OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836/The Hindoo Mother

4
* THE HINDOO MOTHER.
* Artist: H. Melville - Engraved by: E. J. Portbury
THE
DRAWING ROOM SCRAP-BOOK.
THE HINDOO MOTHER.
VIGNETTE.
HE leaves it to the sacred stream,  She leaves it to the tide,
Her little child—her darling one,
 And she has none beside.
She used to sit beneath the palm,  Her boy upon her knee;
And dreaming of the future years,
 That were his own to be:
She saw him with a stately steed,  The sabre in his hand;
His pistols gleaming at his waist,
 The foremost of his band:
She saw him with his father’s smile,
 Beside some maiden dear;
She smiled to hear familiar words!
 Alas! and is he here?
The light has vanished from her day,
 The hope gone from her heart;
The young, the bright, and the beloved,
 Oh! how could he depart?
No more his sunny smile will make
 Her own, her household light;
No more will her sweet voice be heard,
 Above his sleep at night.
Her heart and home are desolate,  But for one dearest tie;
But for the father of her child,
 She would lay down and die.
The tide rolls on beneath the moon,  Down to the mighty main;
To-morrow may the mother seek,  And seek her child in vain.
Of the custom represented in the engraving, Mrs. Belnos gives the following interesting description:—"Hindoos of high caste burn their dead; but if unable to do so from poverty, are forced to throw them into the Ganges, after having performed the ceremony of burning the mouth with a wisp of straw. The expenses attending the burning of the dead are too great for any but the rich. When the infant of a poor Hindoo dies, the wretched mother takes it up in her arms, and carries it to the river, on the bank of which she lays it for some time on a piece of mat, or on the sands; she stands weeping over the body a little while, then retires a few paces back, where she sits down watching for the turn of the tide to wash away the body, and to prevent the birds of prey and Pariah dogs from approaching it; at intervals she breaks forth in loud lamentations (something resembling a chant, which is often heard at a great distance) in the following words:—"Oh! my child! who has taken thee, my child! I nourished thee and reared thee, and now where art thou gone! take me with thee, Oh! my child, my child! thou play'dst around me like a gold top, my child! the like of thy face I have never seen, my child! let fire devour the eyes of men, my child. The infant continually called me mah, mah, (mother, mother;) the infant used to say mah, let me sit upon thy lap! my child his father never stayed at home since he was born, my child! my child! but bore him continually in his arms for men to admire. What has become now of that admiration! Evil befall the eyes of men! Oh! my life, say mah again, my child, my child! My arms and my lap feel empty, who will fill them again? Oh! my sweet burden, my eye-sight has become darkened, now that thou hast vanished from before it!"
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836/The Lily of the Valley

9
* THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.
* Artist: Frank Stone - Engraved by: C. E. Wagstaff
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.
"A fair young face—yet mournful in its youth— Brooding above sad thoughts."
It is the last token of love and of thee!
Thy once faith is broken, thou false one to me.
I think on the letters with which I must part;
Too dear are the fetters which wind round my heart.
Thy words were enchanted—and ruled me at will;
My spirit is haunted, remembering them still.
So earnest, so tender—the full heart was there;
Ah! song might surrender its lute in despair.
I deemed that I knew thee as none ever knew;
That 'twas mine to subdue thee, and thine to be true. I deemed to my keeping thy memory had brought
The depths that were sleeping of innermost thought.
The bitter concealings life’s treacheries teach,
The long-subdued feelings the world cannot reach— Thy mask to the many was worn not for me;
I saw thee—can any seem like unto thee?
No other can know thee as I, love, have known;
No future will show thee a love like mine own.
That love was no passion that walketh by day,
A fancy—a fashion that flitteth away.
’Twas life’s whole emotion—a storm in its might—
’Twas deep as the ocean, and silent as night.
It swept down life’s flowers, the fragile and fair,
The heart had no powers from passion to spare.
Thy faults but endear’d thee, so stormy and wild;
My lover! I fear’d thee as feareth a child.
They seemed but the shrouding of spirit too high,
As vapours come crowding the sunniest sky.
I worshipped in terror a comet above;
Ah! fatal the error—ah! fatal the love!
For thy sake life never will charm me again;
Its beauty forever is vanish’d and vain.
Thou canst not restore me the depth and the truth
Of the hopes that came o’er me in earliest youth.
Their gloss is departed—their magic is flown,
And sad and faint-hearted I wander alone.
’Tis vain to regret me—you will not regret;
You will try to forget me—you cannot forget.
We shall hear of each other—oh! misery to hear
Those names from another that once were so dear!
What slight words will sting us that breathe of the past,
And slight things will bring us thoughts fated to last. The fond hopes that centred in thee are all dead,
But the iron has enter’d the soul where they fed.
Like others in seeming, we’ll walk through life’s part,
Cold, careless, and dreaming,—with death in the heart. No hope—no repentance; the spring of life o’er;
All died with that sentence——I love thee no more!
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836/The Montmorency Waterfall and Cone

