talk of loins here!' so she drew herself up to her full height and sneered (again! she's rather good at this isn't she?) down her pretty little nose at the man before her who was not in the least bit handsome, oh no, (wasn't that a shaving rash on his strong, manly chin?) and had only his trade to recommend him to the world which, she was determined to opine, was nothing, well, perhaps, no, she gripped her frisbee hat in her hands and wrung it to a pulp - it was nothing at all!

Please, forgive me, Miss Hale, as I didnt mean to disturb your window shopping (how lovely she looks even while she sneers at me), but I see that you are in need of a new hatis that what that flat thing is, which you are shredding in your hands?and I can show you the way to the haberdashery if you will walk with me a while, he said hesitantly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of thawing or interest of any kind, but alas, there was none, either that, or she kept her feelings very well hidden, indeed, which was too much to hope for in a man so shattered and heartbroken as he, but then, wonder of wonders, she reached out and took his arm and off they set for the Mme. Frisbees boutique.


By LancashireRose: Q


Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.
Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.


"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.


Nagging reminders of how cruel she had been haunted her as she walked along the high street, and she scolded herself for her incivility toward a fellow creature who deserved, at the very least, to be given the benefit of the doubt before she condemned him so horridly, but a moment later, rebelling against the uncomfortable guilt, as well as the strange stirrings she experienced whenever she thought of his handsome countenance, she congratulated herself on knocking him off his perch with an audible, "Well done, Emma!" after which she wondered if she was losing her mind, for "Who in the world is Emma?" she asked as she stared fearfully at her reflection in a window of the mercantile, only to discover the reflection of a tall, dark and humbled man standing behind her, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her to turn and face him.

'Oh heck,' she thought (see how the lovely lass is picking up the lyrical, nay poetical, turns of phrase unique to the region), and did turn and did face him (she was never lacking in courage whatever else could be said about her), her heart aflutter, her face a dusky, deep (and most becoming, thought John) shade of pink, her knees atremble and her loins'goodness!' she exclaimed silently, 'this is eighteen-fifty-one, time of the Great Exhibition, marmosets in Mozambique (of all places, she must at some point set him right on that), good quality linen (who would want cotton?) and public hangings for anyone so foolishly brazen as to be caught snogging the face off a gentleman in a railway station in broad daylight - there will be no talk of loins here!' so she drew herself up to her full height and sneered (again! she's rather good at this isn't she?) down her pretty little nose at the man before her who was not in the least bit handsome, oh no, (wasn't that a shaving rash on his strong, manly chin?) and had only his trade to recommend him to the world which, she was determined to opine, was nothing, well, perhaps, no, she gripped her frisbee hat in her hands and wrung it to a pulp - it was nothing at all!

Please, forgive me, Miss Hale, as I didnt mean to disturb your window shopping (how lovely she looks even while she sneers at me), but I see that you are in need of a new hatis that what that flat thing is, which you are shredding in your hands?and I can show you the way to the haberdashery if you will walk with me a while, he said hesitantly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of thawing or interest of any kind, but alas, there was none, either that, or she kept her feelings very well hidden, indeed, which was too much to hope for in a man so shattered and heartbroken as he, but then, wonder of wonders, she reached out and took his arm and off they set for the Mme. Frisbees boutique.

Quadrumanous was the word Hannah Thornton had been searching for when John returned from London quoting the exhibition guides and their queer assertions regarding the habitat of the quaint, miniature monkeys to which he had become rather questionably attached, and all that querulous young woman's doing, she was sure of it, such quiddity the girl had, and so brazen in her determination to do things her own wayboth she and Fanny quite convinced that Miss Margaret Hale had fixed upon becoming queen of Marlborough Mills, however much Hannah had likened her affections to a quiff of smokealthough the girl had at least the foresight to request the services of Doctor Donaldson when required, instead of acquainting the family with one of the cheap quack physicians that were only too quick to take advantage of the unwary.

By Heartfelt: R

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.
Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.


"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.


Nagging reminders of how cruel she had been haunted her as she walked along the high street, and she scolded herself for her incivility toward a fellow creature who deserved, at the very least, to be given the benefit of the doubt before she condemned him so horridly, but a moment later, rebelling against the uncomfortable guilt, as well as the strange stirrings she experienced whenever she thought of his handsome countenance, she congratulated herself on knocking him off his perch with an audible, "Well done, Emma!" after which she wondered if she was losing her mind, for "Who in the world is Emma?" she asked as she stared fearfully at her reflection in a window of the mercantile, only to discover the reflection of a tall, dark and humbled man standing behind her, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her to turn and face him.

'Oh heck,' she thought (see how the lovely lass is picking up the lyrical, nay poetical, turns of phrase unique to the region), and did turn and did face him (she was never lacking in courage whatever else could be said about her), her heart aflutter, her face a dusky, deep (and most becoming, thought John) shade of pink, her knees atremble and her loins'goodness!' she exclaimed silently, 'this is eighteen-fifty-one, time of the Great Exhibition, marmosets in Mozambique (of all places, she must at some point set him right on that), good quality linen (who would want cotton?) and public hangings for anyone so foolishly brazen as to be caught snogging the face off a gentleman in a railway station in broad daylight - there will be no talk of loins here!' so she drew herself up to her full height and sneered (again! she's rather good at this isn't she?) down her pretty little nose at the man before her who was not in the least bit handsome, oh no, (wasn't that a shaving rash on his strong, manly chin?) and had only his trade to recommend him to the world which, she was determined to opine, was nothing, well, perhaps, no, she gripped her frisbee hat in her hands and wrung it to a pulp - it was nothing at all!

Please, forgive me, Miss Hale, as I didnt mean to disturb your window shopping (how lovely she looks even while she sneers at me), but I see that you are in need of a new hatis that what that flat thing is, which you are shredding in your hands?and I can show you the way to the haberdashery if you will walk with me a while, he said hesitantly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of thawing or interest of any kind, but alas, there was none, either that, or she kept her feelings very well hidden, indeed, which was too much to hope for in a man so shattered and heartbroken as he, but then, wonder of wonders, she reached out and took his arm and off they set for the Mme. Frisbees boutique.

Quadrumanous was the word Hannah Thornton had been searching for when John returned from London quoting the exhibition guides and their queer assertions regarding the habitat of the quaint, miniature monkeys to which he had become rather questionably attached, and all that querulous young woman's doing, she was sure of it, such quiddity the girl had, and so brazen in her determination to do things her own wayboth she and Fanny quite convinced that Miss Margaret Hale had fixed upon becoming queen of Marlborough Mills, however much Hannah had likened her affections to a quiff of smokealthough the girl had at least the foresight to request the services of Doctor Donaldson when required, instead of acquainting the family with one of the cheap quack physicians that were only too quick to take advantage of the unwary.

Rationalizing her sudden mistrust of her sons judgment as only natural, prompted as it was by a series of blunders on his part, in his speech and his behavior, as on the day he made the grandiose announcement of his intention of dressing for tea at the old parsons or when he begged her and Fanny to befriend the haughty Miss Hale (not very likely, that!), Hannah had stooped to something so low, so beneath her, that she blushed with shame just contemplating it, for in sudden urge to protect him while he was not himself and continued to exhibit such bizarre behavior as fawning over that snippy, strong-willed strumpet who led him around by his nose, she had hired the services of one Mr. Archibald Leonards, a self-proclaimed detective, who assured her he would watch over her son likehow did he phrase it?"like 'is guar-jin angel, ya' ladyship (she liked the sound of that misnomer and repeated it quite often), detailing his every move and then returning to report what he had heard and what he had seen and to receive further instructions, as well as to collect his generous fee (generous to him, that is), which, of course, Hannah had to pinch from the grocery money in order to keep her son none the wiser of her actions.

By LancashireRose: S

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.
Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.

"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.

~

Nagging reminders of how cruel she had been haunted her as she walked along the high street, and she scolded herself for her incivility toward a fellow creature who deserved, at the very least, to be given the benefit of the doubt before she condemned him so horridly, but a moment later, rebelling against the uncomfortable guilt, as well as the strange stirrings she experienced whenever she thought of his handsome countenance, she congratulated herself on knocking him off his perch with an audible, "Well done, Emma!" after which she wondered if she was losing her mind, for "Who in the world is Emma?" she asked as she stared fearfully at her reflection in a window of the mercantile, only to discover the reflection of a tall, dark and humbled man standing behind her, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her to turn and face him.

