OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Eminent Chinese of the Ch'ing Period/Hu Hsü

Layout 2
​HU Hsü 胡煦 (T. 滄曉, H. 紫弦), 1655–1736, Oct. 17, scholar and official, was a native of Kuang-shan, Honan. Although he became a chü-jên in 1684, he did not succeed in obtaining his chin-shih until 1712 at the rather advanced age of fifty-eight (sui). In 1714 he was appointed to a post in the Imperial Study (see under Chang Ying) to assist in the compilation of the Chou-i chê-chung, a work on the Classic of Changes in 22 chüan which, under the general editorship of the Grand Secretary, Li Kuang-ti [q. v.], was completed in 1715. He became sub-chancellor of the Grand Secretariat in 1723 and was made a vice-president of the Board of War in 1727. Later he also served as a tutor to the princes and as one of the directors-general for the compilation of the official history of the Ming Dynasty (Ming-shih). In 1731, shortly after he became a vice-president of the Board of Ceremonies, he was ordered to retire on grounds of old age. A year later he was deprived of his former ranks for a minor offense. He was summoned to an audience with Emperor Kao-tsung in 1736, and in recognition of his past services all ranks were restored to him. He died in the capital in the autumn of the same year. In 1794, almost a cycle after his death, the posthumous name Wên-liang 文良 was officially conferred upon him.
As a scholar Hu Hsü devoted his attention to the Classic of Changes, and his 周易函書 Chou-i han-shu, in 52 chüan, is a thorough study of that classic. This work was originally in 158 chüan. Two sections of it were printed separately during his lifetime, but the work as a whole was never printed. An edition in 52 chüan, edited by his youngest son, Hu Chi-t'ang 胡季堂 (T. 升夫, H. 雲坡, 1729–1800), was presented to the editors of the Ssŭ-k'u ch'üan shu (see under Chi Yün) in 1773 when the son was provincial judge of Kiangsu. This son, who later rose in his official career to the presidency of the Board of Punishments (1779–98), and to the governor-generalship of Chihli (1798–1800), also left a collection of literary works under the title 培蔭軒集 P'ei-yin hsüan chi (4 chüan of verse, 2 of prose, and 2 of notes) which was printed in 1822. Hu Hsü was the author of another work, entitled 卜法詳考 Pu-fa hsiang-k'ao, 4 chüan, which traces the development of the study of divination. It was originally a part of the aforementioned Chou-i han-shu. The Chou-i han-shu and the Pu-fa hsiang-k'ao were given notice in the Imperial Catalogue and were copied into the Imperial Manuscript Library. Hu Hsü's collected poems in 4 chüan, and his prose essays in 4 chüan, were first printed in 1772 under the title 葆璞堂集 Pao-p'u t'ang chi.
[1/296/6b; 3/71/26a, 182/20a; Kuang-shan hsien chih (1785) 27/14a; Ssŭ-k'u, 6/8b, 109/5a; Ch'ien Ch'ên-ch'ün [q. v.], Hsiang-shu chai wên, hsü ch'ao, 5/37a.]
Tu Lien-chê
# Eminent Chinese of the Ch'ing Period/Hsü Tsung-yen

