OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Woman of the Century/Frances Nimmo Greene

​GREENE, Miss Frances Nimmo, educator, born in Tuscaloosa, Ala., in the late sixties. She is known to the public as "Dixie." She is descended through her father from an old South Carolina family, and through her mother from the best Virginia stock. Her mother's family have been literary in taste for several generations. Miss Greene received her education in Tuscaloosa Female College, where she made an excellent record for earnestness and intelligence. Since leaving school she has made teaching her profession. ​While teaching in a mining town in north Alabama, she first conceived the idea of writing sketches for publication. Her first attempt, "Yankees in Dixie," was promptly accepted by the FRANCES NIMMO GREENE. Philadelphia "Times." Since that time she has contributed to that paper many letters on southern affairs. She also writes for the Birmingham "Age-Herald " and other southern papers. She has directed her efforts as a writer toward bringing about a better state of feeling between the sections by giving the people of the North a correct understanding of the negro and his condition, and also of the temper of the southern whites. Besides writing in prose, she sometimes writes verse, but has published only one poem.
# Woman of the Century/Freeda M. Lankton

​FREEDA M. LANKTON. LANKTON. Mrs. Freeda M., physician, born in Oriskany, N. Y., 10th August, 1852. She grew to womanhood in Rome, N. Y. Her father was a Baptist clergyman of ability. Her mother was a woman of mental and spiritual strength. Being a delicate child, she received mostly private instruction. Much of her time was spent in her father's study, with the companionship of his extensive library or as a listener to scientific and religious discussions. Her early inclinations foretold her mission in life. As a child she was especially fond of administering to cats, dogs and dolls, indiscriminately, the medicines of her compounding and took delight in nursing the sick and in reading on such subjects. When fifteen years of age, an inflammation of the optic nerve, caused by over- study and night-reading, forced her into complete rest. Grief for her mother's death aggravated the inflammation, and for three years she was unable to study. Her college course was relinquished, and she depended entirely for information upon the reading of others. As her vision improved, she persevered in study and again visited the sick. She was married in 1870. Later, overwork and anxiety for others reduced her to an invalid's life for three years. During that time medical study was her amusement, and the old longing developed into a purpose, encouraged by her husband, to ​devote her life to the relief of suffering. She had charge, for some time, of the "Open Door," a home for fallen women, in Omaha, Neb. She is one of the King's Daughters, and her purpose is usefulness. She now resides in Omaha.
# Woman of the Century/Frances M. Milne

​MILNE, Mrs. Frances M., author, born in the north of Ireland, 30th June, 1846. In 1849 her parents came to the United States and settled in Pennsylvania. In 1869 her family moved to California. There Frances was married. Mrs. Milne was educated mainly at home. From her thirteenth to her sixteenth year she went to a public school. Her training was quite thorough, and her reading covered a wide range of authors. She began to FRANCES M. MILNE. write, in both prose and verse, in early life, and her work KXKI attracted attention. She has published poems in the San Francisco "Star" and many other prominent Pacific-coast journals. For some years she has made her home in San Luis Obispo. Cal. In 1883 she became interested in the single-tax movement, and many of her songs were written in the interest of that movement. She has made a profound study of economic and political questions and with pen and voice she has aided in extending the discussion of the relations of progress and poverty, and of individuals and society. Since the publication of her earliest productions in the Cincinnati "Christian Standard." she has written and published much. In 1872 she issued a book, a story for young people. She has written a number of poems, essays and sketches over the pen-name "Margaret Frances." In all her work on reform she has used her own name in full.
# Woman of the Century/Frances Mallette Hawley

​HAWLEY, Mrs. Frances Mallette, poet and author, born in Bridgeport, Conn., 30th FRANCES MALLETTE HAWLEY. January, 1843. Her father, Prof. Rich, was a well-known teacher of vocal music. Frances possessed the gift of music in a remarkable degree. From the time she could speak plainly, she delighted in telling stories to her young companions. On 1st September, 1864, she became the wife of Wheeler Hawley, in Bridgeport, Conn., where she has resided since. Mrs. Hawley has a family of three sons and one young daughter. A fourth and youngest son died in youth. Her later stories and poems show deepening and widening powers.
# Woman of the Century/Frances Miller Mumaugh