'Oh heck,' she thought (see how the lovely lass is picking up the lyrical, nay poetical, turns of phrase unique to the region), and did turn and did face him (she was never lacking in courage whatever else could be said about her), her heart aflutter, her face a dusky, deep (and most becoming, thought John) shade of pink, her knees atremble and her loins'goodness!' she exclaimed silently, 'this is eighteen-fifty-one, time of the Great Exhibition, marmosets in Mozambique (of all places, she must at some point set him right on that), good quality linen (who would want cotton?) and public hangings for anyone so foolishly brazen as to be caught snogging the face off a gentleman in a railway station in broad daylight - there will be no talk of loins here!' so she drew herself up to her full height and sneered (again! she's rather good at this isn't she?) down her pretty little nose at the man before her who was not in the least bit handsome, oh no, (wasn't that a shaving rash on his strong, manly chin?) and had only his trade to recommend him to the world which, she was determined to opine, was nothing, well, perhaps, no, she gripped her frisbee hat in her hands and wrung it to a pulp - it was nothing at all!

Please forgive me, Miss Hale, as I didnt mean to disturb your window shopping (how lovely she looks even while she sneers at me), but I see that you are in need of a new hatis that what that flat thing is, which you are shredding in your hands?and I can show you the way to the haberdashery if you will walk with me a while, he said hesitantly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of thawing or interest of any kind, but alas, there was none, either that, or she kept her feelings very well hidden, indeed, which was too much to hope for in a man so shattered and heartbroken as he, but then, wonder of wonders, she reached out and took his arm and off they set for the Mme. Frisbees boutique.

Quadrumanous was the word Hannah Thornton had been searching for when John returned from London quoting the exhibition guides and their queer assertions regarding the habitat of the quaint, miniature monkeys to which he had become rather questionably attached, and all that querulous young woman's doing, she was sure of it, such quiddity the girl had, and so brazen in her determination to do things her own wayboth she and Fanny quite convinced that Miss Margaret Hale had fixed upon becoming queen of Marlborough Mills, however much Hannah had likened her affections to a quiff of smokealthough the girl had at least the foresight to request the services of Doctor Donaldson when required, instead of acquainting the family with one of the cheap quack physicians that were only too quick to take advantage of the unwary.

Rationalizing her sudden mistrust of her sons judgment as only natural, prompted as it was by a series of blunders on his part, in his speech and his behavior, as on the day he made the grandiose announcement of his intention of dressing for tea at the old parsons or when he begged her and Fanny to befriend the haughty Miss Hale (not very likely, that!), Hannah had stooped to something so low, so beneath her, that she blushed with shame just contemplating it, for in sudden urge to protect him while he was not himself and continued to exhibit such bizarre behavior as fawning over that snippy, strong-willed strumpet who led him around by his nose, she had hired the services of one Mr. Archibald Leonards, a self-proclaimed detective, who assured her he would watch over her son likehow did he phrase it?"like 'is guar-jin angel, ya' ladyship (she liked the sound of that misnomer and repeated it quite often), detailing his every move and then returning to report what he had heard and what he had seen and to receive further instructions, as well as to collect his generous fee (generous to him, that is), which, of course, Hannah had to pinch from the grocery money in order to keep her son none the wiser of her actions.

She didn't know where her son was, regretting her impulses almost as soon as they had manifested themselves in the personage of this very low looking and sounding man, and neither did Leonards have any clue of John's whereabouts, telling her with a shifty look that he had searched high and low and the only sighting had been late at night one Wednesday evening at a remote railway stationhe forewent the opportunity to tell Hannah he had been drunk as the proverbial and made rather a poor sight tumbling down a flight of stairsand that was the last she heard from him as the next day a police inspector arrived at the door asking for John and informing her that Leonards had been found dead in a gutter, so that was that line of hope snuffed out like a candle flame, and she had no notion of what to do next, other than to stand at the long window and look out over the empty yard and wait for her son's return, 'oh John where are you,' she cried, little knowing that the railway station was the clue and that John Thornton, after throwing caution to the wind and purchasing enough hats to last a long and happy lifetime for the woman he knew would not turn him down a second time, was at this moment sitting with said young woman on a bench at yet another railway station, this time somewhere near Birmingham (or it might be Rugby but who the heck cares), holding her hand and wondering why she had chosen not to wear any of the numerous new hats from Mme Frisbee's emporium, but that was by the by as his glorious Miss Hale, Margaret, surely did possess the softest, most delicate, most beautiful lips and here he was touching them with his own rough mouth, holding her delicate, lovely face in his hands, and asking himself how he had ever managed to live without her.

By Heartfelt: "T"

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.
Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.

"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.

~

Nagging reminders of how cruel she had been haunted her as she walked along the high street, and she scolded herself for her incivility toward a fellow creature who deserved, at the very least, to be given the benefit of the doubt before she condemned him so horridly, but a moment later, rebelling against the uncomfortable guilt, as well as the strange stirrings she experienced whenever she thought of his handsome countenance, she congratulated herself on knocking him off his perch with an audible, "Well done, Emma!" after which she wondered if she was losing her mind, for "Who in the world is Emma?" she asked as she stared fearfully at her reflection in a window of the mercantile, only to discover the reflection of a tall, dark and humbled man standing behind her, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her to turn and face him.

'Oh heck,' she thought (see how the lovely lass is picking up the lyrical, nay poetical, turns of phrase unique to the region), and did turn and did face him (she was never lacking in courage whatever else could be said about her), her heart aflutter, her face a dusky, deep (and most becoming, thought John) shade of pink, her knees atremble and her loins'goodness!' she exclaimed silently, 'this is eighteen-fifty-one, time of the Great Exhibition, marmosets in Mozambique (of all places, she must at some point set him right on that), good quality linen (who would want cotton?) and public hangings for anyone so foolishly brazen as to be caught snogging the face off a gentleman in a railway station in broad daylight - there will be no talk of loins here!' so she drew herself up to her full height and sneered (again! she's rather good at this isn't she?) down her pretty little nose at the man before her who was not in the least bit handsome, oh no, (wasn't that a shaving rash on his strong, manly chin?) and had only his trade to recommend him to the world which, she was determined to opine, was nothing, well, perhaps, no, she gripped her frisbee hat in her hands and wrung it to a pulp - it was nothing at all!

Please, forgive me, Miss Hale, as I didnt mean to disturb your window shopping (how lovely she looks even while she sneers at me), but I see that you are in need of a new hatis that what that flat thing is, which you are shredding in your hands?and I can show you the way to the haberdashery if you will walk with me a while, he said hesitantly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of thawing or interest of any kind, but alas, there was none, either that, or she kept her feelings very well hidden, indeed, which was too much to hope for in a man so shattered and heartbroken as he, but then, wonder of wonders, she reached out and took his arm and off they set for the Mme. Frisbees boutique.

Quadrumanous was the word Hannah Thornton had been searching for when John returned from London quoting the exhibition guides and their queer assertions regarding the habitat of the quaint, miniature monkeys to which he had become rather questionably attached, and all that querulous young woman's doing, she was sure of it, such quiddity the girl had, and so brazen in her determination to do things her own wayboth she and Fanny quite convinced that Miss Margaret Hale had fixed upon becoming queen of Marlborough Mills, however much Hannah had likened her affections to a quiff of smokealthough the girl had at least the foresight to request the services of Doctor Donaldson when required, instead of acquainting the family with one of the cheap quack physicians that were only too quick to take advantage of the unwary.

Rationalizing her sudden mistrust of her sons judgment as only natural, prompted as it was by a series of blunders on his part, in his speech and his behavior, as on the day he made the grandiose announcement of his intention of dressing for tea at the old parsons or when he begged her and Fanny to befriend the haughty Miss Hale (not very likely, that!), Hannah had stooped to something so low, so beneath her, that she blushed with shame just contemplating it, for in sudden urge to protect him while he was not himself and continued to exhibit such bizarre behavior as fawning over that snippy, strong-willed strumpet who led him around by his nose, she had hired the services of one Mr. Archibald Leonards, a self-proclaimed detective, who assured her he would watch over her son likehow did he phrase it?"like 'is guar-jin angel, ya' ladyship (she liked the sound of that misnomer and repeated it quite often), detailing his every move and then returning to report what he had heard and what he had seen and to receive further instructions, as well as to collect his generous fee (generous to him, that is), which, of course, Hannah had to pinch from the grocery money in order to keep her son none the wiser of her actions.

She didn't know where her son was, regretting her impulses almost as soon as they had manifested themselves in the personage of this very low looking and sounding man, and neither did Leonards have any clue of John's whereabouts, telling her with a shifty look that he had searched high and low and the only sighting had been late at night one Wednesday evening at a remote railway stationhe forewent the opportunity to tell Hannah he had been drunk as the proverbial and made rather a poor sight tumbling down a flight of stairsand that was the last she heard from him as the next day a police inspector arrived at the door asking for John and informing her that Leonards had been found dead in a gutter, so that was that line of hope snuffed out like a candle flame, and she had no notion of what to do next, other than to stand at the long window and look out over the empty yard and wait for her son's return, 'oh John where are you,' she cried, little knowing that the railway station was the clue and that John Thornton, after throwing caution to the wind and purchasing enough hats to last a long and happy lifetime for the woman he knew would not turn him down a second time, was at this moment sitting with said young woman on a bench at yet another railway station, this time somewhere near Birmingham (or it might be Rugby but who the heck cares), holding her hand and wondering why she had chosen not to wear any of the numerous new hats from Mme Frisbee's emporium, but that was by the by as his glorious Miss Hale, Margaret, surely did possess the softest, most delicate, most beautiful lips and here he was touching them with his own rough mouth, holding her delicate, lovely face in his hands, and asking himself how he had ever managed to live without her.

