OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Times/1926/Obituary/Beatrix Lucia Catherine Tollemache

The Hon. Mrs. Lionel Tollemache.
"R. T." writes:—On the 23rd inst. there passed away from a large circle of relatives and friends, who can ill spare her, the Hon. Beatrix Lucia Tolllemache, daughter of the first Lord Egerton of Tatton. Mrs. Tollemache—who was born in 1840—married, in 1870, the Hon. Lionel Arthur Tollemache, a son of the first Lord Tollemache. He died in 191. They were a gifted couple, and well known to most eminent men and women of the 19th century. Both husband and wife published books from time to time, some of which may live after them. Passing their days in studious fashion, they were constant contributors to newspapers and review; Mrs. Tollemache's poems, which often appeared in the Spectator, will be remembered regular readers of that journal. She was a very lovely and brilliant woman of exceeding charm, an artist and a capable critic, her beautiful face being an index to her uncommon character. She was notable, too, for her command of foreign idioms, and all the treasures of the best European literature were fully open to her. The bent of her exceptional mind was shown by her mastery of the difficult Russian language, which she acquired when she was already a septuagenarian.
Mrs. Tollemache's later life, however, was mainly devoted to the care of her invalid husband at Haslemere; and there , after his death, she lived in retirement, where her may charities will not soon be forgotten. Her kindness was indeed unbounded. She was a great lady of the old type, with the power of inspiring the love and devotion of all who knew her intimately. The writer of this brief notice feels that the words he uses utterly fail to convey the praise which is so well merited by such a personality. Mrs. Tollemache retained her confidence in this country, her serene hopefulness to the last, dying peacefully and painlessly full of years and wisdom. The world is the worse for the loss of such a woman her native country of Cheshire—that "Seede Plot of Gentilitie"—never grew a fairer flower!
This work was published in 1926 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 97 years or less since publication.
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# The Times/1926/Obituary/Everard Green

* related portals: Obituaries.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
Source: The Times, Wednesday, Jun 23, 1926; Issue 44305; pg. 18 — Obituaries. Mr. Everard Green.
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MR. EVERARD GREEN
Mr. Everard Green, Somerset Herald, died at Clevedon yesterday at the age of 81. The son of Mr. Charles Green, of Holdich House, Spalding, he was received into the Roman Catholic Church at the age of 19, and was afterwards, in 1880, made a knight of the order of St. Silvester by Pope Leo XIII. In 1893 he was appointed by the late Duke of Norfolk Rouge Dragon Pursuivant of Arms in the Heralds' College, and in 1911 he was promoted to Somerset Herald. Mr. Green, who was a member of the Council of the Society of Antiquaries, was a scholarly antiquary and genealogist. In addition to contributions to the Nineteenth Century and other reviews, he published "A Plea for the Resurrection of Heraldry," "O Sapientia," "The Insignia of an Archbishop," "The Westminster Tournament Roll of 1510," "The Arms of the Popes," and "Lincolnshire Pedigrees." Mr. Green was at one time a familiar figure at the Athenæum, of which he became a member in 1915. The funeral will be at Downside Abbey on Friday.
This work was published in 1926 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 97 years or less since publication.
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# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Open Table

OPEN TABLE.
Many a guest I'd see to-day, Met to taste my dishes! Food in plenty is prepared, Birds, and game, and fishes. Invitations all have had, All proposed attending. Johnny, go and look around! Are they hither wending?
Pretty girls I hope to see, Dear and guileless misses, Ignorant how sweet it is Giving tender kisses. Invitations all have had, All proposed attending. Johnny, go and look around! Are they hither wending?
Women also I expect, Loving toward their spouses, Whose rude grumbling in their breasts Greater love but rouses. Invitations they've had, too, All proposed attending. Johnny, go and look around! Are they hither wending?
​I've too asked young gentlemen, Who are far from haughty, And whose purses are all well-stocked, Well behaved, not naughty. These especially I asked, All proposed attending. Johnny, go and look around! Are they hither wending?
Men I summoned with respect, Who their own wives treasure; Who in ogling other Fair Never take a pleasure. To my greetings they replied, All proposed attending. Johnny, go and look around! Are they hither wending?
Then to make our joy complete, Poets I invited, Who love others' songs far more Than what they've indited. All acceded to my wish, All proposed attending. Johnny, go and look around! Are they hither wending?
Not a single one appears, None seem this way posting. All the soup boils fast away, Joints are over-roasting. Ah, I fear that we have been Rather too unbending! Johnny, tell me what you think! None are hither wending.
​Johnny, run, and quickly bring Other guests to me now! Each arriving as he is— That's the plan, I see now. In the town at once 'tis known Every one's commending. Johnny, open all the doors: All are hither wending.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Phooemion