32
* THE MONTMORENCY WATERFALL & CONE, NEAR QUEBEC.
* Artist: W. Purser - Engraved by: Sam. Lacey
THE MONTMORENCY WATERFALL AND CONE.
When the river St. Lawrence is frozen below the Falls, the level ice becomes a support on which the freezing spray descends as sleet; it there remains, and gradually assumes the figure of an irregular cone, which continues to enlarge its dimensions till, towards the close of the winter, it becomes stupendous. The height of the cone varies considerably, in different seasons; as the quantity of spray depends on the supply of water to the Falls—the spray, of course, being most dense when the rush of water is strong and impetuous. In 1829 and 1832, it did not reach a greater altitude than one hundred and thirty feet. The face of the cone, opposite to the Falls, differs from the rest of its surface, it being composed of stalactites; this formation arises from the dashing of the water against its face, which freezes in its descent, and by the continual action produces enormous icicles."—"The formation of this cone may serve to explain the origin of glaciers."
"To the inhabitants of Quebec, the cone is a source of endless amusement. When the weather is temperate, parties in single-horse curricles and tandems are seen hurrying to the spot, to enjoy the beauty of the scene, and to make descents, upon small sleighs, from the top of the cone to the plain below."
E do not ask for the leaves and flowers
That laugh as they look on the summer hours;
Let the violets shrink and sigh,
Let the red rose pine and die:
The sledge is yoked, away we go,
Amid the firs, o’er the soundless snow.
Lo! the pine is singing its murmuring song,
Over our heads as we pass alone;
And every bough with pearl is hung,
Whiter than those that from ocean sprung.
The sledge is yoked, away we go,
Amid the firs, o’er the soundless snow.
The ice is bright with a thousand dyes
Like the changeful light in a beauty’s eyes.
Now it weareth her blush, and now
It weareth the white of her marble brow.
The sledge is yoked, and away we go,
Beneath the firs, o’er the soundless snow.
We are wrapped with ermine and sable round,
By the Indian in trackless forests found; The sunbeams over the white world shine,
And we carry with us the purple wine.
The sledge is yoked, and away we go,
Beneath the firs, o’er the soundless snow.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836/The Fortress of Bowrie, in Rajpootana

see Kumbhalgarh
40
* FORTRESS OF BOWRIE, IN RAJPOOTANA.
* Artist: W. Westall - Engraved by: A. LePetit
THE FORTRESS OF BOWRIE, IN RAJPOOTANA.
The province of Rajpootana, including the unconquered remnant of the ancient Hindoo princes, is situated in the centre of Hindoostan, in the immediate vicinity of the Tatar and Mogul dominions. This tract of country was never thoroughly subjugated, though repeated efforts were made by the Patan and Mogul emperors to annex it to their territories. A nominal subjection, the payment of a certain tribute, or the furnishing a number of Rajpoot mercenaries for the imperial army, is the utmost concession that the province has ever yielded.
The Fortress of Bowrie is one of the military depots with which this country abounds; and derives interest less from its own extent, than from the picturesque and advantageous situation it occupies.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 133/Issue 1714/A Mother’s Heart