The end? you inquire, assuming that, in comparison with most period dramas, you have received more than your moneys worth to have witnessed the tender emotions so obvious in the lovers gazes, not to mention the unheard-of meeting of their lips (in public, no less!), but in that split second when you would normally anticipate the screen fading to black and the credits beginning to roll, were this a film, or turning the last page to see if there was (please!) one more chapter, were it a volume, as well as the beginnings of a sad, letdown feeling that John and Margaret will be seen no more, your spirits suddenly soar since there is no such darkening of the screen or closing of the book, and you are permitted to travel with the young couple on their journey back to Milton, talking and kissing all the while, both of them putting off thinking about the inevitable while they can, the inevitable being their arrival in Milton, together and betrothed and having to face the formidable Hannah Thornton, who at this point in time is convinced her son has taken his life, as had her husband years before, and is refusing to leave her perch at the window, where she is determined she will remain until she sees her dear boy once again or perish, rather than face an existence without him, having determined that a fall from said window would certainly do her in and end her pain forever.

By Lancashire: "U"

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.
Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.

"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.

~

Nagging reminders of how cruel she had been haunted her as she walked along the high street, and she scolded herself for her incivility toward a fellow creature who deserved, at the very least, to be given the benefit of the doubt before she condemned him so horridly, but a moment later, rebelling against the uncomfortable guilt, as well as the strange stirrings she experienced whenever she thought of his handsome countenance, she congratulated herself on knocking him off his perch with an audible, "Well done, Emma!" after which she wondered if she was losing her mind, for "Who in the world is Emma?" she asked as she stared fearfully at her reflection in a window of the mercantile, only to discover the reflection of a tall, dark and humbled man standing behind her, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her to turn and face him.

'Oh heck,' she thought (see how the lovely lass is picking up the lyrical, nay poetical, turns of phrase unique to the region), and did turn and did face him (she was never lacking in courage whatever else could be said about her), her heart aflutter, her face a dusky, deep (and most becoming, thought John) shade of pink, her knees atremble and her loins'goodness!' she exclaimed silently, 'this is eighteen-fifty-one, time of the Great Exhibition, marmosets in Mozambique (of all places, she must at some point set him right on that), good quality linen (who would want cotton?) and public hangings for anyone so foolishly brazen as to be caught snogging the face off a gentleman in a railway station in broad daylight - there will be no talk of loins here!' so she drew herself up to her full height and sneered (again! she's rather good at this isn't she?) down her pretty little nose at the man before her who was not in the least bit handsome, oh no, (wasn't that a shaving rash on his strong, manly chin?) and had only his trade to recommend him to the world which, she was determined to opine, was nothing, well, perhaps, no, she gripped her frisbee hat in her hands and wrung it to a pulp - it was nothing at all!

Please, forgive me, Miss Hale, as I didnt mean to disturb your window shopping (how lovely she looks even while she sneers at me), but I see that you are in need of a new hatis that what that flat thing is, which you are shredding in your hands?and I can show you the way to the haberdashery if you will walk with me a while, he said hesitantly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of thawing or interest of any kind, but alas, there was none, either that, or she kept her feelings very well hidden, indeed, which was too much to hope for in a man so shattered and heartbroken as he, but then, wonder of wonders, she reached out and took his arm and off they set for the Mme. Frisbees boutique.

Quadrumanous was the word Hannah Thornton had been searching for when John returned from London quoting the exhibition guides and their queer assertions regarding the habitat of the quaint, miniature monkeys to which he had become rather questionably attached, and all that querulous young woman's doing, she was sure of it, such quiddity the girl had, and so brazen in her determination to do things her own wayboth she and Fanny quite convinced that Miss Margaret Hale had fixed upon becoming queen of Marlborough Mills, however much Hannah had likened her affections to a quiff of smokealthough the girl had at least the foresight to request the services of Doctor Donaldson when required, instead of acquainting the family with one of the cheap quack physicians that were only too quick to take advantage of the unwary.

Rationalizing her sudden mistrust of her sons judgment as only natural, prompted as it was by a series of blunders on his part, in his speech and his behavior, as on the day he made the grandiose announcement of his intention of dressing for tea at the old parsons or when he begged her and Fanny to befriend the haughty Miss Hale (not very likely, that!), Hannah had stooped to something so low, so beneath her, that she blushed with shame just contemplating it, for in sudden urge to protect him while he was not himself and continued to exhibit such bizarre behavior as fawning over that snippy, strong-willed strumpet who led him around by his nose, she had hired the services of one Mr. Archibald Leonards, a self-proclaimed detective, who assured her he would watch over her son likehow did he phrase it?"like 'is guar-jin angel, ya' ladyship (she liked the sound of that misnomer and repeated it quite often), detailing his every move and then returning to report what he had heard and what he had seen and to receive further instructions, as well as to collect his generous fee (generous to him, that is), which, of course, Hannah had to pinch from the grocery money in order to keep her son none the wiser of her actions.

She didn't know where her son was, regretting her impulses almost as soon as they had manifested themselves in the personage of this very low looking and sounding man, and neither did Leonards have any clue of John's whereabouts, telling her with a shifty look that he had searched high and low and the only sighting had been late at night one Wednesday evening at a remote railway stationhe forewent the opportunity to tell Hannah he had been drunk as the proverbial and made rather a poor sight tumbling down a flight of stairsand that was the last she heard from him as the next day a police inspector arrived at the door asking for John and informing her that Leonards had been found dead in a gutter, so that was that line of hope snuffed out like a candle flame, and she had no notion of what to do next, other than to stand at the long window and look out over the empty yard and wait for her son's return, 'oh John where are you,' she cried, little knowing that the railway station was the clue and that John Thornton, after throwing caution to the wind and purchasing enough hats to last a long and happy lifetime for the woman he knew would not turn him down a second time, was at this moment sitting with said young woman on a bench at yet another railway station, this time somewhere near Birmingham (or it might be Rugby but who the heck cares), holding her hand and wondering why she had chosen not to wear any of the numerous new hats from Mme Frisbee's emporium, but that was by the by as his glorious Miss Hale, Margaret, surely did possess the softest, most delicate, most beautiful lips and here he was touching them with his own rough mouth, holding her delicate, lovely face in his hands, and asking himself how he had ever managed to live without her.

The end? you inquire, assuming that, in comparison with most period dramas, you have received more than your moneys worth to have witnessed the tender emotions so obvious in the lovers gazes, not to mention the unheard-of meeting of their lips (in public, no less!), but in that split second when you would normally anticipate the screen fading to black and the credits beginning to roll, were this a film, or turning the last page to see if there was (please!) one more chapter, were it a volume, as well as the beginnings of a sad, letdown feeling that John and Margaret will be seen no more, your spirits suddenly soar since there is no such darkening of the screen or closing of the book, and you are permitted to travel with the young couple on their journey back to Milton, talking and kissing all the while, both of them putting off thinking about the inevitable while they can, the inevitable being their arrival in Milton, together and betrothed and having to face the formidable Hannah Thornton, who at this point in time is convinced her son has taken his life, as had her husband years before, and is refusing to leave her perch at the window, where she is determined she will remain until she sees her dear boy once again or perish, rather than face an existence without him, having determined that a fall from said window would certainly do her in and end her pain forever.

Unpicking the linen again, this time a marriage guaranteed between John andand'that woman!' Hannah exclaimed as she snipped the red threads embroidered around the edges of the best household sheets, yet when the young couple had arrived home late the previous afternoon, her beloved John had smiled down at Miss Hale and even she, her heart bolstered over the years against such extremes of emotion, could see the softness in her future daughter-in-law's gaze, a gaze that included her son yet excluded her and which caused angry, jealous daggers of pain to stab at her heart, since neither John nor Margaret seemed aware of her presence in the sitting room, the proof of which manifested itself in a reddening of her son's face when she coughed to remind them that they were not alone, yet John would keep smiling and, despite the cause it did gladden her heart to see him happy, and as he had chosen Miss Hale above all other women, she must have some merits, Hannah supposed as she leant forward a little to hear John say, 'and Miss Hale, Margaret, has consented to marry me,' at which point Hannah squinted and held her hand against her temple, disoriented a little by the sound of harps and angels singing, much to her consternation and confusion.

By Heartfelt: "V"

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.
Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.

"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.

