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The Aspern Papers is a novella by American writer Henry James, originally published in The Atlantic Monthly in 1888, with its first book publication later in the same year. One of James's best-known and most acclaimed longer tales, The Aspern Papers is based on the letters Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote to Mary Shelley's stepsister, Claire Clairmont, who saved them until she died. Set in Venice, The Aspern Papers demonstrates James's ability to generate suspense while never neglecting the development of his characters. (Wikipedia)

Spanish Papers is a number of stories and legends covering the history of the Muslim conquest of Spain and the later recovery by Christian forces. These stories are from unpublished manuscripts left by Washington Irving in his will after his death.(Goodreads)

Written for publication as a serial,'The Pickwick Papers'is a sequence of loosely-related adventures. The action is given as occurring 1827–28. The novel's main character, Samuel Pickwick, Esquire, is a kind and wealthy old gentleman, and the founder and perpetual president of the Pickwick Club. To extend his researches into the quaint and curious phenomena of life, he suggests that he and three other'Pickwickians'(Mr Nathaniel Winkle, Mr Augustus Snodgrass, and Mr Tracy Tupman) should make journeys to remote places from London and report on their findings to the other members of the club. Their travels throughout the eng countryside by coach provide the chief theme of the novel. A distinctive and valuable feature of the work is the generally accurate descriptions of the old coaching inns of England… (Excerpt from Wikipedia)

After the immense success of'Reginald', Hector Hugh Munro wrote a sequel to it i.e.'Reginald in Russia'. In this book, Saki further narrates some more interesting and fun tales about the young man Reginald. (Goodreads)

The Purcell Papers (1880) are a collection of thirteen Gothic, supernatural, historical and humorous short stories by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (1814–73) originally written for the Dublin University Magazine. The first twelve were written between 1838–40 and purport to be extracts from the'MS. Papers of the late Rev. Francis Purcell, of Drumcoolagh', a Catholic priest.

The Purcell Papers (1880) are a collection of thirteen Gothic, supernatural, historical and humorous short stories by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (1814–73) originally written for the Dublin University Magazine. The first twelve were written between 1838–40 and purport to be extracts from the'MS. Papers of the late Rev. Francis Purcell, of Drumcoolagh', a Catholic priest.

The Purcell Papers (1880) are a collection of thirteen Gothic, supernatural, historical and humorous short stories by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (1814–73) originally written for the Dublin University Magazine. The first twelve were written between 1838–40 and purport to be extracts from the'MS. Papers of the late Rev. Francis Purcell, of Drumcoolagh', a Catholic priest.

Excerpt:'The three essays composing this small book were written several years ago for publication in the'Times Literary Supplement,'to the editor of which I owe the encouragement to write them, and now the permission to reprint them. Inadequate as periodical criticism, they need still more justification in a book. Some apology, therefore, is required. My intention had been to write a series of papers on the poetry of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: beginning with Chapman and Donne, and ending with Johnson. This forbidden fruit of impossible leisure might have filled two volumes. At best, it would not have pretended to completeness; the subjects would have been restricted by my own ignorance and caprice, but the series would have included Aurelian Townshend and Bishop King, and the authors of'Cooper's Hill'and'The Vanity of Human Wishes,'as well as Swift and Pope. That which dissipation interrupts, the infirmities of age come to terminate. One learns to conduct one's life with greater economy: I have abandoned this design in the pursuit of other policies. I have long felt that the poetry of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, even much of that of inferior inspiration, possesses an elegance and a dignity absent from the popular and pretentious verse of the Romantic Poets and their successors. To have urged this claim persuasively would have led me indirectly into considerations of politics, education, and theology which I no longer care to approach in this way. I hope that these three papers may in spite of and partly because of their defects preserve in cryptogram certain notions which, if expressed directly, would be destined to immediate obloquy, followed by perpetual oblivion.'

Excerpt:'“Message for Mr. Carter!” The wireless operator of the steamship Marathon, in the linen clothes and pith helmet ordinarily worn by white people in the tropics, came along the steamer deck with a slip of paper in his hand and stopped in front of a row of steamer chairs under an awning. “Where's it from?” asked the occupant of one of the chairs, springing to his feet. “From shore, sir—Calcutta.” Nick Carter, who was holding out his hand even as he got up from his chair, took the paper quickly and glanced at the few words it contained: “Get up to Nepal quickly.” That was all. There was no signature, and the operator could not say who had sent it. “It came from the main office of the telegraph company in Calcutta,” he explained. “The operator told me a native man brought it in and paid for it. He said there would be no answer, and his own name did not matter.” “It is many years since I was in Calcutta last,” observed Nick Carter, to his companions, as the operator went back to the wireless room. “Then it was only for a few days, and I did not make many acquaintances.” A tall, middle-aged man, whose square face and straight-seeing dark eyes, as well as his decided manner of speech, were all suggestive of the successful American business man, got up from one of the chairs and looked over Nick Carter's shoulder at the telegram he still held open in one hand.'