​MUMAUGH, Mrs. Frances Miller, artist, born in Newark, N. Y., 11th July, 1860. She is a descendant of an old Lutheran family from Saxony. Her childhood was passed in the Genesee Valley. When a mere child her artistic faculty attracted the attention of her teachers. She was educated in the public schools, but without instruction in her special line, in which she continued to show development. In 1879 she became the wife of John E. Mumaugh, of Omaha, Neb., where they afterward resided, and which is now her home. She was soon identified with western art and artists. Broad in her ideas, she was not a follower ​of any particular school, bin absorbed truth and beauty wherever interpreted, and sought for herself nature's inspirations. Thrown on her own resources in 1885, with a two-year-old daughter to care FRANCES MILLER MUMAUGH. for, this delicate woman, strengthened to the test and faltering not in devotion to her art, won her way unaided to a recognized supremacy among western artists. With the exception of a course of study in water-color under Jules Cluerin, of Chicago, and a summer course in oil with Dwight Frederick Boyden, of Paris, her progress is due almost entirely to her own efforts. She is an artist of exceptional merit and promise. She delights in landscapes, in which line she is always successful. As a teacher she excels ; her classes are always full. She has conducted the art department in Long Pine Chautauqua for four years, and one season in Fremont, Neb. She has been one of the board of directors of the Western Art Associa- tion since its organization, in 1888.
# Woman of the Century/Frances M. Owston Smith

​SMITH, Miss Frances M. Owston, poet, was born in Peterborough. Ontario, Canada. She is of mixed English and Irish blood. Her father, Ralph Smith, was a native of King's county, Ireland, and her mother was a daughter of Captain William Owston, of the Royal Navy, Yorkshire, England. She was reared and educated in Peterborough, and her home has for some years past been in Lucan, in the western part of the Province of Ontario. FRANCIS M. OWSTON SMITH. She has written verses since her childhood, and her poems have been published in the "Irish Monthly." Ireland, in the "Canadian Monthly," and in several leading Canadian weeklies. Her poetry runs in the religious vein principally. Her work shows culture, earnestness and purity of thought and aspiration, and she is ranked with those other Canadian singers who are aiding powerfully to create and glorify a Canadian literature. She is known for her charitable deeds as well as her literary achievements.
# Woman of the Century/Frances P. Clark

​FRANCES PARKER CLARK. CLARK, Mrs. Frances P., philanthropist, born in Syracuse, N. Y., 17th September, 1836. She was one of a family of seven children born to Dr. J. H. and Mary P. Parker, who were persons of fine character. Miss Parker was educated in Syracuse, and in November, 1858, became the wife of George W. Clark. In i860 they moved to Cleveland, Ohio, remaining there until 1883, when they removed to Omaha, Neb., where they have since lived. Their family consists of a daughter and son. After recovering from an apparently incurable disease of long standing, Mrs. Clark, in a spirit of gratitude to God, devoted herself to charitable work, taking up the work most needed to be done and most neglected, as she felt, by Christians, that of care for the so-called outcasts of society. In 1884, in recognition of her ability and services, she was appointed State superintendent of the social purity department of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union of Nebraska. As a result of the agitation begun by Mrs. Clark and her colleagues, the disgraceful statute making the age of consent twelve years was changed by the Legislature, in 1887, raising it to fifteen years. The women had prepared a bill making the limit eighteen years, and the result was a compromise. At the same time they petitioned the Legislature for a grant of 125,000, to be used in establishing an industrial home in Milford, Neb. That institution accordingly was founded at once, and through the happy results since flowing therefrom has fully met the expectations of its founders. Mrs. Clark is a member of the board of management of the Milford home, and also of the Woman's Associate Charities of the State of Nebraska, under appointment by the Governor. Besides this, she is the superintendent of a local institution for the same purpose in Omaha, known as "The Open Door." under the auspices of the local Woman's Christian Temperance Union. That institution is supported by subscriptions from the citizens of Omaha. With all these calls upon her time, Mrs. Clark is busy constantly, and she stands in the foremost rank among the women philanthropists of Nebraska.
# Woman of the Century/Frances R. Haswin

