OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of H. G. Wells (Atlantic Edition)/The Wonderful Visit/Chapter 9

§ 9
Let us be plain. The Angel of this story is the Angel of Art, not the Angel that one must be irreverent to touch—neither the Angel of religious feeling nor the Angel of popular belief. The last we all know. She is alone among the angelic hosts in being ​distinctly feminine: she wears a robe of immaculate, unmitigated white with sleeves, is fair, with long golden tresses, and has eyes of the blue of Heaven. Just a pure woman she is, pure maiden or pure matron, in her robe de nuit, and with wings attached to her shoulder-blades. Her callings are domestic and sympathetic, she watches over a cradle or assists a sister soul heavenward. Often she bears a palm-leaf, but one would not be surprised if one met her carrying a warming-pan softly to some poor chilly sinner. She it was who came down in a bevy to Marguerite in prison, in the amended last scene in Faust at the Lyceum; and the interesting and improving little children that are to die young, have visions of such angels in the novels of Mrs. Henry Wood. This white womanliness with her indescribable charm of lavender-like holiness, her aroma of clean, methodical lives, is, it would seem after all, a purely Teutonic invention. Latin thought knows her not; the old masters have none of her. She is of a piece with that gentle innocent ladylike school of art whereof the greatest triumph is "a lump in one's throat," and where wit and passion, scorn and pomp, have no place. The white angel was made in Germany, in the land of blonde women and the domestic sentiments. She comes to us cool and worshipful, pure and tranquil, as silently soothing as the breadth and calmness of the starlit sky, which also is so unspeakably dear to the Teutonic soul… We do her reverence. And to the angels of the Hebrews, those spirits of power and mystery, to Raphael, Zadkiel, and Michael, of whom only Watts has caught the shadow, of whom ​only Blake has seen the splendour, to them too, do we do reverence.
But this Angel the Vicar shot is, we say, no such angel at all, but the Angel of Italian art, polychromatic and gay. He comes from the land of beautiful dreams and not from any holier place. At best he is a popish creature. Bear patiently, therefore, with his scattered remiges, and be not hasty with your charge of irreverence before the story is read.
# The Works of H. G. Wells (Atlantic Edition)/The Wonderful Visit/Chapter 7

§ 7
Now in the World of the Angels, so the Vicar learned in the course of many conversations, there is neither pain nor trouble nor death, marrying nor giving in marriage, birth nor forgetting. Only at times new things begin. It is a land without hill or dale, a wonderfully level land, glittering with strange buildings, with incessant sunlight or full moon, and with incessant breezes blowing through the Æolian traceries of the trees. It is Wonderland, with glittering seas hanging in the sky, across which strange fleets go sailing, none know whither. There the flowers glow in Heaven and the stars shine about one's feet and the ​breath of life is a delight. The land goes on forever—there is no solar system nor interstellar space such as there is in our universe—and the air goes upward past the sun into the uttermost abyss of their sky. And there is nothing but Beauty there—all the beauty in our art is but feeble rendering of faint glimpses of that wonderful world, and our composers, our original composers, are those who hear, however faintly, the dust of melody that drives before its winds. And the angels, and wonderful monsters of bronze and marble and living fire, go to and fro therein.
It is a land of Law—for whatever is, is under the law—but its laws all, in some strange way, differ from ours. Their geometry is different because their space has a curve in it so that all their planes are cylinders; and their law of Gravitation is not according to the law of inverse squares, and there are four-and-twenty primary colours instead of only three. Most of the fantastic things of our science are commonplaces there, and all our earthly science would seem to them the maddest dreaming. There are no flowers upon their plants, for instance, but jets of coloured fire. That, of course, will seem mere nonsense to you because you do not understand. Most of what the Angel told the Vicar, indeed the Vicar could not realise, because his own experiences, being only of this world of matter, warred against his understanding. It was too strange to imagine.
What had jolted these twin universes together so that the Angel had fallen suddenly into Sidderford, neither the Angel nor the Vicar could tell. Nor for the matter of that could the author of this story. The ​author is concerned with the facts of the case, and has neither the desire nor the confidence to explain them. Explanations are the fallacy of a scientific age. And the cardinal fact of the case is this, that out in Siddermorton Park, with the glory of some wonderful world where there is neither sorrow nor sighing still clinging to him, on the 4th of August 1895, stood an Angel, bright and beautiful, talking to the Vicar of Siddermorton about the plurality of worlds. The author will swear to the Angel, if need be; and there he draws the line.
# The Works of H. G. Wells (Atlantic Edition)/The Wonderful Visit/Chapter 50