* A MOTHER'S HEART.
* A little dreaming, such as mothers know;
* A little lingering over dainty things;
* A happy heart, wherein hope all aglow
* Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes and sings —
* And that is all.
* A little clasping to her yearning breast;
* A little musing over future years;
* A heart that prays, "Dear Lord, thou knowest best,
* But spare my flower life's bitterest rain of tears" —
* And that is all.
* A little spirit speeding through the night;
* A little home grown lonely, dark, and chill;
* A sad heart, groping blindly for the light;
* A little snow-clad grave beneath the hill —
* And that is all.
* A little gathering of life's broken thread;
* A little patience keeping back the tears;
* A heart that sings, "Thy darling is not dead,
* God keeps her safe through his eternal years" —
* And that is all.
* Macmillan's Magazine.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 133/Issue 1714/Charity

* CHARITY.
* Only a drop in the bucket,
* But every drop will tell;
* The bucket would soon be empty
* Without the drops in the well.
* Only a poor little penny,
* It was all I had to give;
* But as pennies make the guineas,
* It may help some cause to live.
* A few little bits of ribbon
* And some toys — they were not new;
* But they made the sick child happy,
* Which has made me happy, too.
* Only some outgrown garments —
* They were all I had to spare;
* But they'll help to clothe the needy,
* And the poor are everywhere.
* A word now and then of comfort,
* That cost me nothing to say;
* But the poor old man died happy,
* And it helped him on the way.
* God loveth the cheerful giver,
* Though the gift be poor and small;
* What doth he think of his children
* When they never give at all?
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 133/Issue 1714

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XVIII. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1714. — April 21, 1877. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXXIII. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Spinoza: the Man and the Philosopher, | Contemporary Review, | 131 |
| II. | The Marquis of Lossie. By George Mac Donald, author of "Malcolm," etc. Part XIV., | Advance Sheets, | 151 |
| III. | On the Influence of Authority in Matters of Opinion. By Rt. Hon. W. E. Gladstone, | Nineteenth Century, | 159 |
| IV. | Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By William Black. Part IX., | Examiner, | 171 |
| V. | The Gossip of History, | Cornhill Magazine, | 178 |
| VI. | Quartering the Royal Arms, | Pall Mall Gazette, | 187 |
| VII. | News from Jupiter, | Spectator, | 189 |
| VIII. | Mail Coaches, | St. James's Magazine, | 191 |
POETRY. :
| The Dead Violet, | 130 | Charity, | 130 |
| "Post Hoc Exilium", | 130 | A Mother's Heart, | 130 |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 192 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 133/Issue 1714/Miscellany

​Hurry and "High Pressure."—It is the pace that kills; and of all forms of "overwork," that which consists in an excessive burst of effort, straining to the strength, and worrying to the will, hurry of all kinds—for example, that so often needed to catch a train, the effort required to complete a task of head-work within a period of time too short for its accomplishment by moderate energy—is injurious. Few suffer from overwork in the aggregate; it is too much work in too little time that causes the break down in nineteen cases out of twenty, when collapse occurs. Most sufferers bring the evil on themselves by driving off the day's work until the space allotted for its performance is past, or much reduced. Method in work is the great need of the day. If some portion of each division of time was devoted to the apportioning of hours and energy, there would be less confusion, far less "hurry," and the need of working at high pressure would be greatly reduced, if not wholly obviated. A great deal has been written and said of late, to exceedingly little practical purpose, on the subject of "overwork." We doubt whether what is included under this description might not generally be more appropriately defined as work done in a hurry, because the time legitimately appropriated to its accomplishment has been wasted or misapplied. Hurry to catch a train generally implies starting too late. High pressure is, says the Lancet, either the consequence of a like error at the outset of a task, or the penalty of attempting to compensate by intense effort for inadequate opportunity. If brain is bartered for business in this fashion, the goose is killed for the sake of the golden eggs, and greed works its own discomfiture.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 133/Issue 1713/To the Coming Flowers