PHOŒMION.
In His blest name, who was His own creation, Who from all time makes making his vocation; The name of Him who makes our faith so bright, Love, confidence, activity, and might; In that One's name, who, named though oft He be, Unknown is ever in Reality: As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim, Thou findest but the known resembling Him; How high soe'er thy fiery spirit hovers, Its simile and type it straight discovers; Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay, Where e'er thou goest, smiling is the way; No more thou numberest, reckonest no time, Each step is infinite, each step sublime.
What God would outwardly alone control, And on his finger whirl the mighty Whole? He loves the inner world to move, to view Nature in Him, Himself in Nature, too, So that what in Him works, and is, and lives, The measure of His strength, His spirit gives.
Within us all a universe doth dwell; And hence each people's usage laudable, That every one the Best that meets his eyes As God, yea, e'en his God, doth recognise; To Him both earth and heaven surrenders he, Fears Him, and loves Him, too, if that may be.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Playing at Priests

PLAYING AT PRIESTS.
Within a town where parity According to old form we see,— That is to say, where Catholic And Protestant no quarrels pick, And where, as in his father's day, Each worships God in his own way, ​We Lutheran children used to dwell, By songs and sermons taught as well The Catholic cling-clang in truth Sounded more pleasing to our youth, For all that we encountered there To us seemed varied, joyous, fair. As children, monkeys, and mankind To ape each other are inclined, We soon, the time to while away, A game at priests resolved to play. Their aprons all our sisters lent For copes, which gave us great content; And handkerchiefs embroidered o'er, Instead of stoles we also wore; Gold paper, whereon beasts were traced, The bishop's brow as mitre graced.
Through house and garden thus in state We strutted early, strutted late; Repeating, with all proper unction, Incessantly each holy function, The best was wanting to the game; We knew that a sonorous ring Was here a most important thing; But fortune to our rescue came, For on the ground a halter lay; We were delighted, and at once Made it a bell-rope for the nonce, And kept it moving all the day; In turns each sister and each brother Acted as sexton to another; All helped to swell the joyous throng; The whole proceeded swimmingly, And since no actual bell had we, We all in chorus sang, Ding dong!
In memory's tomb, like some old lay; And yet across my mind it rushed With pristine force the other day. The New-Poetic Catholics In every point its aptness fix!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Phoebus and Hermes

PHŒBUS AND HERMES.
The deep-browed lord of Delos once, and Maia's nimble-witted son, Contended eagerly by whom the prize of glory should be won; Hermes longed to grasp the lyre,—the lyre Apollo hoped to gain. And both their hearts were full of hope, and yet the hopes of both were vain. For Ares, to decide the strife, between them rudely dashed in ire, And waving high his falchion keen, he cleft in twain the golden lyre. Loud Hermes laughed maliciously, but at the direful deed did fall The deepest grief upon the heart of Phœbus and the Muses all.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Paulo Post Futuri

Consistent with the original work, this page also contains an unrelated poem.
PAULO POST FUTURI.
Weep ye not, ye children dear, That as yet ye are unborn: For each sorrow and each tear Makes the father's heart to mourn.
​Patient be a short time to it, Unproduced, and known to none; If your father cannot do it, By your mother 'twill be done.
He who with life makes sport, Can prosper never; Who rules himself in nought, Is a slave ever.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Perfect Bliss

PERFECT BLISS.
All the divine perfections, which whilere Nature in thrift doled out 'mongst many a fair, She showered with open hand, thou peerless one, on thee! And she that was so wondrously endowed, To whom a throng of noble knees were bowed, Gave all—Love's perfect gift—her glorious self, to me!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Petition