§ 50
But the Angel, thinking that Gotch was dead, went wandering off in a passion of remorse and fear through the brakes and copses along the Sidder. You can scarcely imagine how appalled he was at this last and overwhelming proof of his encroaching humanity. All the darkness, passion, and pain of life seemed closing in upon him, inexorably, becoming part of him, chaining him to all that a week ago he had found strange and pitiful in men.
"Truly, this is no world for an Angel!" said the Angel. "It is a World of War, a World of Pain, a World of Death. Anger comes upon one.… I who knew not pain and anger, stand here with blood stains on my hands. I have fallen. To come into this world is to fall. One must hunger and thirst and be tormented with a thousand desires. One must fight for foothold, be angry and strike———"
He lifted up his hands to Heaven, the ultimate bitterness of helpless remorse in his face, and then flung them down with a gesture of despair. The prison walls of this narrow, passionate life seemed creeping in upon him, certainly and steadily, to crush him ​presently altogether. He felt what all we poor mortals have to feel sooner or later—the pitiless force of the Things that Must Be, not only without us but (where the real trouble lies) within, all the inevitable thwarting of one's high resolves, those inevitable seasons when the better self is forgotten. But with us it is a gentle descent, made by imperceptible degrees over a long space of years; with him it was the horrible discovery of one short week. He felt he was being crippled, caked over, blinded, stupefied in the wrappings of this life, he felt as a man might feel who has taken some horrible poison and feels destruction spreading within him.
He took no account of hunger or fatigue or the flight of time. On and on he went, avoiding houses and roads, turning away from the sight and sound of a human being in a wordless desperate argument with Fate. His thoughts did not flow but stood banked back in inarticulate remonstrance against his degradation. Chance directed his footsteps homeward, and at last after nightfall he found himself, faint and weary and wretched, stumbling along over the moor at the back of Siddermorton. He heard the rats run and squeal in the heather, and once a noiseless big bird came out of the darkness, passed, and vanished again. And he saw without noticing it a dull red glow in the sky before him.
# The Works of H. G. Wells (Atlantic Edition)/The Wonderful Visit/Chapter 51

§ 51
But when he came over the brow of the moor, a vivid light sprang up before him and refused to be ignored. He came on down the hill and speedily ​saw more distinctly what the glare was. It came from darting and trembling tongues of fire, golden and red, that shot from the windows and a hole in the roof of the Vicarage. A cluster of black heads, all the village in fact, except the fire brigade who were down at Aylmer's Cottage trying to find the key of the machine house, came out in silhouette against the blaze. There was a roaring sound, and a humming of voices, and presently a furious outcry. There was a shouting of "No! No!"—"Come back!" and an inarticulate roar.
He began to run towards the burning house. He stumbled and almost fell, but he ran on. He found black figures running about him. The flaring fire blew gustily this way and that, and he smelled the smell of burning.
"She went in," said one voice, "she went in."
"The mad girl!" said another.
"Stand back! Stand back!" cried others.
He found himself thrusting through an excited, swaying crowd, all staring at the flames, and with the red reflection in their eyes.
"Stand back!" said a labourer, clutching him.
"What is it?" said the Angel. "What does this mean?"
"There's a girl in the house, and she can't get out!"
"Went in after a fiddle," said another.
"'Tas hopeless," he heard some one else say.
"I was standing near her. I heerd her. Says she: 'I can get his fiddle.' I heerd her— Just like that! 'I can get his fiddle.'"
​For a moment the Angel stood staring. Then in a flash he saw it all, saw this grim little world of battle and cruelty transfigured in a splendour that outshone the Angelic Land, suffused suddenly and insupportably glorious with the wonderful light of love and self-sacrifice. He gave a strange cry, and before any one could stop him, was running towards the burning building. There were cries of "The Hunchback! The Fowener!"
The Vicar, whose scalded hand was being tied up, turned his head, and he and Crump saw the Angel, a black outline against the intense, red glare of the doorway. It was the sensation of the tenth of a second, yet both men could not have remembered that transitory attitude more vividly had it been a picture they had studied for hours together. Then the Angel was hidden by something massive (no one knew what) that fell, incandescent, across the doorway.
# The Times/1940/Obituary/Thomas Hudson Beare