* TO THE COMING FLOWERS.
* Awake, dear sleepers, from your wintry tombs;
* The sun has turned the point of Capricorn,
* And 'gins to pluck from winter's wings the plumes
* Of darkness, and to wind his silver horn
* For your return. Come to your homes, forlorn
* In absence of your odors and your faces;
* Like Rachel weeps for you the reaved morn,
* As often as she views your empty places,
* Erewhile the daily scene of her and your embraces.
* Come, pensile snowdrop, like the earliest star
* That twinkles on the brow of dusky night;
* Come, like the child that peeps from door ajar,
* With pallid cheek, upon a wasteful sight:
* And shouldst thou rise when all around is white,
* The more thou'lt demonstrate the power of God
* To shield the weak against the arms of might,
* To strengthen feeble shoulders for their load,
* And sinking hearts 'mid ills they could not full forebode.
* Come, crocus cup, the cup where early bees
* Sip the first nectar of the liberal year,
* Come and illume our green, as similes
* Light up the poet's song. And O ye dear
* March violets, come near, come breathing near!
* You too, fair primroses, in darksome woods
* Shine forth, like heaven's constellations clear;
* And come, ye daisies, throng in multitudes,
* And whiten hills and meadows with your saintly hoods.
* Come with thy lilies, May; thy roses, June;
* Come with your richer hues, autumnal hours;
* O tell your mellowing sun, your regal moon,
* Your dewy drops, your soft refreshing showers,
* To lift their blessing hands in Flora's bowers,
* Nor e'en to scorn the bindweed's flossy gold,
* Nor foxglove's banner hung with purple flowers,
* Nor solitary heath that cheers the wold,
* Nor the last daisy shivering in November's cold!
* Chambers' Journal.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 133/Issue 1713/Not Yet

* NOT YET.
* Not yet, not yet, the light;
* Under ground, out of sight,
* Like moles, we blindly toil
* On,—though we know not where;
* Some day the upper air,
* The sun, and all things fair,
* We reach through the dark soil.
* Beatrix L. Tollemache.
# James Martineau

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "James Martineau."
* 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.
* "Martineau, James," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
* "Martineau, James," in The New Student's Reference Work, Chicago: F.E. Compton and Co. (1914)
* "Martineau, James," in A Short Biographical Dictionary of English Literature, by John William Cousin, London: J. M. Dent & Sons (1910)

### See also

* Author:James Martineau
# James McNeill Whistler

"Greatest of modern painters, he is dead!"
* "James McNeill Whistler" in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (November 1903).
* "James McNeill Whistler" in Mine and Thine (1904)
* "James McNeill Whistler" in Poems II (1916)

## References

* ↑ View this version at Google Books.
# Letters of Two Brides/Chapter XLIV

Paris, 1829.
A whole year passed, my dear, without a letter! What does this mean? I am a little hurt. Do you suppose that your Louis, who comes to see me almost every alternate day, makes up for you? It is not enough to know that you are well and that everything prospers with you; for I love you, Renee, and I want to know what you are feeling and thinking of, just as I say everything to you, at the risk of being scolded, or censured, or misunderstood. Your silence and seclusion in the country, at the time when you might be in Paris enjoying all the Parliamentary honors of the Comte de l'Estorade, cause me serious anxiety. You know that your husband's "gift of gab" and unsparing zeal have won for him quite a position here, and he will doubtless receive some very good post when the session is over. Pray, do you spend your life writing him letters of advice? Numa was not so far removed from his Egeria.
Why did you not take this opportunity of seeing Paris? I might have enjoyed your company for four months. Louis told me yesterday that you were coming to fetch him, and would have your third confinement in Paris—you terrible mother Gigogne! After bombarding Louis with queries, exclamations, and regrets, I at last defeated his strategy so far as to discover that his grand-uncle, the godfather of Athenais, is very ill. Now I believe that you, like a careful mother, would be quite equal to angling with the member's speeches and fame for a fat legacy from your husband's last remaining relative on the mother's side. Keep your mind easy, my Renee—we are all at work for Louis, Lenoncourts, Chaulieus, and the whole band of Mme. de Macumer's followers. Martignac will probably put him into the audit department. But if you won't tell me why you bury yourself in the country, I shall be cross.
Tell me, are you afraid that the political wisdom of the house of l'Estorade should seem to centre in you? Or is it the uncle's legacy? Perhaps you were afraid you would be less to your children in Paris? Ah! what I would give to know whether, after all, you were not simply too vain to show yourself in Paris for the first time in your present condition! Vain thing! Farewell.
# Letters of Two Brides/Chapter XLIII