​HASWIN, Mrs. Frances R., musician, composer, poet and actor, born in Ripon, Wis., 14th May, 1852. She is descended from a notable ancestry. Gen, Isaac Clark, the Indian fighter and Revolutionary officer, of Vermont, was her great-grandfather. Her grandfather, Major Satterlee Clark, was graduated in the first West Point class in 1807. Her father. Col. Temple Clark, was a gallant officer in the Civil War. Her mother, now Mrs. Annie Starr, born Strong, was descended from noted New England Puritans. FRANCES R. HASWIN. Mrs. Haswin's education was directed by her mother, a woman of marked characteristics in many ways. and from whom she inherits sterling traits of character as well as her love of the ideal. She was a proud-spirited, sensitive girl, and showed her strong talent in music and histrionics at a very early age. She has composed and published music of a superior ​order, both vocal and instrumental. She has written many poems, both tender and heroic, all possessing a strong virility of touch, that have been widely copied and admired. She is the wife of Carl A. Haswin, a man of broad culture and a gifted and well-known actor. With him she has appeared in most of the prominent theaters of the United States, playing successfully leading roles in his support. With all her talent and versatility, Mrs. Haswin is a woman of domestic tastes, which find full play in her ideal married life. Her home is in Holly Beach, N. J.
# Woman of the Century/Front matter

Copyright, 1893, CHARLES WELLS MOULTON.
| TYPOGRAPHY BY CHARLES WELLS MOULTON. BUFFALO, N. Y. | | PRESS WORK BY KITTINGER PRINTING COMPANY BUFFALO, N. Y. |
| | ELECTROTYPES AND ENGRAVINGS BY BUFFALO ELECTROTYPE AND ENGRAVING CO., BUFFALO, N. Y. |
| PAPER BY S. WORTHINGTON PAPER CO., HOLYOKE, MASS. | BINDING BY WILLIAM H. BORK, BUFFALO, N. Y. | INK BY GEORGE H. MORRILL & CO., NEW YORK, N. Y. |
# Wright v. Union Central Life Insurance Company

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Wright v. Union Central Life Insurance Company."
* 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.
* Wright v. Union Central Life Insurance Company (304 U.S. 502)
* Wright v. Union Central Life Insurance Company (311 U.S. 273)
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Sabbath

THE SABBATH.
The world is full of toil;
 Toil bids the traveler roam,
It binds the laborer to the soil,
 The student to his tome;
The beasts of burden sigh,
 O'erladen and opprest,
The Sabbath lifts its banner high,
 And gives the weary rest.
The world is full of care;
 The haggard brow is wrought
In furrows as of fix'd despair
 And check'd the heavenward thought,
But with indignant grace
 The Sabbath's chastening tone,
Drives money-changers from the place
 Which God doth call his own.
The world is full of grief;
 Sorrows o'er sorrows roll,
Even hope that promises relief
 Doth sometimes pierce the soul;
But see the Sabbath's bound
 Bears Mercy's holy seal,
A balm of Gilead for the wound
 That man is weak to heal.
The world is full of sin;
 Its tide, deceptive rolls,
The unwary to its breast to win,
 And whelm unstable souls;
The Sabbath's beacon tells
 Of reefs and wrecks below,
And warns, tho' gay the billow swells,
 Beneath, are death and woe.
O glorious world! where none
 With fruitless labor sigh,
Where care doth wring no lingering groan,
 And grief no agony;
Where Sin with fatal arts
 Hath never forg'd her chains,
But deep enthron'd in angel-hearts,
 One endless Sabbath reigns.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Pestilence

THE PESTILENCE.
I hear it on the blast. There is a sound
Of heavy pinions on the midnight cloud,
A wailing riseth from the strong man's couch:
He with the busiest of the throng did mix
When morning shone, and now ere set of sun,
The gasp and death-cry warn thee where he lies,
—Death treadeth on the heels of buoyant health,
Leaving no interval for shrift or prayer.
The hearse doth meet us wheresoe'er we turn,
And pass unheeded, like a household thing.
The angel of Destruction walks his round,
At noon-day in the city, and the tomb
Doth gather riches till its treasure-vaults
O'erflow. Around their mournful board at eve,
The stricken and diminished circle draw,
Each on the other fixing that sad glance
Which asks, "who next?" While every heart responds,
"Lord is it I?" But 'mid the mournful homes
Where pallid fear and agony chastise
Each wonted joy,—say, are there none who read
In all earth's change the counsels of the skies?
None, who close wrapped in panoply divine,
Show their faith's value in this hour of need?
Up, ye who follow with unshrinking step
Him who o'ercame the grave,—up, trim your lamp,
And do his holy will. Amid the haunts
Of poverty and pain, with angel-step
Send forth your bounty. On the cherished field
Where God hath given you nurture, fix the eye,
As one who soon may leave it. Lurks there aught
Of tare or bramble, in your hallowed bower?
Amid the vineyard of your dearest hopes,
Lurks there no root of bitterness?—no seed
Of truth unsown, which you would fain have watched
Unto the harvest? Are there olive-plants
Around your table, and do baleful weeds
Corrupt their root, or with their blossoms twine?
Go to your work with diligence, as one
Whose time is short. Strike to the secret heart
A searching glance,—and if aught linger there,
Though shrouded cunningly,—one evil germ,—
Be firm in extirpation, and invoke
The aid of that pure spirit, who doth deign
To dwell in fleshly temples and prepare
Equal for life or death, the trusting soul.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Soap Bubble