~

Nagging reminders of how cruel she had been haunted her as she walked along the high street, and she scolded herself for her incivility toward a fellow creature who deserved, at the very least, to be given the benefit of the doubt before she condemned him so horridly, but a moment later, rebelling against the uncomfortable guilt, as well as the strange stirrings she experienced whenever she thought of his handsome countenance, she congratulated herself on knocking him off his perch with an audible, "Well done, Emma!" after which she wondered if she was losing her mind, for "Who in the world is Emma?" she asked as she stared fearfully at her reflection in a window of the mercantile, only to discover the reflection of a tall, dark and humbled man standing behind her, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her to turn and face him.

'Oh heck,' she thought (see how the lovely lass is picking up the lyrical, nay poetical, turns of phrase unique to the region), and did turn and did face him (she was never lacking in courage whatever else could be said about her), her heart aflutter, her face a dusky, deep (and most becoming, thought John) shade of pink, her knees atremble and her loins'goodness!' she exclaimed silently, 'this is eighteen-fifty-one, time of the Great Exhibition, marmosets in Mozambique (of all places, she must at some point set him right on that), good quality linen (who would want cotton?) and public hangings for anyone so foolishly brazen as to be caught snogging the face off a gentleman in a railway station in broad daylight - there will be no talk of loins here!' so she drew herself up to her full height and sneered (again! she's rather good at this isn't she?) down her pretty little nose at the man before her who was not in the least bit handsome, oh no, (wasn't that a shaving rash on his strong, manly chin?) and had only his trade to recommend him to the world which, she was determined to opine, was nothing, well, perhaps, no, she gripped her frisbee hat in her hands and wrung it to a pulp - it was nothing at all!

Please, forgive me, Miss Hale, as I didnt mean to disturb your window shopping (how lovely she looks even while she sneers at me), but I see that you are in need of a new hatis that what that flat thing is, which you are shredding in your hands?and I can show you the way to the haberdashery if you will walk with me a while, he said hesitantly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of thawing or interest of any kind, but alas, there was none, either that, or she kept her feelings very well hidden, indeed, which was too much to hope for in a man so shattered and heartbroken as he, but then, wonder of wonders, she reached out and took his arm and off they set for the Mme. Frisbees boutique.

Quadrumanous was the word Hannah Thornton had been searching for when John returned from London quoting the exhibition guides and their queer assertions regarding the habitat of the quaint, miniature monkeys to which he had become rather questionably attached, and all that querulous young woman's doing, she was sure of it, such quiddity the girl had, and so brazen in her determination to do things her own wayboth she and Fanny quite convinced that Miss Margaret Hale had fixed upon becoming queen of Marlborough Mills, however much Hannah had likened her affections to a quiff of smokealthough the girl had at least the foresight to request the services of Doctor Donaldson when required, instead of acquainting the family with one of the cheap quack physicians that were only too quick to take advantage of the unwary.

Rationalizing her sudden mistrust of her sons judgment as only natural, prompted as it was by a series of blunders on his part, in his speech and his behavior, as on the day he made the grandiose announcement of his intention of dressing for tea at the old parsons or when he begged her and Fanny to befriend the haughty Miss Hale (not very likely, that!), Hannah had stooped to something so low, so beneath her, that she blushed with shame just contemplating it, for in sudden urge to protect him while he was not himself and continued to exhibit such bizarre behavior as fawning over that snippy, strong-willed strumpet who led him around by his nose, she had hired the services of one Mr. Archibald Leonards, a self-proclaimed detective, who assured her he would watch over her son likehow did he phrase it?"like 'is guar-jin angel, ya' ladyship (she liked the sound of that misnomer and repeated it quite often), detailing his every move and then returning to report what he had heard and what he had seen and to receive further instructions, as well as to collect his generous fee (generous to him, that is), which, of course, Hannah had to pinch from the grocery money in order to keep her son none the wiser of her actions.

She didn't know where her son was, regretting her impulses almost as soon as they had manifested themselves in the personage of this very low looking and sounding man, and neither did Leonards have any clue of John's whereabouts, telling her with a shifty look that he had searched high and low and the only sighting had been late at night one Wednesday evening at a remote railway stationhe forewent the opportunity to tell Hannah he had been drunk as the proverbial and made rather a poor sight tumbling down a flight of stairsand that was the last she heard from him as the next day a police inspector arrived at the door asking for John and informing her that Leonards had been found dead in a gutter, so that was that line of hope snuffed out like a candle flame, and she had no notion of what to do next, other than to stand at the long window and look out over the empty yard and wait for her son's return, 'oh John where are you,' she cried, little knowing that the railway station was the clue and that John Thornton, after throwing caution to the wind and purchasing enough hats to last a long and happy lifetime for the woman he knew would not turn him down a second time, was at this moment sitting with said young woman on a bench at yet another railway station, this time somewhere near Birmingham (or it might be Rugby but who the heck cares), holding her hand and wondering why she had chosen not to wear any of the numerous new hats from Mme Frisbee's emporium, but that was by the by as his glorious Miss Hale, Margaret, surely did possess the softest, most delicate, most beautiful lips and here he was touching them with his own rough mouth, holding her delicate, lovely face in his hands, and asking himself how he had ever managed to live without her.

The end? you inquire, assuming that, in comparison with most period dramas, you have received more than your moneys worth to have witnessed the tender emotions so obvious in the lovers gazes, not to mention the unheard-of meeting of their lips (in public, no less!), but in that split second when you would normally anticipate the screen fading to black and the credits beginning to roll, were this a film, or turning the last page to see if there was (please!) one more chapter, were it a volume, as well as the beginnings of a sad, letdown feeling that John and Margaret will be seen no more, your spirits suddenly soar since there is no such darkening of the screen or closing of the book, and you are permitted to travel with the young couple on their journey back to Milton, talking and kissing all the while, both of them putting off thinking about the inevitable while they can, the inevitable being their arrival in Milton, together and betrothed and having to face the formidable Hannah Thornton, who at this point in time is convinced her son has taken his life, as had her husband years before, and is refusing to leave her perch at the window, where she is determined she will remain until she sees her dear boy once again or perish, rather than face an existence without him, having determined that a fall from said window would certainly do her in and end her pain forever.

Unpicking the linen again, this time a marriage guaranteed between John andand'that woman!' Hannah exclaimed as she snipped the red threads embroidered around the edges of the best household sheets, yet when the young couple had arrived home late the previous afternoon, her beloved John had smiled down at Miss Hale and even she, her heart bolstered over the years against such extremes of emotion, could see the softness in her future daughter-in-law's gaze, a gaze that included her son yet excluded her and which caused angry, jealous daggers of pain to stab at her heart, since neither John nor Margaret seemed aware of her presence in the sitting room, the proof of which manifested itself in a reddening of her son's face when she coughed to remind them that they were not alone, yet John would keep smiling and, despite the cause it did gladden her heart to see him happy, and as he had chosen Miss Hale above all other women, she must have some merits, Hannah supposed as she leant forward a little to hear John say, 'and Miss Hale, Margaret, has consented to marry me,' at which point Hannah squinted and held her hand against her temple, disoriented a little by the sound of harps and angels singing, much to her consternation and confusion.

Various and sundry emotions moved Hannah during the prelude to the nuptials of her son and his betrothed, as she received daily evidence of their joy and suppressed passion, reminding her of her past, when, during the early years of marriage, she had been sublimely happy to be Mrs. Thornton, wife of John Thornton, Sr., an extremely handsome and enterprising young man, by all accounts, who had promised her the world on the eve of their wedding, which he had duly delivered in the course of time, only, she realized, too late, that he had not specified the nature of the world he had pledged, and in contrast with its genesis that had been a habitation of joy accompanied by the sounds of harps and singing angels (not normally a daily occurrence, but, really, could the singing of heavenly hosts ever be a normal, daily event?) and glorious strains of melody several times per week, at least, making her feel loved and cherished by her spouse, the finale was a dark and lonely place in which she had dwelled for the latter years of their marriage as his true character or deficiency thereof, in his case, had come to light complete with the scandals and shame heaped on her, as well as on her innocent son and daughter, by his mode of living and dying, and had become living hell, a netherworld and the actual destination of his early promise to her and, as a result of this poisonous atmosphere that had disfigured her ability to recognize the depth and maturity of their regard for each other, the renewal of love and passion within her home was at once as exquisitely nostalgic and lovely, as it was fearsome and ominous, since she knew that love was not always genuine and that devotion was subject to the whim of human frailty, ones own or or ones mates, consequently, she trembled, lest her precious son be making a mistake, as she had done a generation earlier, and the woman he had chosen to love and cherish be unworthy of his pure heart and inflict upon him a life sentence of misery.

