SPECIAL REPORT: Billionaire Michael Platt launches his brand-new platform eQuantom-AI

Due to the financial crisis around the world, Platt has launched a new project promising to help UK citizens become wealthier.

«It is well known that families around the world are suffering from financial crisis, businesses are shutting down and people are losing their jobs due to the global crisis.»

Michael Edward Platt is a British billionaire hedge fund manager. He is the co-founder and managing director of BlueCrest Capital Management, Europe's third-largest hedge-fund firm which he co-founded in 2000.

He is Britain's wealthiest hedge fund manager according to the Forbes Real Time Billionaires List, with an estimated wealth of US$15.2 billion.

"BlueCrest Capital Management" has decided to start building their project "eQuantom-AI "

Michael Platt, asked to keep the project secret while it is being worked on.

Now BlueCrest Capital Management has finally revealed eQuantom-AI and are happy to announce that citizens of the United Kingdom are amongst the first to try out this new platform along with the US, Australia and Canada.

eQuantom-AI is an innovative cryptocurrency trading platform, that according to BlueCrest Capital Management, can transform anyone into a millionaire within 3-4 months!

The idea that stands behind the project was simple: allow the average person the opportunity to profit from the digital currency boom. Even if they have absolutely no investing or technology experience.

But due to the influx of investors and increased demand for the platform, Michael Platt decided to close access to the platform for everyone. The platform is private these days. Investors are selected randomly. To try your luck, you need to register on the site and if you are lucky, the manager will contact you after a while.

At eQuantom-AI , a user would simply make an initial deposit into the platform, usually of £250 or more, and the automated trading algorithm would start working.

Interview with Michael Platt, about eQuantom-AI .

What Exactly Is eQuantom-AI And How Does IT WORK? Exclusive interview with Michael Platt

The idea behind eQuantom-AI is straightforward: to allow the average person to cash in on the cryptocurrency boom which is still the most lucrative investment of the 21st century, despite what most people think.

Although Bitcoin price has dropped from its all time high of $64,863 per Bitcoin, traders are still making a killing. Why? Because there are thousands of other cryptocurrencies besides Bitcoin that being traded for huge profits on a daily basis.

Some of these cryptocurrencies include Ripple, Ethereum, Monero, Zcash and they are still making returns of over 10,000% and higher for ordinary people in the United Kingdom.

eQuantom-AI lets you profit from all of these cryptocurrencies, even in a bear market. It uses artificial intelligence () to automatically handle long and short selling for you so you can make money around the clock, even while you sleep.

eQuantom-AI is backed by some of the smartest tech minds to ever exist. Richard Branson, Elon Musk and Bill Gates just to name a few.

Does the System Really Work Though?

We figured out that the best way to answer that question was to put the claims made by Michael Platt to the test. We set up an account and deposited the initial sum of £250.

Then all we needed to do was hit the “Start” button. Apparently, the software would do everything else for us.

Before we even had a chance to respond to everyone's questions, Platt interrupted and said with a smile on his face: "I've gone up to £298.42 after just 8 minutes".

If you had invested just £100 in digital currencies back in 2010 you would now enjoy dividends of £75 Million!