Layout 2
​HSÜ Tsung-yen 許宗彥 (T. 積聊, 周生, original ming 慶宗), Feb. 18, 1768–1819, Jan. 17, scholar and painter, was a native of Tê-ch'ing, Chekiang, and a member of a celebrated family. His great-grandfather, Hsü Chên 許鎮 (T. 天倚, H. 東間), was a chin-shih of 1712. His grandfather, Hsü Chia-chü 許家駒 (d. 1757), was a chü-jên of 1747. His father, Hsü Tsu-ching 許祖京 (T. 依之, 春巖, 1732–1805), was a chin-shih of 1769, who rose in his official career to be lieutenant-governor of Kwangtung (1785). Hsü Tsung-yen himself was, in his boyhood, regarded as a genius. When he was eleven sui Wang Ch'ang [q. v.] bestowed upon him his first tzŭ 字 or appellation, Chi-ch'ing 積卿, and wrote an essay, entitled 許積卿字說 Hsü Chi-ch'ing tzŭ shuo, to commemorate the occasion. The essay states that the boy could, at that age, read the Five Classics, the Historical Record (Shih-chi) and the History of the Han Dynasty (Han-shu), and could write acceptably both prose and poetry. In 1786 Hsü Tsung-yen became a chü-jên and in 1799 a chin-shih. Competing with him in the metropolitan examination were such well-known scholars as Chang Hui-yen and Wang Yin-chih [qq. v.]. Hsü was appointed a secretary in the Board of War. But preferring to devote his life to literature, and discommoded by ill health and the care of aged parents, he resigned from office after only two months' service and lived the remainder of his life in retirement at Hangchow. Although primarily devoted to literature, he was also versed in the classics, mathematics, astronomy and philology.
Hsü's writings on these subjects appear in his collected works under the title 鑑止水齋集 Chien-chih-shui chai chi, a total of 20 chüan—eleven chüan of prose and nine of poetry. This work was first printed in 1819. A reprint by his son, Hsü Yen-ku 許延穀, appeared in 1858. The catalogue of his library, entitled Chien-chih-shui chai ts'ang-shu mu (藏書目), in 4 chüan, is printed in the Library Science Quarterly (volume 5, numbers 3 and 4) from a copy preserved by his grandson, Hsü Shan-têng 許善登 (T. 從如). This grandson was the father-in-law of the bibliophile Hsü Nai-ch'ang (see under Chiao Hsün) who edited and printed several famous collectanea, including the Huai-Pin tsa-tsu (see under Chih-jui); the 隨庵徐氏叢書 Sui-an Hsü-shih ts'ung-shu (first series 1908, second series 1915); and the 小檀欒室彙刻閨秀詞 Hsiao-t'an-luan shih hui-k'o kuei-hsiu tzŭ (1896–1909).
Hsü Tsung-yen's wife, Liang Tê-shêng 梁德繩 (T. 楚生, 1771–1847), a sister of Liang Yü-shêng [q. v.] was very learned, and had a collection of poems entitled 古春軒詩草 Ku-ch'un hsüan shih-ts'ao. Their two daughters, Hsü Yen-jêng 許延礽 (T. 雲林, 因姜) and Hsü Yen-chin 許延錦 (T. 雲姜), were both skilled in poetry, painting, music and seal-carving. The former married Sun Ch'êng-hsün 孫承勳 and produced a collection of verse, entitled 福連室集 Fu-lien shih-chi; the latter was the wife of Juan Fu, fifth son of Juan Yüan [q. v.].
[1/488/7b; 3/148/14a; 19/己上/32a; 20/4/00 (portrait); 6/59/25a; Wang Ch'ang [q. v.], Ch'un-jung t'ang chi 35/12b.]
Tu Lien-chê
# Encyclopædia Britannica, Ninth Edition/Cambridge

See also Cambridge (disambiguation) on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
In the 9th edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica, Cambridge may refer to:
* County of Cambridge, England.
* Cambridge, town, England.
* Cambridge, town, Massachusetts, U.S.A.
# Dream Tales and Prose Poems/Poems in Prose/The Realm of Azure

THE REALM OF AZURE
О realm of azure! О realm of light and colour, of youth and happiness! I have beheld thee in dream. We were together, a few, in a beautiful little boat, gaily decked out. Like a swan's breast the white sail swelled below the streamers frolicking in the wind.
I knew not who were with me; but in all my soul I felt that they were young, light-hearted, happy as I!
But I looked not indeed on them. I beheld all round the boundless blue of the sea, dimpled with scales of gold, and overhead the same boundless sea of blue, and in it, triumphant and mirthful, it seemed, moved the sun.
And among us, ever and anon, rose laughter, ringing and gleeful as the laughter of the gods! And on a sudden, from one man's lips or another's, would flow words, songs of divine beauty and inspiration, and power . . . it seemed the sky itself echoed back a greeting to them, and the sea quivered in unison. . . . Then followed again the blissful stillness.
Riding lightly over the soft waves, swiftly our little boat sped on. No wind drove it along; our own lightly beating hearts guided ​it. At our will it floated, obedient as a living thing.
We came on islands, enchanted islands, half-transparent with the prismatic lights of precious stones, of amethysts and emeralds. Odours of bewildering fragrance rose from the rounded shores; some of these islands showered on us a rain of roses and valley lilies; from others birds darted up, with long wings of rainbow hues.
The birds flew circling above us; the lilies and roses melted away in the pearly foam that glided by the smooth sides of our boat.
And, with the flowers and the birds, sounds floated to us, sounds sweet as honey . . . women's voices, one fancied, in them. . . . And all about us, sky, sea, the heaving sail aloft, the gurgling water at the rudder—all spoke of love, of happy love!
And she, the beloved of each of us—she was there . . . unseen and close. One moment more, and behold, her eyes will shine upon thee, her smile will blossom on thee. . . . Her hand will take thy hand and guide thee to the land of joy that fades not!
О realm of azure! In dream have I beheld thee.
June 1878.
# Dream Tales and Prose Poems/Poems in Prose/The Reporter