By LancashireRose: "W"

Amongst the dark satanic mill towns of the north, stands the majestic, throbbing, bustling, thrusting, smoky, dusty, stinking, cruel settlement of Milton, its chimneys belching their poison over the poverty-stricken, starving, bug-ridden workers. Behind closed doors, if one were able to venture there, would be found the main characters of our tale, beginning with the Slimy Slickson who cared nothing for the little people that worked in his dark, dank cotton mill, otherwise known as Sleazeytown Mills. Closeted carefully, in order to preserve its impeccable crease and maintain the plaid kaleidoscope of colours, hang the pants of Mr. Bell, another main character of our tale, whose major decision of the day is whether or not to wear the pants with a plain or a polka dot cravat. Drinking one pint too many in a dark corner of a pub in Princeton, Leonards, an aging cat burglar, schemed and plotted new ways to get rich after deciding that working at the train station was getting too dangerous, especially for one in his normal state of inebriation (all those steps!), and he now considered turning his talents to extortion after acquiring compromising daguerreotypes of some of Milton's leading citizens. Endless festivities take place into the not so large ballroom of the Shaw's mansion celebrating the union between cousin Edith and some captain under the benevolent eye of a slightly bored young lady named Margaret.
Finding Margaret unattended, lawyer Henry Lennox makes his move, hoping to follow his brother in securing himself an attractive bride.

Gradgrind, horrified at taking a wrong turning somewhere near Fleet Street and ending up in a completely different novel to the one expected, takes both himself and Margaret back to Milton on the train via Midland Central, where (alas!) there is no delay and no opportunity for Margaret to accidentally on purpose leave what she secretly calls her frisbee hat behind (despite the frisbee not being invented yet, but she's a forward thinking, modern sort of woman who fully accepts such anachronisms, after all Boucher died in purple dye which was several years ahead of its time), instead, leaving the careless, leisurely ambience of the London set to their own devices, what e'er they may be (but knowing that if it concerns Henry Lennox it does not concern her), she chats merrily to Gradgrind who, feeling her questioning to be angry and judgemental, sweats and trembles as the fearsome Miss Hale turns his own propensity for facts against him in her unrelenting criticism of the archaic, barbaric, cruel, deadly, evil, ferocious, grim, hellish and indecent practices carried out in the name of progress within both the towns of Milton and Coketown.

Hannah Thornton was standing in her usual position looking through the window, making sure no women strayed into the yard; she knew all the young ladies in Milton were after taking him away from her - wait a minute who is that,she's not from around these parts,what is she doing here? - she thought, spying Margaret coming out of the mill. Instinctively, Margaret had set Gradgrind right at Milton Station and sent him on his way to both the correct station and the correct novel, and yet here in the dirty mill yard she herself felt out of place, as if it were she who had taken a wrong turn, especially with the fearsome looks bearing down on her from the high window where (she presumed) Mister John Thornton's mother stood, her black attire reminding Margaret of her son who, tall and dark and proud, had stood majestically in the mill looking, if she were to use parlance from at least a century beyond her own, a bit of a hottie in spite of his rather grumpy nature. John was his name and cotton was his game, in which he was joined by Slickson and various other nouveau riche industrialists in challenging the status quo as it had existed for millennia, that is, the production of clothing made of materials from small cottage industries found across the breadth and width of England.

Knowing, courtesy of his mother's exhortations, that the entire unmarried female population of Milton (Lancashire even, she would say!) would be happy at such a catch as he (although, despite taking notice otherwise of his mother's wise words, he could not truly accept anyone would care for such a rough, plain man such as himself, and mother's were wont to exaggerate their children's state in the world, were they not?), did nothing to lift John from the very depths of his despair as the only woman he desired was that strange, mouthy, argumentative lady (Miss Hale no less!) who twisted and turned his words and thoughts so much that he had half-convinced himself that he did play the part of the brutal cad in this play of life, yet he stared at that supposed accurate reflection of himself in the glass every morning as he shaved and could not quite accept that he was as uncouth and unworthy of her attention as she insisted he was.

"Look, you must pull yourself together," he addressed the man in the mirror severely, "and not let one woman destroy your self-confidence since, after all, she knows nothing of the man she's rejecting," and, for a second, he could almost hear his mother's voice uttering those very sentiments, but of course, that was to be expected since she was his biggest fan and praised him to high heavens to bevies of young women who hung on her every word because she was his mother, an image which gave him some complacencyuntil, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beyond the glass sneer at him. 'Margaret' he whispered despairingly, lifting his hand and throwing his palm against the ugly reflection, the action shielding him from the contorted face whose eyes he could not meet, yet he saw it in his mind, aye, and hers too, that pretty curl of lip as she turned from his handshake and bowed her head to avoid his gaze - 'Oh, Margaret!' he groaned and placed the cut-throat razor he had been wielding back in its leather sheath, out of accidental harm's way.

~

Nagging reminders of how cruel she had been haunted her as she walked along the high street, and she scolded herself for her incivility toward a fellow creature who deserved, at the very least, to be given the benefit of the doubt before she condemned him so horridly, but a moment later, rebelling against the uncomfortable guilt, as well as the strange stirrings she experienced whenever she thought of his handsome countenance, she congratulated herself on knocking him off his perch with an audible, "Well done, Emma!" after which she wondered if she was losing her mind, for "Who in the world is Emma?" she asked as she stared fearfully at her reflection in a window of the mercantile, only to discover the reflection of a tall, dark and humbled man standing behind her, his head tilted slightly as he waited for her to turn and face him.

'Oh heck,' she thought (see how the lovely lass is picking up the lyrical, nay poetical, turns of phrase unique to the region), and did turn and did face him (she was never lacking in courage whatever else could be said about her), her heart aflutter, her face a dusky, deep (and most becoming, thought John) shade of pink, her knees atremble and her loins'goodness!' she exclaimed silently, 'this is eighteen-fifty-one, time of the Great Exhibition, marmosets in Mozambique (of all places, she must at some point set him right on that), good quality linen (who would want cotton?) and public hangings for anyone so foolishly brazen as to be caught snogging the face off a gentleman in a railway station in broad daylight - there will be no talk of loins here!' so she drew herself up to her full height and sneered (again! she's rather good at this isn't she?) down her pretty little nose at the man before her who was not in the least bit handsome, oh no, (wasn't that a shaving rash on his strong, manly chin?) and had only his trade to recommend him to the world which, she was determined to opine, was nothing, well, perhaps, no, she gripped her frisbee hat in her hands and wrung it to a pulp - it was nothing at all!

Please, forgive me, Miss Hale, as I didnt mean to disturb your window shopping (how lovely she looks even while she sneers at me), but I see that you are in need of a new hatis that what that flat thing is, which you are shredding in your hands?and I can show you the way to the haberdashery if you will walk with me a while, he said hesitantly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of thawing or interest of any kind, but alas, there was none, either that, or she kept her feelings very well hidden, indeed, which was too much to hope for in a man so shattered and heartbroken as he, but then, wonder of wonders, she reached out and took his arm and off they set for the Mme. Frisbees boutique.

Quadrumanous was the word Hannah Thornton had been searching for when John returned from London quoting the exhibition guides and their queer assertions regarding the habitat of the quaint, miniature monkeys to which he had become rather questionably attached, and all that querulous young woman's doing, she was sure of it, such quiddity the girl had, and so brazen in her determination to do things her own wayboth she and Fanny quite convinced that Miss Margaret Hale had fixed upon becoming queen of Marlborough Mills, however much Hannah had likened her affections to a quiff of smokealthough the girl had at least the foresight to request the services of Doctor Donaldson when required, instead of acquainting the family with one of the cheap quack physicians that were only too quick to take advantage of the unwary.

Rationalizing her sudden mistrust of her sons judgment as only natural, prompted as it was by a series of blunders on his part, in his speech and his behavior, as on the day he made the grandiose announcement of his intention of dressing for tea at the old parsons or when he begged her and Fanny to befriend the haughty Miss Hale (not very likely, that!), Hannah had stooped to something so low, so beneath her, that she blushed with shame just contemplating it, for in sudden urge to protect him while he was not himself and continued to exhibit such bizarre behavior as fawning over that snippy, strong-willed strumpet who led him around by his nose, she had hired the services of one Mr. Archibald Leonards, a self-proclaimed detective, who assured her he would watch over her son likehow did he phrase it?"like 'is guar-jin angel, ya' ladyship (she liked the sound of that misnomer and repeated it quite often), detailing his every move and then returning to report what he had heard and what he had seen and to receive further instructions, as well as to collect his generous fee (generous to him, that is), which, of course, Hannah had to pinch from the grocery money in order to keep her son none the wiser of her actions.