THE SOAP BUBBLE.
Bright Globe! upon the sun-beam tost,
Pure, sparkling, then forever lost,
No crested wave that glittering breaks,
Nor pearl that Wealth admiring takes,
Nor diamond from Golconda's coast
Can half thy changeful brilliance boast.
—Hast thou a voice, to bid us see
An emblem of our infancy,
Our reckless youth, our manhood's strife,
And all the painted gaudes of life?
—Hope spreads her wing of plumage fair,
Rebuilds her castle bas'd on air,
Its turrets crown'd with frost-work bright,
Its portals filled with rosy light,
A breath of Summer stirs the tree,
Where is that gorgeous dome?—with thee.
—Behold! array'd in robes of light
Young Beauty charms the gazer's sight,
Fast in her steps the graces tread,
The roseate chaplet decks her head,
But the brief garland fades away,
The bubble bursts,—and she is clay.
—Dilate once more thy proudest size,
And deck thee in the rainbow's dies,
Thy boldest flight aspiring dare,
Then vanish to thy native air;
Love dazzles thus with borrow'd rays,
And thus the trusting heart betrays.
—Again it swells, that chrystal round,
Soars, shines, expands, and seeks the ground,
Save, save that frail and tinted shell!
Where fled its fragments? who can tell?
Thus, when the soul from dust is free,
Thus shall it gaze, oh Earth! on thee.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Tower at Montevideo

THE TOWER AT MONTEVIDEO.
Written after visiting the beautiful summer residence of Daniel Wadsworth, Esq., on Talcot mountain, near Hartford, Conn., which bears the name of Montevideo.
Full many a year hath past away,
Thou rude, old Tower, so stern and grey,
Since first I came, enthusiast lone,
To worship at thy hermit throne.
—Tho' wintry blast, and sweeping rain
Have mark'd thee with their iron stain,
Yet freely springing at thy feet,
New beauties wreathe their garland sweet
Young flowers the ancient wilds perfume,
In tangled dells, fresh roses bloom,
And foliage wraps with mantle deep,
The trap-rock ledges, harsh and steep.
—Still spreads the lake its mirror clear,
The forest-warblers charm the ear,
The glorious prospect opens wide
Its varied page in summer's pride,
And tasteful hands have deftly wove
Enchantment's spell o'er vale and grove.
Farewell old Tower! thou still shalt be
Remember'd as a friend by me,
Who bring'st from time's recorded track
The buds of joy profusely back,
And sweetly from thy turrets hoar
The song of gratitude dost pour,
Nor spare around my path to fling,
Young Memory's brighest blossoming.
—When next we meet, perchance, the trace
Of age shall tint thy tottering base,
And I, with added plainness show
The wrinkled lines that cares bestow,
But Nature, still serene and fair,
No thread of silver in her hair,
No furrow'd mark on brow or cheek,
The same rich dialect shall speak,
With silent finger upward pointing,
And forehead pure with Heaven's anointing,
And smile more eloquent than speech,
The lessons of her Sire shall teach.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Pholas

THE PHOLAS.
It is a fact familiar to Conchologists, that the genus Pholas, possesses the property of phosphorescence. It has been asserted, that this may be restored, even when the animal is in a dried state, by the application of water; but is extinguished by the least quantity of brandy.
Frail thing! on ocean's pity thrown,
 Protected by no parent's care,
Slow softener of the rugged stone,
 To scoop a hermit-mansion there,* Say,—wert thou born 'mid coral caves
 Where pearly gems their lustre shed?
Or where the pensile sea-weed waves
 Like cypress o'er the unburied dead?
Or didst thou fold thine armour white
 In terror at the tempest's roar?
Or calmly shed a brilliant light
 'Neath some o'ershadowing madrepore? Ah! would that man were prompt to learn
 The lesson thou art prone to teach,
Wise, from thy dark testaceous urn,
 And eloquent, tho' void of speech.
Thou warn'st him that the ethereal mind,
 That spark of Heaven's enkindled ray,
By genial Temperance refin'd,
 Still brightens toward the perfect day;
But if, debas'd by gross desire,
 It plunges in the poisonous bowl,
That flame must sicken and expire,
 And leave the clay without a soul.
Slow months of toil in caverns cold,
 Thy labyrinthine home prepare,
But man, to whirlwind passion sold,
 Makes homeless those who trust his care,
From crime to crime, in downward stage,
 By foul Intemperance darkly driven,
He forfeits with demoniac rage,
 The peace of Earth and hope of Heaven.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Sea Boy