Excerpt:'While waiting for an assignment, in the local room of the New York Universe, I began to while away the time by reading the fulsome effusions of the press agent of Greater Luna Park. They aroused in me the spirit of covetousness—I envied the press agent his vocabulary, which put the supply of superlatives into bankruptcy; and I was jealous of the success of Thompson & Dundy, whom I hoped some day to rival. Their first success had come with “A Trip to the Moon;” why might not I— “Go to Hell,” I read on the paper which the “copy” boy just then thrust into my hand. Before I could question him, the “devil” had gone. I glanced suspiciously at my fellow-scribes to see who had perpetrated the joke, if such it was, but no one seemed to be watching what effect the command had upon me. I again examined the odd message. It was in the handwriting of Mr. Burroughs, the city editor, so to him I went. Holding out the slip of paper, I said: “I have just received an assignment to ‘cover'a certain subterranean resort named after the box in which printers throw battered type, but as the route there is unfamiliar, I have come to you for instructions.” The “czar” of the city room frowned, but on reading the missive the frown was succeeded by an amused smile. “Who gave you this?” he asked. “The ‘devil'.”'

Excerpt:'“Nicholas Carter, and his first assistant, Chickering Carter, had risen early that morning, but not for the usual reason. It was a very unusual occasion in the great detective's household, for he and Chick were actually going away for two weeks'vacation in the Adirondacks. The train that was to carry the two to the Great North Woods was scheduled to leave shortly after eight o'clock, and many preparations had been deferred until that morning. Now, however, everything was practically ready, their trunk was packed, locked, and strapped, their suit cases were nearly filled, and they had time for a bite of breakfast and a glance at the morning papers, which had thus far been neglected. Nick seemed to be the only one who was interested in the news. In fact, his assistant made a wry face when he saw his chief reaching for one of the papers. “Can't you forget that sort of thing?” he asked, in an injured tone. “I was hoping you would until we got well started, at least.” “What's the trouble?” Nick asked, in a bewildered tone. “Oh, I see what you are driving at! You are afraid I'll see something interesting in the line of crimes and mysteries, and decide at the last minute to stay at home? Is that the idea?” His assistant nodded gloomily. “Correct,” he answered. “I never know which way you are going to jump, or at what moment. When I'm trying to get you off for a holiday, especially, I feel the greatest responsibility. You have such a way of changing your mind, and, if you don't, somebody usually bobs up with a case that you find irresistible. You've been working your head off for months, and you are run down; you know you are.” Chick grinned. “You are not exactly at the breaking point yet,” he went on, “but you are just a little stale, and that won't do, you know. Any day something may break that will require your keenest brain work, and your last ounce of strength and agility. Of course, things will turn up; of course, you'll have all sorts of calls every day, and if you allow yourself to read the papers, you'll run across plenty of things that will prove fascinating to you. Can't you cut yourself loose, though—absolutely?” “I've done harder things than that, grandmother,” Nick answered, “but I really don't see the necessity for that sort of total abstinence. If you think I'm going to cut out all newspapers for two weeks, you're very much mistaken. I've promised to go, though, and I'm going—unless, of course, something turns up that is altogether too big to neglect.”'

The Man in the Brown Suit is a work of detective fiction by British writer Agatha Christie, first published in the UK by The Bodley Head on 22 August 1924 and in the US by Dodd, Mead and Company later in the same year. The character Colonel Race is introduced in this novel. Anne Beddingfeld is on her own and ready for adventures when one comes her way. She sees a man die in a tube station and picks up a piece of paper dropped nearby. The message on the paper leads her to South Africa as she fits more pieces of the puzzle together about the death she witnessed. There is a murder in England the next day, and the murderer attempts to kill her on the ship en route to Cape Town.

On his deathbed, O'Ruddy's father entrusts him with some papers to deliver to England. Shortly after the father's death, O'Ruddy travels to England with the papers. Not long after his arrival, his papers are stolen...

Excerpt:'The Owl shows its blue and gilt cover on the bookstalls every Saturday morning. Thursday nights are therefore nights of turmoil in the offices in Fleet Street. They are always wearing nights; more so, of course, in hot weather than in cold. They are nights of discomfort for the office-boy and of something worse for the editor. Spencer Hastings edited The Owl, and owned a third of it; and the little paper's success showed him to possess both brains and capacity for hard work. For a man of thirty-three he had achieved much; but that capacity for work was hard tested—especially on Thursday nights. As to the brains, there was really no doubt of their quality. Take, for instance, The Owl “specials.” After he had thought of them and given birth to the first, The Owl, really a weekly review, was enabled to reap harvests in the way of “scoops” without in any way degenerating into a mere purveyor of news.'

Excerpt:'My name is Martin—James Briggs Martin—but almost everybody calls me Tallow, because once when I was younger I saw old Uncle Ike Bond rubbing tallow on his boots to shine them, and then hurried home and fixed mine up with the stub of a candle and went to school. I guess it couldn't have smelled very good, for everybody seemed to notice it, even teacher, and she asked me what in the world I'd been getting into. After that all the boys called me Tallow, and always will, I guess. I tell you about me first only because I'm writing this account of what happened. Mark Tidd is really the fellow I'm writing about, and Mark's father and mother, and the engine Mr. Tidd was inventing out in his barn, and some other folks who will be told about in their places. I helped some; so did Plunk Smalley and Binney Jenks, but Mark Tidd did most of it. Mark Tidd sounds like a short name, doesn't it? But it isn't short at all, for it's merely what's left of Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd, which was what he was christened, mostly out of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, a big book that Mr. Tidd was so fond of reading that he never read much of anything else except the papers.'

