OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The New Student's Reference Work/Jameson, Leander Starr

See also Leander Starr Jameson on Wikipedia, and the disclaimer.
Jame′son, Leander Starr, best known as the leader of a rash and ill-considered raid into the South African Republic (Transvaal) in 1895, was born at Edinburgh in 1853, and educated as a doctor of medicine (London, 1877). From 1891 to 1895 he was administrator of Rhodesia; but on invading Transvaal with 600 men upon his own responsibility during the Uitlander agitations, he was captured by the Boers; and sentenced by the British government to 10 months’ imprisonment. He afterwards served in the Boer War with the British forces, became a member of the Cape Colony Parliament and director of the De Beers Company and the British South African Company; and in 1904 he became premier of Cape Colony. In 1908 he resigned, the Dutch having outvoted his party.
# The New Student's Reference Work/Janauschek, Fanny

See also Fanny Janauschek on Wikipedia, and the disclaimer.
Janauschek (yä' nou-shĕk), Fanny, was born at Prague, Bohemia, July 20, 1830. She was devoted to the stage from childhood, and at an early age showed great artistic talent. Her life as an actress began, with much success, at Cologne. She appeared in the principal cities of Germany, Great Britain and the United States. She was an actress of great power, but lacked the finer touches of her art. She died in 1904.
# The New Student's Reference Work/Jamestown, Va.

See also Jamestown, Virginia on Wikipedia, and the disclaimer.
Jamestown, Va., is situated on a small peninsula, which lies off the northern bank of James River, about 35 miles above where this river broadens into Hampton Roads and empties into Chesapeake Bay. As early as 1526 some Spaniards tried in vain to settle in the neighborhood. In 1607, on May 13, three British ships, sent from London by the London Company, under Captain Christopher Newport, landed their crews and about 105 colonists upon this low-lying peninsula, where it was hoped to rest secure from Indian attacks. Edward Wingfield was chosen president by a council of six who had been appointed by the London Company. The ships sailed for England, leaving but a scant and wretched supply of food. The Indians threatened the colonists, while disease and mutiny were added to hunger. This year occurred Smith’s romantic adventure with the Indians, which seems to have resulted in much good for the colonists. But in spite of Smith’s resourcefulness only 38 survived till the ships returned with more colonists and with provisions. In 1608 Smith was chosen president, and it was chiefly due to his wonderful courage and skill in dealing with the Indians that the colonists were saved from massacre and that corn was brought in for food. The colonists for the most part were gentlemen and tradesmen, and could help themselves but little in the wilderness. Thus they struggled through the winter of 1608. In 1609 Smith suffered a terrible wound that compelled him to sail for Europe. An inferior grade of colonists arrived, who neither could work nor wished to try. The winter of 1609 therefore was a time of terrible suffering, known as the Starving Time. Of 400 men and women that Smith left only 60 survived till spring, when a small fleet that had been delayed by storm and wreck arrived with some little provision. The colonists, new and old, decided to abandon the settlement; but as they sailed down the river, they saw, far out in Hampton Roads, the long-boat of Lord Delaware’s ship, which told of a large and well-equipped fleet at hand. Sir Thomas Dale was then appointed high marshal, and with great firmness and wisdom brought peace to the colonists, compelling all to work by removing the privilege of sharing in the common store of the colony. A deputy governor, Argall, ruled despotically for two years (1617–19), so that, when George Yeardley was sent out as governor to supersede him, the people demanded self-government to secure them against such danger in future. Accordingly a House of Burgesses was summoned, the first representative assembly in America. This incident closes the separate history of Jamestown, which henceforth lived only as part of the colony and then the state. The town itself was burnt by Bacon (1676) and then abandoned as unhealthy; but a tower remains to mark its site, which now is largely under water.
# The New Student's Reference Work/January

