OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Letters of Two Brides/Chapter XVI

March.
I am dressed in white—white camellias in my hair, and another in my hand. My mother has red camellias; so it would not be impossible to take one from her—if I wished! I have a strange longing to put off the decision to the last moment, and make him pay for his red camellia by a little suspense.
What a vision of beauty! Griffith begged me to stop for a little and be admired. The solemn crisis of the evening and the drama of my secret reply have given me a color; on each cheek I sport a red camellia laid upon a white!
1 A. M.
Everybody admired me, but only one adored. He hung his head as I entered with a white camellia, but turned pale as the flower when, later, I took a red one from my mother's hand. To arrive with the two flowers might possibly have been accidental; but this deliberate action was a reply. My confession, therefore, is fuller than it need have been.
The opera was Romeo and Juliet. As you don't know the duet of the two lovers, you can't understand the bliss of two neophytes in love, as they listen to this divine outpouring of the heart.
On returning home I went to bed, but only to count the steps which resounded on the sidewalk. My heart and head, darling, are all on fire now. What is he doing? What is he thinking of? Has he a thought, a single thought, that is not of me? Is he, in very truth, the devoted slave he painted himself? How to be sure? Or, again, has it ever entered his head that, if I accept him, I lay myself open to the shadow of a reproach or am in any sense rewarding or thanking him? I am harrowed by the hair-splitting casuistry of the heroines in Cyrus and Astraea, by all the subtle arguments of the court of love.
Has he any idea that, in affairs of love, a woman's most trifling actions are but the issue of long brooding and inner conflicts, of victories won only to be lost! What are his thoughts at this moment? How can I give him my orders to write every evening the particulars of the day just gone? He is my slave whom I ought to keep busy. I shall deluge him with work!
Sunday Morning.
Only towards morning did I sleep a little. It is midday now. I have just got Griffith to write the following letter:
"To the Baron de Macumer.
 "Mademoiselle de Chaulieu begs me, Monsieur le Baron, to ask you  to return to her the copy of a letter written to her by a friend,  which is in her own handwriting, and which you carried away.  —Believe me, etc.,
 "GRIFFITH."
My dear, Griffith has gone out; she has gone to the Rue Hillerin-Bertin; she had handed in this little love-letter for my slave, who returned to me in an envelope my sweet portrait, stained with tears. He has obeyed. Oh! my sweet, it must have been dear to him! Another man would have refused to send it in a letter full of flattery; but the Saracen has fulfilled his promises. He has obeyed. It moves me to tears.
# Letters of Two Brides/Chapter XLVII

1829.
My darling,—When you hold this letter in your hands, I shall be already near, for I am starting a few minutes after it. We shall be alone together. Louis is obliged to remain in Provence because of the approaching elections. He wants to be elected again, and the Liberals are already plotting against his return.
I don't come to comfort you; I only bring you my heart to beat in sympathy with yours, and help you to bear with life. I come to bid you weep, for only with tears can you purchase the joy of meeting him again. Remember, he is traveling towards Heaven, and every step forward which you take brings you nearer to him. Every duty done breaks a link in the chain that keeps you apart.
Louise, in my arms you will once more raise your head and go on your way to him, pure, noble, washed of all those errors, which had no root in your heart, and bearing with you the harvest of good deeds which, in his name, you will accomplish here.
I scribble these hasty lines in all the bustle of preparation, and interrupted by the babies and by Armand, who keeps saying, "Godmother, godmother! I want to see her," till I am almost jealous. He might be your child!
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1864/A Night Watch