* related portals: Obituaries.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
Source:The Times, Wednesday, Jun 12, 1940; Issue 48640; pg. 9 — Obituary. Sir T. Hudson Beare
Layout 2
Sir T. Hudson Beare
Sir Thomas Hudson Beare, LL.D., Regius Professor of Engineering at Edinburgh University since 1901, died on Monday at the age of 80.
The youngest son of T. H. Beare, of Netley, South Australia, and a descendant of Thomas Hudson, the portrait painter, he was born on June 30, 1859, and matriculated at Melbourne University in 1875. After winning the South Australian Scholarship he proceeded to England in 1880, and continued his studies at University College, London, before taking up the appointment of Professor of Engineering at the Heriot-Watt College, Edinburgh in 1887. He held this post for two years, until he succeeded to the vacant Chair of Engineering at University College, London, in July, 1889; but in 1901 he returned to Edinburgh as Regius Professor of Engineering to the University. Under his auspices a prosperous School of Engineering was established at Edinburgh, and the University owed much to one who was for 28 years on its governing body and for 22 years Dean of his Faculty.
This work is anonymous or pseudonymous, and is in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in its home country on the URAA date (January 1, 1996 for most countries). It is also in the public domain in other countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 83 years or less since publication.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Times/1940/Public notice/Edmond Leveson Calverley

Source: Deaths. The Times, Saturday, Jun 08, 1940; Issue 48637; pg. 1; col A
Layout 2CALVERLEY.—On June 6, 1940, at Bathford Manor, near Bath, Major Edmond Leveson Calverley, O.B.E., late of Oulton Hall, Yorks. R.I.P. No flowers.
This work is anonymous or pseudonymous, and is in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in its home country on the URAA date (January 1, 1996 for most countries). It is also in the public domain in other countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 83 years or less since publication.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Times/1940/Public notice/Arthur Harden

Source: The Times, Tuesday, Jun 18, 1940; Issue 48645; pg. 1 — Death
Layout 2HARDEN.—On June 17, 1940, at Sunnyholme Bourne End, Sir Arthur Harden, F.R.S. Funeral private. No mourning, no flowers.
This work is anonymous or pseudonymous, and is in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in its home country on the URAA date (January 1, 1996 for most countries). It is also in the public domain in other countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 83 years or less since publication.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Times/1940/Obituary/William John Lawrence

* related portals: Obituaries.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Source: The Times, Tuesday, Aug 13, 1940; Issue 48693; pg. 7 — Obituaries.
Dr. W. J. Lawrence
Theatrical Historian
Dr. William John Lawrence, D.Litt., who has died at Dulwich at the age of 78, owed his eminence as a theatrical historian entirely to his own initiative and energy.
Born at Belfast, the son of an English stationmaster, and sent early into business, he wrote his first book (1892), a life of Gustavus Vaughan Brooke, the Irish actor, while he was a commercial traveller. In 1893 came his life of another Irish actor, Barry Sullivan. In 1902 Lawrence gave up commerce and confined himself to writing and study; and in 1912 and 1913 his two volumes of "The Elizabethan Playhouse and other studies," printed and published by A. H. Bullen, made him famous, not only within the circle of students of theatrical history.
His special contribution to learning was insistence that no drama, and least of all Elizabethan drama, could be understood without a minute knowledge of the theatre and the stage, and of all theatrical custom and usage. Unconventional, unhampered by academic or personal loyalties, and as shred as he was laborious, he blew away, in book after book, large quantities of conjecture and error, and left very little of his own for future students to blow away. He was a first-rate lecturer, as Harvard University and the Malvern Festival could witness, and his enthusiasm and his generosity in sharing his knowledge won him many friends.
In 1930 Lawrence was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. In 1931 he was made an honorary D.Litt. of the Queen's University, Belfast, and early in the present year an honorary D.Litt of the National University of Ireland. It is understood that, in spite of failing eyesight, he was lately at work upon a book to be entitled "Shakespeare's Lost Hamlet."
This work is anonymous or pseudonymous, and is in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in its home country on the URAA date (January 1, 1996 for most countries). It is also in the public domain in other countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 83 years or less since publication.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Times/1940/Public notice/Alice Margaret Cooke

Source: Deaths. The Times, Monday, Jan 29, 1940; Issue 48525; pg. 1
Layout 2COOKE.—On Jan. 26, Alice Margaret Cooke, of 18 Grosvenor Road, Manchester 16, formerly Fellow of Newnham College, Cambridge.
This work is anonymous or pseudonymous, and is in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in its home country on the URAA date (January 1, 1996 for most countries). It is also in the public domain in other countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 83 years or less since publication.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Times/1940/Obituary/Arthur Harden

