OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Royal Naval Biography/Maxwell, John

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JOHN MAXWELL, Esq. [Post-Captain of 1810.]
Brother to Captain Sir Murray Maxwell, C.B., whose services we already have recorded.
This officer was made a Lieutenant about May 1800; and advanced to the rank of Commander, Jan. 22, 1806.
​On the 16th July, 1808, Captain John Maxwell, then commanding the Royalist, a brig of the largest class, captured the Danish schooner privateer Aristides, of 6 guns and 41 men. At the time he fell in with this vessel she was engaging an English packet, which must have been taken had not the Royalist come to her assistance. Between May 1, 1809, and Feb. 24, 1810, he reported the capture of five French privateers, viz. – la Princesse of 16 guns and 50 men; le Grand Napoleon, 18 guns, 75 men; l’Heureuse Etoile, 2 guns, 15 men; le Françoise, 14 guns, 60 men; and the Prince Eugene, 14 guns, 55 men. His post commission bears date June 15, 1810.
Captain Maxwell’s next appointment was, April 27, 1812, to the Favorite of 20 guns, in which ship he visited all the British settlements on the coast of Africa, destroyed several slave factories on the Rio Pongus, and captured four Portuguese ships, which he found employed in that cruel traffic. After the peace with France, in 1814, Captain Maxwell was appointed to the Barrosa of 42 guns; and in Feb. 1825, he received a commission for the Aurora 46, on board which frigate he died, when about to proceed from Plymouth to Bermuda and the West Indies, May 31, 1826.
# Royal Naval Biography/Maxwell, John Balfour

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JOHN BALFOUR MAXWELL, Esq. [Commander.]
Entered the royal navy in 1812; and served as midshipman on board the Alceste frigate, Captain (afterwards Sir Murray) Maxwell, during Lord Amherst’s embassy to China, in 1816–7. He was made a lieutenant on the 6th April, 1820; appointed to the Briton frigate, commanded by Sir Murray Maxwell, Nov. 30th, 1822; and promoted to the command of the Chanticleer sloop, April 28th, 1827. His last appointment was, June 6th, 1833, to the Gannet sloop, on the Jamaica station, from whence he returned home in Feb. 1834.
# Royal Naval Biography/Maynard, Thomas

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THOMAS MAYNARD, Esq. [Commander.]
Was made a lieutenant in 1796, and commander on the 12th Jan. 1805.
# Royal Naval Biography/Meade, John

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JOHN MEADE, Esq. [Commander.]
Was made a lieutenant on the 19th April, 1803, and commander, Nov. 4th, 1812.
# Six Months at the White House/IX

IX.
I have thus revealed, step by step, the mental process by which the picture of which I write came into being. Whether the story bears any analogy to that by which the works of others have been produced, or the composition conforms to established rules and precedents in art or not, is to me a matter of indifference. I was true to my intuitions, and endeavored to adhere as faithfully as practicable to the facts.
It is not my purpose to follow in detail the progress, thenceforward, of the work. As the thread upon which are strung my memories of the late President, allusions to it will be unavoidable throughout these pages; but hereafter I intend that they shall be subordinate and incidental to matters of more general interest. It is not too much to say that the enthusiasm in which the work was conceived, flagged not to the end. The days were too short for labor upon it. Lighting at nightfall the great chandelier of the state dining-room, which was finally assigned me for a studio instead of the library, where the windows were shaded by the portico, the morning light frequently broke in upon me still standing pencil or palette in hand, before the immense canvas, unable to break the spell which bound me to it.
# Six Months at the White House/II

II.
That Art should aim to embody and express the spirit and best thought of its own age seems self-evident. If it fails to do this, whatever else it may accomplish, it falls short of its highest object. It cannot dwell always among classic forms, nor clothe its conceptions in the imagery of an old and worn-out world. It must move on, if it is to keep pace ​with that "increasing purpose which through the ages runs," and its ideals must be wrought out of the strife of a living humanity.
It has been well said by a recent writer: "The record of the human family to the advent of Christ, was the preparation of the photographic plate for its image. All subsequent history is the bringing out of the divine ideal of true manhood." Slowly, but surely, through the centuries, is this purpose being accomplished. Human slavery has been the material type or expression of spiritual bondage. On the lowest or physical plane, it has symbolized the captivity and degradation of our higher nature; with the breaking in of new light, and the inspiration of a deeper life, it is inevitably doomed. That man, to attain the full development of the faculties implanted in him, must be in spiritual and physical freedom, is a principle which lies at the foundation of all government; and the enfranchisement of a race to-day thus becomes the assertion and promise of a true and coming Emancipation for all men.
# Six Months at the White House/III

