OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Letters from India Volume II/From the Hon F H Eden to a Friend 3

Government House, August 18, 1837.
——, I've got your No. 15; as usual it dropped in in an odd unexpected manner. It could not have come in a ship, for there was. not one in the river; nothing else came but a packet from the ‘Company.’ Perhaps, after all, you are the ‘Company.’ We have all been busy during the rainy-season fever—all but his ‘Excellency,’ who is atrociously and inhumanly well—for the whole of Calcutta has been sick. We don’t die of our influenzas, because we ​have not strength enough; we are only left a shade weaker and a shade yellower, and if a healthy European lands it makes us all sneeze. B—— has escaped it, owing to his great serenity and being constantly engaged in plucking ahingas. I have another bunch of feathers for you, and some day I’ll freight a ship with them.
Our first and best energies are devoted towards making a clinquant figure of his Excellency, in order that he may shine in the eyes of the native princes; and I take it he will make a pretty considerable figure seen through a long vista of embroidered punkahs, peacocks’ feathers, silver sticks, spearmen, &c., and two interesting females caracoling on their elephants on each side of him.
I have at last made —— listen to reason about my howdah, and it is a model of comfort. There have been unpleasant doings at Napâl—very! They make me rather sick. The physician there was suspected of having poisoned a little prince, intending to poison the queen. He would not own to any such intention, upon which the king took his wife and children and tortured them to make him con​fess—scorched them. Of course the man did confess at last; indeed, I should like to see George and —— not confess anything and everything if they took to scorching Emily and me. It is a very bad precedent that of torturing the women of a family by way of punishing the men. It might just happen they would not mind, certainly less than if they were tortured themselves. One of the native princes made his prime minister pound his family’s heads in a mortar with a pestle. I should not object to that so much if he set about it judgematically.
It sometimes strikes me we really are in what is called a barbarous country. The other day the baboo died here—a very high caste servant, through whose hands great sums of money pass. He might have been saved, but would not degrade himself by taking English nourishment, and, being a Hindu, was at last carried off by his attached friends before he was dead and laid by the side of the river, where they poked mud into his mouth, and there was no choice for us but to let him be murdered in his own way.
Yours most affectionately,
F. H. E.
# Letters from India Volume II/From the Hon F H Eden to a Friend 7

Camp, Delhi, February 16, 1839.
I sent you off a large book seven weeks ago, with the full expectation that by this time it would be crossing the line. I have just heard by chance that the man (the monster!) who took charge of it is still at Calcutta. That shows a depraved taste when he might be on his way to England, besides utter want of principle as to carrying books. I have nearly finished another, and shall send it off in a fortnight, on a fresh plot, and these are merely a few extraneous words to keep you quiet in the meantime—or rather unquiet—constantly writing. I say everything in those journals there is to be said, and have strong suspicions that they must be intensely tiresome and the sketches supremely ridiculous. I am driven into sketching figures because the country is so ugly, and I dare say their arms go where their legs ought to be; and now I am taking to colour them—I, who never handled a colour before—and I think I see you in fits of laughing over the result. —— generally sends in the figure ​to draw, and he goes into strong hysterics at my efforts. They rather impose upon George. Nevertheless keep them for me till I come home; I dare say then I shall like to look at them.
You see we are at Delhi. I think when I was in England I had some dim notion of Delhi as a city at the farthest possible point of the world from that where we happened to be born, full of fine buildings and people with conical hats. I will not write about the buildings twice, but I think it as well to mention that the people do not wear conical hats. Our tents swarm all day with merchants, who cover the carpets with jewels; but they want money for them, and much money.
I am still very low at having left Gazelle at Meerut with Captain C., but then I think of him carried over the hills in a hyena’s mouth and am comforted. It is longer than usual since I have heard from you, but the ships come in very shortly. God bless you, dearest!
Your most affectionate
F. H. Eden.
# Kant's Prolegomena and Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science/The Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science

Metaphysische Anfangsgründe der Naturwissenschaft (1786)
THE METAPHYSICAL FOUNDATIONS OF NATURAL SCIENCE.
* Preface
* First Division: Metaphysical Foundations of Phoronomy
* Second Division: Metaphysical Foundations of Dynamics
* Third Division: Metaphysical Foundations of Mechanics
* Fourth Division: Metaphysical Foundations of Phenomenology
# Kapalkundala