* related portals: Obituaries.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
Source: The Times, Tuesday, Jun 18, 1940; Issue 48645; pg. 9 — Obituary. Sir Arthur Harden, distinguished biochemist
Layout 2
Sir Arthur Harden
Distinguished Biochemist
Sir Arthur Harden, F.R.S., late head of the Biochemical Department of the List Institute, and Emeritus Professor of Biochemistry, London University, died at Sunnyholme, Bourne End, yesterday. In 1929 the Nobel Prize for chemistry was divided between him and Professor von Euler, of Stockholm. In 1935 he was awarded Davy Medal of the Royal Society for his distinguished works in biochemistry, and especially for his fundamental discoveries in the chemistry of alcoholic fermentation.
Born at Moss Side, Manchester in 1865 Arthur Harden was educated at Victoria Park School, Manchester, at Tettenhall College, Staffordshire, and at Owens College, Manchester. In 1886 he was Dalton Research scholar. He was appointed lecturer and demonstrator in chemistry at Owens College from 1888 to 1897, before going to London University. He discovered in 1906 that the fermentation of sugar depended on a specific activator which was not an enzyme and the presence of which was essential to the process. Phosphates, he also discovered, were an equally necessary factor in fermentation. From 1913 to 1937 he was joint editor of the Biochemical Journal, and he had published numerous scientific works dealing with his subject. He married Georgina Sydney, daughter of Mr. C. Wynyard Bridge, of Christchurch, New Zealand. She died in 1928.
This work is anonymous or pseudonymous, and is in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in its home country on the URAA date (January 1, 1996 for most countries). It is also in the public domain in other countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 83 years or less since publication.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 4/Translation from Vittorelli

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.
ON A NUN.
Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.
Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires, ​Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, And gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired Becomes extinguished,—soon—too soon expires; But thine, within the closing grate retired, Eternal captive, to her God aspires.
But thou at least from out the jealous door, Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more:
I to the marble, where my daughter lies, Rush,—the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, And knock, and knock, and knock—but none replies.
[First published, Childe Harold, Canto IV., 1818.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 4/Venice. A Fragment

VENICE. A FRAGMENT.
'Tis midnight—but it is not dark Within thy spacious place, St. Mark! The Lights within, the Lamps without, Shine above the revel rout. The brazen Steeds are glittering o'er The holy building's maasy door, Glittering with their collars of gold, The goodly work of the days of old— And the wingéd Lion stern and solemn Frowns from the height of his hoary column, Facing the palace in which doth lodge The ocean-city's dreaded Doge. The palace is proud—but near it lies, Divided by the "Bridge of Sighs," The dreary dwelling where the State Enchains the captives of their hate: These—they perish or they pine; But which their doom may none divine: Many have passed that Arch of pain, But none retraced their steps again.
It is a princely colonnade! And wrought around a princely place, When that vast edifice displayed Looks with its venerable face Over the far and subject sea, Which makes the fearless isles so free! And 'tis a strange and noble pile, Pillared into many an aisle: Every pillar fair to see, Marble—jasper—and porphyry— The Church of St. Mark—which stands hard by With fretted pinnacles on high, And Cupola and minaret; More like the mosque of orient lands, Than the fanes wherein we pray, And Mary's blesséd likeness stands.—
Venice, December 6, 1816.
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 4/To the Countess of Blessington

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.
1.
You have asked for a verse:—the request In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny; But my Hippocrene was but my breast, And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.
2.
Were I now as I was, I had sung What Lawrence has painted so well; But the strain would expire on my tongue, And the theme is too soft for my shell.
3.
I am ashes where once I was fire, And the bard in my bosom is dead; What I loved I now merely admire, And my heart is as grey as my head.
4.
My Life is not dated by years— There are moments which act as a plough, And there is not a furrow appears But is deep in my soul as my brow.
5.
Let the young and the brilliant aspire To sing what I gaze on in vain; For Sorrow has torn from my lyre The string which was worthy the strain.
B. [First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 635, 636.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 4/To ——

TO ——
1.
But once I dared to lift my eyes— To lift my eyes to thee; And since that day, beneath the skies, No other sight they see.
2.
In vain sleep shuts them in the night— The night grows day to me; Presenting idly to my sight What still a dream must be.
3.
A fatal dream—for many a bar Divides thy fate from mine; And still my passions wake and war, But peace be still with thine.
First published, New Monthly Magazine, 1833, vol. 37, p. 308.]