See also January on Wikipedia, and the disclaimer.
Jan'uary, the first month of the year in the Gregorian calendar. It was named from Janus, the god who in the Roman mythology presided over the origin of things. To the Scandinavians it was the month of Thor. January was in England made the first month of the year by an act of parliament in 1751.
# The New Student's Reference Work/Jamestown

See also Jamestown, New York on Wikipedia, and the disclaimer.
Jamestown, a city of Chautauqua County in western New York, on Chautauqua Lake, 58 miles southwest of Buffalo by rail. It is on the New York, Lake Erie and Western and Lake Chautauqua railroads. It has all the adjuncts of a progressive city, including electric lights, electric railways, good schools and adequate water-works. It has manufactures of pianos, furniture etc. Its industries also embrace the manufacture of alpacas, woolen and worsted goods, plush stuffs, boots and shoes. Power is furnished from two electric plants, and the natural gas supply leads to extensive use of gas-engines. Jamestown has 25 churches, 11 grade-schools, a high-school, a parochial school and night-schools conducted by the city and also the Y. M. C. A. Prendergast free public library has an excellent collection of paintings besides 17,500 volumes and 5,000 reference-works. Population 31,297.
# The New Student's Reference Work/Janus

See also Janus (mythology) on Wikipedia, and the disclaimer.
Janus (jā′nŭs), an old Italian god, who was supposed to guard the gates of Rome. In every undertaking the pious Roman prayed for the blessing and help of Janus. He is represented with a scepter in his right hand and a key in his left, sitting on a golden throne. He has two faces, one youthful and the other aged, the one looking forward and the other backward. Numa devoted to him the passage close by the Forum at Rome. This passage, often called a temple, was simply a gateway, which was sacred and contained the statue of Janus. This was open in time of war, and closed in time of peace. So constant were the Roman wars, that this gateway was only three times closed in 700 years.
# The New Student's Reference Work/Jamestown Exposition, The

See also Jamestown Exposition on Wikipedia, and the disclaimer.
James′town Exposition, The, which was held in Virginia in 1907 to celebrate the 300th anniversary of the settlement, recalled in the first place something of the early history of the south. The exposition stood in wide grounds, which covered some 500 acres, on the shore opposite Old Point Comfort, where the pioneers from the Godspeed, the Susan Constant and the Discovery landed three centuries ago. The locality is one of the richest in historical associations, even of the War of Independence and the Civil War. The historical collections in the exposition included many exhibits from the north and west and some interesting contributions irom the Colonial Dames, the Daughters of the American Revolution and the United Daughters of the Confederacy. There were many exhibits from the south itself, including a series of portraits of the governors of Virginia. Then again, near by in Hampton Roads, there were seen not only a fleet of vessels from the navies of many nations, but the old ironclads Merrimac and Monitor reproduced as they appeared in their famous duel in the Civil War. Among the other features may be mentioned many valuable documents sent by the state departments; an arts and crafts village where were shown the processes of working in copper, iron, silver, pottery and wood; a good aquarium of both sea and fresh-water fishes; a series of boat-races, motor-boat races and air-ship trials; and an educational exhibit of the standard results of school work as well as a model school in which modern methods of teaching could be studied in their operation.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/How the Melbourne Cup was Won