Kapalkundala is an 1866 novel by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay.
English-language translations of কপালকুণ্ডলা include:
* Kopal-Kundala, 1885 translation by Henry Arthur Deuteros Phillips.
* Kapalkundala, 1919 translation by Devendra Nath Ghose.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1664/A Holiday

* A HOLIDAY.
* Out of the city, far away
* With spring to-day! —
* Where copses tufted with primrose
* Give me repose,
* Wood-sorrel and wild violet
* Soothe my soul's fret,
* The pure delicious vernal air
* Blows away care,
* The birds' reiterated songs
* Heal fancied wrongs.
* Down the rejoicing brook my grief
* Drifts like a leaf,
* And on its gently murmuring flow
* Cares glide and go;
* The bud-besprinkled boughs and hedges,
* The sprouting sedges
* Waving beside the water's brink,
* Come like cool drink
* To fever'd lips, like fresh soft mead
* To kine that feed.
* Much happier than the kine, I bed
* My dreaming head
* In grass; I see far mountains blue,
* Like heav'n in view,
* Green world and sunny sky above
* Alive with love;
* All, all, however came they there,
* Divinely fair.
* Is this the better oracle,
* Or what streets tell?
* O base confusion, falsehood, strife,
* Man puts in life!
* Sink, thou life-measurer! — I can say
* "I've lived a day;"
* And memory holds it now in keeping,
* Awake or sleeping.
* Fraser's Magazine.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1663/To the Empress

* TO THE EMPRESS.
* AFTER BEN JONSON'S "QUEEN AND HUNTRESS, CHASTE AND FAIR."
* Queen and empress, — here and there, —
* English pride is laid to sleep,
* Seated in th' imperial chair,
* State in brand-new fashion keep!
* India entreats thy light,
* Empress, excellently bright.
* England, let not thy dull shade
* Dare itself to interpose,
* India's diadem was made
* Queens to cheer as day does close.
* Dazzle, then, with Dizzy's light,
* Empress, excellently bright.
* Lay th' historic crown apart,
* Mindful of thy teeming quiver;
* Give to the grand-duchess' heart
* Joy of pride, how short soever.
* Make of princely darkness light,
* Empress, excellently bright.
* Spectator.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1664/Michael Angelo

* MICHAEL ANGELO.
* His spirit haunts the olive-laden banks,
* The cypressed village-belfry in decay,
* The marble hills whose silvery whiteness flanks
* The vale he loved: all seems the former day
* When he began in art's warm hand to thaw
* The frosted rock, and petrify the beam
* That round his chisel swerved until he saw
* The spirit's beauty o'er the features gleam.
* And yon old sunset, that with rosy dyes
* Fades in the marble hollows, tells anew
* Of Twilight's nodding brows and closing eyes, -
* As when the statue from their depths he drew
* Which now in drowsy marble seems to wait,
* Ere it go down, the waking of the dead, -
* That simmers in half-sleep, as there it sate
* When lifted dozing from its ancient bed.
* There he first listened to the ringing note
* That seemed in harmony with art to breathe
* Out of the marble which the mallet smote,
* As though a siren quickened underneath.
* There he first dreamed how all forms fair below
* In yonder virgin cemetery lay,
* Their beauty crusted over, like the snow
* Eternal with the snow of yesterday.
* He sees the wrestlers, the last gasping throe,
* The pent-up strength, the all-resisting strain;
* Yet, ere the victor strike that vengeful blow,
* The rigid arm he grasps must snap in twain.
* He sees Laocoon climb the serpent-wave
* That plunges o'er him with a tempest's might,
* Hurrying his sons to the engulphing grave
* That whirls them helpless from his suffering sight.
* Dr. Hake.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1664/Sonnet

* SONNET.
* I plucked some rose-leaves from a full-blown flower,
* And came to me this thought, that though bereft
* Of treasures sweet, yet are some rose-leaves left,
* Though but a tithe of our loved former dower.
* And when I passed again, the garden bower
* Was strewn with petals which the faint wind bore
* From off the unpicked stem; a fragrance o'er
* The crimson forms crept slow in death's last hour.
* So, gentle lady, when in beauty's prime
* I heeded not thy excellences rare,
* But fondly thought that all-decaying time
* Could never dim thy lustrous beauty fair,
* Yet death's fell hand, strewing thy early bloom,
* Hath made a heaven of the darkest tomb.
* J. H. J.
* Tinsley's Magazine.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1664