THE REPORTER
Two friends were sitting at a table drinking tea.
A sudden hubbub arose in the street. They heard pitiable groans, furious abuse, bursts of malignant laughter.
'They're beating some one,' observed one of the friends, looking out of window.
​'A criminal? A murderer?' inquired the other. 'I say, whatever he may be, we can't allow this illegal chastisement. Let's go and take his part.'
'But it's not a murderer they're beating.'
'Not a murderer? Is it a thief then? It makes no difference, let's go and get him away from the crowd.'
'It's not a thief either.'
'Not a thief? Is it an absconding cashier then, a railway director, an army contractor, a Russian art patron, a lawyer, a Conservative editor, a social reformer? . . . Any way, let's go and help him!'
'No . . . it's a newspaper reporter they 're beating.'
'A reporter? Oh, I tell you what: we'll finish our glasses of tea first then.'
July 1878.
# Dream Tales and Prose Poems/Poems in Prose/The Rose

THE ROSE
The last days of August. . . . Autumn was already at hand.
The sun was setting. A sudden downpour of rain, without thunder or lightning, had just passed rapidly over our wide plain.
The garden in front of the house glowed and steamed, all filled with the fire of the sunset and the deluge of rain.
She was sitting at a table in the ​drawing-room, and, with persistent dreaminess, gazing through the half-open door into the garden. I knew what was passing at that moment in her soul; I knew that, after a brief but agonising struggle, she was at that instant giving herself up to a feeling she could no longer master.
All at once she got up, went quickly out into the garden, and disappeared.
An hour passed . . . a second; she had not returned.
Then I got up, and, getting out of the house, I turned along the walk by which—of that I had no doubt—she had gone.
All was darkness about me; the night had already fallen. But on the damp sand of the path a roundish object could be discerned—bright red even through the mist.
I stooped down. It was a fresh, new-blown rose. Two hours before I had seen this very rose on her bosom.
I carefully picked up the flower that had fallen in the mud, and, going back to the drawing-room, laid it on the table before her chair.
And now at last she came back, and with light footsteps, crossing the whole room, sat down at the table.
Her face was both paler and more vivid; her ​downcast eyes, that looked somehow smaller, strayed rapidly in happy confusion from side to side.
She saw the rose, snatched it up, glanced at its crushed, muddy petals, glanced at me, and her eyes, brought suddenly to a standstill, were bright with tears.
'What are you crying for?' I asked.
'Why, see this rose. Look what has happened to it.'
Then I thought fit to utter a profound remark.
'Your tears will wash away the mud,' I pronounced with a significant expression.
'Tears do not wash, they burn,' she answered. And turning to the hearth she flung the rose into the dying flame.
'Fire burns even better than tears,' she cried with spirit; and her lovely eyes, still bright with tears, laughed boldly and happily.
I saw that she too had been in the fire.
April 1878.
# Dream Tales and Prose Poems/Poems in Prose/The Monk

THE MONK
I used to know a monk, a hermit, a saint. He lived only for the sweetness of prayer; and steeping himself in it, he would stand so long on the cold floor of the church that his legs below the knees grew numb and senseless as blocks of wood. He did not feel them; he stood on and prayed.
I understood him, and perhaps envied him; but let him too understand me and not condemn me; me, for whom his joys are inaccessible.
He has attained to annihilating himself, his hateful ego; but I too; it 's not from egoism, I pray not.
My ego, may be, is even more burdensome and more odious to me, than his to him.
He has found wherein to forget himself . . . but I, too, find the same, though not so continuously.
He does not lie . . . but neither do I lie.
November 1879.
# Dream Tales and Prose Poems/Poems in Prose/The Old Woman