pon the English lakes for the locality in which to make her home, and, finding no suitable house vacant, she resolved to build one for herself. She purchased two acres of land, within half-a-mile of the village of Ambleside; borrowed some money on mortgage from a well-to-do cousin; had the plans drawn out under her own instructions, and watched the house being built so that it should suit her own tastes. It is a pretty little gabled house, built of gray stone, and stands upon a small, rocky eminence—whence its name, “The Knoll.” There is enough rock to hold the house, and to allow the formation of a terrace about twenty feet wide in front of the windows, then there comes the descent of the face of the rock. At the foot of the rock is the garden. Narrow flights of steps at either end of the terrace lead down to the greensward and the flower-beds; in the centre[Pg 41] of these is a gray granite sun-dial, with the characteristic motto around it: “Come Light! Visit me!” ... Within, “The Knoll” is just a nice little residence for a maiden lady, with her small household, and room for an occasional guest.... The drawing-room has two large windows, one of which descends quite to the floor, and is provided with two or three stone steps outside, so that the inmates may readily step forth on to the terrace. Hunters of celebrities were wont, in the tourist season, not merely to walk round her garden and terrace without leave, but even to mount the steps and flatten the tips of their noses against her window. Objectionable as the liability to this friendly attention would be felt by most of us, it was doubly so to Miss Martineau because of her deafness, which precluded her from receiving warning of her admirers’ approaches by the crunching of their footsteps on the gravel, so that the first intimation she would receive of their presence would be to turn her head by chance and find the flattened nose and the peering eyes against the window-pane. Her principles and her practice went hand-in-hand in her domestic arrangements, as in her life generally; and her kitchen was as airy, light and comfortable for her maids as her drawing-room was for herself. The kitchen, too, was provided with a bookcase for a servants’ library. There lingers no small interest about the guest-chamber, where Harriet Martineau received such guests as Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot, Emerson, and Douglas Jerrold.... Climbing plants soon covered “The Knoll” on every side. The ivy kept it green through all the year; the porch was embowered in honeysuckle, clematis, passion-flower[Pg 42] and Virginia creeper. Wordsworth, Macready, and other friends of note planted trees for Harriet below the terrace. A capable housewife. Her housekeeping was always well done. Her own hands, indeed, as well as her head, were employed in it on occasion. When in her home, she daily filled her lamp herself. She dusted her own books, too, invariably. Sometimes she did more. Soon after her establishment at the lakes ... a lady who greatly reverenced her for her writings, called upon her in her new home, accompanied by a gentleman friend. As the visitors approached the house by the carriage-drive, they saw some one perched on a set of kitchen steps, cleaning the drawing-room windows. It was the famous authoress herself! She calmly went for her trumpet, to listen to their business; and, when they had introduced themselves she asked them in, and entered into an interesting conversation on various literary topics. Before they left she explained, with evident amusement at having been caught at her housemaid’s duties, that the workmen had been long about the house; that this morning, when the dirty windows might for the first time be cleaned, one of her servants had gone off to marry a carpenter, and the other to see the ceremony; and so the mistress, tired of the dirt, had set to work to wash and polish the windows for herself. Life at “The Knoll.” She rose very early; not infrequently, in the winter, before daylight; and immediately set out for a good[Pg 43] long walk. Sometimes, I am told, she would appear at a farm-house, four miles off, before the cows were milked. The old post-mistress recollects how, when she was making up her early letter-bags, in the gray of the morning mists, Miss Martineau would come down with her large bundle of correspondence, and never failed to have a pleasant nod and smile, or a few kindly inquiries. “I always go out before it is quite light,” writes Miss Martineau to Mr. Atkinson ... “and in the fine mornings I go up to the hill behind the church—the Kirkstone road.... When the little shred of moon that is left, and the morning star, hang over Wansfell, among the amber clouds of the approaching sunrise, it is delicious.”... Returning home, she breakfasted at half-past seven; filled her lamp ready for the evening, and arranged all household matters; and by half-past eight was at her desk, where she worked undisturbed till two, the early dinner-time. These business hours were sacred, whether there were visitors in the house or not. After dinner, however, she devoted herself to guests, if there were any. Mrs. Fenwick Miller: ‘Harriet Martineau.’ Winter evenings at Ambleside. In winter evenings I light the lamp, and unroll my wool-work, and meditate or dream till the arrival of the newspaper tells me that the tea has stood long enough.... After tea, if there was news from the seat of war, I called in my maids, who brought down the great atlas, and studied the chances of the campaign with me.[Pg 44] Then there was an hour or two for Montaigne or Bacon, or Shakespeare, or Tennyson, or some dear old biography, or last new book from London—historical, moral, or political. Then, when the house and neighborhood were asleep, there was the half-hour on the terrace, or if the weather was too bad for that, in the porch, whence I seldom or never came in without a clear purpose for my next morning’s work. I believe that, but for my country life, much of the benefit and enjoyment of my travels, and also of my studies, would have been lost to me. On my terrace, there were two worlds extended bright before me, even when the midnight darkness hid from my bodily eyes all but the outlines of the solemn mountains that surround our valley on three sides, and the clear opening to the lake on the south. In the one of those two worlds, I saw now the magnificent coast of Massachusetts in autumn, or the flowery swamps of Louisiana, or the forests of Georgia in spring, or the Illinois prairie in summer; or the blue Nile, or the brown Sinai, or the gorgeous Petra, or the view of Damascus from the Salahiey; or the Grand Canal under a Venetian sunset, or the Black Forest in twilight, or Malta in the glare of noon, or the broad desert, stretching away under the stars, or the Red Sea, tossing its superb shells on shore, in the pale dawn. That is one world, all comprehended within my terrace wall, and coming up into the light at my call. The other, and finer scenery, is of that world, only beginning to be explored, of Science. Harriet Martineau: ‘Autobiography.’ Miss Martineau as a hostess. The coach brought me to Miss Martineau’s gate at[Pg 45] half-past six yesterday evening, and she was there, with a beaming face, to welcome me.... We have been trudging about, looking at cottages and enjoying the sight of the mountains, spite of the rain and mist.... Miss M. is charming in her own home—quite handsome from her animation and intelligence. She came behind me, put her hands round me, and kissed me in the prettiest way this evening, telling me she was so glad she had got me here. Marian Evans: Letter to the Brays, 1852. Many of the most interesting little stories in it [her ‘Autobiography’] about herself and others she had told me, ... when I was staying with her, and almost in the very same words. But they were all the better for being told in her silvery voice. She was a charming talker, and a perfect lady in her manners as a hostess. Marian Evans [Lewes]: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 1877. ‘George Eliot’s Life,’ edited by J. W. Cross. New York: Harper & Bros., 1885. Personal appearance. In the porch stood Miss Martineau herself. A lady of middle height, “inclined,” as the novelists say, “to embonpoint,” with a smile on her kindly face, and her trumpet at her ear. She was at that time, I suppose, about fifty years of age; her brown hair had a little gray in it, and was arranged with peculiar flatness over a low, but broad forehead. I don’t think she could ever have been pretty, but her features were not uncomely, and their expression was gentle and motherly. James Payn: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’ [Pg 46] One of her letters described. Aunt Charles read us a clever letter from Harriet Martineau, combining the smoker, the moralist, the political economist, the gossip, and the woman. Caroline Fox: Journal (1849). ‘Memories of Old Friends.’ Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1882. Smoking. The degree of deafness, as I have said, varied; and she tried all sorts of remedies. No one who knew her would suspect her of anything “fast” or unfeminine, but under the advice of some scientific person, or another, she tried smoking. Cigars. I had the privilege of providing her privately with some very mild cigars, and many and many a summer night have we sat together for half an hour or so in her porch at “The Knoll,” smoking. If some of the good people, her neighbors, had known of that, it would, we agreed, have really given them something to talk about. She only tried this remedy, if I remember right, for a few months, but she fancied it had a beneficial effect upon her hearing. For my part, I enjoyed nothing so much as these evenings. James Payn: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’ A chiboque. Sleepless nights were a source of great suffering to her in these latest years. Under medical advice, she tried smoking as a means of procuring better rest, with some success. She smoked usually through the chiboque, which she had brought home with her from the East, and which she had there learned to use, as she relates with her customary simplicity and directness in the appendix to ‘Eastern Life’:[Pg 47] “I found it good for my health,” she says there, “and I saw no more reason why I should not take it than why English ladies should not take their glass of sherry at home—an indulgence which I do not need. I continued the use of my chiboque for some weeks after my return, and then only left it off because of the inconvenience.” When health and comfort were to be promoted by it, she resumed it. Mrs. Fenwick Miller: ‘Harriet Martineau.’ Charlotte Brontë’s account of a visit to Ambleside. I am at Miss Martineau’s for a week. Her house is very pleasant, both within and without; arranged at all points with admirable neatness and comfort. Her visitors enjoy the most perfect liberty; what she claims for herself, she allows them. I rise at my own hour, breakfast alone. I pass the morning in the drawing-room, she in her study. At two o’clock we meet, talk and walk till five—her dinner hour—spend the evening together, when she converses fluently and abundantly, and with the most complete frankness. I go to my own room soon after ten, and she sits up writing letters. She appears exhaustless in strength and spirits, and indefatigable in the faculty of labor. She is a great and good woman; of course not without peculiarities, but I have seen none as yet that annoy me. She is both hard and warm-hearted, abrupt and affectionate. I believe she is not at all conscious of her own absolutism. When I tell her of it, she denies the charge, warmly; then I laugh at her. Charlotte Brontë: Letter in Mrs. Gaskell’s ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’ London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1857. [Pg 48] Her ear-trumpet.Sense of humor. Owing to her keen intelligence, I found it difficult to realize her extreme deafness, and used often to address her when she was not prepared for it. She never lost her sense of the absurdity of this practice, and I can see the laughter in her kind eyes now, as she snatched up her trumpet. She loved a good-natured pleasantry, even at her own expense.... A ludicrous incident happened. I had got so well accustomed to her ear-trumpet that I began to look upon it as a part of herself. It was lying on the table, a good distance away from her, and having some remark to make to her, I inadvertently addressed it to the instrument, instead of her ear. Heavens, how we laughed! She had a very keen sense of fun, of which, however, she was quite unconscious. James Payn: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’ “Not to be judged by writings alone.” Of my kind hostess, I cannot speak in terms too high. Without being able to share all her opinions—philosophical, political, or religious—I yet find a worth and greatness in herself, and a consistency, and benevolence, and perseverance in her practice, such as win the sincerest esteem and affection. She is not a person to be judged by her writings alone, but rather by her own deeds and life, than which nothing can be more exemplary or noble. The government of her household is admirably administered; all she does is well done, from the writing of a history down to the quietest feminine occupation. No sort of carelessness or neglect is allowed under her rule, and yet she is not over-strict,[Pg 49] or too rigidly exacting; her servants and her poor neighbors love as well as respect her. Charlotte Brontë: Letter in Mrs. Gaskell’s ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’ “Proud, not vain.” Proud, I think she was, but not in the least vain; and the pride was rather the consciousness of power, and the unconscious sense, so to speak, of absolute rectitude and truthfulness.... The clear, quick apprehension of the nature and merits of a question was her strong point, and she never talked or wrote of what she did not understand, and saw at once how to make a difficult matter intelligible to others. Henry G. Atkinson: Letter to Maria Weston Chapman, published in the latter’s ‘Memorials of Harriet Martineau.’ Her egotism.Her conception of heaven. Are not nearly all recent autobiographers egotists? A number of such works have appeared during the last ten years, and the position of the autobiographer has been in nearly every case the same,—namely, that God did a good thing when he made him; but that he should have made anybody else, and should have taken an interest in the other individual equal to that which he manifested in the autobiographer, is a proposition which he cannot bring himself for a moment to consider. Two books in which this view is conspicuous are the autobiographies of John Quincy Adams and Miss Harriet Martineau. Carlyle is a mild egotist beside these writers. Adams does not speak of himself as an individual, but as a cause which he has espoused. Of the two, Miss[Pg 50] Martineau is the more naïve. She is for arranging the world entirely from her own point of view. For instance, she attacked the late Lord Lytton, because he did not carry an ear-trumpet. Lord Lytton was deaf, and preferred not to carry an ear-trumpet. Miss Martineau was deaf also, and did carry one. She did not believe in the immortality of the soul, and was very hard upon any one who was of a contrary opinion. Her heaven, had her belief permitted her to have one, would have been a place where they all sat round with ear-trumpets and derided the doctrine of the immortality of the soul. —— ——: ‘Zweibak: or, Notes of a Professional Exile,’ in The Century, February, 1886. Her lofty stand in money matters. It is well known that a pension was offered to her by three Prime-ministers in succession—Earl Grey, Lord John Russell, and Mr. Gladstone—which, like Cæsar, she “did thrice refuse,” it being against her principles to burden the State with any such obligation. And yet she was entirely dependent upon that reed, the pen, for subsistence. James Payn: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’ Her needlework. She had a liking for the occupation [needlework] and continued to do much of it all through her life. Many of her friends can show handsome pieces of fancy work done by her hands. Again and again she contributed to public objects by sending a piece of her own beautiful needlework to be sold for the benefit of a society’s funds. Not even in the busiest time of her literary life did she ever[Pg 51] entirely cease to exercise her skill in this feminine occupation. In fact, she made wool-work her artistic recreation. Mrs. Fenwick Miller: ‘Harriet Martineau.’ An Ambleside story. A right of way was in dispute, at one time, through certain fields (a portion, I think, of Rydal Park), in the neighborhood of Ambleside, and the owner closed them to the public. Miss Martineau, though a philanthropist on a large scale, could also (which is not so common with that class) pick up a pin for freedom’s sake, and play the part of a village Hampden. When the rest of her neighbors shrank from this contest with the Lord of the Manor, she took up the cudgels for them, and “the little tyrant of those fields withstood.” She alone, not, indeed, “with bended bow and quiver full of arrows,” but with her ear-trumpet and umbrella, took her walk through the forbidden land, as usual. Whereupon the wicked lord (so runs the story, though I never heard it from her own lips) put a young bull into the field. He attacked the trespasser, or at all events prepared to attack her, but the indomitable lady faced him and stood her ground. She was quite capable of it, for she had the courage of her opinions, ... and, at all events, whether from astonishment at her presumption, or terror of the ear-trumpet (to which, of course, he had nothing to say), the bull in the end withdrew his opposition, and suffered her to pursue her way in peace. I wish I could add that she had the good-fortune of another patriotic lady, “to take the tax away,” but I am afraid the wicked lord succeeded in his designs. More than once,[Pg 52] however, I have had pointed out to me over the wall—for the bull was still there—the little eminence wherefrom, with no weapon but her ear-trumpet (for she had her umbrella over her head all the time to keep the sun off) this dauntless lady withstood the horrid foe. James Payn: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’ A good neighbor. I was pleased to find that, notwithstanding her heresies, the common people in Ambleside held her in gentle and kindly remembrance. She was a good neighbor, charitable to all, considerate toward the unlettered, never cynical or ill-tempered, always cheerful and happy as the roses and ivy of “The Knoll” she so much loved. Moncure D. Conway, in Harper’s Magazine, January, 1881. Her manner of working. I wrote a vulgar, cramped, untidy scrawl till I was past twenty; till authorship made me forget manner in matter, and gave freedom to my hand. After that I did very well, being praised by compositors for legibleness first, and in course of time for other qualities.... I found that it would not do to copy what I wrote, and discontinued the practice forever—thus saving an immense amount of time which, I humbly think, is wasted by other authors. There was no use in copying it. I did not alter; and if ever I did alter, I had to change back again; and I, once for all, committed myself to a single copy.... I have always used the same method in writing. I have always made sure of what I meant to say, and[Pg 53] then written it down without care or anxiety—glancing at it again only to see if any words were omitted or repeated, and not altering a single phrase in a whole work. I mention this because I think I perceive that great mischief arises from the notion that botching in the second place will compensate for carelessness in the first.... It has always been my practice to devote my best strength to my work, and the morning hours have therefore been sacred to it, from the beginning. I never pass a day without writing, and the writing is always done in the morning. I have seldom written anything more serious than letters by candlelight. [While at work on the ‘Political Economy Tales’] on an average I wrote twelve pages a day on large letter paper (quarto, I believe it is called), the page containing thirty-three lines. Desk, etc. The impending war [1853] rendered desirable an article on England’s Foreign Policy, for the Westminster Review, and I agreed to do it. I went to the editor’s house for the purpose.... On taking possession of my room there, and finding a capital desk on my table, with a singularly convenient slope, and of an admirable height for writing without fatigue, it struck me that during my whole course of literary labor, of nearly five-and-thirty years, it had never once occurred to me to provide myself with a proper, business-like desk. I had always written on blotting-paper, on a flat table, except when in a lazy mood, in winter, I had written as short-sighted people do (as Mrs. Somerville and “Currer Bell” always did), on a board, or something stiff, held in the left hand. I wrote a good deal of the ‘Political[Pg 54] Economy’ in that way, and with steel pens, ... but it was radically uncomfortable; and I have ever since written on a table, and with quill pens. Now I was to begin on a new and luxurious method—just, as it happened, at the close of my life’s work. Mr. Chapman obtained for me a first-rate Chancery-lane desk, with all manner of conveniences, and of a proper sanitary form; and, moreover, some French paper of various sizes, which has spoiled me for all other paper; ink to correspond; and a pen-maker, of French workmanship, suitable to eyes which were now feeling the effects of years and over-work. Harriet Martineau: ‘Autobiography.’ Appearance of MS. I have seen the original manuscript of one of the ‘Political Economy Tales.’ The writing has evidently been done as rapidly as the hand could move; every word that will admit of it is contracted, to save time. “Socy.,” “opporty.,” “agst.,” “abt.,” “independce.,” these were amongst the abbreviations submitted to the printer’s intelligence; not to mention commoner and more simple words, such as “wh.,” “wd.,” and the like. The calligraphy, though very readable, has a somewhat slipshod look. Thus, there is every token of extremely rapid composition. Yet the corrections on the MS. are few and trifling; the structure of a sentence is never altered, and there are but seldom emendations of even principal words. The manuscript is written (in defiance of law and order), on both sides of the paper. Mrs. Fenwick Miller: ‘Harriet Martineau.’ Fluctuations of mind about work. The fluctuations of mind which I underwent about[Pg 55] every number of my work, were as regular as the tides. I was fired with the first conception, and believed that I had found a treasure. Then, while at work, I alternately admired and despised what I wrote. When finished, I was in absolute despair; and then, when I saw it in print, I was surprised to see how well it looked. Harriet Martineau: ‘Autobiography.’ George Eliot on ‘The Crofton Boys.’ What an exquisite little thing that is of Harriet Martineau’s—‘The Crofton Boys!’ I have had some delightful crying over it. There are two or three lines in it that would feed one’s soul for a month. Hugh’s mother says to him, speaking of people who have permanent sorrow, “They soon had a new and delicious pleasure, which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel—the pleasure of rousing their souls to bear pain, and of agreeing with God silently, when nobody knows what is in their hearts.” Marian Evans: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 1845. ‘George Eliot’s Life,’ edited by J. W. Cross. Carlyle on ‘Deerbrook’. How do you like it [Deerbrook]? people ask. To which there are serious answers returnable, but few so good as none. Thomas Carlyle: Letter to Emerson, 17th April, 1839. On ‘The Hour and the Man.’ The good Harriet is not well; but keeps a very[Pg 56] courageous heart. She lives by the shore of the beautiful blue Northumbrian Sea; “a many-sounding” solitude which I often envy her. She writes unweariedly.... You saw her Toussaint l’Ouvertour; how she has made such a beautiful “black Washington” ... of a rough-handed, hard-hearted, semi-articulate, gabbling Negro; and of the horriblest phasis that ‘Sansculottism’ can exhibit, of a Black Sansculottism, a musical Opera or Oratorio in pink stockings! It is very beautiful. Beautiful as a child’s heart,—and in so shrewd a head as that. She is now writing express Children’s Tales, which I calculate I shall find more perfect. Thomas Carlyle: Letter to Emerson, 21st February, 1841. ‘Correspondence of T. Carlyle and R. W. Emerson.’ FOOTNOTES: [1]Haworth Churchyard, by Matthew Arnold. [2]The portrait alluded to is probably the caricature by D. Maclise, representing Miss Martineau seated, with a cat perched upon her shoulder, before a cooking-stove. [Pg 57] AURORE DUPIN (DUDEVANT). (George Sand.) 1804-1876. [Pg 59] AURORE DUPIN (DUDEVANT). (George Sand.) Aurore Dupin was born in Paris, July 5, 1804. Her father, Maurice Dupin de Franceuil, was the son of an illegitimate daughter of Marshal Saxe. His wife, Sophie Delaborde, was “a child of the people.” The death of Captain Dupin, in 1808, left little Aurore “a bone of contention” between her plebeian mother and her patrician grandmother. Most of her youth was passed with the latter, at Nohant, in Berri. Her education was irregularly carried on under an old tutor named Deschatres. At thirteen, she was sent to the Convent des Anglaises, at Paris. Here a strong religious enthusiasm took possession of her; and she desired to become a nun. But, her grandmother having removed her from the convent, her lonely study of the works of philosophers and metaphysicians wrought a change, and she “became a Protestant without knowing it.” In 1821 the grandmother died. Aurore lived unhappily with her mother, a woman of violent temper (to whom she was nevertheless deeply attached), and this fact may have influenced her in accepting the hand of M. Casimir Dudevant, to whom she was married in 1822. The disparity in age was not great, M. Dudevant being twenty-seven; but the marriage[Pg 60] proved a most uncongenial one. In 1823, Aurore’s beloved son, Maurice, was born; in 1828, her daughter, Solange. In 1831 she made an arrangement with her husband by which she was free to spend every alternate three months, in Paris, working with her pen. He allowed her 3,000 francs a year. The education of the children was carefully provided for in their compact. And now Aurore’s career really began. In 1832 she published, under the pseudonym, “George Sand,” her first novel, Indiana. This created a sensation and established her fame. It was followed during her long life by Valentine, 1832,[3] Lélia, 1833, Jacques, 1834, Le Secrétaire intime, 1834, André, 1835, Leone Leoni, 1835, Simon, 1836, Mauprat, 1837, La Dernière Aldini, 1837, Les Maîtres Mosaïstes, 1837, Spiridion, 1840, Le Compagnon du Tour de France, 1840, Horace, 1842, Consuelo, 1842-1843, La Comtesse de Rudolstadt, 1843-4, Jeanne, 1844, Le Meunier d’ Angibault, 1845, La Mare au Diable, 1846, La Péché d’ M. Antoine, 1847, Lucrezia Floriani, 1847, La Petite Fadette, 1849, François le Champi, 1850, Le Château des Désertes, 1851, Les Maîtres Sonneurs, 1853, Les Beaux Messieurs de Bois Doré, 1858, Elle et Lui, 1859, L’ Homme de Neige, 1859, Constance Verrier, 1860, Jean de la Roche, 1860, Le Marquis de Villemer, 1861, Valvèdre, 1861, La Ville Noire, 1861, Mlle. La Quintinie, 1863, La Confession d’ une Jeune Fille, 1865, Cadio, 1868, Malgré tout, 1870, Pierre qui roule, 1870, Nanon, 1872, Contes d’ une Grand’ mère, 1873, and numerous other novels and tales; Cosima, 1840, Claudie, 1851, Le Mariage de Victorine, 1851, Le Pressoir, 1853,[Pg 61] Maître Favilla, 1855, and other plays; Letters d’ un Voyageur (written 1834-6), Un Hiver à Majorque, 1842, Histoire de ma Vie, 1854-5, Journal d’ un Voyageur pendant le Siège, 1872, Impressions et Souvenirs, 1873, and other records of experience. In 1836, M. and Mme. Dudevant finally separated, and the latter was known henceforward as Mme. Sand. She had from this time full control of her children, to whom she was devoted. Her intimacy with Alfred de Musset, broken off after their journey to Italy, in 1834, is well known and variously commented upon. Chopin was also her ardent admirer. She took to the end a deep interest in public affairs. The last years of her life were passed quietly at Nohant, where she died, June 8, 1876. The brief remarks on George Sand, by Charlotte Brontë and Mrs. Browning, have interest, as the words of sister authors who (as well as George Eliot), are sometimes classed with her. “The immense vibration of George Sand’s voice upon the ear of Europe,” says Mr. Arnold, “will not soon die away. Her passions and her errors have been abundantly talked of. She left them behind her, and men’s memory of her will leave them behind also. There will remain of her to mankind the sense of benefit and stimulus from the passage upon earth of that large and frank nature, of that large and pure utterance.... There will remain an admiring and ever-widening report of that great and ingenuous soul, simple, affectionate, without vanity, without pedantry, human, equitable, patient, kind.” [Pg 62] Reminiscences of her childhood. While I was yet very young, my mother commenced the cultivation of my intellectual faculties; my mind was neither particularly sluggish nor particularly active; left to itself it might have developed but slowly. I was rather backward in talking, but having once begun to speak I learned words very rapidly, and, when but four years old, I could read fluently. I was brought up with my cousin Clotilde. Our respective mothers taught us our prayers, and I recollect that I used to repeat mine by heart without a mistake, and also without having any idea of their meaning, except as regards the following words, which we were made to repeat when our little heads were laid upon the same pillow: “Mon Dieu, je vous donne mon cœur!” (My God, I give my heart to Thee!) I do not know why I understood those words better than the rest, for they are highly metaphysical; but certainly I did understand them, and it was the only part of my prayers that conveyed to me any idea either of God or myself.... My mother used to sing to me a rhyme on Christmas Eve; but as that only occurred once a year, I do not recollect it. What I have not forgotten is the absolute belief which I had in the descent down the chimney of Old Father Christmas, a good old man with a snowy beard, who, during the night, as the clock struck twelve, was to come and place in my little shoe a present which I should find upon awaking. Twelve o’clock at night! that mysterious hour unknown to children, and which is represented to them as the impossible limit to which they can keep awake! What incredible efforts did I not make to resist my tendency to sleep before the appearance of the little[Pg 63] old man! I felt anxious yet afraid to see him! But I could never keep awake long enough, and the following morning my first anxiety was to go and examine my shoe in the fire-place. What emotion did I not feel at sight of the white paper parcel! for Father Christmas was extremely clean in his ways, and never failed to carefully wrap up his offering. I used to jump out of bed and run barefooted to seize my treasure. It was never a very magnificent affair, for we were not wealthy! It used to be a little cake, an orange, or simply a nice rosy apple. But, nevertheless, it seemed so precious to me that I scarcely dared to eat it. George Sand: ‘Histoire de ma Vie,’ quoted by Raphaël Ledos de Beaufort, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’