PETITION.
Oh, thou sweet maiden fair, Thou with the raven hair, Why to the window go? While gazing down below, Art standing vainly there? Oh, if thou stood'st for me, And lett'st the latch but fly, How happy should I be! How soon would I leap high!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Philomena

PHILOMELA.
Surely, surely, Amor nursed thee, songstress of the plaintive note, And, in fond and childish fancy, fed thee from his pointed dart. So, sweet Philomel, the poison sunk into thy guileless throat, Till, with all love's weight of passion, strike its notes to every heart.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Philine's Song

PHILINE'S SONG.
Sing not thus in notes of sadness Of the loneliness of night: No! 'tis made for social gladness, Converse sweet, and love's delight.
As to rugged man his wife is For his fairest half decreed, So dear night the half of life is, And the fairest half, indeed.
Who could hail the day with pleasure, Which but interrupts our joys, Scares us from our dreams of leisure With its glare and irksome noise?
But when night is come, and glowing Is the lamp's attempered ray, And from lip to lip are flowing Love and mirth, in sparkling play;
When the fiery boy, that wildly Gambols in his wayward mood, Calms to rest, disporting mildly, By some trivial gift subdued;
When the nightingale is trilling Songs of love to lovers' ears, Which, to hearts with sorrow thrilling, Seem but sighs and waken tears;
How, with pulses lightly bounding, Leaps the heart to hear the bell, Which, the hour of midnight sounding, Doth of rest and safety tell.
​Then, dear heart, this comfort borrow In the long day's lingering light— Every day hath its own sorrow. Gladness cometh with the night!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Poetry

POETRY.
God to his untaught children sent Law, order, knowledge, art, from high, And every heavenly favour lent, The world's hard lot to qualify. They knew not how they should behave, For all from Heaven stark-naked came; But Poetry their garments gave, And then not one had cause for shame.
# The Wonderful Visit (1895)/Chapter 23

XLIII. The Sea Cliff.
The Sea Cliff.
XLIII.
The Angel lay upon the summit of the cliff above Bandram Bay, and stared out at the glittering sea. Sheer from under his elbows fell the cliff, five hundred and seven feet of it down to the datum line, and the sea-birds eddied and soared below him. The upper part of the cliff was a greenish chalky rock, the lower two-thirds a warm red, marbled with gypsum bands, and from half-a-dozen places spurted jets of water, to fall in long cascades down its face. The swell frothed white on the flinty beach, and the water beyond where the shadows of an outstanding rock lay, was green and purple in a thousand tints and marked with streaks and flakes of foam. The air was full of sunlight and the tinkling of the little waterfalls and the slow soughing of the seas below. Now and then a butterfly flickered over the face of the cliff, and a multitude ​of sea-birds perched and flew hither and thither.
The Angel lay with his crippled, shrivelled wings humped upon his back, watching the gulls and jackdaws and rooks, circling in the sunlight, soaring, eddying, sweeping down to the water or upward into the dazzling blue of the sky. Long the Angel lay there and watched them going to and fro on outspread wings. He watched, and as he watched them he remembered with infinite longing the rivers of starlight and the sweetness of the land from which he came. And a gull came gliding overhead, swiftly and easily, with its broad wings spreading white and fair against the blue. And suddenly a shadow came into the Angel's eyes, the sunlight left them, he thought of his own crippled pinions, and put his face upon his arm and wept.
A woman who was walking along the footpath across the Cliff Field saw only a twisted hunch-back dressed in the Vicar of Siddermorton's cast-off clothes, sprawling foolishly at the edge of the cliff and with his forehead on his arm. She looked at him and looked again. "The silly creature has gone to sleep," she said, and ​though she had a heavy basket to carry, came towards him with an idea of waking him up. But as she drew near she saw his shoulders heave and heard the sound of his sobbing.
She stood still a minute, and her features twitched into a kind of grin. Then treading softly she turned and went back towards the pathway. "'Tis so hard to think of anything to say," she said. "Poor afflicted soul!"
Presently the Angel ceased sobbing, and stared with a tear-stained face at the beach below him.
"This world," he said, "wraps me round and swallows me up. My wings grow shrivelled and useless. Soon I shall be nothing more than a crippled man, and I shall age, and bow myself to pain, and die. … I am miserable. And I am alone."
Then he rested his chin on his hands upon the edge of the cliff, and began to think of Delia's face with the light in her eyes. The Angel felt a curious desire to go to her and tell her of his withered wings. To place his arms about her and weep for the land he had lost. "Delia!" he said to himself very softly. And presently a cloud drove in front of the sun.
# The Wonderful Visit (1895)/Chapter 17