THE OLD WOMAN
I was walking over a wide plain alone.
And suddenly I fancied light, cautious footsteps behind my back. … Some one was walking after me.
I looked round, and saw a little, bent old woman, all muffled up in grey rags. The face of the old woman alone peeped out from them; a yellow, wrinkled, sharp-nosed, toothless face.
I went up to her. … She stopped.
​'Who are you ? What do you want ? Are you a beggar ? Do you seek alms ? '
The old woman did not answer. I bent down to her, and noticed that both her eyes were covered with a half-transparent membrane or skin, such as is seen in some birds; they protect their eyes with it from dazzling light.
But in the old woman, the membrane did not move nor uncover the eyes . . . from which I concluded she was blind.
'Do you want alms?' I repeated my question. 'Why are you following me?' But the old woman as before made no answer, but only shrank into herself a little.
I turned from her and went on my way.
And again I hear behind me the same light, measured, as it were, stealthy steps.
'Again that woman!' I thought, 'why does she stick to me?' But then, I added inwardly, 'Most likely she has lost her way, being blind, and now is following the sound of my steps so as to get with me to some inhabited place. Yes, yes, that's it.'
But a strange uneasiness gradually gained possession of my mind. I began to fancy that the old woman was not only following me, but that she was directing me, that she was driving me to right and to left, and that I was unwittingly obeying her.
​I still go on, however . . . but, behold, before me, on my very road, something black and wide ... a kind of hole. . . . ' A grave!' flashed through my head. 'That is where she is driving me!'
I turned sharply back. The old woman faced me again . . . but she sees! She is looking at me with big, cruel, malignant eyes . . . the eyes of a bird of prey. . . . I stoop down to her face, to her eyes. . . . Again the same opaque membrane, the same blind, dull countenance. . . .
'Ah!' I think, 'this old woman is my fate. The fate from which there is no escape for man!'
'No escape! no escape! What madness. . . . One must try.' And I rush away in another direction.
I go swiftly. . . . But light footsteps as before patter behind me, close, close. . . . And before me again the dark hole.
Again I turn another way. . . . And again the same patter behind, and the same menacing blur of darkness before.
And whichever way I run, doubling like a hunted hare . . . it 's always the same, the same!
'Wait!' I think, 'I will cheat her! I will go nowhere!' and I instantly sat down on the ground.
​The old woman stands behind, two paces from me. I do not hear her, but I feel she is there.
And suddenly I see the blur of darkness in the distance is floating, creeping of itself towards me!
God! I look round again . . . the old woman looks straight at me, and her toothless mouth is twisted in a grin.
No escape!
# Dream Tales and Prose Poems/Poems in Prose/The Fool

THE FOOL
There lived a fool.
For a long time he lived in peace and contentment; but by degrees rumours began to reach him that he was regarded on all sides as a vulgar idiot.
The fool was abashed and began to ponder gloomily how he might put an end to these unpleasant rumours.
A sudden idea, at last, illuminated his dull little brain . . . And, without the slightest delay, he put it into practice.
A friend met him in the street, and fell to praising a well-known painter. . . .
​'Upon my word!' cried the fool, 'that painter was out of date long ago . . . you didn't know it? I should never have expected it of you . . . you are quite behind the times.'
The friend was alarmed, and promptly agreed with the fool.
'Such a splendid book I read yesterday!' said another friend to him.
'Upon my word!' cried the fool, 'I wonder you're not ashamed. That book's good for nothing; every one's seen through it long ago. Didn't you know it? You're quite behind the times.'
This friend too was alarmed, and he agreed with the fool.
'What a wonderful fellow my friend N. N. is!' said a third friend to the fool. 'Now there's a really generous creature!'
'Upon my word!' cried the fool. 'N. N., the notorious scoundrel! He swindled all his relations. Every one knows that. You're quite behind the times.'
The third friend too was alarmed, and he agreed with the fool and deserted his friend. And whoever and whatever was praised in the fool's presence, he had the same retort for everything.
Sometimes he would add reproachfully: 'And do you still believe in authorities?'
​'Spiteful! malignant!' his friends began to say of the fool. 'But what a brain!'
'And what a tongue!' others would add, 'Oh, yes, he has talent!'
It ended in the editor of a journal proposing to the fool that he should undertake their reviewing column.
And the fool fell to criticising everything and every one, without in the least changing his manner, or his exclamations.
Now he, who once declaimed against authorities, is himself an authority, and the young men venerate him, and fear him.
And what else can they do, poor young men? Though one ought not, as a general rule, to venerate any one . . . but in this case, if one didn't venerate him, one would find oneself quite behind the times!
Fools have a good time among cowards.
April 1878.
# Dream Tales and Prose Poems/Poems in Prose/The Last Meeting