For the first time in my life, my dear Renee, I have been alone and crying. I was sitting under a willow, on a wooden bench by the side of the long Chantepleurs marsh. The view there is charming, but it needs some merry children to complete it, and I wait for you. I have been married nearly three years, and no child! The thought of your quiver full drove me to explore my heart.
And this is what I find there. "Oh! if I had to suffer a hundred-fold what Renee suffered when my godson was born; if I had to see my child in convulsions, even so would to God that I might have a cherub of my own, like your Athenais!" I can see her from here in my mind's eye, and I know she is beautiful as the day, for you tell me nothing about her—that is just like my Renee! I believe you divine my trouble.
Each time my hopes are disappointed, I fall a prey for some days to the blackest melancholy. Then I compose sad elegies. When shall I embroider little caps and sew lace edgings to encircle a tiny head? When choose the cambric for the baby-clothes? Shall I never hear baby lips shout "Mamma," and have my dress pulled by a teasing despot whom my heart adores? Are there to be no wheelmarks of a little carriage on the gravel, no broken toys littered about the courtyard? Shall I never visit the toy-shops, as mothers do, to buy swords, and dolls, and baby-houses? And will it never be mine to watch the unfolding of a precious life—another Felipe, only more dear? I would have a son, if only to learn how a lover can be more to one in his second self.
My park and castle are cold and desolate to me. A childless woman is a monstrosity of nature; we exist only to be mothers. Oh! my sage in woman's livery, how well you have conned the book of life! Everywhere, too, barrenness is a dismal thing. My life is a little too much like one of Gessner's or Florian's sheepfolds, which Rivarol longed to see invaded by a wolf. I too have it in me to make sacrifices! There are forces in me, I feel, which Felipe has no use for; and if I am not to be a mother, I must be allowed to indulge myself in some romantic sorrow.
I have just made this remark to my belated Moor, and it brought tears to his eyes. He cannot stand any joking on his love, so I let him off easily, and only called him a paladin of folly.
At times I am seized with a desire to go on pilgrimage, to bear my longings to the shrine of some madonna or to a watering-place. Next winter I shall take medical advice. I am too much enraged with myself to write more. Good-bye.
# Letters of Two Brides/Chapter XLII

My little girl is two months old. She is called Jeanne-Athenais, and has for godmother and godfather my mother, and an old grand-uncle of Louis'.
As soon as I possibly can, I shall start for my visit to Chantepleurs, since you are not afraid of a nursing mother. Your godson can say your name now; he calls it Matoumer, for he can't say c properly. You will be quite delighted with him. He has got all his teeth, and eats meat now like a big boy; he is all over the place, trotting about like a little mouse; but I watch him all the time with anxious eyes, and it makes me miserable that I cannot keep him by me when I am laid up. The time is more than usually long with me, as the doctors consider some special precautions necessary. Alas! my child, habit does not inure one to child-bearing. There are the same old discomforts and misgivings. However (don't show this to Felipe), this little girl takes after me, and she may yet cut out your Armand.
My father thought Felipe looking very thin, and my dear pet also not quite so blooming. Yet the Duc and Duchesse de Soria have gone; not a loophole for jealousy is left! Is there any trouble which you are hiding from me? Your letter is neither so long nor so full of loving thoughts as usual. Is this only a whim of my dear whimsical friend?
I am running on too long. My nurse is angry with me for writing, and Mlle. Athenais de l'Estorade wants her dinner. Farewell, then; write me some nice long letters.