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XIV. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1664. — April 29, 1876. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXIX. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Eton College, | Blackwood's Magazine, | 259 |
| II. | The Dilemma. Part XXV., | Blackwood's Magazine, | 272 |
| III. | Mrs. Thrale (Piozzi): the Friend of Dr. Johnson, | Macmillan's Magazine, | 281 |
| IV. | What She Came Through. By Sarah Tytler, author of "Lady Bell," etc.Part III., | Good Words, | 290 |
| V. | Norman Macleod. By A. K. H. B., | Fraser's Magazine, | 305 |
| VI. | The Norman Kingdom in Sicily, | Quarterly Review, | 312 |
| VII. | A Visit to a Japanese Silver-Mine, | Chambers' Journal, | 318 |
POETRY. :
| A Holiday, | 258 | The Old Mill, | 258 |
| Sonnet, | 258 | Michael Angelo, | 258 |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 319, 320 |
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832/The Princess Victoria

THE PRINCESS ALEXANDRINA-VICTORIA. Artist: Anthony Stewart - Engraved by: Thomas Woolnoth
THE PRINCESS VICTORIA.
And art thou a Princess?—in sooth, we may well Go back to the days of the sign and the spell, When a young queen sat on an ivory throne In a shining hall, whose windows shone With colours its crystals caught from the sky, Or the roof which a thousand rubies dye; Where the summer garden was spread around. With the date and the palm and the cedar crowned; Where fountains played with the rainbow showers, Touched with the hues of their comrade flowers; Where the tulip and rose grew side by side, One like a queen, and one like a bride; One with its own imperial flush, The other reddening with love’s sweet blush; When silver stuffs for her step were unrolled, And the citron was served on a plate of gold; When perfumes arose from pearl caskets filled With odours from all sweet things distilled; When a fairy guarded the throne from ill, And she knew no rule but her own glad will: Those were the days for a youthful queen, And such, fair Princess, thou should’st have been.
But now thou wilt fill a weary throne, What with rights of the people, and rights of thy own: An ear-trumpet now thy sceptre should be, Eternal debate is the future for thee. Lord Brougham will make a six-hours' oration, On the progress of knowledge, the mind of the nation; Lord Grey one yet longer, to state that his place Is perhaps less dear to himself than his race; O’Connell will tell Ireland’s griefs and her wrongs, In speech, the mac-adamized prose of Moore's songs: Good patience! how weary the young queen will be Of "the flower of the earth, and the gem of the sea!" Mr. Hume, with his watchwords 'Retrenchment and Waste', Will insist that your wardrobe in his care be placed; The silk he will save! the blonde he will spare— I wish he may leave Your Grace any to wear, That feminine fancy, a will of your own, Is a luxury wholly denied to a throne; And this is your future—how soon time will trace A change and a sign on that fair and young face! Methinks the best wish to be offered thee now, Is—God keep the crown long from that innocent brow!
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832/The Valley of Rocks

73
* THE VALLEY OF ROCKS, NEAR LINTON, DEVONSHIRE.
* Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: J. Lowry
THE VALLEY OF ROCKS,
NEAR LINTON, DEVONSHIRE.
This valley is bounded by huge naked rocks, piled one upon the other, and resembling extensive ruins: vast fragments overspread the ground, and exhibit on every side awful vestiges of convulsion and desolation.
Summer, thou hast lost thy power; Nor thy sunshine, nor thy shower, Can, from out the stubborn earth, Call the beautiful to birth! Never springs the green grass here,  Filled with insects, and with flowers, Musical and fragrant life,  Making glad the passing hours;
Groweth not one ancient tree Here; the eye can only see Broken mass of cold gray stone; Never yet was place so lone! Yet the heart hath many a mood That would seek such solitude, When the summer earth and sky Mock those who but pine to die. Wherefore should the flowers be bright, When they yield us no delight? What avails the gladsome spring! Misery is a selfish thing; And the wretched one would fain That all nature shared his pain. Then, the piled and riven rock,  Of earth's agony the sign, And the lone and barren place,  Seem like sorrow's fitting shrine. Gloomy vale! if thou couldst be Haunt for human misery, Half our life were spent with thee.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832/The Taj-Mahal, at Agra