III.
When Abraham Lincoln, called from the humblest rank in life to preside over the nation during the most momentous period of its history, uttered his Proclamation of Freedom,—shattering forever the chains which bound four millions of human beings in slavery; an act unparalleled for moral ​grandeur in the history of mankind,—it was evident to all who sought beneath the surface for the cause of the war that the crisis was past,—that so surely as Heaven is on the side of Right and Justice, the North would triumph in the great struggle which had assumed the form of a direct issue between Freedom and Slavery.
In common with many others, I had from the beginning of the war believed that the government would not be successful in putting down a rebellion based upon slavery as its avowed corner-stone, without striking a death-blow at the institution itself. As the months went on, and disappointment and disaster succeeded one another, this conviction deepened into certainty. When at length, in obedience to what seemed the very voice of God, the thunderbolt was launched, and, like the first gun at Concord, "was heard around the world," all the enthusiasm of my nature was kindled. The "beast" Secession, offspring of the "dragon" Slavery, drawing in his train a third part of our national stars, was pierced with the deadly wound which could not be healed. It was the combat between Michael and Satan of Apocalyptic vision, reenacted before the eyes of the nineteenth century.
# Six Months at the White House/LIV

LIV.
At a private dinner-party at Willard's Hotel, given by Charles Gould, Esq., of New York, I met for the first time the Hon. Hugh McCulloch, then Comptroller of the Currency. An acquaintance commenced, under circumstances calculated to inspire in me a sentiment of profound respect for this gentleman's character and talents. I was much interested, a few days afterward, in an ​incident in the career of Mr. McCulloch, given me by the Rev. John Pierpont, who was an occasional visitor at the studio, and who, in his hale old age, was occupying one of the subordinate positions in the Department.
The desk at which Dr. Pierpont was occupied was in a room with those of a large number of other clerks, among whom the tall figure and silvery beard of the poet-preacher were very conspicuous. One day, just after Mr. McCulloch had entered upon his duties in Washington, it was announced at the entrance of this room, that the new Comptroller had called to see "Dr. Pierpont." The clerks looked up from their books, and at one another, inquiringly, as Mr. McCulloch took a seat by the poet's desk. "I perceive, Dr. Pierpont," said he, "that you do not remember me?" The venerable preacher looked at him a moment, and replied that he did not think he ever had seen him before. "Oh yes, you have," returned the Comptroller; "I was a member of ——— Class, in Cambridge, in 1833 and '34, and used to hear you preach. Upon leaving the Law School, purposing to take up my residence at the West, I called upon you and requested one or two letters of introduction to parties in Cincinnati. You gave me two letters, one to a Mr. S———, and the other to a Mr. G———, of that city. Those letters, my dear sir, were the stepping-stones to my fortune. I have not seen you since; but learning that you were in ​Washington, I told my wife, upon leaving home to take the position offered me here, that the first call I made in Washington should be upon the Rev. John Pierpont." As the Comptroller concluded, Dr. Pierpont put on his spectacles, and looked at him a moment in silence. He at length said:—"Why, Mr. McCulloch, you are the most extraordinary man I ever saw in my life!" "How so?" was the reply. "Why, you have remembered a favor for thirty years."
Dr. Pierpont told me, on another occasion, that in the prosecution of a duty once assigned him in the Department, he had to review a letter-book, containing correspondence with the different officers of the government. Among the letters was a private note, written by Secretary Chase to the Secretary of War, calling his attention to a complaint, made by the colored people of Cincinnati, against certain orders, or officers of the War Department. The letter closed with these words:—
"We cannot afford to lose the support of any part of our people. One poor man, colored though he be, with God on his side, is stronger against us than the hosts of the rebellion."
# Six Months at the White House/I

I.
I leave to other and abler pens the proper estimate of Abraham Lincoln as a ruler and statesman,—his work and place in history. Favored during the year 1864 with several months of personal intercourse with him, I shall attempt in these pages to write the story of that association; not for any value which the record will have in itself, but for the glimpses it may afford of the person and character of the man,—every detail of whose life is now invested with enduring interest for the American people.
# Religious Technology Center v. Scott

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Religious Technology Center v. Scott."
* 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.
* Religious Technology Center v. Scott (1989)
* Religious Technology Center v. Scott (1996)
# Relocating Bakhtin/Acknowledgements

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am grateful to the following fellow travellers for their constant encouragement and support to my writing project on Bakhtin: Amitabha Gupta and Anjan Sen, the champions of transcendent modernity in Bengali poetry, Animesh Bhattacharjee, Ranabir Purkayastha and specially my pupils in the Bengali department of Assam University and all my co-beings in DWIRALAP Silchar.
And, of course, to Swapna Bhattacharjee, my wife, wihout whom no project is ever possible.
# Santa Fe Pacific Company v. Work

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
267 U.S. 511
Santa Fe Pacific Company v. Work
Argued: March 18, 19, 1925. --- Decided: April 13, 1925
Messrs. Francis W. Clements and Alex Britton, both of Washington, D. C., for appellant.
[Argument of Counsel from page 512 intentionally omitted]
Mr. Harry L. Underwood, of Washington, D. C., for appellee.
Mr. Chief Justice TAFT delivered the opinion of the Court.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Santa Fe Pacific Company v. Payne

