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There were persons in Dorfield who said that Mary Louise’s life was too easy; that Fortune had smiled on her more than any one mortal had a right to expect. Why should beauty, charm, intelligence, and riches all belong to one girl? Why should she have an enormously wealthy grandfather whose one idea was to gratify her every wish, when any other girl, if she had any grandfather at all, was, perhaps, forced to support him or, at any rate, never got even a taste of the breast of the chicken because of the troublesome old gentleman’s predilection for that portion of the fowl?

So that you may understand my heroine, I am going to write a preface and tell you about her forebears.

In the latter part of the seventeenth century, there was a young blacksmith in our part of the country named Josiah Spencer. He had a quick eye, a quick hand and a quicker temper.

Because of his quick eye he married a girl named Mary McMillan. Because of his quick hand, he was never in need of employment. And because of his quick temper, he left the place of his birth one day and travelled west until he came to a ford which crossed the Quinebaug River.

There is something particularly fascinating about the study of the literature and philosophy of the eighteenth century, with its gradual evolution of lofty social ideals which the Revolution failed to realise. When the altered circumstances brought promotion within my reach, it completely brought me under its sway, and ultimately came to determine my choice of a subject for an inaugural dissertation. It was while engaged upon tracing the influence of Rousseau’s hopebringing theories on his English disciple William Godwin, that the less boldly assertive, but all the more humanly attractive personality of the latter’s first wife, Mary Wollstonecraft, attracted my attention. My admiration of her husband’s intellect paled before my sympathy for her more modest, but at the same time more emotional character. Where the indebtedness of Godwin to Rousseau and the Encyclopedians has been manifested so clearly in different works, the absence of any direct attempt to prove and determine the extent of the relations between Mary Wollstonecraft and the early French philosophers struck me as an omission for which I found it difficult to account, and made me turn to a subject to which I am fully aware that a book of the size of the present little volume does but scant justice.

With a few rare exceptions this brilliant nobility has fallen into utter ruin. Among the gondoliers who serve the English to whom history here reads the lesson of their future fate there are descendants of long dead Doges whose names are older than those of sovereigns. On some bridge, as you glide past it, if you are ever in Venice, you may admire some lovely girl in rags, a poor child belonging, perhaps, to one of the most famous patrician families. When a nation of kings has fallen so low, naturally some curious characters will be met with. It is not surprising that sparks should flash out among the ashes.

If I speak of myself in this story, it is because I have been deeply involved in its startling events, events doubtless among the most extraordinary which this twentieth century will witness. Sometimes I even ask myself if all this has really happened, if its pictures dwell in truth in my memory, and not merely in my imagination. In my position as head inspector in the federal police department at Washington, urged on moreover by the desire, which has always been very strong in me, to investigate and understand everything which is mysterious, I naturally became much interested in these remarkable occurrences. And as I have been employed by the government in various important affairs and secret missions since I was a mere lad, it also happened very naturally that the head of my department placed In my charge this astonishing investigation, wherein I found myself wrestling with so many impenetrable mysteries.
In the remarkable passages of the recital, it is important that you should believe my word. For some of the facts I can bring no other testimony than my own. If you do not wish to believe me, so be it. I can scarce believe it all myself.

A compendium of all short stories written by French writer Guy De Maupassant in thirteen volumes. He is remembered as a master of the short story form, and as a representative of the naturalist school of writers, who depicted human lives and destinies and social forces in disillusioned and often pessimistic terms.

This is “Max,” Katherine Cecil Thurston’s story of a young Russian princess, who, disguised as a boy, flees to the Montmartre Quarter of Paris the night before her arranged marriage. Like everything Thurston wrote, it’s a fine read and a great adventure. Born Katherine Cecil Madden in Cork, Ireland, Thurston was a contributing author of short stories for various British publications.

The Quedak lay on a small hilltop and watched a slender jet of light descend through the sky. The feather-tailed jet was golden, and brighter than the sun. Poised above it was a glistening metallic object, fabricated rather than natural, hauntingly familiar. The Quedak tried to think what it was.

He couldn’t remember. His memories had atrophied with his functions, leaving only scattered fragments of images. He searched among them now, leafing through his brief scraps of ruined cities, dying populations, a blue-water-filled canal, two moons, a spaceship….

That was it. The descending object was a spaceship. There had been many of them during the great days of the Quedak.

This Memoir was written for, and at the request of, the near relatives, and intimate friends, of the home-loving country gentleman, whose unlooked-for death had made them all mourners indeed. Had it been meant originally for publication, it would have taken a very different form. In compiling it, my whole thoughts were fixed on my own sons and nephews, and not on the public. It tells of a life with which indeed the public has no concern in one sense; for my brother, with all his ability and power of different kinds, was one of the humblest and most retiring of men; who just did his own duty, and held his own tongue, without the slightest effort or wish for fame or notoriety of any kind. In another sense, however, I do see that it has a meaning and interest for Englishmen in general, and have therefore consented to its publication in the usual way, though not without a[viii] sense of discomfort and annoyance at having the veil even partially lifted from the intimacies of a private family circle. For, in a noisy and confused time like ours, it does seem to me that most of us have need to be reminded of, and will be the better for bearing in mind, the reserve of strength and power which lies quietly at the nation’s call, outside the whirl and din of public and fashionable life, and entirely ignored in the columns of the daily press. The subject of this memoir was only a good specimen of thousands of Englishmen of high culture, high courage, high principle, who are living their own quiet lives in every corner of the kingdom, from John o’ Groat’s to the Land’s-End, bringing up their families in the love of God and their neighbour, and keeping the atmosphere around them clean, and pure and strong, by their example,—men who would come to the front, and might be relied on, in any serious national crisis.

