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COMMON opinion said that Lord Lynborough ought never to have had a peerage and forty thousand a year; he ought to have had a pound a week and a back bedroom in Bloomsbury. Then he would have become an eminent man; as it was, he turned out only a singularly erratic individual. So much for common opinion. Let no more be heard of its dull utilitarian judgments! There are plenty of eminent men—at the mo-ment, it is believed, no less than seventy Cabinet and ex-Cabinet Ministers (or thereabouts)—to say nothing of Bishops, Judges, and the British Academy—and all this in a nook of the world! (And the world too is a point!) Lynborough was something much more un-common; it is not, however, quite easy to say what. Let the question be postponed; perhaps the story itself will answer it. He started life—or was started in it—in a series of surroundings of unimpeachable orthodoxy—Eton, Christ Church, the Grenadier Guards. He left each of these schools of mental culture and bodily discipline, not under a cloud—that metaphor would be ludicrously inept—but in an explosion. That, having been thus shot out of the first, he managed to enter the second—that, having been shot out of the second, he walked placidly into the third—that, having been shot out of the third, he suffered no apparent damage from his repeated propulsions—these are matters explicable only by a secret knowledge of British institutions. His father was strong, his mother came of stock even stronger; he himself—Ambrose Caverly as he then was—was very popular, and extraordinarily handsome in his unusual outlandish style. His father being still alive—and, though devoted to him, by now apprehensive of his doings—his means were for the next few years limited. Yet he contrived to employ himself. He took a soup-kitchen and ran it; he took a yacht and sank it; he took a public-house, ruined it, and got himself severely fined for watering the beer in the Temperance interest. This injustice rankled in him deeply, and seems to have permanently influenced his development. For a time he forsook the world and joined a sect of persons who called themselves “Theophilanthropists”—and surely no man could call himself much more than that? Returning to mundane affairs, he refused to pay his rates, stood for Parliament in the Socialist interest, and, being defeated, declared himself a practical follower of Count Tolstoy. His father advising a short holiday, he went off and narrowly escaped being shot somewhere in the Balkans, owing to his having taken too keen an interest in local politics. (He ought to have been shot; he was clear—and even vehement—on that point in a letter which he wrote to The Times.) Then he sent for Leonard Stabb, disappeared in company with that gentleman, and was no more seen for some years.

IT was Christmas Eve. I remember it just as if it was yesterday. The Colonel had been pretending not to notice it, but when Drinkwater Torm knocked over both the great candlesticks, and in his attempt to pick them up lurched over himself and fell sprawling on the floor, he yelled at him. Torm pulled himself together, and began an explanation, in which the point was that he had not "teched a drap in Gord knows how long," but the Colonel cut him short."Get out of the room, you drunken vagabond!" he roared. Torm was deeply offended. He made a low, grand bow, and with as much dignity as his unsteady condition would admit, marched very statelily from the room, and passing out through the dining-room, where he stopped to abstract only one more drink from the long, heavy, cut-glass decanter on the sideboard, meandered to his house in the back-yard, where he proceeded to talk religion to Charity, his wife, as he always did when he was particularly drunk. He was expounding the vision of the golden candlestick, and the bowl and seven lamps and two olive-trees, when he fell asleep. The roarer, as has been said, was the Colonel; the meanderer was Drinkwater Torm. The Colonel gave him the name, "because," he said, "if he were to drink water once he would die."As Drinkwater closed the door, the Colonel continued, fiercely:"Damme, Polly, I will! I'll sell him to-morrow morning; and if I can't sell him I'll give him away."Polly, with troubled great dark eyes, was wheedling him vigorously. "No; I tell you, I'll sell him.—'Misery in his back!' the mischief! he's a drunken, trifling, good-for-nothing nigger! and I have sworn to sell him a thousand—yes, ten thousand times; and now I'll have to do it to keep my word."

Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her 'Little Miss Tranquility', and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out. The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze. "They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair." "I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth. "No, I shall!" cried Amy. "I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, "I'm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone."