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 323–324
HOW THE MELBOURNE CUP WAS WON
In the beams of a beautiful day, Made soft by a breeze from the sea, The horses were started away, The fleet-footed thirty and three; Where beauty, with shining attire, Shed more than a noon on the land, Like spirits of thunder and fire They flashed by the fence and the stand.
And the mouths of pale thousands were hushed When Somnus, a marvel of strength, Past Bowes like a sudden wind rushed, And led the bay colt by a length; But a chestnut came galloping through, And, down where the river-tide steals, O'Brien, on brave Waterloo, Dashed up to the big horse's heels.
But Cracknell still kept to the fore, And first by the water bend wheeled, When a cry from the stand, and a roar Ran over green furlongs of field; Far out by the back of the course— A demon of muscle and pluck— Flashed onward the favourite horse, With his hoofs flaming clear of the ruck.
But the wonderful Queenslander came, And the thundering leaders were three; And a ring, and a roll of acclaim, Went out, like a surge of the sea: "An Epigram! Epigram wins!"— "The Colt of the Derby"—"The bay!" But back where the crescent begins The favourite melted away.
And the marvel that came from the North, With another, was heavily thrown; And here at the turning flashed forth To the front a surprising unknown; ​By shed and by paddock and gate The strange, the magnificent black, Led Darebin a length in the straight, With thirty and one at his back.
But the Derby colt tired at the rails, And Ivory's marvellous bay Passed Burton, O'Brien, and Hales, As fleet as a flash of the day. But Gough on the African star Came clear in the front of his "field," Hard followed by Morrison's Czar And the blood unaccustomed to yield.
Yes, first from the turn to the end, With a boy on him paler than ghost, The horse that had hardly a friend Shot flashing like fire by the post. When Graham was "riding" 'twas late For his friends to applaud on the stands, The black, through the bend and "the straight," Had the race of the year in his hands.
In a clamour of calls and acclaim, He landed the money—the horse With the beautiful African name, That rang to the back of the course. Hurrah for the Hercules race, And the terror that came from his stall, With the bright, the intelligent face, To show the road home to them all!
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Hymn of Praise

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 356–357
HYMN OF PRAISE
[Closing of Sydney International Exhibition.]
Encompassed by the psalm of hill and stream, By hymns august with their majestic theme, Here in the evening of exalted days To Thee, our Friend, we bow with breath of praise.
The great, sublime hosannas of the sea Ascend on wings of mighty winds to Thee, And mingled with their stately words are tones Of human love, O Lord of all the zones!
Ah! at the close of many splendid hours, While falls Thy gracious light in radiant showers, We seek Thy face, we praise Thee, bless Thee, sing This song of reverence, Master, Maker, King!
To Thee, from whom all shining blessings flow, All gifts of lustre, all the joys we know, To Thee, O Father, in this lordly space, The great world turns with worship in its face.
​For that glad season which will pass to-day With light and music like a psalm away, The gathered nations with a grand accord, In sight of Thy high heaven, thank Thee, Lord!
All praise is Thine—all love that we can give Is also Thine, in whose large grace we live, In whom we find the One long-suffering Friend, Whose immemorial mercy has no end.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Moss on a Wall

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 83–84
MOSS ON A WALL
Dim dreams it hath of singing ways, Of far-off woodland water-heads, And shining ends of April days Amongst the yellow runnel-beds.
Stoop closer to the ruined wall, Whereon the wilful wilding sleeps, As if its home were waterfall By dripping clefts and shadowy steeps.
A little waif, whose beauty takes A touching tone because it dwells So far away from mountain lakes, And lily leaves, and lightening fells.
Deep hidden in delicious floss It nestles, sister, from the heat— A gracious growth of tender moss Whose nights are soft, whose days are sweet.
Swift gleams across its petals run With winds that hum a pleasant tune, Serene surprises of the sun, And whispers from the lips of noon.
The evening-coloured apple-trees Are faint with July's frosty breath. But lo! this stranger getteth ease, And shines amidst the strays of Death.
​And at the turning of the year, When August wanders in the cold, The raiment of the nursling here Is rich with green and glad with gold.
Oh, friend of mine, to one whose eyes Are vexed because of alien things, For ever in the wall moss lies The peace of hills and hidden springs.
From faithless lips and fickle lights The tired pilgrim sets his face, And thinketh here of sounds and sights In many a lovely forest-place.
And when by sudden fits and starts The sunset on the moss doth burn, He often dreams, and, lo! the marts And streets are changed to dells of fern.
For, let me say, the wilding placed By hands unseen amongst these stones, Restores a Past by Time effaced, Lost loves and long-forgotten tones!
As sometimes songs and scenes of old Come faintly unto you and me, When winds are wailing in the cold, And rains are sobbing on the sea.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Mountain Moss