It is well known that the province of New-York, anciently called Manahattos by the Indians, was originally settled by a Dutch colony, which came from Holland, I think, in the time of Charles the Second. Finding the country to their liking, they were followed by others more wealthy and better informed. Some of the early emigrants also appear to have been people respectable both from their family and character. Of these the principal were the Cuylers, the Schuylers, the Rensselaers, the Delanceys, the Cortlandts, the Tenbroeks, and the Beekmans, who have all of them been since distinguished in the late civil wars, either as persecuted loyalists or triumphant patriots. I do not precisely recollect the motives assigned for the voluntary exile of persons who were evidently in circumstances that might admit of their living in comfort at home, but am apt to think that the early settlers were those who adhered to the interest of the Stadtholder’s family, a party which, during the minority of King William, was almost persecuted by the high republicans. Those who came over at a later period probably belong to the party which opposed the Stadtholder, and which was then in its turn depressed. These persons afterwards distinguished themselves by an aversion, almost amounting to antipathy, to the British army, and indeed to all the British colonists. Their notions were mean and contracted; their manners blunt and austere; and their habits sordid and parsimonious. As the settlement began to extend they retired, and formed new establishments, afterwards called Fishkill, Esopus, &c.

Several literary men of eminence have from time to time suggested to me that I ought to write my memoirs, but I have long held the opinion that such works have scarcely a legitimate interest for one’s contemporaries. Now, however, that I have exceeded, by fourteen years, the age of man, I begin to regard the opinion of others, and to look upon myself as a sort of incipient posterity, and am disposed to make the experiment of placing some portion of my life on record.

“In reading the history of nations, we find that, like individuals, they have their whims and their peculiarities; their seasons of excitement and recklessness, when they care not what they do. We find that whole communities suddenly fix their minds upon one object, and go mad in its pursuit; that millions of people become simultaneously impressed with one delusion, and run after it, till their attention is caught by some new folly more captivating than the first. We see one nation suddenly seized, from its highest to its lowest members, with a fierce desire of military glory; another as suddenly becoming crazed upon a religious scruple; and neither of them recovering its senses until it has shed rivers of blood and sowed a harvest of groans and tears, to be reaped by its posterity. At an early age in the annals of Europe its population lost their wits about the sepulchre of Jesus, and crowded in frenzied multitudes to the Holy Land; another age went mad for fear of the devil, and offered up hundreds of thousands of victims to the delusion of witchcraft.” -Preface

Memoirs of My Life and Writings is an account of the historian Edward Gibbon’s life, compiled after his death by his friend Lord Sheffield from six fragmentary autobiographical works Gibbon wrote during his last years.

Best described on its title page as the “Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte by Louis Antoine Fauvelet de Bourrienne, his private secretary, to which are added an account of the important events of the Hundred Days, of Napoleon’s surrender to the English, and of his residence and death at St. Helena, with anecdotes and illustrative extracts from all the most authentic sources, edited by R.W. Phipps. Colonel, late Royal Artillery.”

The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes are overshadowed by the event with which they close – the meeting of the great detective and Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime. Their struggle, seemingly to the death, was to leave many readers desolate at the loss of Holmes, but was also to lead to his immortality as a literary figure.

This volume of papers, unconnected as they are, it will be better to read through from the beginning, rather than dip into at random.

It would be unnatural to have such an assemblage as this meet in the Museum and Faculty Room of this University and yet have no public word spoken in honor of a name which must be silently present to the minds of all our visitors.

An in-depth series of chapters devoted to the use of our memory system; as the title suggests, how to develop our memory system, how to train it to improve it, and how to make the best use of it in our everyday lives, and to improve our positions in life. This is not intended to be a series of chapters to impress friends and colleagues, nor to play ‘tricks’ on others, rather it is for the betterment of individuals in whatever walk of life in which they may be involved by training and using their memory toward that end

Men Like Gods book ;Best book of H.G. Wells; FICTION / General book;Classics Book

I offer this book as a continuation of the memoirs of men of invention and industry published some years ago in the ‘Lives of Engineers,’ ‘Industrial Biography,’ and ‘Self-Help.’

The early chapters relate to the history of a very important branch of British industry—that of Shipbuilding. A later chapter, kindly prepared by Sir Edward J. Harland, of Belfast, relates to the origin and progress of shipbuilding in Ireland.

Many of the facts set forth in the Life and Inventions of William Murdock have already been published in my ‘Lives of Boulton and Watt;’ but these are now placed in a continuous narrative, and supplemented by other information, more particularly the correspondence between Watt and Murdock, communicated to me by the present representative of the family, Mr. Murdock, C.E., of Gilwern, near Abergavenny.