Excerpt:'Primarily, there were the conditions under which she was brought to fifteen years of age: the crowded, scummy tenements; the narrow green-painted halls with their dim gas-jets, making the entrance look more like that of a morgue than a dwelling-place; the dirty halls and rooms with their green or blue or brown walls painted to save the cost of paper; the bare wooden floors, long since saturated with every type of grease and filth from oleomargarine and suet leaked from cheap fats or meats, to beer and whiskey and tobacco-juice. A little occasional scrubbing by some would-be hygienic tenant was presumed to keep or make clean some of the chambers and halls. And then the streets outside—any of the streets by which she had ever been surrounded—block upon block of other red, bare, commonplace tenements crowded to the doors with human life, the space before them sped over by noisy, gassy trucks and vehicles of all kinds. And stifling in summer, dusty and icy in winter; decorated on occasion by stray cats and dogs, pawing in ashcans, watched over by lordly policemen, and always running with people, people, people—who made their living heaven only knows how, existing in such a manner as their surroundings suggested.'

Excerpt:'Mr. H. G. WELLS brought out some time ago an Outline of History, the object of which was to deny the Christian religion. I examined this production for the benefit of my co-religionists in the columns of certain Catholic papers. I did full justice to Mr. Wells's talents as a writer, but I exposed his ill acquaintance with modern work on Biology, with early Christian writing and tradition, with Christian doctrine itself: and, in general, his incompetence. Stung by this exposure, Mr. Wells has just brought out against me a small pamphlet, under the title of Mr. Belloc Objects to the “Outline of History.” It is an excited, popular, crude attack, full of personal insult and brawling, and ample proof that he is hit. But it is singularly weak in argument, confused in reply, and, as I shall show in a moment, shirks nine-tenths of the very damaging criticism which I directed against his book. That book denies a creative God. There is no God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth. The Incarnation is a myth; the Resurrection a falsehood; the Eucharist a mummery.'

Arrowsmith tells the story of bright and scientifically minded Martin Arrowsmith of Elk Mills, Winnemac (the same fictional state in which several of Lewis's other novels are set), as he makes his way from a small town in the Midwest to the upper echelons of the scientific community at a prestigious foundation in New York City. Along the way he begins medical school. He becomes engaged to one woman, cheats on her with another woman, becomes engaged to the second woman and then finally invites both women to a lunch to settle the issue. He eventually insults his mentor, Max Gottlieb, and is suspended from school. He takes up life as an ordinary worker, then marries Leora with her family supporting him based on the promise that he will take up private practice as the only doctor in tiny Wheatsylvania, North Dakota. Frustrated with the work, he moves on to a job at the state Department of Public Health branch in Nautilus, Iowa, then becomes romantically involved with the young daughter of its local director. After a series of political disputes, he resigns and joins the staff of an exclusive private hospital in Chicago. Finally, Arrowsmith is recognized by his former mentor, Gottlieb, for a scientific paper he has written, and is invited to take a post with a wealthy and elite research institute in New York City. The book's climax deals with Arrowsmith's discovery of a phage that destroys bacteria and his experiences as he faces an outbreak of bubonic plague on a fictional Caribbean island.

Excerpt:'Wilford Heaton is not my real name, for why should I publish it to the world? The reason I do not give it is, first, because I have no desire to be made the object of idle curiosity or speculation, and secondly, although the explanation herein given will clear the honour of one of the most powerful of the Imperial Houses in Europe, I have no wish that my true name should be associated with it. I have, however, a reason for writing this narrative—a very strong reason. The story is an enthralling one; the adventures stranger, perhaps, than ever happened to any other living person. I have resolved to relate the plain unvarnished facts in their sequence, just as they occurred, without seeking to suppress or embellish, but to recount the strange adventures just as they are registered in the small leather portfolio, or secret dossier, which still, at this moment, reposes in the archives of a certain Ministry in one of the European capitals. There have recently been stories afloat—strange stories. At first I laughed at all the absurd rumours, but very quickly I saw how seriously distorted the real facts had become, for ingenious paragraphs of certain so-called Society papers, grasping the story eagerly, worked it up into a narrative which reflected very seriously upon the honour of one who is dearest in all the world to me. Well, my tale—or exposure—is written here. In order that those who read may clearly follow the curious chain of circumstances, it is necessary for me to go back some eight years or so—not a long period as far as time goes, but to me a veritable century. I was young, just turned twenty five. I was decently well-off, having come into an income of nearly a couple of thousand a year left me by my father, a sum which put me beyond the necessity of entering business, pursuing the daily grind, or troubling about the morrow. My career at Oxford had, I fear, been marked by a good many shortcomings and many youthful escapades, but I ended it by taking my degree of Bachelor of Medicine, shortly afterwards pursuing the fashionable habit of “going abroad.” Within two years, however, I returned to London world-weary—like so many other young men who, being left comfortably off, commence to taste the enjoyment of life too early—and settled down in a suite of smoke-begrimed rooms in Essex Street, Strand.'

Excerpt:'“Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.”—Proverbs xviii, 22. “Have those urgent dispatches come in from Berlin, Deedes?” “Captain Hammerton has not yet arrived,” I answered. “Eleven o'clock! Tut, tut! Every moment's delay means greater risk,” and the Earl of Warnham, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, strode up and down his private room, with his hat still on, impatiently snapping his bony fingers in agitation quite unusual to him. “Hammerton wired from Berlin yesterday, when on the point of leaving,” I observed, taking a telegram from the table before me. “In cipher?” “Yes.” “No accident is reported in the papers, I suppose?” “Nothing in the Times,” I replied. “Strange, very strange, that he should be so long overdue,” the Earl said, at last casting himself into his padded chair, and lounging back, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he stared thoughtfully into space.'