She didn't know where her son was, regretting her impulses almost as soon as they had manifested themselves in the personage of this very low looking and sounding man, and neither did Leonards have any clue of John's whereabouts, telling her with a shifty look that he had searched high and low and the only sighting had been late at night one Wednesday evening at a remote railway stationhe forewent the opportunity to tell Hannah he had been drunk as the proverbial and made rather a poor sight tumbling down a flight of stairsand that was the last she heard from him as the next day a police inspector arrived at the door asking for John and informing her that Leonards had been found dead in a gutter, so that was that line of hope snuffed out like a candle flame, and she had no notion of what to do next, other than to stand at the long window and look out over the empty yard and wait for her son's return, 'oh John where are you,' she cried, little knowing that the railway station was the clue and that John Thornton, after throwing caution to the wind and purchasing enough hats to last a long and happy lifetime for the woman he knew would not turn him down a second time, was at this moment sitting with said young woman on a bench at yet another railway station, this time somewhere near Birmingham (or it might be Rugby but who the heck cares), holding her hand and wondering why she had chosen not to wear any of the numerous new hats from Mme Frisbee's emporium, but that was by the by as his glorious Miss Hale, Margaret, surely did possess the softest, most delicate, most beautiful lips and here he was touching them with his own rough mouth, holding her delicate, lovely face in his hands, and asking himself how he had ever managed to live without her.

The end? you inquire, assuming that, in comparison with most period dramas, you have received more than your moneys worth to have witnessed the tender emotions so obvious in the lovers gazes, not to mention the unheard-of meeting of their lips (in public, no less!), but in that split second when you would normally anticipate the screen fading to black and the credits beginning to roll, were this a film, or turning the last page to see if there was (please!) one more chapter, were it a volume, as well as the beginnings of a sad, letdown feeling that John and Margaret will be seen no more, your spirits suddenly soar since there is no such darkening of the screen or closing of the book, and you are permitted to travel with the young couple on their journey back to Milton, talking and kissing all the while, both of them putting off thinking about the inevitable while they can, the inevitable being their arrival in Milton, together and betrothed and having to face the formidable Hannah Thornton, who at this point in time is convinced her son has taken his life, as had her husband years before, and is refusing to leave her perch at the window, where she is determined she will remain until she sees her dear boy once again or perish, rather than face an existence without him, having determined that a fall from said window would certainly do her in and end her pain forever.

Unpicking the linen again, this time a marriage guaranteed between John andand'that woman!' Hannah exclaimed as she snipped the red threads embroidered around the edges of the best household sheets, yet when the young couple had arrived home late the previous afternoon, her beloved John had smiled down at Miss Hale and even she, her heart bolstered over the years against such extremes of emotion, could see the softness in her future daughter-in-law's gaze, a gaze that included her son yet excluded her and which caused angry, jealous daggers of pain to stab at her heart, since neither John nor Margaret seemed aware of her presence in the sitting room, the proof of which manifested itself in a reddening of her son's face when she coughed to remind them that they were not alone, yet John would keep smiling and, despite the cause it did gladden her heart to see him happy, and as he had chosen Miss Hale above all other women, she must have some merits, Hannah supposed as she leant forward a little to hear John say, 'and Miss Hale, Margaret, has consented to marry me,' at which point Hannah squinted and held her hand against her temple, disoriented a little by the sound of harps and angels singing, much to her consternation and confusion.

Various and sundry emotions moved Hannah during the prelude to the nuptials of her son and his betrothed, as she received daily evidence of their joy and suppressed passion, reminding her of her past, when, during the early years of marriage, she had been sublimely happy to be Mrs. Thornton, wife of John Thornton, Sr., an extremely handsome and enterprising young man, by all accounts, who had promised her the world on the eve of their wedding, which he had duly delivered in the course of time, only, she realized, too late, that he had not specified the nature of the world he had pledged, and in contrast with its genesis that had been a habitation of joy accompanied by the sounds of harps and singing angels (not normally a daily occurrence, but, really, could the singing of heavenly hosts ever be a normal, daily event?) and glorious strains of melody several times per week, at least, making her feel loved and cherished by her spouse, the finale was a dark and lonely place in which she had dwelled for the latter years of their marriage as his true character or deficiency thereof, in his case, had come to light complete with the scandals and shame heaped on her, as well as on her innocent son and daughter, by his mode of living and dying, and had become living hell, a netherworld and the actual destination of his early promise to her and, as a result of this poisonous atmosphere that had disfigured her ability to recognize the depth and maturity of their regard for each other, the renewal of love and passion within her home was at once as exquisitely nostalgic and lovely, as it was fearsome and ominous, since she knew that love was not always genuine and that devotion was subject to the whim of human frailty, ones own or or ones mates, consequently, she trembled, lest her precious son be making a mistake, as she had done a generation earlier, and the woman he had chosen to love and cherish be unworthy of his pure heart and inflict upon him a life sentence of misery.

Within this freshly-transformed tale of industry, revolution and change are the other dear characters whose stories remain to be toldunlike those sad souls such as Mr and Mrs Hale, Bessy Higgins, Boucher, Mrs Boucher, Leonards and our dear plaid-clad Mr Bell (alas, the Argentine did not play home to him for long and it was only a few weeks before he enjoyed his last saunter around his local market place, playing the cupid once more for another young, unaware couple whose tale remained unresolved as he was laid to rest under the glorious open skies of his youthful home)these stories unfinished as we hear the bells ringing on the horizon for our dear John Thornton and his bride-to-be Margaret Hale, the stories of Nicholas and Mary Higgins, working hard and both at the resurrected and refreshed Marlborough Mills, dear, lovely Fanny Watson, who allows the silver coins of her husband's purse to run through her fingers as she wanders from drapers to drapers buying up so much stock that she has three seamstresses working from dawn to dusk (and sometimes beyond, working hard into the night) making new dresses of stripe and of spot, of check and of plaid, of red and of blue (has she heard news of the end of the world-is it nigh as the naysayers with their sandwich boards who perambulate the streets of downtown Milton proclaim and she is stocking up for any shortages in the afterlife?),yet it is only now that the sad consequences of life in Milton become fully apparent and the realisation hits us that most of our dear characters now inhabit a world where the blooms on the pretty, yellow roses will not fade, the clouds will not darken, and true love will, sadly for Mr Bell and his matchmaking proclivities, never run in any other way but with the smoothest of courses through the truly heavenly choir of angels and naughty cherubs aiming their arrows hither and thither into the ether, no, alas, we are left with a cast of few who will, with true Northern grit, independence of mind and thought, spirited views, determination and downright bloody-mindedness on all parts (except perhaps Mary Higgins) live out their lives as best they are able in this smoky,dusty industrial town in the North.

Alas! Our comprehensive story has become too long for one post, or even two posts, so it will be divided into three Parts,
Part I: "A - W" and
Part II: "X" and
Part III: "Y and Z".

Thanks for reading!


Part II, "X"


By Heartfelt: "X"



The end? you inquire, assuming that, in comparison with most period dramas, you have received more than your moneys worth to have witnessed the tender emotions so obvious in the lovers gazes, not to mention the unheard-of meeting of their lips (in public, no less!), but in that split second when you would normally anticipate the screen fading to black and the credits beginning to roll, were this a film, or turning the last page to see if there was (please!) one more chapter, were it a volume, as well as the beginnings of a sad, letdown feeling that John and Margaret will be seen no more, your spirits suddenly soar since there is no such darkening of the screen or closing of the book, and you are permitted to travel with the young couple on their journey back to Milton, talking and kissing all the while, both of them putting off thinking about the inevitable while they can, the inevitable being their arrival in Milton, together and betrothed and having to face the formidable Hannah Thornton, who at this point in time is convinced her son has taken his life, as had her husband years before, and is refusing to leave her perch at the window, where she is determined she will remain until she sees her dear boy once again or perish, rather than face an existence without him, having determined that a fall from said window would certainly do her in and end her pain forever.

Unpicking the linen again, this time a marriage guaranteed between John andand'that woman!' Hannah exclaimed as she snipped the red threads embroidered around the edges of the best household sheets, yet when the young couple had arrived home late the previous afternoon, her beloved John had smiled down at Miss Hale and even she, her heart bolstered over the years against such extremes of emotion, could see the softness in her future daughter-in-law's gaze, a gaze that included her son yet excluded her and which caused angry, jealous daggers of pain to stab at her heart, since neither John nor Margaret seemed aware of her presence in the sitting room, the proof of which manifested itself in a reddening of her son's face when she coughed to remind them that they were not alone, yet John would keep smiling and, despite the cause it did gladden her heart to see him happy, and as he had chosen Miss Hale above all other women, she must have some merits, Hannah supposed as she leant forward a little to hear John say, 'and Miss Hale, Margaret, has consented to marry me,' at which point Hannah squinted and held her hand against her temple, disoriented a little by the sound of harps and angels singing, much to her consternation and confusion.