XXXIII. The Warp and the Woof of Things.
The Warp and the Woof of Things.
XXXIII.
At the dinner table the Angel told the Vicar the more striking of his day's adventures.
"The strange thing," said the Angel, "is the readiness of you Human Beings—the zest, with which you inflict pain. Those boys pelting me this morning———"
"Seemed to enjoy it," said the Vicar. "I know."
"Yet they don't like pain," said the Angel.
"No," said the Vicar; "they don't like it."
"Then, "said the Angel, "I saw some beautiful plants rising with a spike of leaves, two this way and two that, and when I caressed one it caused the most uncomfortable———"
"Stinging nettle!" said the Vicar.
"At any rate a new sort of pain. And another plant with a head like a coronet, and richly decorated leaves, spiked and jagged———"
"A thistle, possibly."
​"And in your garden, the beautiful sweet-smelling plant———"
"The sweet briar," said the Vicar. "I remember."
"And that pink flower that sprang out of the box———"
"Out of the box?" said the Vicar.
"Last night," said the Angel, "that went climbing up the curtains——— Flame!"
"Oh!—the matches and the candles! Yes," said the Vicar.
"Then the animals. A dog to-day behaved most disagreeably——— And these boys, and the way in which people speak——— Everyone seems anxious—willing at any rate—to give this Pain. Everyone seems busy giving pain———"
"Or avoiding it," said the Vicar, pushing his dinner away before him. "Yes—of course. It's fighting everywhere. The whole living world is a battle-field—the whole world. We are driven by Pain. Here. How it lies on the surface! This Angel sees it in a day!"
"But why does everyone—everything—want to give pain? "asked the Angel.
​"It is not so in the Angelic Land?" said the Vicar.
"No," said the Angel. "Why is it so here?"
The Vicar wiped his lips with his napkin slowly. "It is so," he said. "Pain," said he still more slowly, "is the warp and the woof of this life. Do you know," he said, after a pause, "it is almost impossible for me to imagine … a world without pain. … And yet, as you played this morning———
"But this world is different. It is the very reverse of an Angelic world. Indeed, a number of people—excellent religious people—have been so impressed by the universality of pain that they think, after death, things will be even worse for a great many of us. It seems to me an excessive view. But it's a deep question. Almost beyond one's power of discussion———"
And incontinently the Vicar plumped into an impromptu dissertation upon "Necessity," how things were so because they were so, how one had to do this and that. "Even our food," said the Vicar. "What?" said the Angel. "Is not obtained without inflicting Pain," said the Vicar.
​The Angel's face went so white that the Vicar checked himself suddenly. Or he was just on the very verge of a concise explanation of the antecedents of a leg of lamb. There was a pause.
"By-the-bye," said the Angel, suddenly. "Have you been pithed? Like the common people."
# The Works of H. G. Wells (Atlantic Edition)/Thought in the Modern State

It may seem to the reader that my stress upon the supreme necessity of literature springs from the obsession of a writer by his own calling; but, indeed, that is not so. We who write are not all so blinded by conceit of ourselves that we do not know something of our absolute personal value. We are lizards in an empty palace, frogs crawling over a throne. But it is a palace, it is a throne, and it may be the reverberation of our ugly voices will presently awaken the world to put something better in our place. Because we write abominably, under pressure, unhonoured and for bread, none the less we are making the future. We are making it atrociously no doubt; we are not ignorant of that possibility, but some of us, at least, would like to do it better. We know only too well how that we are out of touch with scholarship and contemplation. We must drive our pens to live and push and bawl to be heard. We must blunder against men an ampler training on either side would have made our allies; we must smart and lose our tempers, and do the foolish things that are done in the heat of the day. For all that, according to our lights, we who write are trying to save our world in a lack of better saviours, to change this mental tumult into an order of understanding and intention in which great things may grow. The thought of a community is the life of that community, and if the collective thought of a community is dis​connected and fragmentary, then the community is collectively vain and weak. That does not constitute an incidental defect, but essential failure. Though that community have cities such as the world has never seen before, fleets and hosts and glories, though it count its soldiers by the army corps and its children by the million, yet if it hold not to the reality of thought and formulated will beneath these outward things, it will pass, and all its glories will pass, like smoke before the wind, like mist beneath the sun; it will become at last only one more vague and fading dream upon the scroll of time, a heap of mounds and pointless history, even as are Babylon and Nineveh.
# The Works of H. G. Wells (Atlantic Edition)/The Wonderful Visit/The Epilogue