Excerpt:'Italian humour, says Mr. J. A. Symonds, died with Ariosto; and, in the face of such a declaration, any attempt to bring together a collection of specimens, some of which at any rate belong to a more recent date, would seem to savour of presumption. Yet, even at the risk of differing from such a recognised authority on Italian literature, we venture to think that a good deal has been produced since the age of Ariosto which may legitimately be defined as humour, though, for various reasons presently to be detailed, there are peculiar difficulties connected with its presentation in a foreign tongue It may as well be said at once that the professed humorist, the writer who is comic and nothing else, or, at any rate, whose main scope is to be funny, is all but unknown in modern Italian literature. Strictly speaking, he is perhaps a Germanic rather than a Latin product. The jokes in Italian comic and other papers are not, as a rule, overpoweringly amusing; and if we do come across a book which sets itself forth as Umoristico, the chances are that it turns out to be very tragical mirth indeed. But in novels and tales, even in essays and descriptions, which have no specially humorous intention, you often come across passages of a pure and spontaneous humour, inimitable in its own kind.'

Excerpt: “The steamship Nemesis, of two thousand five hundred and fifty tons register, and belonging to the port of London, had nearly finished her loading one foggy afternoon in a foggy November. She was at Tilbury, taking in a general cargo for Capetown and Australian ports, and as the last few cases were coming on board the skipper came on board too by way of the big gangway, close by which the second mate was standing.'Is that the last of it?'asked the'old man'gloomily.'Yes, sir,'said Mr. Cade with equal gloominess. When a man is second mate at the age of fifty it is not surprising that he should be sulky.'And it is time it was, for we're well down to our mark, and no mistake about it, sir.'Captain Jordan said nothing, but walked for'ard to his cabin and sat down wearily. He threw a bundle of papers on his table, and filling his pipe smoked for a few minutes. He was a fine handsome white-headed man of some fifty-two years, and had once been ambitious. Now he worked for Messrs. Gruddle, Shody, & Co., and, as all seamen knew, to work for them was to have lost all chances that following the sea affords even in these days.'

Excerpt:'Jack Hartwell's place was not of sufficient importance in Lo Lo Valley to be indicated by a brand name. It was a little four-room, rough-lumber and tar-paper shack, half buried in a clump of cottonwoods on the bank of Slow Elk Creek. The house had been built several years before by a man named Morgan, who had the mistaken idea that a nester might be welcome on the Lo Lo range. He had moved in quietly, built his shack, and—then the riders from Marsh Hartwell's Arrow outfit had seen his smoke. Whether or not Marsh Hartwell legally owned the property made no difference; he claimed it. And few men cared to dispute Marsh Hartwell. At any rate, it was proved that a nester was not welcome on the Arrow. It was an August afternoon. Only a slight breeze moved the dry leaves of the cottonwoods, and the air was resonant with the hum of insects. Molly Hartwell, Jack Hartwell's wife, stood on the unshaded front steps of the house, looking down across the valley, which was hazy with the heat waves. Mrs. Hartwell was possibly twenty years of age, tall, slender; a decided brunette of the Spanish type, although there was no Spanish blood in her ancestry. She was the kind of woman that women like to say mean things about; and try to make themselves believe them. The married men of the Lo Lo mentally compared her with their women-folk; while the single men, most of them bashful, hard-riding cowpunchers, avoided her, and hoped she'd be at the next dance.'

Excerpt:'Diana Royall pushed back the music-rack and rose from her seat at the piano. “Show the person in here, Kingdom.” The negro disappeared, and Diana moved slowly to the table at the farther end of the long room, and stood there turning over some papers in her leisurely, graceful way. “Who in the world is it now?” Mrs. Eaton asked, looking up from her solitaire, “a book agent?” “Caleb Trench,” Diana replied carelessly, “the shopkeeper at Eshcol.” “The storekeeper?” Mrs. Eaton looked as if Diana had said the chimney-sweep. “What in the world does he want of you, my dear?” Diana laughed. “How should I know?” she retorted, with a slight scornful elevation of her brows; “we always pay cash there.”'

Excerpt:'“O-O-OH! oh me-e!” Dick made the sigh very sad and pitiful His father did not seem to hear it. He tilted his chair farther back, perched his feet on the porch railing, and unfolded his newspaper It was a mild April morning, and the Osborne family had drifted out on the porch,—Mr. Osborne with his papers and Mrs. Osborne with her sewing; Sweet William was playing jackstraws with himself, Patsy sat on the steps with her back to the others, especially Dick, who, however, was pitying himself too much to notice her “I always get blamed for everything I do,” he said mournfully, “but David—— “‘House for War: Vote 373 to 50.'” Mr. Osborne read the headline. “That is the answer to the President's message four days ago. Now the Senate—— “Father! If you'll just let me off to-day, I'll work from school-out till dark every day next week. I certainly will. Father, please——” “Richard Randolph Osborne! You are to work your assigned part of the garden to-day, to-day, without further pleas for postponement.” Mr. Osborne's mild voice and red flabby face stiffened with determination. This was not the first week that Dick had neglected his garden task. “Yes, sir,” Dick answered meekly, wriggling a little. That was all he could do—wriggle a little—because he was made into a sort of merman by having an old Persian shawl wrapped about him, from the waist down. “I think you might let me off,” he persisted in an undertone; “just this one more time. If mother had patched my trousers last night—if she'd let me put on my Sundays now—I could get that hateful old garden worked this morning. I've got something else to do to-day, something awfully important.”'