Originally published in Macmillan's Magazine.
A Night Watch
"Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe."
I.
Upon the threshold of her door she lies,  The yellow harvest light is over all; Once more she watches as the daylight dies;  Once more she watches the long shadows fall.
Around, the silent land stretched waste and bare;  Below, the waters rose and broke and fell; And throbbing through the heavy windless air  Came the dull murmur of the distant swell.
The wild white sea-gull screams above her head,  And bloodless roses climb about the door, And in her heavy eyes delight is dead,  And passion lies death-bound for evermore.
Her naked feet rest on the sharp gray stone,  Her empty hands fall idly still and cold, Her lips forget the joy they once had known,  The vain sweet rapture that was theirs of old.
II.
The damp night wind is rising through the land,  Stirring the grasses on the low sea wall, The chill sea mist creeps slow along the sand,  And in the night the dark waves rise and fall.
The midnight tide comes swiftly up the shore,  Across the darkened sky the black clouds sweep, And still she watches by that silent door,  With dreamless eyes weighed down with pain and sleep.
And hour by hour the restless waters rise,  And drench her loosened hair with wind-blown spray; About her weary feet the sea-foam lies,  And yet she watches — till the break of day.
III.
Far off the sunk moon lingers, dim and red;  Far off the pale dawn wakens, chill and gray; Over the land a shadowy light is spread,  And with the night the storm winds die away.
The waves have brought their burden to her feet,  Her drownèd love, with blood-red seaweed crowned, Her drownèd love — oh, bitter yoke and sweet  With which love's hands our idle hearts have bound!
Silent and cold, low at her door he lies.  About his brow clings close the tangled hair, And closed forever are the blinded eyes;  The passionate lips are still and calm and fair.
Take back thy love, he has come back at last,  Take back thy love of lonely desolate years; Kiss his dead lips to life, forget the past,  Wipe off the stain upon his brow with tears!
IV.
Slowly she rises, life has run its race  Her gray eyes look upon his crownèd head, On the dark waters, on the calm white face,  With dull, dead eyes she looks upon the dead.
No cry from her set lips, no flush of pain,  He has come back; but she had long to wait; Long weary years had she kept watch in vain:  Love has come back, but he has come too late.
Take back thy dead, oh strong, dark, ruthless sea,  Hide his fair face in beds of wind-blown foam; Fear not, pale death, he will be true to thee!  Fear not, O sea, he will not leave thy home!
Over the threshold drifts the tide. The door  Is shut. The waves have borne their dead away. The watcher is within — but never more  Will she keep watch until the break of day.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1864/Origin of Plants

Originally published in Chicago Medical Journal.
Origin of Plants
Cabbage grew wild in Siberia; buckwheat originated in Siberia; celery originated in Germany; the potato is a native of Peru; the onion originated in Egypt; tobacco is a native of South America; millet was first discovered in India; the nettle is a native of Europe; the citron is a native of Asia; oats originated in north Africa; rye came originally from Siberia; parsley was first discovered in Sardinia; the parsnip is a native of Arabia; the sunflower was brought from Peru; spinach was first cultivated in Arabia; the apple is from Europe; the horse-chestnut is a native of Thibet; the quince came from the island of Crete; the radish is a native of China and Japan; the pear is supposed to be of Egyptian origin; the horse-radish came from the south of Europe.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1863/Sonnet on a Drowned Friend

Originally published in Fraser's Magazine.
Sonnet on a Drowned Friend
Let not the waters keep their hapless dead Hither and thither hurled, we know not where, To keep alive the clinging sense of care, And haunt a few poor hearts with hope and dread! May kindliest mould enwrap thy youthful head, That none may ever mourn thy timeless lot Without the solace of one quiet spot Where love bath laid thee to thy lonely bed.
Let earth's most pleasant green above thee wave! That so, when time which steals away our woes Hath reconciled the sigh, and dried the tear, The sad, yet sweet and gentle thoughts of those To whom in life thou wert so very dear, May sleep like quiet sunbeams on thy grave.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1863/A Reminiscence

A Reminiscence
Looking down from this sunny height, Over the heather that smells so sweet, (The Provence heather, with blossoms white,) Far away, where the waters meet The luminous sky-line, I lie and gaze. You can hardly tell in that melting haze, Where the sapphire sea and the sky have met, Or where the glittering sun will set, Beyond the curves of the silver bays. Ah! brightly they sparkle, the burnished waves, And softly the breeze in the pine-trees plays, And much is forgotten; yet memory saves This fair, golden picture of thee, oh, Provence, Long ago — in the sunny days.
                   Anonymous.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1863/Silence