The Epilogue
And there the story of the Wonderful Visit ends. The Epilogue is in the mouth of Mrs. Mendham. There stand two little white crosses in the Siddermorton churchyard, near together, where the brambles come clambering over the stone wall. One is inscribed Thomas Angel and the other Delia Hardy, and the dates of the deaths are the same. Really there is nothing beneath them but the ashes of the Vicar's stuffed ostrich. (You will remember the Vicar had his ornithological side.) I noticed them when Mrs. Mendham was showing me the new De la Beche monument. (Mendham has been Vicar since Hillyer died.) "The granite came from ​somewhere in Scotland," said Mrs. Mendham, "and cost ever so much—I forget how much—but a wonderful lot! It's quite the talk of the village."
"Mother," said Cissie Mendham, "you are stepping on a grave."
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Mendham, "how heedless of me! And the cripple's grave too. But really you've no idea how much this monument cost them.
"These two people, by the bye," said Mrs. Mendham, "were killed when the old Vicarage was burned. It's rather a strange story. He was a curious person, a hunchbacked fiddler, who came from nobody knows where, and imposed upon the late Vicar to a frightful extent. He played in a pretentious way by ear, and we found out afterwards that he did not know a note of music—not a note. He was exposed before quite a lot of people. Among other things, he seems to have been 'carrying on,' as people say, with one of the servants, a sly little drab.… But Mendham had better tell you all about it. The man was half-witted and deformed. It's strange the fancies girls have."
She looked sharply at Cissie, and Cissie blushed to the eyes.
"She was left in the house and he rushed into the flames in an attempt to save her. Quite romantic—isn't it? He was rather clever with the fiddle in his uneducated way.
"All the poor Vicar's stuffed skins were burned at the same time. It was almost all he cared for. He never really got over the blow. He came to stop with us—for there wasn't another house ​available in the village. But he never seemed happy. He seemed all shaken. I never saw a man so changed. I tried to stir him up, but it was no good—no good at all. He had the queerest delusions about angels and that kind of thing. It made him odd company at times. He would say he heard music, and stare quite stupidly at nothing for hours together. He got quite careless about his dress.… He died within a twelvemonth of the fire."
# The Works of H. G. Wells (Atlantic Edition)/The Wonderful Visit/Chapter 52

§ 52
There was a cry of "Delia" and no more. But suddenly the flames spurted out in a blinding glare that shot upward to an immense height, a blinding brilliance broken by a thousand flickering gleams like the waving of swords. And a gust of sparks, flashing in a thousand colours, whirled up and vanished. Just then and for a moment, by some strange accident a rush of music, like the swell of an organ, wove into the roaring of the flames.
The whole village standing in black knots heard the sound, except Gaffer Siddons who is deaf—strange ​and beautiful it was, and then gone again. Lumpy Durgan, the idiot boy from Sidderford, said it began and ended like the opening and shutting of a door.
But little Hetty Penzance had a pretty fancy of two figures with wings, that flashed up and vanished among the flames.
(And after that it was she began to pine for the things she saw in her dreams, and was abstracted and strange. It grieved her mother sorely at the time. She grew fragile, as though she was fading out of the world, and her eyes had a strange, far-away look. She talked of angels and rainbow colours and golden wings, and was forever singing an unmeaning fragment of an air that nobody knew. Until Crump took her in hand and cured her with fattening dietary, syrup of hypophosphites, and cod-liver oil.)