Excerpt:''Mighty beach to-day!'grumbled Captain Image, and handed binoculars across to the purser. Mr. Balgarnie tossed his cigarette over the lee rail and tucked a sheaf of papers into his mouth so as to have two spare hands. Day had ten minutes before glared up over an oily swell-writhing sea of bottle-green; dew lay in fat greasy gouts on the deck planks and the skylight frames, foretelling in clear prophecy another spell of scalding West African sunshine; and a mile out from the crashing, bellowing surf that smoked along the beach, the S.S. M'poso buttocked sullenly over the swells, with engines rung off, and sweating firemen on the top of the fiddley, slewing ventilators to catch a flavor of the breeze.'They've seen us, sir, at the factory,'said Mr. Balgarnie.'All the boys are out working cargo, and there's old Swizzle-Stick Smith sucking his eternal pipe and hustling them with a chiquot. I can catch the glint of his eyeglass. Wonder how long that man's been out on the Coast? Must be a matter of twenty years now by all accounts since he had his last run home. He's found the right kind of ju-ju to dodge fever-palaver, anyhow. They say he's a lazy old beach-comber as a general thing, but he's up bright and early this morning.''

Western novelette by W C Tuttle, published in Adventure magazine. Excerpt:'It was the year of the big drouth in the valley of Moon River; a season when every blade of grass was worth its weight in gold to the cattlemen, who watched with jealous care over their unstaked portions of the range and guarded closely their almost dry water-holes. Day after day through the long summer the merciless sun had baked the grass-roots; browning the land; burning below the surface, until a puff of wind would drift the soil, as a wind drifts dry snow. Even the sage and greasewood turned from purple to brownish-gray. Along the river, which wound its way through this crescent-shaped valley, the leaves of willow and cottonwood hummed paper-dry in the hot winds, while the river, itself, was shrunken to half its normal Summer stage. The range cattle were red-eyed, hollow of flank and dust-colored and when they stopped to graze their panting nostrils would send up tiny puffs of smoke-like dust. In all that valley of rolling hills, which sloped upward on both sides to the hazy heights of the Shoshone Mountains, there was no sign of green vegetation. Riding down the slope of one of these hills, heading toward the river, came a tall, thin cowboy, unshaven and unshorn. The expression of his thin face was serious as he squinted into the hazy distance and spoke softly to his rangy bay horse— “Bronc,'f this ain't the best place I ever seen t'commit murder in, then my name ain't ‘Skeeter Bill'Sarg.” The horse sniffed suspiciously at the dry grass, but did not crop at it.'

Excerpt:'The time when the intellectual affairs of America could be conducted on a monolingual basis is over. It has been irksome for long. The intellectual life of London is dependent on people who understand the French language about as well as their own. America's part in contemporary culture is based chiefly upon two men familiar with Paris: Whistler and Henry James. It is something in the nature of a national disgrace that a New Zealand paper,'The Triad,'should be more alert to, and have better regular criticism of, contemporary French publications than any American periodical has yet had.'

Excerpt:'Ben Moreton was not a Bolshevist; indeed, he had written several editorials to show that, in his opinion, their doctrines were not sound, but of course the people who denounced him never thought of reading his paper. He was a socialist, a believer in government ownership, and, however equably he attempted to examine any dispute between capital and labor, he always found for labor. He was much denounced by ultraconservatives, and perhaps their instinct was sound, for he was educated, determined, and possessed of a personality that attached people warmly, so that he was more dangerous than those whose doctrines were more militant. He was not wholly trusted by the extreme radicals. His views were not consistently agreeable to either group. For instance, he believed that the conscientious objectors were really conscientious, a creed for which many people thought he ought to be deported. On the other hand, he doubted that Wall Street had started the war for its own purposes, a skepticism which made some of his friends think him just fit for a bomb.'

Excerpt:'I had never need to keep any record either of the date or place. It was the fifteenth night of July, in the year 1758, and the place was Lieutenant Clutterbuck's lodging at the south corner of Burleigh Street, Strand. The night was tropical in its heat, and though every window stood open to the Thames, there was not a man, I think, who did not long for the cool relief of morning, or step out from time to time on to the balcony and search the dark profundity of sky for the first flecks of grey. I cannot be positive about the entire disposition of the room: but certainly Lieutenant Clutterbuck was playing at ninepins down the middle with half a dozen decanters and a couple of silver salvers; and Mr. Macfarlane, a young gentleman of a Scottish regiment, was practising a game of his own. He carried the fire-irons and Lieutenant Clutterbuck's sword under his arm, and walked solidly about the floor after a little paper ball rolled up out of a news sheet, which he hit with one of these instruments, selecting now the poker, now the tongs or the sword with great deliberation, and explaining his selection with even greater earnestness; there was besides a great deal of noise, which seemed to be a quality of the room rather than the utterance of any particular person; and I have a clear recollection that everything, from the candles to the glasses on the tables and the broken tobacco pipes on the floor, was of a dazzling and intolerable brightness. This brightness distressed me particularly, because just opposite to where I sat a large mirror hung upon the wall between two windows. On each side was a velvet hollow of gloom, in the middle this glittering oval. Every ray of light within the room seemed to converge upon its surface. I could not but look at it--for it did not occur to me to move away to another chair--and it annoyed me exceedingly. Besides, the mirror was inclined forward from the wall, and so threw straight down at me a reflection of Lieutenant Clutterbuck's guests, as they flung about the room beneath it.'