Silence
There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be, In the cold grave — under the deep deep sea, Or in wide desert where no life is found, Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; No voice is hush'd — no life treads silently, But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free. That never spoke, over the idle ground: But in green ruins, in the desolate walls Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls, And owls, that flit continually between, Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1864/Fallen Flowers

Originally published in Athenæum.
Fallen Flowers
One of the workers of the world Living toiled and toiling died;  But others worked and the world went on, And was not changed when he was gone, A strong arm stricken, a wide sail furled;  And only a few men sighed.
One of the heroes of the world  Fought to conquer, then fought to fail,  And fell down slain in his blood-stained mail, And over his form they stept; His cause was lost and his banner furled; And only a woman wept.
One of the singers among mankind  Sang healing songs from an o'erwrought heart But ere men listened the grass and wind Were wasting the rest unsung like a wave;  And now of his fame that will ne'er depart He has never heard in his grave.
One of the women who only love  Loved and grieved and faded away: Ah me! are these gone to the God above,  What more of each can I say? They are human flowers that flower and fall, This is the song and the end of them all.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1863/Dirge, after Herrick

Originally published in Fraser's Magazine.
Dirge after Herrick
She is dead; but do not weep, Nor thick not so for her This fair sunlight with thy sighs; She is gently gone asleep; Peace now, lest thy fretful stir Fright the soft dew from her eyes.
Look upon her gentle face, Love and quiet thoughts are there; See how yet some latest smile Makes of her lips a lurking-place, Faintly courts thee, would beguile Thy so sick despair.
Lay her sweet i' the earth; No flower which breath of the next spring Calls from the bare turf above her, Is half so fresh, so pure a thing; Her life was all an innocent mirth, Then sweetest, being over.
Death bath taken but to save; Sweet her maid-mates! hither and strew Over her virgin grave Flowers, not yew. Here no painful heart be throbbing! No voice go out in wildered sobbing! No idle eye drop here The profanation of a tear! Only — if't must be so — a sigh, Yet more for love than misery.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1863/Ode to Gautier

Ode to Gautier
Here, where the sunset of our year is red, Men think of thee, as on the summer dead, Gone forth before the snows, before thy day, With unshod feet, with brows unchapleted.
Couldst thou not wait till age had wound, they say, Round those wreathed brows his snow-white blossoms? Nay, Why shouldst thou vex thy soul with this harsh air, Thy bright-winged soul, once free to take its way?
Nor for men's reverence hadst thou need to wear The holy flower of grey time-honored hair; Nor were it fit that aught of thee grew old, Fair lover all thy days of all things fair. …
Mixed with the masque of death's old comedy, Though thou too pass, have here our flowers, that we, For all the flowers thou gav'st, upon thee shed, And pass not crownless to Persephone.
Blue lotus-blooms, and white, and rosy-red, We wind with poppies for thy silent head, And on the margin of the sundering sea, Leave thy sweet light to rise upon the dead!
# Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth/Volume 1

JOURNALS
OF
DOROTHY WORDSWORTH
VOL. I
Dorothy Wordsworth
JOURNALS
OF
DOROTHY WORDSWORTH
EDITED BY WILLIAM KNIGHT
VOL. I
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd. NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.
1897
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth

* Volume I. (transcription in progress)
* Volume II. (transcription in progress)
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Journalism

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Journalism."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Journalism" in Bohemia's claim for freedom (1915) by Cyrill Spal
* "Journalism" in The New Student's Reference Work
# Letters on American Slavery/Letter 11