We decided to put the platform to another test, to see if it was really possible for you to make money, or maybe it was a one time affair.

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Platt was able to make £233.18 in profit after 3 hours, for us, it took much longer. The platform took 20 hours to generate an £192.19 profit, which still impressed us a lot! I've never made a trade in my life, yet here we were able to generate profits.

We spent about 25 minutes a day checking the results, and after 5 days, the platform had traded up to a massive total of £630. That is a 252% increase in our initial deposit. I was starting to become a true believer in this platform.

After 7 Days our initial investment had traded up to £1,930. At this point, my mind was racing with possibilities of all the things I could spend that money on. This is more money than I made at work for the week and I spent less than 3 weekly hours checking the platform.

I decided to keep our account active for 15 days in total because I wanted to see how high it could go. Our account eventually hit a peak of £7,300.5 but had a negative -£79.51 trade. I looked through our trading logs and discovered that not every trade is profitable, some actually lose money.

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MAKE no claim that the house wherein I dwell is a perfect one; it is my first house—a fledgling. One must build at least thrice, it has been truly observed, to obtain the perfected dwelling, and still there will remain room for improvement. So many things go to make up the ideal house, it is beyond human possibility to combine them all; while even during the process of construction one’s tastes are liable to change or become subject to modification. To the most of mankind a single venture is sufficient; only architects build more than once for a pastime. For the sole office of the architect is to plan; the province of 10the builder to delay. The asylums teem with victims to the vexations of house-building. Having money to make and not to disburse, with no further care than to complete the work in hand with the utmost leisure, the architect and builder pass through the ordeal unscathed, and remain to lure new victims. One exception I recall. Picturesquely situated on the eastern coast, within hearing of the surge and rising amid the forest-growth, stands an untenanted villa. The imposing exterior is of massive stone, and all that unlimited wealth and taste could contribute has been lavished upon the interior. The mansion was completed within the specified time, but during its construction architect and builder both died, the owner living only three days after its completion. From the placing of the foundation-stone to the prospective fire in the hearth—from commencement to completion—who may foresee the possibilities? Ever man proposes while Fate disposes. Plans look so feasible on paper, and building seems so delightfully facile in theory—so much time, so much money, and your long-dreamed-of castle in Spain is a reality. But, like the quest of a German professor I once knew who was searching for a wife who must be rich, beautiful, young, angelic, and not afraid of 11a mouse, the perfect house is difficult to attain; while plans often resemble the summer excursions one takes with the mind during winter, apparently so easy to carry out and yet so unfrequently realized. We forget the toilsome climb up the mountain where we arrive, perchance, to find the view shrouded in mist; or a cold spell sets in when we reach the seashore; or heavy rains render the long-contemplated angling trip a dismal failure. If we leave the house to the architect, he builds merely for himself—he builds his house, not yours. You must be the idealist of your own ideal. “Our so-called architects,” says Richard Jefferies, “are mere surveyors, engineers, educated bricklayers, men of hard, straight ruler and square, mathematically accurate, and utterly devoid of feeling. You call in your practical architect, and he builds you a brick box. The princes of Italy knew better; they called in the poet and the painter, the dreamers, to dream for them.” How the penetrating insight of Montaigne pierced the mask of the architect: “The Merchant thrives not but by the licentiousness of youth; the Husbandman but by dearth of corne; the Architect but by the ruine of houses!” Perhaps the easiest way out of the difficulty is to secure a house already constructed 12that will meet your requirements as nearly as may be. But the mere building, the foundation, construction, architectural details, and interior arrangement are only a small part of numerous vital factors that should enter into the question of the house and home. There are equally the considerations of situation, neighborhood, accessibility, and a score of like important features to be seriously meditated on. One can not afford to make mistakes in building or in marrying. “In early manhood,” says Cato, “the master of a family must study to plant his ground. As for building, he must think a long time about it.” The external construction is, indeed, the least part of building—there is still the decorating and the furnishing. Wise is he who weighs and ponders ere he decides upon the location of his house, especially if he would be near the town. For in the ideal home I would unite many things, including pure air, sufficient elevation, pleasant views, the most suitable exposure, good soil, freedom from noise, and the natural protection from wind afforded by trees. “Let our dwelling be lightsome, if possible; in a free air and near a garden,” is the advice of the philosopher, Pierre du Moulin. Very apposite are old Thomas Fuller’s directions for a site—“Chiefly choose a wholesome air, for air is a 13dish one feeds on every minute, and therefore it need be good.” And again: “Light (God’s eldest daughter) is a principal beauty in a building, and a pleasant prospect is to be respected.” In the chapter of the Essays, on Smells and Odors, the author pertinently observes: “The principall care I take, wheresoever I am lodged, is to avoid and be far from all manner of filthy, foggy, ill-savouring, and unwholesome aires. These goodly Cities of strangely seated Venice and huge-built Paris, by reason of the muddy, sharp, and offending savours which they yield; the one by her fennie and marish situation, the other by her durtie uncleannesse and continuall mire, doe greatly alter and diminish the favor which I bear them.” All these desiderata are well-nigh impossible to unite in the city. There all manner of nuisances necessarily exist—manufactories which discharge noxious smoke and soot, the clangor of bells and whistles, an atmosphere more or less charged with unwholesome exhalations. This more particularly in summer; in winter I grant the city has its charms and advantages. Wealth may sometimes combine the delights of urban and rural life, as when a large residence plot is retained in a pleasant neighborhood of the town. But even unlimited means can rarely procure a 14place of this description, which comes by inheritance rather than by choosing, and in the end becomes too valuable to retain. Besides, however fine the ancestral trees and endeared the homestead, it must still lack the repose of the country, the free expanse of sky, the unfettered breadth of the fields. When I look about me I find the combination I would attain a difficult one to secure in almost any city. If I build in the suburbs, upon the most fashionable avenue, its approaches may be disagreeable and the surrounding landscape flat and uninviting. The opposite quarter of the suburbs, the main northern residence avenue, will be windy during winter. If I locate westward there may be factories and car-shops to constantly offend the ear; if I move eastward unsavory odors may assail, and if I select a site in yet another neighborhood that commends itself for its elevation and pleasant society, there may be the smoke and soot of neighboring chimneys to defile the air and intrude themselves unceasingly into my dwelling. The country-seat sufficiently removed from town, and yet comparatively accessible, alone may yield, during the greater portion of the year, all the desired qualifications of the ideal home. Does not Béranger truly sing— 15Cherchons loin du bruit de la ville Pour le bonheur un sûr asile. Seek we far from the city’s noise A refuge safe for peaceful joys. And have not all the poets before him apostrophized the delights of a country life? Why not the town-house, and also the country-seat—a hibernaculum for the winter, and a villeggiatura for the summer? Unfortunately, this would involve constructing two houses, meeting a double building liability, harboring two sets of worries; and, moreover, one’s library, however modest, can not well be disarranged or periodically shifted from one place to another. The old Latins were distinguished as we well know for their love of the country. Virgil, Ovid, Tibullus, and Terence all had their country-seats. Horace, in addition to the Sabine farm, possessed his cottage at Tivoli, and longed for a third resort at Sorrento. Pliny the Younger, and Cicero rode seventeen miles from Rome to Tusculum daily to gain repose. Pliny’s letters attest his intense fondness for rural surroundings. The holder of numerous country-houses, he has described two of them very minutely, his descriptions giving to posterity the most reliable and truthful account of the old Roman villas. Of all his villas, including those at Tusculum, Præneste, Tibur, 16several on Lake Como, and his Laurentine and Tuscan resorts, the two latter were his especial favorites, whose fascinations he never tires of recounting. Especially attractive is his account of Laurentium: the apartments so planned as to command the most pleasing views; the dining-room built out into the sea, ever washed by the advancing wave; the terrace before the gallery redolent with the scent of violets; the gallery itself so placed that the shadow of the building was thrown on the terrace in the forenoon; and at the end of the gallery “the little garden apartment” looking on one side to the terrace, on the other to the sea; his elaborate bath-rooms and dressing-rooms, his tennis-court and tower, and his own sleeping-room carefully constructed for the exclusion of noise. “My house is for use, and not for show,” he exclaims; “I retire to it for a little quiet reading and writing, and for the bodily rest which freshens the mind.” One side of the spacious sitting-room invited the morning, the other the afternoon sun. One room focused the sunlight the entire day. In the walls of this his study was “a book-case for such works as can never be read too often.” The Tuscan villa was on a still more extensive scale, the house facing the south, and adorned with a broad, long colonnade, 17in front of which reposed a terrace embellished with numerous figures and bounded with a hedge of box from whence one descended to the lawn inclosed with evergreens shaped into a variety of forms. This, in turn, he states, was fenced in by a box-covered wall rising by step-like ranges to the top, beyond which extended the green meads, fields, and thickets of the Tuscan plain, tempered on the calmest days by the breeze from the neighboring Apennines. The dining-room on one extremity of the terrace commanded the magnificent prospect, and almost cooled the Falernian. There, too, are luxurious summer and winter rooms, a tennis-court, a hippodrome for horse exercise, shaded marble alcoves in the gardens, and the play of fountain and ripple of running water. The long epistle to Domitius Apollinaris, descriptive of the Tuscan retreat, he concludes by saying: “You will hardly think it a trouble to read the description of a place which I am persuaded would charm you were you to see it.” It was the delightful situation and the well cared for gardens of Pliny’s country-seats, it will be seen, no less than the refined elegance and the conveniences of the splendid houses themselves, of which Pliny was mainly his own architect, that rendered them so attractive. Assuredly he must 18have been a most accomplished house-builder and artist-architect; for, in addition to the many practical and artistic features he has enumerated with such precision, he specifies a room so contrived that when he was in it he seemed to be at a distance from his own house. But even Pliny’s wealth and inventive resources, much as they contributed to his comfort, could not combine everything. He could not bring Laurentium to him; he must needs go to her. The daily ride of seventeen miles and back to the city must have been irksome during bad weather; and even amid all his luxury and beauty of scenery he bewails the lack of running water at Laurentium. Luxurious and convenient as were the old Roman villas, they were built with only one story, in which respect at least the modern house is an improvement upon the house