Excerpt:'My object in writing most of these papers—especially those collected under the general heads of'Sketches of Character'and'Social Grievances'—was to present what I had observed and what I had thought, in the lightest and the least pretentious form; to address the public (if I could) with something vi of the ease of letter writing, and something of the familiarity of friendly talk. The literary Pulpit appeared to me at that time—as it appears to me still—to be rather overcrowded with the Preachers of Lay Sermons. Views of life and society to set us thinking penitently in some cases, or doubting contemptuously in others, were, I thought, quite plentiful enough already. More freshness and novelty of appeal to the much-lectured and much-enduring reader, seemed to lie in views which might put us on easier terms with ourselves and with others; and which might encourage us to laugh good-humouredly over some of the lighter eccentricities of character, and some of the more palpable absurdities of custom—without any unfair perversion of truth, or any needless descent to the lower regions of vulgarity and caricature. With that idea, all the lighter contributions to these Miscellanies were originally written; and with that idea they are now again dismissed from my desk, to win what approval they may from new readers.'

The Secret of the title is the parentage of the heroine, Rosamond Treverton, who has been passed off as the daughter of the wealthy former actress Mrs Treverton of Porthgenna Tower, but is in fact the illegitimate child of her servant Sarah Leeson by a local miner (Mrs Treverton's motive was to provide her husband with a child, being apparently unable to bear children herself). Sarah writes down the details of the Secret from the words of the dying Mrs Treverton, and hides the paper bearing the message in an unused room at Porthgenna. The novel then jumps forward some twenty years. Rosamond has married the blind Leonard Frankland, who now owns Porthgenna Tower. Sarah, now living under her married name, acts as a nurse after Rosamond-s childbirth, and gives Rosamund a cryptic warning to avoid the room in which the Secret is hidden.

Excerpt:'When Miss Elizabeth Wiggin settled herself comfortably in the shade of the spreading oak in Libby's pasture, she looked forward eagerly to a pleasant and quiet hour with her book, “Wooed, Won, and Wedded.” As may be surmised from the title of the book, Miss Wiggin was romantic. She was likewise just eighteen years of age, and the daughter of Judge Nathan P. Wiggin, of Greenbush, the village that could be seen nestling in the valley something like a mile distant from that hillside oak. Miss Wiggin lived in Greenbush, but on pleasant afternoons she had a habit of wandering away, accompanied only by an aged shepherd dog, in search of some spot where she could read without fear of interruption. For her grim old father objected to trashy love stories, and her ascetic spinster aunt, who had acted as the judge's housekeeper since the death of Mrs. Wiggin, held all such fiction in abhorrence. Indeed, the animus of Aunt Sally Wiggin against stories depicting the ravages wrought by the little god of the bow and arrow was so extreme that, by consigning such terrible tales to the flames whenever she found them about the house, she conscientiously did her best to prevent them from turning the head of her niece. She even forbade the village news dealer to sell Bessie any more books of that type. In these days, however, it is no easy matter to deprive any one of the mental pabulum that is desired, and Aunt Sally had set herself a task that she could not accomplish. Lemuel Dodd, Judge Wiggin's hostler and man of all work, red-headed, freckled, and homely as a slump fence, undeterred by the discouraging fact that his persistent efforts to make love to Bessie seemed merely to arouse her amusement, became her secret and faithful ally. Twice a week, at least, he spent twenty-five cents of his wages for a paper-covered novel to be smuggled into her possession, and invariably he chose the ones whose titles seemed to promise that their contents would come up to Elizabeth's requirements. “There ain't many single fellers left round this town,” Lemuel told himself, “and mebbe if she reads enough of them yarns she'll git so desprit she'll have to grab what's handy. And when she gits the notion to grab, I'm going to take keer that I'm the handiest thing in reach.” And so, on this sunny September afternoon, Bessie Wiggin was seeking the shade of the oak in Libby's pasture, presumably afar from interruption, and prepared thoroughly to enjoy Lemuel's latest contribution. Her face was almost hidden by one of Aunt Sally's extremely old-fashioned sunbonnets, which she had hastily taken when she slipped out of the house with the book. Shep, the old dog, stretched himself in the short grass at her feet and prepared to go to sleep comfortably.'

Excerpt:'The two new boys in Heriot's house had been suitably entertained at his table, and afterwards in his study with bound volumes of Punch. Incidentally they had been encouraged to talk, with the result that one boy had talked too much, while the other shut a stubborn mouth tighter than before. The babbler displayed an exuberant knowledge of contemporary cricket, a more conscious sense of humour, and other little qualities which told their tale. He opened the door for Miss Heriot after dinner, and even thanked her for the evening when it came to an end. His companion, on the other hand, after brooding over Leech and Tenniel with a sombre eye, beat a boorish retreat without a word. Heriot saw the pair to the boys'part of the house. He was filling his pipe when he returned to the medley of books, papers, photographic appliances, foxes'masks, alpen-stocks and venerable oak, that made his study a little room in which it was difficult to sit down and impossible to lounge. His sister, perched upon a coffin-stool, was busy mounting photographs at a worm-eaten bureau.'