Néha falra másznál a gyerekeidt?l? El?fordul, hogy szinte az ?rületbe kergetnek, és a legszívesebben egy lakatlan szigetre k?lt?znél? K?zben lelkiismeret-furdalás gy?t?r, nehogy a rossz d?ntéseiddel érzelmi nyomorékká tedd ?ket? Akkor ez a te k?nyved! Szül?k százezrei esküsznek szerte a világban Nigel Latta gyermek- és családpszichológus egyszer?, ?szinte és garantáltan sikeres tanácsaira. ?lszenteskedés és szépelgés helyett lényegre t?r?en, tudóskodás nélkül megmutatja, miként lehet túlélni az els? tíz év alapproblémáit: ??n gyerekeket javítok, ez a munkám. ?s ha egy kissrác pofára tud ejteni egy rakat szakért?t a nevelési tanácsadóban, akkor engem ez a gyerek nagyon érdekel.” A szobatisztaságtól a megfejthetetlennek t?n? dührohamokig; a helytelen alvási szokásoktól a válogatós étkezésig; az iskolai nehézségekt?l a prekamaszok testképzavaráig; a félelmekt?l a komoly szorongásokig, a szerz? minden egyes élethelyzetben konkrét eligazítást ad a családi mindennapok kínos útveszt?ihez: ?A gyereknevelés olyan, mint a legizgalmasabb tévés valóságshow, csak ennek mi vagyunk a szerepl?i. A tévém?sorhoz képest persze hátrány, hogy itt nem lehet kiszavazni senkit. ?s sajnos a végén nem kapunk milliós nyereményt sem. De ha csak félig tisztességesen játsszunk, nagyon szép élményekben lesz részünk.” Ha az a cél, hogy megértsd, mit akar a gyereked, mit nem akar, és valójában mire van szüksége, k?zben pedig ne tépjétek rongyosra egymás idegeit, már a születésekor olvasd el ezt a k?nyvet. De legkés?bb, miel?tt kirepül otthonról.

Mrázik Julianna a Pécsi Tudományegyetem Neveléstudományi Intézete Nevelés és Oktatáselméleti Tanszékének vezet?je. Közel száz tudományos megjelenéssel rendelkezik, közöttük angol és német nyelv? publikációkkal. Magyar és nemzetközi konferenciák gyakori résztvev?je, szakért?i tevékenységet folytat, számos kutatásban vett részt, folyóirat-szerkeszt?bizottsági tag és tananyagfejleszt?, pedagógus-továbbképzési szak indítója és programgazdája. Opponensi, témavezet?i, Országos Tudományos Diákköri konzulensi tevékenységet folytat és külföldi hallgatóknak kínál konzultációt. Oktatott tantárgyai a pedagógiai kreatológia, a tankönyvelemzés, a bevezetés a pedagógiába, tanítás tanulása, a neveléselmélet és pedagógiai antropológia, a nevelés és iskola.A monográfia célja, hogy  tanárképzésben és a tanártovábbképzésben résztvev?k megismerkedjenek az intézményes és nem-intézményes nevelés aktuális és megoldandó feladataival, valamint a hazai és nemzetközi törekvésekkel ezen feladatok megoldására. A nemzetközi és összehasonlító megközelítés? kötet számos témája közé tartozik a nevelés (pedagógiai) antropológiai megközelítése, történeti-filozófiai el?zményei, kapcsolódásai más tudományterületekkel, a nevelés stílusai, valamint a nevel?- és a tanulószerep.

In giving to the world the record of what, looked at as an adventure only, is I suppose one of the most wonderful and mysterious experiences ever undergone by mortal men, I feel it incumbent on me to explain what my exact connection with it is. And so I may as well say at once that I am not the narrator but only the editor of this extraordinary history, and then go on to tell how it found its way into my hands. Some years ago I, the editor, was stopping with a friend, "vir doctissimus et amicus neus," at a certain University, which for the purposes of this history we will call Cambridge, and was one day much struck with the appearance of two persons whom I saw going arm-in-arm down the street. One of these gentlemen was I think, without exception, the handsomest young fellow I have ever seen. He was very tall, very broad, and had a look of power and a grace of bearing that seemed as native to him as it is to a wild stag. In addition his face was almost without flaw—a good face as well as a beautiful one, and when he lifted his hat, which he did just then to a passing lady, I saw that his head was covered with little golden curls growing close to the scalp. "Good gracious!" I said to my friend, with whom I was walking, "why, that fellow looks like a statue of Apollo come to life. What a splendid man he is!" "Yes," he answered, "he is the handsomest man in the University, and one of the nicest too. They call him 'the Greek god'; but look at the other one, he's Vincey's (that's the god's name) guardian, and supposed to be full of every kind of information. They call him 'Charon.'" I looked, and found the older man quite as interesting in his way as the glorified specimen of humanity at his side. He appeared to be about forty years of age, and was I think as ugly as his companion was handsome. To begin with, he was shortish, rather bow-legged, very deep chested, and with unusually long arms. He had dark hair and small eyes, and the hair grew right down on his forehead, and his whiskers grew right up to his hair, so that there was uncommonly little of his countenance to be seen. Altogether he reminded me forcibly of a gorilla, and yet there was something very pleasing and genial about the man's eye. I remember saying that I should like to know him.