of the ancients; and there yet remain other beautiful sites than those along the Tyrrhenian sea or in the vale of Ustica. Whether the house be situated in the country or in the town, whether it be large or small, it is apparent that the site and the exposure are of primary importance. So far as situation is concerned, a rise of ground and an easterly exposure, with the living-rooms on the south side, is undoubtedly the pleasantest. During the summer the 19prevailing west wind blows the dust of the street in the opposite direction; during winter the living-rooms are open to the light and sun. The comfort of the house during summer, and the outer prospect from within during winter, will depend in no small degree upon the proper planting of the grounds. Deciduous trees, and here the variety is great, will shade and cool it in summer, evergreens will furnish and warm its surroundings in winter; while for a great portion of the year the hardy flower-garden, including the shrubberies that screen the grounds from the highway, and the climbers which disburse their bloom and fragrance over its verandas and porches, will contribute largely to its beauty and attractiveness. Somehow I can not look upon my house by itself, without including as accessories, nay, as essential parts of it, its outward surroundings and external Nature—the woods whence its joists and rafters were hewed, the earth that supplied its mortar, brick, and stone, the coal whence it derives its light and heat, the trees that ward off the wind in winter and shield it from the sun in summer, the garden which contributes its flowers, the orchards and vineyards that supply its fruits, the teeming fields and pastures that continuously yield the largess 20of their corn, and flocks, and herds. From each of these my house and I receive a tithe. My purpose, however, even were I able to do the subject justice, is not to treat of the adornment of gardens, of architectural styles, expression of purpose in building, or the proper exterior form for the American town-house and country villa. There remain, nevertheless, some features of the interior of the home to which I would fain call attention, though even here, more than in the matter of the exterior, opinions necessarily differ. Every house, methinks, should possess its distinctive character, its individual sentiment or expression; and this depends less upon the architect and the professional decorator than upon the taste reflected by the occupants. And yet there is nothing so bizarre or atrocious that it will not please some; there exists nothing so perfect as to please all. Shall the ideal house be large or small? Excellent results may follow in either case in intelligent, thoughtful hands. Where money is merely a secondary object, then the great luxuriously furnished rooms, the lofty ceilings, the grand halls and staircases, the picture gallery, the music, billiard, and ball rooms, the house of magnificent distances and perspectives. Still man is not content; for such a house, to 21be beautiful, calls for constant care, a retinue of servants, a blaze of light, a round of visitors and entertainments to populate its vast apartments and render it companionable. The house to entertain in and the house to live in are generally two separate things; but, of the two, you want to live in your house more than to entertain in it. Doubtless, even to those possessed of abundant means, the medium-sized house, sufficiently roomy for all ordinary purposes and yet cosy enough for family comfort, is the most satisfactory. In daily domestic life you do not become lost and absorbed in its magnitude; and for the matter of entertainments, on a large scale, you always have the resource of a “hall,” with no further trouble beyond that of issuing the invitations and liquidating the bills. In the ideal dwelling-house of medium size even this will be dispensed with, while still preserving the charm of privacy—one has simply to add a supplementary supper-room and an ample ball-room, to be thrown open only on special occasions for the accommodation of the overflow. Thus it would be possible to avoid a barn to live in, and a cote to entertain in. The great thing in house planning is to think ahead, and still think ahead. The hall which looks so spacious on paper is 22sure to contract, and ordinary-sized rooms will shrink perceptibly when they come to be furnished. It is important that the spaces between the doors and windows, the proportionate height of the doors and windows, the many little conveniences, and innumerable minor yet major details, like the placing of mantels, registers, chandeliers and side-lights, be planned by the occupant, and not left to the mercy of the architect. The latter will place the mantel on the side of a long, narrow room, thereby diminishing the width several feet, when it should go at the end. He will hang the doors so they will bump together, or open on the side you do not want them to open on. If he concede you a spacious hall and library, he will clip on the vestibule, or be a miser when he doles out the space for the stairway landing or the butler’s pantry. And what architect will stop to think of that most important of household institutions—a roomy, convenient, concealed catch-all, or rather a series of catch-alls! Even so simple a contrivance as an invisible small wardrobe in the wall adjoining the entrance—a receptacle for hats, wraps, and waterproofs—he has never yet devised. Every hall must of necessity be littered up with that hideous contrivance, a hat-rack, in a more or less offensive form, 23when at a touch a panel in the wainscot might fly open to joyfully engulf the outer vesture of visitors. You must see your house planned and furnished with the inward eye ere the foundation is laid, and exercise the clairvoyant’s art if you would not be disappointed when it is finally ready for habitation. The question of closet-room is best left to the mistress of the house, otherwise it is certain to be stinted; and it were economy in the end to secure the services of a competent chef to plan the kitchen and its accessories—that tributary of the home through whose savory or unsavory channels so great a wave of human enjoyment or dolor flows. It is with houses very much as it is with gardens—no two are ever precisely alike; so far at least as the interior of the former is concerned. Both reflect, or should reflect, through a hundred different ways and niceties of adjustment and arrangement, the individual tastes of those who are instrumental in their creation. The ideal house must first be conceived by those who are to dwell in it, modeled according to their requirements, mirroring their ideas, their refinement, and their conceptions of the useful and the beautiful. By different persons these ends are approached by different ways. So long as we attain the desired end, the route thereto is of little consequence. 24But in the ideal house, it may be observed, a little money and a good deal of taste go a very great way. All the eyes of Argus and all the clubs of Hercules must need be yours, would you see your house perfectly planned and perfectly constructed. The terrible gauntlet one has to run! He who builds should have nothing to divert his mind from the task. It is the work of a lifetime crowded into a year. And when all is done, and the lights are turned on and the house is peopled with its guests, who is there that is fully content with the result of his labor? who that finds in the fruition the full promise of the bloom? The perfect house in itself exists no more than the perfect man or woman. We can at best set up an exalted standard of excellence to approximate as nearly as we may. It is very much in building as it is in life, where content with what we have is, after all, the true source of happiness. “I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle-dove, and am still on their trail,” is the burden of Walden. How many of us are not likewise in quest of the something that ever eludes? When we think we have come up with the fox, it is but his shadow we seize; he himself has already vanished round the ravine. We follow, but may not overtake, 25at will, the siren that the poet beckoned for in vain: Ah, sweet Content! where doth thine harbor hold? Is it in churches with religious men Which please the gods with prayers manifold, And in their studies meditate it then? Whether thou dost in heaven or earth appear, Be where thou wilt, thou wilt not harbor here.[1] 1. Barnabe Barnes. What philosopher among all who have moralized and analyzed has discovered the sought-for stone? Amiel failed in the pursuit: “I am always waiting for the woman and the work which shall be capable of taking entire possession of my soul, and of becoming my end and aim.” “A man’s happiness,” says Alphonse Karr, in an apothegm worthy of La Bruyère, “consists in that which he has not got, or that which he no longer has.” The coveted bauble palls when it is finally ours, the “dove” escapes, and we all grow old. Absolute happiness flees when we enter our ’teens. Methinks the French poet Chénier has resolved the experience of most of us with reference to a certain phase of life as felicitously as any of those who have endured and felt: Tout homme a ses douleurs. Mais aux yeux de ses frères Chacun d’un front serein déguise ses misères, Chacun ne plaint que soi. Chacun dans son ennui Envie un autre humain qui se plaint comme lui. 26Nul des autres mortels ne mesure les peines, Qu’ils savent tous cacher comme il cache les siennes, Et chacun, l’œil en pleurs, en son cœur douloureux Se dit: Excepté moi, tout le monde est heureux. Each man his sorrows hath; but, in his brothers’ eyes, Each one with brow serene his troubles doth disguise. Each of himself complains; each one, in weariness, Envies a fellow-man who mourns in like distress. None measureth the pains that all as well conceal As he himself doth hide the griefs that he doth feel; And each, with tearful eye, says in his sorrowing heart, Excepting me, the world with happiness hath part. Yet, I like to think, and cherish the thought, when the cloud reveals no silver lining, that however disappointing some phases of life may be, some experiences of human character, there are bright days and pleasant places ahead in the future, somewhere and sometime. Happiness is coy at the best, fickle in bestowing her favors; and we find her the more delightful, possibly, in that, like the sunshine, she comes and goes. We awaken some morning to find her present, and the next morning she has flown. “It sometimes seemeth that when we least think on her she is pleased to sport with us.” So many she has to minister to that she has necessarily but a brief period to remain. Still I see her ever laughing with the children at play, and find her lingering where industry abides. Beside the humble board of the laborer she is often found, while frequently passing by the homes of 27the rich. Over gardens and fields she hovers on pleasant days of spring, and on blustering winter nights I hear the rustle of her wings above the poet’s page. The sunshine that sifts through the window, warming and gilding all my surroundings, is mine to-day; to-morrow it may stream elsewhere. It is all the brighter when it comes; but to possess it I must open wide the casement to let in the beams. Climbing with the sunny Rector of Eversley to the lonely tarn amid the hills—you have read and admired Chalk-Stream Studies; or, if not, you have that enjoyment in store—I recall the moral that adorns this delightful essay. “What matter,” he happily reasons, “if, after two hours of such enjoyment, he (the angler) goes down again into the world of man with empty creel or with a dozen pounders or two-pounders, shorter, gamer, and redder-fleshed than ever came out of Thames or Kennet? What matter? If he has not caught them, he might have caught them; he has been catching them in imagination all the way up; and if he be a minute philosopher, he holds that there is no falser proverb than that devil’s beatitude, ‘Blessèd is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed.’ Say, rather: ‘Blessèd is he who expecteth everything, for he 28enjoys everything once, at least; and, if it falls out true, twice also.’” And with this gentle spirit, despite his many trials, Charles Kingsley lived on through life, shedding sunshine and cheer from the vine-embowered rectory at Eversley. His house was large enough for his personal comforts, for the entertainment of his chosen friends, and for the satisfaction of his domestic requirements; and this sufficed. Reflecting the “sweetness and light” of his own nature, it became the perfect house to him for the reason that he was satisfied with his surroundings. The ideal home is largely the handiwork of the contented mind; and if before we build we learn to extract the finer essences of things, we may then pluck the rose where others only find the thorn.