Various and sundry emotions moved Hannah during the prelude to the nuptials of her son and his betrothed, as she received daily evidence of their joy and suppressed passion, reminding her of her past, when, during the early years of marriage, she had been sublimely happy to be Mrs. Thornton, wife of John Thornton, Sr., an extremely handsome and enterprising young man, by all accounts, who had promised her the world on the eve of their wedding, which he had duly delivered in the course of time, only, she realized, too late, that he had not specified the nature of the world he had pledged, and in contrast with its genesis that had been a habitation of joy accompanied by the sounds of harps and singing angels (not normally a daily occurrence, but, really, could the singing of heavenly hosts ever be a normal, daily event?) and glorious strains of melody several times per week, at least, making her feel loved and cherished by her spouse, the finale was a dark and lonely place in which she had dwelled for the latter years of their marriage as his true character or deficiency thereof, in his case, had come to light complete with the scandals and shame heaped on her, as well as on her innocent son and daughter, by his mode of living and dying, and had become living hell, a netherworld and the actual destination of his early promise to her and, as a result of this poisonous atmosphere that had disfigured her ability to recognize the depth and maturity of their regard for each other, the renewal of love and passion within her home was at once as exquisitely nostalgic and lovely, as it was fearsome and ominous, since she knew that love was not always genuine and that devotion was subject to the whim of human frailty, ones own or or ones mates, consequently, she trembled, lest her precious son be making a mistake, as she had done a generation earlier, and the woman he had chosen to love and cherish be unworthy of his pure heart and inflict upon him a life sentence of misery.

Within this freshly-transformed tale of industry, revolution and change are the other dear characters whose stories remain to be toldunlike those sad souls such as Mr and Mrs Hale, Bessy Higgins, Boucher, Mrs Boucher, Leonards and our dear plaid-clad Mr Bell (alas, the Argentine did not play home to him for long and it was only a few weeks before he enjoyed his last saunter around his local market place, playing the cupid once more for another young, unaware couple whose tale remained unresolved as he was laid to rest under the glorious open skies of his youthful home)these stories unfinished as we hear the bells ringing on the horizon for our dear John Thornton and his bride-to-be Margaret Hale, the stories of Nicholas and Mary Higgins, working hard and both at the resurrected and refreshed Marlborough Mills, dear, lovely Fanny Watson, who allows the silver coins of her husband's purse to run through her fingers as she wanders from drapers to drapers buying up so much stock that she has three seamstresses working from dawn to dusk (and sometimes beyond, working hard into the night) making new dresses of stripe and of spot, of check and of plaid, of red and of blue (has she heard news of the end of the world-is it nigh as the naysayers with their sandwich boards who perambulate the streets of downtown Milton proclaim and she is stocking up for any shortages in the afterlife?),yet it is only now that the sad consequences of life in Milton become fully apparent and the realisation hits us that most of our dear characters now inhabit a world where the blooms on the pretty, yellow roses will not fade, the clouds will not darken, and true love will, sadly for Mr Bell and his matchmaking proclivities, never run in any other way but with the smoothest of courses through the truly heavenly choir of angels and naughty cherubs aiming their arrows hither and thither into the ether, no, alas, we are left with a cast of few who will, with true Northern grit, independence of mind and thought, spirited views, determination and downright bloody-mindedness on all parts (except perhaps Mary Higgins) live out their lives as best they are able in this smoky,dusty industrial town in the North.

Xanthophyll, whispered one cherub to another as they hovered over the lovely bride in the narthex, prompting a questioning look and the response, The yellow color of the flowers, my dearyou wondered at the presence of the particular and unusual hue in her bouquet, and it is xanthophyll that is responsible, a carotenoid pigment used in painting much of the creation, which you surely must have forgotten, the latter spoken as a gentle rebuke, for this information was common knowledge in the heavenly realm, along with the answers to most questions for those cherubs who paid attention, however, their purpose that day was not to dissect the elements of inanimate creation, but to observe and assist, when necessary or possible, living, breathing specimens, and after noting the peace in the brides heart and the happy aspect of her countenance, they moved through the wall, entering the sanctuary where the beloved friends and family of the bride and groom congregated, which, in this instance, were one and the same for the most part, the bride having only two family members, an aunt and a cousin (the cousins husband being away on maneuvers with his regiment) and almost all their friends in common, including an elderly couple sitting off to the side (dressed quite humbly compared to the others), rumored to have traveled from a faraway place called Helstone, and the cherubs began to inspect each attendee in turn, the most salient, for our purposes, being Nicholas Higgins, who stood just inside the door dressed in his new suit, waiting to escort his daughters friendindeed, his friend, as wellto the altar, a prospect that brought twinkles of joy to his eyes (for he loved the young woman as his own daughter and, truth be told, he loved her future husband as he would a younger brother), and his daughter Mary, who the observant cherubs especially loved, her heart being pure and innocent, after which they fluttered to the side Hannah Thornton, who strangely puzzled them, her thoughts being at cross purposes, swinging like a pendulum between hope, joy and love to apprehension, prompting their compassion and subsequent response: settling on each shoulder, they touched her forehead, causing her worried look to disappear and, by the gleam in her eye, joy to have full reign in her contemplation, and then off they flew to the aunt and the cousin, whom they did not like nearly so well, the mother and daughter's odious thoughts being very tiresome to hear, as they criticized their surroundings and the inferiority of the company and How tragic that dear Margaret has been brought so low, but what could one expect from the daughter of poor churchman, really? and Im glad my aunt and uncle did not live to see this day, for I am ashamed of Margarets choice, and I fear they will hold us to blame for not preventing this degradation when we meet in the bye and bye, after which our cherubic friends visited the elderly couple, particular favorites, who waited expectantly with joy overflowing in their hearts for little Maggie, whom they had know since her infancy in Helstone and for her groom whom they had met and learned to love when he visited Helstone on his recent visit there, and finally our little watchmen moved through the oaken door beyond which waited the groom, and they felt they had rarely detected a more humble and grateful heart, for the man believed he was not worthy of the woman he was about to marry (but they knew otherwise, his humility being a treasure beyond the riches of this world and a fit offering to his bride)but oh! the organ has sounded!its clarion call marking the commencement of the ceremony and the bride and her friends slow promenade up the aisle, and with one last look and an affectionate smile at the groom, whose hand trembled as he ran his fingers through his hair and as he adjusted his cravat, the cherubim left him, rising through the ceiling and soaring high into the rafters where they settled to watch the blessed eventwhen John Thornton emerged from his alcove, looking very handsome, indeed, and with a heart ablaze with love, took Margaret Hale to be his beautiful wife.

Part III, "Y" and "Z"


By LancashireRose: "Y"


'Yesterday, today, tomorrow,' Margaret smiled to herself as she lay against the soft, duck down pillows, listening to busy station sounds outside the hotel window - yesterday she had been a bride-to-be, today a bride and tomorrow she would be complete in knowledge and experience that made her a fully married woman, her bridal night spent in London at the hotel of the station they would use tomorrow morning to catch a boat train to France, then on to Spain (how she was looking forward to seeing Fred), but tonight was before all that, their room a sanctuary where the outside world could not impinge, Margaret's favourite green outfit draped over the back of a chair, the same outfit she had been wearing when she met John so unexpectedly on her previous journey to London, and to which she was more attached than she was to her bridal gown, that item now lying forlorn and deserted at the house in Milton, a gown that had been a concession to Hannah's request that she, as befitted a woman of high standing in the town, should dress accordingly and not as the young daughter of a country vicarex-vicar, Hannah would wish to sayso the best had been reserved for when the day was over and they were embarking on the afternoon train south, but even that outfit was discarded, this time for a white gown of rich, strong cottonMarlborough Mills cottonthe bodice embroidered with the same yellow roses that had formed part of her bridal bouquet, flung in the air and caught by Mary Higgins, making them all laugh and, strangely, Margaret thought, bringing memories of her dear friend Bessy who she wished could have seen her today with the man she had been so adamant she did not like, yet here she was, so many journeys taken since then, and now embarking on the best one of all, marriage to that man, her beloved, dearest John, who, when she had spoken of her liking to see Fred again, had immediately suggested they take some time during their honeymoon to visit him, and when it became clear that their trip would necessitate an overnight stay in London had kindly deferred to Margaret as to where they should stay, believing she might wish to be with her family at Harley Street, she, however, did not want to share her new husband, and rather selfishly perhaps, had chosen the station hotel, a place where she could listen to the whistles and the shouts, the slamming of doors and the puffing of steam, a place reminiscent of the time they had put their differences aside and where each, courage overcoming fear, allowed the other to see what had been the truth since their early acquaintance, she smiled at this, 'keep up your courage a moment longer, Miss Hale,' John urged at a time when she had not been at all afraid, and now looking up as he entered the bedroom from the small dressing room adjacent, she knew she was not afraid tonight, only filled with anticipation and joy as his eyes met hers and they both smiled, 'that smile,' she thought as she pushed down the eiderdown and welcomed him, sighing as he buried his face in her hair and whispered, 'oh, my love,' his fingers threading through her brown curls, their bodies drawing closer, until his lips brushed across her face and met her mouth, then all the passion they had held within, since their first station kiss, was expressed urgently and insistently, and they sank into the mattress, all confusion gone, the questions she had worried over now as if they had never existed, only love remaining, and with it trust and desire, so much of that desire welling up between them that Margaret forgot everything except love and how wondrous was the act of showing that love, with no shyness, no fear, until the hour turned late, the candles burned low and Margaret Thornton lay entwined in her lover's arms, both husband and wife garbed only in nature's robes, her head against his chest, and resting in gentle sleep till morning.