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 130–131
MOUNTAIN MOSS
It lies amongst the sleeping stones, Far down the hidden mountain glade; And past its brink the torrent moans For ever in a dreamy shade.
A little patch of dark-green moss, Whose softness grew of quiet ways (With all its deep, delicious floss) In slumb'rous suns of summer days.
You know the place? With pleasant tints The broken sunset lights the bowers; And then the woods are full with hints Of distant, dear, voluptuous flowers!
'Tis often now the pilgrim turns A faded face towards that seat, And cools his brow amongst the ferns; The runnel dabbling at his feet.
There fierce December seldom goes, With scorching step and dust and drouth; But, soft and low, October blows Sweet odours from her dewy mouth.
​And Autumn, like a gipsy bold, Doth gather near it grapes and grain, Ere Winter comes, the woodman old, To lop the leaves in wind and rain.
O, greenest moss of mountain glen, The face of Rose is known to thee; But we shall never share with men A knowledge dear to love and me!
For are they not between us saved, The words my darling used to say, What time the western waters laved The forehead of the fainting day?
Cool comfort had we on your breast While yet the fervid noon burned mute O'er barley field and barren crest, And leagues of gardens flushed with fruit.
Oh, sweet and low, we whispered so, And sucked the pulp of plum and peach; But it was many years go, When each, you know, was loved of each.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Illa Creek

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 82–83
ILLA CREEK
A strong sea-wind flies up and sings Across the blown-wet border, Whose stormy echo runs and rings Like bells in wild disorder.
Fierce breath hath vexed the foreland's face, It glistens, glooms, and glistens; But deep within this quiet place Sweet Illa lies and listens.
Sweet Illa of the shining sands, She sleeps in shady hollows, Where August flits with flowerful hands, And silver Summer follows.
Far up the naked hills is heard A noise of many waters, But green-haired Illa lies unstirred Amongst her star-like daughters.
The tempest, pent in moaning ways, Awakes the shepherd yonder, But Illa dreams unknown to days Whose wings are wind and thunder.
Here fairy hands and floral feet Are brought by bright October; Here, stained with grapes and smit with heat, Comes Autumn, sweet and sober.
Here lovers rest, what time the red And yellow colours mingle, And daylight droops with dying head Beyond the western dingle.
And here, from month to month, the time Is kissed by peace and pleasure, While Nature sings her woodland rhyme And hoards her woodland treasure.
​Ah, Illa Creek! ere evening spreads Her wings o'er towns unshaded, How oft we seek thy mossy beds To lave our foreheads faded!
For, let me whisper, then we find The strength that lives, nor falters, In wood and water, waste and wind, And hidden mountain altars.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/On a Baby Buried by the Hawkesbury

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., page 336
ON A BABY BURIED BY THE HAWKESBURY
[Lines sent to a Young Mother.]
A grace that was lent for a very few hours, By the bountiful Spirit above us; She sleeps like a flower in the land of the flowers, She went ere she knew how to love us. Her music of Heaven was strange to this sphere, Her voice is a silence for ever; In the bitter, wild fall of a sorrowful year, We buried our bird by the river.
But the gold of the grass, and the green of the vine, And the music of wind and of water, And the torrent of song and superlative shine, Are close to our dear little daughter. The months of the year are all gracious to her, A winter breath visits her never; She sleeps like a bird in a cradle of myrrh, By the banks of the beautiful river.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/On a Cattle Track