Excerpt:'Nick Carter leaned nearer to the wall and listened to what the two men were discussing. The wall was that of a booth in the café of the Shelby House. It was a partition of matched sheathing only, through which ordinary conversation in the adjoining booth could be easily overheard, and both men in this case spoke above an ordinary tone. Obviously, therefore, they were discussing nothing of a private nature, or anything thought to be of much importance, or serious significance. It meant no more to them, in fact, than it would have meant to most men, to all save one in a million. That one in a million was seated alone in the next booth—Nick Carter. The two men were strangers to the detective. They had entered when he was near the end of his lunch, and while waiting for their orders to be served they engaged in the conversation which, though heard only by chance, soon seriously impressed the detective. “You were a little later than usual this noon, Belden,” said one. “Yes, a few minutes, Joe, but I thought you would wait for me. My ticker got busy just as I was about to leave. I remained to take the dispatch, Gordon, and it proved to be quite a long one.” “Something important?” “Not very. Only political news for the local paper.” “Belden evidently is a telegraph operator,” thought Nick. “Anything warm by wire this morning?” questioned Gordon. “No, nothing,” said Belden; and then he abruptly added: “There was a singular message, however, and an unusual circumstance in connection with it.”'

Excerpt: “There was a considerable number of people in the little parlour—to wit, Mr. Bates in his big chair on one side of the fire, sipping rum-and-water, and reading a newspaper which was soft and crumpled with the usage of the day at the nearest public-house; and Mrs. Bates on the other, seated between the fireplace and the table, mending the stockings of the family. Charley was reading an old yellow novel behind his mother, and Matilda was making her winter bonnet with a quantity of materials in a large piece of paper on the table, which was covered with a red and green cloth. It was October, and not cold, but there was a fire, and a branched gas pendant with two lights, shed heat as well as light into the close little room. There was another daughter, Sarah Jane, who was coming and going about the table, now and then making incursions into the kitchen; and behind backs in the corner, on a black haircloth sofa against the wall, were seated the pair of lovers.'

Excerpt:'The lazy blue river and the wide, brown plains of Picardy lay basking in the still splendor of the November afternoon. The mysterious hush of the autumn lay upon the fields and the farmsteads. A flock of herons in a near-by marsh meditated gravely, standing one-legged, and watching the cows kneedeep in the muddy meadows. High in the sunny air, a vulture sailed, majestically evil, watching both the cows and the herons. The world was saying farewell softly to the sunny hours. The only sound that broke the deep silence was the steady trot of the big Normandy horses on the flinty towpath, as they drew a covered boat along the narrow and shallow stream, and the faint echo of the voices of five persons sitting[2] on the roof of the boat in the sunshine. The herons cocked their eyes toward the boat, and listened attentively, though they could not understand a word of these strange, noisy, laughing, weeping, fighting, dancing, talking creatures, called men and women. Sometimes, so the herons thought, these odd beings were a little kind; sometimes they were very cruel, but always they were formidable, and were masters of life and death. The great question under discussion on the roof of the boat was, where the theatrical company of jugglers and singers should spend the winter. Grandin, the proprietor of the show, a tall, handsome, boastful man, with a big voice like a church organ and a backbone made of brown paper, always gave his opinion first, but was generally overruled by Madame Grandin, also tall, handsome, easily wheedled or bullied, but inexorably truthful. Decisions really rested with the three subordinates, Diane Dorian, the prima donna, Jean Leroux, her partner, and the individual known as François le Bourgeois, juggler.'

This volume consists of notes, themes, and sketches for works which Anton Chekhov intended to write, and are characteristic of the methods of his artistic production. Among his papers was found a series of sheets in a special cover with the inscription:'Themes, thoughts, notes, and fragments.'Madame L.O. Knipper-Chekhov, Chekhov's wife, also possesses his note-book, in which he entered separate themes for his future work, quotations which he liked, etc. If he used any material, he used to strike it out in the note-book. The significance which Chekhov attributed to this material may be judged from the fact that he recopied most of it into a special copy book. (Goodreads)

Excerpt:'The strange adventures of M. Théophraste Longuet, which ended so tragically, originated in a visit to the prison of the Conciergerie, on the 28th of June, 1899. Therefore this history is modern; but the writer would say that, having read and examined all the papers and writings of M. Théophraste Longuet, its recentness does not detract from its sensational character.'

Mr. Pickwick's Christmas : An account of the pickwickians'christmas at the manor farm, of the adventures there; The Tale of the Goblin who stole a sexton, and of the famous sports on ice. As written in the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. With illustrations in colour and line by George Alfred Williams. (Goodreads)

The present collection contains such favorites as,'Carmilla,''The Familiar,''Green Tea,'and'Schalken the Painter,'as well as much otherwise unobtainable work. There is, for example, the magnificent nouvelle'The Haunted Baronet', material from'The Purcell Papers,'the practically unknown essay-story'An Authentic Narrative of a Haunted House,'and nine other first-rate stories.

The Yellow Wallpaper (original title:'The Yellow Wall-paper. A Story') is a short story by American writer Charlotte Perkins Gilman, first published in January 1892 in The New England Magazine. It is regarded as an important early work of American feminist literature, due to its illustration of the attitudes towards mental and physical health of women in the 19th century.