27
* TÂJ MAHAL, AGRA.
* Artist: S. Prout - Engraved by: Robt. Wallis
THE TAJ-MAHAL, AT AGRA.
THE TOMB OF MUNTAZA ZEMANI.
"Aye, build it on these banks," the monarch said, "That when the autumn winds have swept the sea, They may come hither with their falling rains, A voice of mighty weeping o'er her grave."
They brought the purest marble that the earth E'er treasured from the sun, and ivory Was never yet more delicately carved: Then cupolas were raised, and minarets, And flights of lofty steps, and one vast dome Rose till it met the clouds: richly inlaid With red and black, this palace of the dead Exhausted wealth and skill. Around its walls The cypresses like funeral columns stood, And lamps perpetual burnt beside the tomb. And yet the emperor felt it was in vain, A desolate magnificence that mocked The lost one, and the loved, which it enshrined.
Muntaza Zemani was the wife of Shah Jehan, emperor of Hindostan. The magnificent mausoleum, which it was some consolation to erect, was one of the many human vanities that mock their founders. Shah Jehan past from a prison to his gorgeous tomb. For the last eight years of his life he was confined in the fort of Agra, by his son, Aurungzebe. An Italian artist, who saw this most exquisite specimen of Mahommedan architecture, regretted there was not a glass-case to cover it. The pure whiteness of the marble is powerfully contrasted to the dark green of its avenue of cypresses.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832/The Vale of Lonsdale

See River Lune. In the background is Ingleborough.
41
* THE VALE OF LONSDALE.
* Artist: J. Henderson - Engraved by: W. LePetit
THE VALE OF LONSDALE,
LANCASHIRE.
I could not dwell here, it is all too fair, Too sunny, too luxuriant; those green fields, With the rich shadows of their old oak trees, Or the more graceful sweep of the light ash; Fields where the skylark builds amid the grass, Trees where the thrush's nest is on the boughs; Those human dwellings, looking peace at least, In gardens, with their growth of cultured flowers; The quiet winding of that tideless stream, Whose very movement is repose, whose waves Are rarely stirred save by the falling rain, Which comes when sunshine asks relief from showers; I could not dwell here, it is far too fair, For my heart feels the contrast all too much, Between the placid scene, and its unrest.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832/Tiger Island

18
* TIGER ISLAND.
* Artist: C. Stanfield - Engraved by: Edward Goodall
THE PIRATE'S SONG OFF THE TIGER ISLAND
Our prize is won, our chase is o’er, Turn the vessel to the shore. Place yon rock, so that the wind, Like a prisoner, howl behind; Which is darkest—wave, or cloud? One a grave, and one a shroud. Though the thunder rend the sky, Though the echoing wind reply, Though the lightning sweep the seas, We are used to nights like these; Let it foam, the angry main— Washing out the blood-red stain, Which the evening conflict threw O’er the waters bright and blue. Though above the thunder break, 'Twill but drown our victims’ shriek; And the lightning’s serpent coil, Will but glimmer o’er our spoil: Maidens, in whose orient eyes, More than morning’s sunshine lies— Honour to the wind and waves, While they yield us such sweet slaves— Shawls the richest of Cashmere, Pearls from Oman’s bay are here; And Golconda’s royal mine Sends her diamonds here to shine; Let the stars at midnight glow, We have brighter stars below; Leave the planet of the pole Just to guide us to our goal, We’d not change for heaven's own stars, Yon glad heap of red dinars; *
See the crimson silks unfold, And the slender chains of gold, Like the glittering curls descending, When the bright one’s head is bending; And the radiant locks fall over, Or her mirror or her lover, On which face she likes to dwell, ’Twere a prophet’s task to tell; All those crystal flasks enclose Sighs of the imprisoned rose; And those porcelain urns are filled By sweet Indian wood distilled; And behold those fragrant piles, Spice from the Manilla isles, Nutmegs, cloves, and cinnamon— But our glorious task is done. Little dreamed the merchant’s care Who his precious freight should share— Fill the wine-cup to the brim, Our first health shall be to him.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832/The Palace of Seven Stories