THE SEA BOY.
"Up the main top-mast, ho!"
 The storm was loud,
And the deep midnight muffled up her head,
Leaving no ray. By the red binnacle
I saw the sea-boy. His young cheek was pale,
And his lip trembled. But he dared not hear
That hoarse command repeated. So he sprang,
With slender foot, amid the slippery shrouds.
 He, oft, by moonlight-watch, had lured my ear
With everlasting stories of his home
And of his mother. His fair brow told tales
Of household kisses, and of gentle hands
That bound it when it ached, and laid it down
On the soft pillow, with a curtaining care.
And he had sometimes spoken of the cheer
That waited him, when wearied from his school,
At winter's eve, he came. Then he would pause
For his high-beating bosom threw a chain
O'er his proud lip, or else it would have sighed
A deep remorse for leaving such a home.
And he would haste away, and pace the deck
More rapidly, as if to hide from me
The gushing tear. I marked the inward strife
Unquestioning, save by a silent prayer,
That the tear wrung so bitterly, might work
The sea-boy's good and wash away all trace
Of disobedience. Now, the same big tear
Hung like a pearl upon him, as he climbed
And grappled to the mast. I watched his toil,
With strange foreboding, till he seemed a speck
Upon the ebon bosom of the cloud.
And I remembered that he once had said,
"I fear I shall not see my home again:"
And sad the memory of those mournful words,
Dwelt with me, as he passed above my sight
Into thick darkness.
 The wild blast swept on,
The strong ship tossed.
 Shuddering, I heard a plunge
A heavy plunge—a gurgling 'mid the wave.
I shouted to the crew. In vain! In vain!
The ship held on her way. And never more
Shall that poor, delicate sea-boy raise his head
To do the bidding of those roughened men,
Whose home is on the sea. And never more
May his fond mother strain him to her breast,
Weeping that hardship thus should bronze the brow
To her so beautiful—nor the kind sire
Make glad, by his forgiveness, the rash youth
Who wandered from his home, to throw the wealth
Of his warm feelings on the faithless sea.
# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Tomb of Josephine

THE TOMB OF JOSEPHINE.
"A Josephine,—Eugene et Hortense."—1825.
Empress of Earth's most polish'd clime!
Whose path of splendid care
Did touch the zenith-point of hope,
The nadir of despair,— Here doth thy wrong'd, confiding heart
Resign its tortur'd thrill,
And slumber like the peasant's dust,
All unconcern'd and still?
Did Love yon arch of marble rear
To mark the hallow'd ground?
And bid those doric columns spring
With clustering roses crown'd?
Say,—did it come with gifts of peace
To deck thy couch of gloom?
And like relenting Athens bless
Its guiltless martyr's tomb?
No!—no! the stern and callous breast
Sear'd by Ambition's flame,
No kindlings of remorse confest
At thy remember'd name:
Alike the Corsican abjur'd
With harsh and ingrate tone,
The beauty and the love that pav'd
His pathway to a throne.
He turn'd in apathy to gaze
Upon his Austrian bride,
Nor heard dark fate's prophetic sigh
That warn'd the fall of pride;
Saw not the vision'd battle shock
That cleft his Babel fame,
Nor mark'd on far Helena's rock
A sepulchre of shame.
France!—France! by thy indignant zeal
Were fitting honors paid,
And did thy weeping fondness sooth
The unrequited shade?
Bad'st thou yon breathing statue strive
Her faultless form to show? But rushing on in reckless mirth,
That empire answered,—No.
Then lo!—a still small voice arose
Amid that silence drear,
Such voice as from the cradle bed
Doth charm the mother's ear,
And then, methought, two clasping hands
Were from that marble thrust,
And strange their living freshness gleam'd
Amid that sculptur'd dust.
Empress! the filial blossoms nurs'd
Within thy bosom's fold,
Surviv'd the wreath that traitor Love
To heartless glory sold,— Those hands thy monument have rear'd
Where pausing pilgrims come;
That voice thy mournful requiem pour'd
Though all the world was dumb.