HUMBOLDT ON WEBSTER
"For thirty years—for thirty years (and he counted them on his fingers)—you have made no progress about slavery; you have gone backward—very far backward in many respects about that. I think especially of your law of 1850, that law by which a man in a free State, where he ought to be free, can be made a slave of. That I always call the Webster law.
"I always before liked Mr. Webster. He was a great man. I knew him, and always till then liked him. But, ever after that, I hated him. He was the man who made it. If he wanted to prevent it, he could have done it. That is the reason why I call it the Webster law. And ever after that, I hated him."
I made some remarks about Mr. Webster's influence on that point not being confined to a political sphere, but of his also carrying with him that circle of literary men with whom he was connected. "Yes," said he, "it was he who did it all; and those very men not connected with politics, who ​ought to have stood against it, as you say, he moved with it. You came from New England, where there is so much antislavery feeling, and where you have learned to think slavery is bad. While you are here in Europe, you may see things which you think bad; but I know Europe, and I tell you that you will find nothing here that is one half so bad as your slavery is."
These were the opinions of Baron Humboldt, a Christian philosopher of world-wide renown, whose views of men and of nations went further to establish their character, than any man now living. As Humboldt thought, the Christian world would think. Mr. Webster, as one of Fillmore's Cabinet, approved the Fugitive Act, and lent his personal and official influence to sustain it. By doing that, he let down his own moral nature. He not only disgraced himself, but the nation who placed him in that conspicuous position. We would not speak unkindly of any man; but who that reads and reflects can be ignorant of the fact, that all who sustain or sanction that infamous enactment must tarnish their own characters, and degrade themselves in their own opinion, and in the opinion of all good men?
Layout 2
# Letters on American Slavery/Letter 10

LETTER FROM HUMBOLDT.
In 1856, Baron von Humboldt caused the following letter to be inserted in the Spenersche Zeitung:—
"Under the title of Essai Politique sur l'Isle de Cuba, published in Paris in 1826, I collected together all that the large edition of my Voyage aux Regions Equinoxiales du Nouveau Continent contained upon the state of agriculture and slavery in the Antilles. There appeared at the same time an English and a Spanish translation of this work, the latter entitled Ensayo Politico sobre la Isle de Cuba, neither of which omitted any of the frank and open remarks which feelings of humanity had inspired. But there appears just now, strangely enough, translated from the Spanish translation, and not from the French original, and published by Derby and Jackson, in New York, an octavo volume of 400 pages, under the title of The Island of Cuba, by Alexander Humboldt; with notes and a preliminary essay by J. S. Thrasher. The translator, who has lived a long time on that beautiful island, has enriched my work by more recent data on the subject of the numerical standing of the population, of the cultivation of the soil, and the state of trade, and, generally speaking, exhibited a charitable moderation in his discussion of conflicting opinions. I owe it, however, to a moral feeling, that is now as lively in me as it was in 1826, publicly to complain that in a work which bears my name, the entire seventh chapter of the Spanish translation, with which my essai politique ended, has been arbitrarily omitted. To this very portion of my work I attach greater importance than to any astronomical observations, experiments of magnetic intensity, or statistical statements. "I have examined with frankness (I here repeat the words I used thirty years ago) whatever concerns the organization of human society in the colonies, the unequal distribution of the rights and enjoyments of life, and the impending dangers which the wisdom of legislators and the moderation of freemen can avert, whatever may be the form of government.
"It is the duty of the traveller who has been an eye-witness of all that torments and degrades human nature to cause the ​complaints of the unfortunate to reach those whose duty it is to relieve them. I have repeated, in this treatise, the fact that the ancient legislation of Spain on the subject of slavery is less inhuman and atrocious than that of the slave States on the American continent, north or south of the equator.
"A steady advocate as I am for the most unfettered expression of opinion in speech or in writing, I should never have thought of complaining if I had been attacked on account of my statements; but I do think I am entitled to demand that in the free States of the continent of America, people should be allowed to read what has been permitted to circulate from the first year of its appearance in a Spanish translation.
"ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT.
"Berlin, July, 1856."
Layout 2
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 137/Issue 1764/In Pall Mall