THE LAST MEETING
We had once been close and warm friends. . . . But an unlucky moment came . . . and we parted as enemies.
Many years passed by. . . . And coming to the town where he lived, I learnt that he was helplessly ill, and wished to see me.
I made my way to him, went into his room. . . . Our eyes met.
I hardly knew him. God! what sickness had done to him!
Yellow, wrinkled, completely bald, with a scanty grey beard, he sat clothed in nothing but a shirt purposely slit open. . . . He could not bear the weight of even the lightest clothes. Jerkily he stretched out to me his fearfully thin ​hand that looked as if it were gnawed away, with an effort muttered a few indistinct words—whether of welcome or reproach, who can tell? His emaciated chest heaved, and over the dwindled pupils of his kindling eyes rolled two hard-wrung tears of suffering.
My heart sank. . . . I sat down on a chair beside him, and involuntarily dropping my eyes before the horror and hideousness of it, I too held out my hand.
But it seemed to me that it was not his hand that took hold of me.
It seemed to me that between us is sitting a tall, still, white woman. A long robe shrouds her from head to foot. Her deep, pale eyes look into vacancy; no sound is uttered by her pale, stern lips.
This woman has joined our hands. . . . She has reconciled us for ever.
Yes. . . . Death has reconciled us. . . .
April 1878.
# Dream Tales and Prose Poems/Poems in Prose/The Old Man

THE OLD MAN
Days of darkness, of dreariness, have come. . . . Thy own infirmities, the sufferings of those dear to thee, the chill and gloom of old age. All that thou hast loved, to which thou hast given ​thyself irrevocably, is falling, going to pieces. The way is all down-hill.
What canst thou do? Grieve? Complain? Thou wilt aid not thyself nor others that way. . . .
On the bowed and withering tree the leaves are smaller and fewer, but its green is yet the same.
Do thou too shrink within, withdraw into thyself, into thy memories, and there, deep down, in the very depths of the soul turned inwards on itself, thy old life, to which thou alone hast the key, will be bright again for thee, in all the fragrance, all the fresh green, and the grace and power of its spring!
But beware . . . look not forward, poor old man!
    July 1878.
# Dream Tales and Prose Poems/Poems in Prose/The Insect

THE INSECT
I dreamed that we were sitting, a party of twenty, in a big room with open windows.
Among us were women, children, old men. . . . We were all talking of some very well-known subject, talking noisily and indistinctly.
Suddenly, with a sharp, whirring sound, there ​flew into the room a big insect, two inches long . . . it flew in, circled round, and settled on the wall.
It was like a fly or a wasp. Its body dirt-coloured; of the same colour too its flat, stiff wings; outspread feathered claws, and a head thick and angular, like a dragon-fly's; both head and claws were bright red, as though steeped in blood.
This strange insect incessantly turned its head up and down, to right and to left, moved its claws . . . then suddenly darted from the wall, flew with a whirring sound about the room, and again settled, again hatefully and loathsomely wriggling all over, without stirring from the spot.
In all of us it excited a sensation of loathing, dread, even terror. . . . No one of us had ever seen anything like it. We all cried: 'Drive that monstrous thing away!' and waved our handkerchiefs at it from a distance . . . but no one ventured to go up to it . . . and when the insect began flying, every one instinctively moved away.
Only one of our party, a pale-faced young man, stared at us all in amazement. He shrugged his shoulders; he smiled, and positively could not conceive what had happened to us, and why we were in such a state of ​excitement. He himself did not see an insect at all, did not hear the ill-omened whirr of its wings.
All at once the insect seemed to stare at him, darted off, and dropping on his head, stung him on the forehead, above the eyes. . . . The young man feebly groaned, and fell dead.
The fearful fly flew out at once. . . . Only then we guessed what it was had visited us.
May 1878.
# Encyclopædia Britannica, Ninth Edition/Friedrich Ludwig Zacharias Werner

See also Zacharias Werner on Wikipedia; Friedrich Ludwig Zacharias Werner in the 11th Edition; and the disclaimer.
WERNER, Friedrich Ludwig Zacharias, German poet, was born at Königsberg on November 18, 1768, and died at Vienna on January 17, 1823. After an irregular life he joined the Church of Rome in 1809, was consecrated priest in 1814, and in his later years was well known as a preacher. As a dramatist he is remembered as the originator of the so-called “fate tragedies”; see Germany, vol. x. p. 543.
# Encyclopædia Britannica, Ninth Edition/Fredrika Bremer

See also Fredrika Bremer on Wikipedia; Fredrika Bremer on Wikipedia; Fredrika Bremer in the 11th Edition; and the disclaimer.
See Life, Letters, and Posthumous Works of F. Bremer, by her sister, translated by Milow, London, 1868.