12
* PALACE OF THE SEVEN STORIES, - BEEJAPORE.
* Artist: W. Turner - Engraved by: W. Finden
THE PALACE OF THE SEVEN STORIES.
The past it is a fearful thing, With an eagle’s sweep, and a tiger's spring. Here was a palace, the dwelling of kings, Now to its turrets the creeping plant clings.
The past it is a mighty grave; What remains for the present to save? A few sad thoughts, a few brief words, These are the richest of memory's hoards.
Where temples stood, the tamarinds grow; Broken columns are mouldering below. No steps are heard in the ruined hall. Such is man’s pride, and such is its fall.
The Seven-storied Palace is a ruin of great beauty. Captain Sykes states, "that it must have been a splendid building; the remains of carved work and gilding indicate that no expense or art was spared." Bejapore is one of the most picturesque cities in Hindostan. Immense tamarind trees spread their rich foliage over the magnificent remains of mosques and mausoleums, or partially cover some finely broken palace or beautiful tank. Tradition records a characteristic anecdote of the building of the palace. "The inhabitants of a small village called Kejgunally, complaining of the injury they were exposed to, from the works in progress, the king, with a whimsical affectation of justice, surrounded them with a high wall. The village, in the course of time, disappeared; but the wall remains, and is pointed out as a proof of the severe justice of the king, who chose rather to comply with the literal wish of the inhabitants, of being protected from injury, than remove them by force to a more desirable spot."
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832/The Upper Lake of Killarney, Ireland

21
* THE UPPER LAKE OF KILLARNEY, IRELAND.
* TAKEN NEAR THE TUNNEL, ON THE KENMARE ROAD, CARRAN TUAL IN THE DISTANCE
* Artist: W. H. Bartlett - Engraved by: LePetit
THE UPPER LAKE OF KILLARNEY.
Why doth the maiden turn away  From voice so sweet, and words so dear? Why doth the maiden turn away  When love and flattery woo her ear? And rarely that enchanted twain Whisper in woman's ear in vain.  Why doth the maiden leave the hall?  No face is fair as hers is fair,  No step has such a fairy fall,  No azure eyes like hers are there.
The maiden seeks her lonely bower,  Although her father's guests are met; She knows it is the midnight hour,  She knows the first pale star is set, And now the silver moon-beams wake The spirits of the haunted Lake.  The waves take rainbow hues, and now  The shining train are gliding by,  Their chieftain lifts his glorious brow,  The maiden meets his lingering eye.
The glittering shapes melt into night;  Another look, their chief is gone, And chill and gray comes morning's light,  And clear and cold the Lake flows on; Close, close the casement, not for sleep, Over such visions eyes but weep.  How many share such destiny,  How many, lured by fancy's beam,  Ask the impossible to be,  And pine, the victims of a dream.
The romantic story of Kate Kearney, "who dwelt by the shore of Killarney," is too well known to need repetition. She is said to have cherished a visionary passion for O'Donoghue, an enchanted chieftain who haunts those beautiful Lakes, and to have died the victim "of folly, of love, and of madness."
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832/The Jumma Musjid.—The Principal Mosque at Agra

see under Jama Mosque, Agra
63
* JUMMA MUSJID, - AGRA.
* Artist: W. Purser - Engraved by: T. Boys
THE JUMMA MUSJID.—THE PRINCIPAL MOSQUE AT AGRA.
Yon mosque alone remains to tell,  How glorious once did Agra rise, When gilded roof and pinnacle  Met morning half-way in the skies.
Two mighty empires load the plain,  With palace, mosque, and tomb, and tower: Out on the works man rears in vain!  Out on the vanity of power!
A conqueror poured forth wealth and blood,  And dome and temple rose sublime;— Now, what remains where Agra stood,  But dust and ruins, Death and Time!
* Captain Elliot says, "that a single century, or even a shorter space of time, is sufficient to reduce the streets and bazaars of an Indian city to a level with the earth from whence they rose, and to become almost as if they had never been; while the larger mosques and tombs remain with little deterioration, and stand as melancholy monuments of the earlier splendour and prosperity of the Eastern capitals." "The city of Agra was greatly embellished by the Emperor Akbar, and it certainly contains some of the most beautiful remains of architecture that are to be found in India, where the face of a vast country is covered with the ruins of two great empires." "Some of the tombs have been converted into dwelling-houses by the English inhabitants."
It was remarked by Bishop Heber, that "Vanity of vanities was surely never written in more legible characters than on the dilapidated arcades of Delhi." He might have said the same of Agra.