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Tohloria Lewis

I've been trading with for the last few weeks and made a small profit of £2,300. I'm loving it!

Reply. 12 minutes ago

Tanya Porquez

I saw on the News and signed up yesterday, I'm up around £25.

Reply. 13 minutes ago

Jennifer Jackson Mercer

A friend of mine used it and recommended it, so I'll look into it.

Reply. 25 minutes ago

David Barrott

It is so easy to use, you just deposit money and the robot does all the work for you.

Reply. about an hour ago

Amanda Gibson

I saw this on the news. Thank you for sharing this article!

Reply. 1 hour ago

Julie Keyse

I've heard so much about bitcoin and everybody was using it, I'm going to give this a try!

Reply. 2 hours ago

Peter Williams

I've made over £1,430 after just a week, I'm so close to leaving my job and doing this full time.

Reply. 2 hours ago

Kirsten Bauman Riley

I bought my first bitcoin yesterday and I'm really excited to see what this can do for me over the coming days.

Reply. 2 hours ago

Celia Kilgard

worked for me! It worked just like I thought it would. It was easy enough and I just want others to know when something works.

Reply. 2 hours ago

Alanna 'martin' Payne

Thanks for the info, just started using the platform.

Reply. 2 hours ago

Logan Chang

Been so busy with my kids lately, but this fits in just fine. I've traded up around £190 in 4 days. It's small, but a really good start!

Reply. 2 hours ago

Mark Fadlevich

I've been so impressed by this, I've deposited over £500 into my account so far and made back more than 4 times that amount.

Reply. 2 hours ago

Ashley O'Brien Berlin

Really easy to use and really fast. I'm not really a technical person, but I got the hang of this easy. It has made me around £130 after just a day!!

Reply. 2 hours ago

Amanda Hickam

Just signed up, wish me luck people.

Reply. 3 hours ago

Jonathan Jackson

My friend just e-mailed me this, a friend at work had told her about it. i guess it works really well

Reply. 3 hours ago

Travis Wilson Hodge

Telling all my friends about this, thanx for the info

Reply. 3 hours ago

Dean Phongsa

Wasn't sure about signing up, but I am so glad I did. I've made like £89 after just 2 hours on the platform. Really easy and really fast, nothing could be simpler

Reply. 4 hours ago

Molly Murley Davis

I've gone ahead and made my initial deposit. I can't wait to get started and see what happens.

Reply. 6 hours ago

Jenna Ponchot Bush

This would have to be the easiest way to invest in bitcoin ever, even I was able to do it with virtually no previous experience in the area.

Reply. 8 hours ago

Kyle Miranda

I have tried so much of this kind of stuff, in one sense I want to try it but in the back of my mind I am thinking, yeah right!! Someone please reassure me it works.

Reply. 8 hours ago

Tom Bergheger

I tried the platform thing a while ago and it worked pretty good for me.

Reply. 8 hours ago

Eitan Silver

A few of my friends had invested in bitcoin and made an absolute killing do it, I'm going to be joining them soon.

Reply. 8 hours ago

Gotmy Mindframe Right

Had no idea you could get results like this, does anybody know if you can invest in other crypto currencies.

Reply. 9 hours ago

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