* IN PALL MALL.
* What do I see? — that face so fair,
* My friend of years too bright to last,
* Living again in beauty rare
* As yonder omnibus went past.
* Amid surroundings rude and low,
* :Stood out the gem-like profile clear;
* The mouth carved like a perfect bow,
* The auburn curls that were so dear.
* Can there be two with such a face?
* :The other, which I thought unique,
* Lies 'neath the ivy's sheltering grace,
* Since many a year and month and week.
* Say shall I follow? Shall I try
* To leave my death-in-life and live?
* The picture lost, alas! I cry—
* Some joy may not the copy give?
* Nay, while so much of good and great
* Is round thy path and at thy side,
* Force not the hands of wiser fate
* To give the joy supreme denied.
* Yet am I thankful for the glance
* Vouchsafed me at thy face divine;
* That for one moment sweet of trance,
* I lived the life that once was mine.
* Adieu — thou fadest as a dream;
* The work-day world is hack once more:
* Gone is that sudden rosy gleam,
* And — here's the Athenæum door.
* Macmillan's Magazine.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 136/Issue 1763/Miserere

* MISERERE.
* Ah, well I know 'tis wrong of me, who fain
* Would hold my darling from the Lord that gave
* Of his great love the boon my heart did crave,
* And now would take unto himself again.
* Ye do say well — 'tis wrong, I know, I know!
* But all the agony of heart, the plann'd
* Sweet joys laid waste, ye cannot understand,
* Who ne’er gave up what you bid me forego.
* Oh, do not ask a mother that hath known
* The blissful bitter birth of him, if she
* Were not more glad he should an angel be,
* Than live on but a child to call her own!
* No more with those soft locks of golden hair
* To dally, and my fondling fingers weave;
* No more to hearken every morn and eve
* The pretty lisping of his infant prayer!
* No more to soothe his little aches and cries,
* Watch him at gambol or in rosy rest;
* No more to catch him wildly to my breast,
* And see all Heaven in his deep blue eyes!
* Ah, never, never more to feel the fond
* Soft tendril arms around my neck entwine,
* And strain him in my own, all mine! all mine!
* Fill'd with sweet joy, all other joys beyond.
* Ye know not — God forgive me, if I dare
* To plead with him! Father, oh, could he be
* In Heaven with the angels and with thee,
* Liker themselves than now, more pure, more fair?
* Take him not from me, lest bereavement’s bane
* Might slay my soul with cruel, hopeless grief,
* And poison of rebellious disbelief,
* So I should never see his face again!
* For strongest faith is tried by fondest love,
* That to its idol clings with heedless hold;
* Dumb, blind, and blunted to the manifold
* Warnings below, or whispers from above.
* Lord, pardon me! That thou shouldst yearn to take
* The blessed guerdon back, it is most meet;
* Thyself it was who madest him so sweet,
* Thou well may'st crave him for the sweetness' sake.
* Yea, Lord, thy will be done! Still, if it be
* Thine own good pleasure, who didst freely give
* What I so grudge to render, let him live,
* That I may know thou art not vex'd with me.
* Yea, if but for a season. Haply I,
* Sore striving, and in very overflow
* Of my unbounded gratitude, may grow
* Better, O God, and stronger, by-and-by.
* Unless — and who may know? save thee, most dread,
* Most merciful! for all ‘twere only right,
* According to our poor weak human sight —
* Thou shouldst be pleased to take me in his stead.
* Nay, do not heed me, Lord — thy will be done!
* Take to thyself, or suffer yet to live;
* And — for thou knowest all my heart — forgive
* The mother in the love of thy dear Son.
* Month.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 136/Issue 1763

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XXI. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1763. — March 30, 1878. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXXVI. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Benedict de Spinoza, | Nineteenth Century, | 771 |
| II. | Erica. Part XVI. Translated for The Living Age from the German of | Frau von Ingersleben, | 785 |
| III. | A Ring of Worlds, | Cornhill Magazine, | 797 |
| IV. | How the Turks Rule Armenia. By Dr. Humphry Sandwith (of Kars), | Nineteenth Century, | 809 |
| V. | Lay-Figures, | Examiner, | 818 |
| VI. | The Mobility of Asiatics, | Spectator, | 821 |
| VII. | The Salaries of the Officers in the British Museum, | Nature, | 823 |
| | ⁂ Title and Index to Volume CXXXVI. | | |
POETRY. :
| Miserere, | 770 | "Wie kannst du ruhig schlafen", | 770 |
| Before the Snow, | 770 | | |