Excerpt: “Mr. John Vyner, ship-owner, pushed his chair back from his writing-table and gazed with kindly condescension at the chief clerk as he stood before it with a handful of papers.'We shall be able to relieve you of some of your work soon, Hartley,'he said, slowly.'Mr. Robert will come into the firm next week.'The chief clerk bowed.'Three years at Cambridge,'resumed Mr. Vyner, meditatively,'and two years spent up and down the world studying the business methods of other nations ought to render him invaluable to us.''No doubt, sir,'said Hartley.'It is an excellent training.''For a time,'said the ship-owner, leaning back and placing the tips of his fingers together,'for a time I am afraid that he will have to have your room. Later on—ha—if a room should—ha—fall vacant in the building, we might consider taking it.''Yes, sir,'said the other.'And, of course,'resumed Mr. Vyner,'there is one great advantage in your being in the general office which must not be overlooked; you can keep an eye on the juniors better.''It is cheerful, too, sir,'suggested the chief clerk;'the only thing—''Yes?'said Mr. Vyner, somewhat loudly. Mr. Hartley shrank a little.'I was going to say that it is rather a small room for Mr. Robert,'he said, quickly.'It will do for a time,'said the other.'And—and I think I told you, sir, that there is an unpleasant sm—odour.'Mr. Vyner knitted his brows.'I offered to have that seen to, but you said that you didn't mind it,'he remarked.'Just so, sir,'said Hartley;'but I was thinking of Mr. Robert. He might not like it; it's very strong at times—very strong indeed.''You ought to have had it attended to before,'said Mr. Vyner, with some severity.'You had better call at Gillows'on your way home and ask them to send a man up first thing to-morrow morning.'He drew his chair to the table again, and Hartley, after lingering a moment, withdrew to his own room...'

In a Glass Darkly (1872), a collection of five short stories in the horror and mystery genres, presented as the posthumous papers of the occult detective Dr Hesselius.

Judy Bolton and Irene Lang travel to New York City for a visit with Pauline Faulkner. While on their way into the city, the girls meet a handsome young author named Dale Meredith. The girls, especially Irene, become intrigued with the idea of meeting him again. By a stroke of luck, Judy secures a position in his agent's office. When Dale's agent, Emily Grimshaw, sees Irene for the first time, she reacts as though she has seen a ghost. Irene clearly looks just like someone from Emily Grimshaw's past, but who? Complicating the situation, a stack of important papers is stolen, and soon after, Irene disappears as well. Judy, Pauline, and Dale are worried sick about Irene, and it is not until after a long and difficult search that they learn the truth. Irene Lang's life reads like a fairy tale, and like a fairy princess, Irene, now the'Golden Girl,'receives an inheritance and captures the heart of Dale Meredith. (Goodreads)

Throughout her life, Virginia Woolf worked and reworked short story ideas, trying to encapsulate her thoughts perfectly in a concise form, but rarely did she publish them. This volume brings together the stories from her own collection'Monday or Tuesday', together with stories that later appeared individually in magazines and those from amongst her papers that her widower, Leonard, thought sufficiently polished to put before her readers. (Goodreads)

There was a time, lost in the mists of antiquity, when the dreamer could wander his fantasy land at will and set down his/her experiences on paper at leisure, without worrying about deadlines and contracts: when he/she could pen his words without worrying whether his book will hit the bestseller charts or not: when writing was pure pleasure. Lord Dunsany was a product of those times. A Dreamer's Tales is exactly that: a bunch of stories, fables and legends (and some pieces which defy any kind of description), varying in quality and length, bunched together in this slim volume. They share only one quality-the gossamer structure of dreams, captured in the early morning before they melt away totally in the harsh light of the day.

(Excerpt): “... Edward died in some outlandish place in North America, I never can remember the name, but it's in the papers, so you'll see it—somewhere on the other side of the something mountains—I forget—” “Rocky, perhaps.” “Yes, that's it, the Rocky Mountains, and I wish they were not so rocky, for your sake, darling, for you've got to go there and take possession (or serve yourself heir to, or something of that sort) of the property. Not that it's large, so they say (I wish with all my heart it did not exist at all), but they tell me there is gold on it, though whether it is lying on the fields or down in holes I'm sure I don't know, and oh dear, I don't care, for it entails your going away again, my darling boy….”

(Excerpt):'The present book is a continuation from'Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious.'The generality of readers had better just leave it alone. The generality of critics likewise. I really don't want to convince anybody. It is quite in opposition to my whole nature. I don't intend my books for the generality of readers. I count it a mistake of our mistaken democracy, that every man who can read print is allowed to believe that he can read all that is printed. I count it a misfortune that serious books are exposed in the public market, like slaves exposed naked for sale. But there we are, since we live in an age of mistaken democracy, we must go through with it. I warn the generality of readers, that this present book will seem to them only a rather more revolting mass of wordy nonsense than the last. I would warn the generality of critics to throw it in the waste paper basket without more ado. As for the limited few, in whom one must per force find an answerer, I may as well say straight off that I stick to the solar plexus. That statement alone, I hope, will thin their numbers considerably. Finally, to the remnants of a remainder, in order to apologize for the sudden lurch into cosmology, or cosmogony, in this book, I wish to say that the whole thing hangs inevitably together. I am not a scientist. I am an amateur of amateurs. As one of my critics said, you either believe or you don't.'

Tales of Wonder is a collection of many stories by Lord Dunsany. Lord Dunsany” was Edward Plunkett's pen name and he was a very successful author of numerous books, plays, and short stories. He possessed a remarkable imagination and created fantastical landscapes peopled with unique characters. Tales of Wonder will transport you to another time and to another place and in the midst of it all you will be enthralled with the marvel of it all. His creative method perhaps gives us a glimpse into this unusual man: “Dunsany's writing habits were considered peculiar by some. Lady Beatrice said that ‘He always sat on a crumpled old hat while composing his tales.'The hat was eventually stolen by a visitor to Dunsany Castle. Dunsany almost never rewrote anything; everything he ever published was a first draft. It has been said that Lord Dunsany would sometimes conceive stories while hunting, and would return to the Castle and draw in his family and servants to re-enact his visions before he set them on paper.”