The object of this book, which is addressed to all cultured men and women, is to set forth the primitive manifestations of love and to throw light on those strange emotional climaxes which I have called "Metaphysical Eroticism." I have taken no account of historical detail, except where it served the purpose of proving, explaining and illustrating my subject. Nor have I hesitated to intermingle psychological motives and motives arising from the growth and spread of civilisation. The inevitable result of a one-sided glimpse at historical facts would have been a history of love, an undertaking for which I lack both ability and inclination. On the other hand, had I written a merely psychological treatise, disregarding the succession of periods, I should have laid myself open to the just reproach of giving rein to my imagination instead of dealing with reality. I have availed myself of historical facts to demonstrate that what psychology has shown to be the necessary phases of the evolution of love, have actually existed in historical time and characterised a whole period of civilisation. The history of civilisation is an end in itself only in the chapter entitled "The Birth of Europe." My work is intended to be first and foremost a monograph on the emotional life of the human race. I am prepared to meet rather with rejection than with approval. Neither the historian nor the psychologist will be pleased. Moreover, I am well aware that my standpoint is hopelessly "old-fashioned." To-day nearly all the world is content to look upon the sexual impulse as the source of all erotic emotion and to regard love as nothing more nor less than its most exquisite radiation. My book, on the contrary, endeavours to establish its complete independence of sexuality.My contention that so powerful an emotion as love should have come into existence in historical, not very remote times, will seem very strange; for, all outward profession of faith in evolution notwithstanding, men are still inclined to take the unchangeableness of human nature for granted. The facts on which I have based my arguments are well known, but my deductions are new; it is not for me to decide whether they are right or wrong. In the first (introductory) part I have made use of works already in existence, in addition to Plato and the poets, but the second and third parts are founded almost entirely on original research. ?E. L.

Nina Elliot sosem gondolta volna, hogy ennyire bátor lesz. Elhagyja a férfit, aki nem érdemelte meg a szerelmét, és beolvas a f?nökének, majd hangosan becsapja maga mögött az ajtót, és kilép a bizonytalanságba. Maga sem sejti, hogy erre a régóta halogatott döntésre van szüksége ahhoz, hogy egyszer csak szembejöjjön vele a nagy lehet?ség. Egy váratlan találkozásnak köszönhet?en visszatérhet korábbi munkahelyére, a fest?i Milton-birtokra, ahol az író családf?nek segíthet könyve el?készületi munkálataiban. Egy nyárra szól a megállapodás, addig lakik újra a családdal az egykori bébiszitter, és így a lány id?t nyerhet, amíg kitalálja, hogyan tovább. Dehogy számít rá, hogy a Milton fiúk, akik id?közben feln?ttek, csapni kezdik neki a szelet… Ráadásul közvetlenül egy nagy csalódás után nem is szeretne új kapcsolatba kezdeni. Csakhogy a forró nyár a romantika id?szaka is, a lány pedig egyre jobban belejön a döntéshozatalba…     Victoria Connelly harmadik magyar nyelv? regénye is egy meseszer? világba kalauzolja az olvasót. A Bárcsak itt lennél és a Szökevény színészn? szerz?je ezúttal is tökéletes nyári történetet kínál, a görög vakáció és a skót táj után pedig szül?hazájába viszi el olvasóit, a t?le megszokott romantikus történetvezetéssel. Fej?s Éva     A szerz? további m?vei: Bárcsak itt lennél Szökevény színészn?

André Stern annak az új létezési formának az el?futára, amelyben újra kell értelmeznünk a gyermekekhez való hozzáállásunkat, elképzeléseinket a nevelésr?l, a tanulásról, az egymással való viselkedési formákról.