By Heartfelt: "Z"



'Yesterday, today, tomorrow,' Margaret smiled to herself as she lay against the soft, duck down pillows, listening to busy station sounds outside the hotel window - yesterday she had been a bride-to-be, today a bride and tomorrow she would be complete in knowledge and experience that made her a fully married woman, her bridal night spent in London at the hotel of the station they would use tomorrow morning to catch a boat train to France, then on to Spain (how she was looking forward to seeing Fred), but tonight was before all that, their room a sanctuary where the outside world could not impinge, Margaret's favourite green outfit draped over the back of a chair, the same outfit she had been wearing when she met John so unexpectedly on her previous journey to London, and to which she was more attached than she was to her bridal gown, that item now lying forlorn and deserted at the house in Milton, a gown that had been a concession to Hannah's request that she, as befitted a woman of high standing in the town, should dress accordingly and not as the young daughter of a country vicarex-vicar, Hannah would wish to sayso the best had been reserved for when the day was over and they were embarking on the afternoon train south, but even that outfit was discarded, this time for a white gown of rich, strong cottonMarlborough Mills cottonthe bodice embroidered with the same yellow roses that had formed part of her bridal bouquet, flung in the air and caught by Mary Higgins, making them all laugh and, strangely, Margaret thought, bringing memories of her dear friend Bessy who she wished could have seen her today with the man she had been so adamant she did not like, yet here she was, so many journeys taken since then, and now embarking on the best one of all, marriage to that man, her beloved, dearest John, who, when she had spoken of her liking to see Fred again, had immediately suggested they take some time during their honeymoon to visit him, and when it became clear that their trip would necessitate an overnight stay in London had kindly deferred to Margaret as to where they should stay, believing she might wish to be with her family at Harley Street, she, however, did not want to share her new husband, and rather selfishly perhaps, had chosen the station hotel, a place where she could listen to the whistles and the shouts, the slamming of doors and the puffing of steam, a place reminiscent of the time they had put their differences aside and where each, courage overcoming fear, allowed the other to see what had been the truth since their early acquaintance, she smiled at this, 'keep up your courage a moment longer, Miss Hale,' John urged at a time when she had not been at all afraid, and now looking up as he entered the bedroom from the small dressing room adjacent, she knew she was not afraid tonight, only filled with anticipation and joy as his eyes met hers and they both smiled, 'that smile,' she thought as she pushed down the eiderdown and welcomed him, sighing as he buried his face in her hair and whispered, 'oh, my love,' his fingers threading through her brown curls, their bodies drawing closer, until his lips brushed across her face and met her mouth, then all the passion they had held within, since their first station kiss, was expressed urgently and insistently, and they sank into the mattress, all confusion gone, the questions she had worried over now as if they had never existed, only love remaining, and with it trust and desire, so much of that desire welling up between them that Margaret forgot everything except love and how wondrous was the act of showing that love, with no shyness, no fear, until the hour turned late, the candles burned low and Margaret Thornton lay entwined in her lover's arms, both husband and wife garbed only in nature's robes, her head against his chest, and resting in gentle sleep till morning.


Epilogue

Zabra es name of leetle barco espanol, the handsome pilot explained as he turned the vessel into the wind, his flowing zapata, or drooping mustache, barely hiding his indulgent smile after responding to yet another of the beautiful young womans numerous inquiries (this one regarding the kind of boat in which they briskly sailed eastwardly along the magnificent Spanish coastline toward the Strait of Gibraltar), her eager interest underscoring her determination to learn all that she could about her surroundings during her holiday, but only her husband knew the real reason why everything about Spain fascinated her: it was the home of her beloved brother, Frederick, her recently-met sister-in-law, the beautiful and zaftig Delores, and her new nephew, baby Ricardo Garcia Hale and was now the home of his brother, sister and nephew, too, a very humbling, yet gratifying fact considering his previous misunderstanding of Freds identity at one point and his subsequent jealousy and harsh treatment of the young mans sister, which he had kindly brushed aside, welcoming his sister's husband into the family with better grace than his mother had welcomed Margaret at first, and after overcoming his shame in her brothers presence, he had been delighted to find that they could all laugh at the series of errors that had hindered them and, at the same time, bound them to each another in some unfathomable way, discovering in Frederick Hale a gift for expressing the awkward in a comical, even zany fashion, which in turn, encouraged similar tendencies in his sister, their humor having been formed and baked in the same kiln during childhood or "cut from the same bolt," as John had opined (of cotton, to be exact, Fred had quipped to peals of laughter between the siblings, while John and Delores rolled their eyes in mock impatience), consequently, he encouraged her to explore and experience anything that would form memories of this incomparable time of joy for each of them, knowing she was mesmerized by all things Garcia-Hale, in particular, and all things Espagnol, in general, although, he had to admit that she was not alone in being captivated by the exotic land that demonstrated such diversity and such contrast to what he was accustomed in England: in its history, substantiated everywhere by Moorish as well as European influences; in its climate, the comforting dry heat and successive days of sunshine starkly different than the cool, cloudy, smoky atmosphere of Milton; and in the friendly populaces refreshing lack of reserve, a contagious zest for life, shown by their zealous devotion to work or play, as when the Garcia family kindly introduced them to Spanish cuisine by hosting a feast in their honor at their own establishment, a restaurant featuring cocina alta, or high cuisine; and to culture, by taking them to la zarzuela, a traditional Spanish stage production and by teaching them (unsuccessfully, in his case) native dances like the zapateado, the memory or which made him chuckle since he had been much too inhibited to master the intricate steps that involved an alarming amount of foot stomping and hand clapping and much too reserved to not feel completely foolish swaying his hips like a woman, but he had to admit it had been a pleasure to watch Margaret master these sensuous movements, especially since she was adamant about practicing them into the wee hours when they were alone (Is it not said that practice makes perfect? she had asked in mock innocence to his delight) in a powerful performance that continued to bring a smiles to his lips and deep joy to his heart whenever he thought of it, even days later as he watched the pilot of the ship La Tentadora (The Temptress) attempt to instruct his wife on the technique of turning the large wheel that steered the ship, thinking complacently that if he had been unsure of himself and of her devotion to him, he might have felt twinges of jealousy seeing another man encircling her with both arms, his hands on her hands as he guided her at the helm, his mouth close to her ear as he tried to be heard above the wind, but he was not uncertain of her love any longerfor hadnt she given herself to him completely without holding anything back and didnt he finally feel whole, for the first time in his life, knowing that the one person who could complete him was as equally devoted to him as he was to her and would remain with him forever?and as he contemplated her and these tender thoughts, he noticed that her attention drifted from the horizon to which the sailor pointed with extended arm at a distant landmark while speaking in her ear in his broken, yet charming, English, and her gaze had settled on him where he sat on a large coil of rope watching her, her beauty only enhanced by the rosy, sun-kissed color of her complexion that offset her luminous blue eyes, and she smiled at him as if no one existed in all the world but them, taking his breath away as a man who has climbed a seemingly insurmountable mountain gasps with pleasure upon finally reaching its zenith.


The End

Phew! That was some process! I had to break the story into three parts because of its length. What a group effort!

"Thanks!" to everyone who participated! It was great fun and we hope it brings pleasure to anyone who reads it!

Thanks for that Pat. Your efforts are really appreciated. I have really enjoyed reading it again. We will have to look after it now and make sure is doesn't disappear.


Dogs have owners, Cats have staff!

You're welcome, Laura! It took up most of my day between customers to repost this group N&S story, but it's was worth the time and effort. I wonder how many other boards write stories together? I love our community!

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Dogs have owners, Cats have staff!

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I know this story appeared long-winded, but it was fun being part of it! Moreover, I think we stumbled upon a decent story line by accident!

For those who haven't read it, we, the contributors, were supposed to write one sentence, taking turns, in a group story about North & South, blending our contribution with what came before; the next contributor would do the same. After someone else had a turn, we were able to jump in again and take another stab at itbut we could write only one sentence at a time.

At some point, the goal changed from just writing a sentence to writing the longest, coherent and grammatically correct sentence possible, while maintaining some integrity to N&S. I said 'some' integrity. Seriously, I think we would have given Austen a run for her money for lengthy sentences, if not for the quality of prose, certainly (though I think we did a fairly good job for amateurs!).

Oh! I forget to add that each sentence also had to begin with and feature the next letter of the alphabet, just another plate to be kept in the air while advancing the story line in the most wordy way possible.

Spoiler: This little story touches on the Thornton-Hale wedding and honeymoon in a very lovely and romantic way!

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A fun group fantasy ending to N&S

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