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 86–87
ON A CATTLE TRACK
Where the strength of dry thunder splits hill-rocks asunder, And the shouts of the desert-wind break, By the gullies of deepness and ridges of steepness, Lo, the cattle track twists like a snake! Like a sea of dead embers, burnt white by Decembers, A plain to the left of it lies; And six fleeting horses dash down the creek courses With the terror of thirst in their eyes.
The false strength of fever, that deadly deceiver, Gives foot to each famishing beast; And over lands rotten, by rain-winds forgotten, The mirage gleams out in the east. Ah! the waters are hidden from riders and ridden In a stream where the cattle track dips; And Death on their faces is scoring fierce traces, And the drouth is a fire on their lips.
It is far to the station, and gaunt Desolation Is a spectre that glooms in the way; Like a red smoke the air is, like a hell-light its glare is, And as flame are the feet of the day. The wastes are like metal that forges unsettle When the heat of the furnace is white; And the cool breeze that bloweth when an English sun goeth, Is unknown to the wild desert night.
A cry of distress there! a horseman the less there! The mock-waters shine like a moon! It is "Speed, and speed faster from this hole of disaster! And hurrah for yon God-sent lagoon!" Doth a devil deceive them? Ah, now let us leave them— We are burdened in life with the sad; Our portion is trouble, our joy is a bubble, And the gladdest is never too glad.
From the pale tracts of peril, past mountain heads sterile, To a sweet river shadowed with reeds, Where Summer steps lightly, and Winter beams brightly, The hoof-rutted cattle track leads. ​There soft is the moonlight, and tender the noon-light; There fiery things falter and fall; And there may be seen, now, the gold and the green, now, And the wings of a peace over all.
Hush, bittern and plover! Go, wind, to thy cover Away by the snow-smitten Pole! The rotten leaf falleth, the forest rain calleth; And what is the end of the whole? Some men are successful after seasons distressful [Now, masters, the drift of my tale]; But the brink of salvation is a lair of damnation For others who struggle, yet fail.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/In Memory of Edward Butler

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 320–322
IN MEMORY OF EDWARD BUTLER
A voice of grave, deep emphasis Is in the woods to-night; No sound of radiant day is this, No cadence of the light. Here in the fall and flights of leaves Against grey widths of sea, The spirit of the forests grieves For lost Persephone.
The fair divinity that roves Where many waters sing Doth miss her daughter of the groves— The golden-headed Spring. She cannot find the shining hand That once the rose caressed; There is no blossom on the land, No bird in last year's nest.
​Here, where this strange Demeter weeps— This large, sad life unseen— Where July's strong, wild torrent leaps The wet hill-heads between, I sit and listen to the grief, The high, supreme distress, Which sobs above the fallen leaf Like human tenderness!
Where sighs the sedge and moans the marsh, The hermit plover calls; The voice of straitened streams is harsh By windy mountain walls; There is no gleam upon the hills Of last October's wings; The shining lady of the rills Is with forgotten things.
Now where the land's worn face is grey And storm is on the wave, What flower is left to bear away To Edward Butler's grave? What tender rose of song is here That I may pluck and send Across the hills and seas austere To my lamented friend?
There is no blossom left at all; But this white winter leaf, Whose glad green life is past recall, Is token of my grief. Where love is tending growths of grace, The first-born of the Spring, Perhaps there may be found a place For my pale offering.
For this heroic Irish heart We miss so much to-day, Whose life was of our lives a part, What words have I to say? Because I know the noble woe That shrinks beneath: the touch— The pain of brothers stricken low— I will not say too much.
​But often in the lonely space When night is on the land, I dream of a departed face— A gracious, vanished hand. And when the solemn waters roll Against the outer steep, I see a great, benignant soul Beside me in my sleep.
Yea, while the frost is on the ways With barren banks austere, The friend I knew in other days Is often very near. I do not hear a single tone; But where this brother gleams, The elders of the seasons flown Are with me in my dreams.
The saintly face of Stenhouse turns— His kind old eyes I see; And Pell and Ridley from their urns Arise and look at me. By Butler's side the lights reveal The father of his fold, I start from sleep in tears, and feel That I am growing old.
Where Edward Butler sleeps, the wave Is hardly ever heard; But now the leaves above his grave By August's songs are stirred. The slope beyond is green and still, And in my dreams I dream The hill is like an Irish hill Beside an Irish stream.
# The Old Manor House

| Volume I Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII | Volume II Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII | Volume III Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV | Volume IV Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII |
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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