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
259 U.S. 197
Santa Fe Pacific Company v. Payne
Argued: January 24, 1922. --- Decided: May 29, 1922
Mr. Francis W. Clements, of Washington, D. C., for appellant.
Mr. Assistant Attorney General Riter, for appellee.
Mr. Justice HOLMES delivered the opinion of the Court.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Resurrection Rock (1920)

RESURRECTION ROCK
By William MacHarg and Edwin Balmer
The Blind Man's Eyes The Indian Drum
"What is it?" she cried to him, suddenly shaken. Frontispiece. See page 51.
CONTENTS
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1959, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 64 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Resurrection Rock (1920)/Advertisements

By the authors of "The Indian Drum"
By WILLIAM MacHARG and Edwin Balmer
Illustrations by Wilson C. Dexter. 12mo. Cloth. $1.90 net.
For mystery, unqualified, absorbing mystery, let me commend "The Blind Man's Eyes." Here you go galloping along page after page, hand in hand with the most baffling situations, prying with all your wits to get at the bottom of them, but in vain, until in mercy the joint authors take you into their confidence in the last three chapters. It is easy to say that the book is going to be a big sale, and it is worth it, for it is immense entertainment and well constructed.—St. Louis Republic.
"The Blind Man's Eyes" is as nearly perfect a detective story as may be imagined in so far as a well-joined and baffling, but logically developed plot is concerned. No matter how astute the reader may be, it is scarcely possible he will anticipate the solution.—Los Angeles Times.
As for the mystery itself—that is for the reader to pluck out of the book's heart—and very likely at one reading, so engrossing is the tale.—Philadelphia North American.
LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Publishers
34 Beacon Street, Boston
By the authors of "The Blind Man's Eyes"
By WILLIAM MacHARG and Edwin Balmer
Frontispiece by W. T. Benda. 12mo. Cloth. $1.90 net.
Advocates and partisans of "real American fiction" should be pleased with this work, since it is purely American in scene, in characters and in motive.—New York Tribune.
It is good fiction covering a novel and interesting phase of American life.—Philadelphia North American.
The literary style of the book is excellent, and it contains much more than a mere tale. There are vivid pictures of Chicago, but the spirit of the Lakes is predominant.—New York World.
One of the very best stories of mystery that we have seen in a long time is "The Indian Drum" by William MacHarg and Edwin Balmer.—Detroit Saturday Night.
LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Publishers
34 Beacon Street, Boston
# Rhymes of a Rolling Stone/Heart O' the North

Heart o’ the North
And when I come to the dim trail-end,  I who have been Life’s rover, This is all I would ask, my friend,  Over and over and over:
A little space on a stony hill  With never another near me, Sky o’ the North that’s vast and still,  With a single star to cheer me;
Star that gleams on a moss-grey stone  Graven by those who love me — There would I lie alone, alone,  With a single pine above me;
Pine that the north wind whinneys through —  Oh, I have been Life’s lover! But there I’d lie and listen to  Eternity passing over.
# Rhymes of a Rolling Stone/Just Think!

Just Think!
Just think! some night the stars will gleam  Upon a cold, grey stone, And trace a name with silver beam,  And lo! ’twill be your own.
That night is speeding on to greet  Your epitaphic rhyme. Your life is but a little beat  Within the heart of Time.
A little gain, a little pain,  A laugh, lest you may moan; A little blame, a little fame,  A star-gleam on a stone.
# Rhymes of a Rolling Stone/Little Moccasins

Little Moccasins
Come out, O Little Moccasins, and frolic on the snow! Come out, O tiny beaded feet, and twinkle in the light! I’ll play the old Red River reel, you used to love it so: Awake, O Little Moccasins, and dance for me to-night!
Your hair was all a gleamy gold, your eyes a corn-flower blue; Your cheeks were pink as tinted shells, you stepped light as a fawn; Your mouth was like a coral bud, with seed pearls peeping through; As gladdening as Spring you were, as radiant as dawn.
Come out, O Little Moccasins! I’ll play so soft and low, The songs you loved, the old heart-songs that in my mem’ry ring; O child, I want to hear you now beside the campfire glow! With all your heart a-throbbing in the simple words you sing.
For there was only you and I, and you were all to me; And round us were the barren lands, but little did we fear; Of all God’s happy, happy folks the happiest were we.... (Oh, call her, poor old fiddle mine, and maybe she will hear!)
Your mother was a half-breed Cree, but you were white all through; And I, your father was — but well, that’s neither here nor there; I only know, my little Queen, that all my world was you, And now that world can end to-night, and I will never care.
For there’s a tiny wooden cross that pricks up through the snow: (Poor Little Moccasins! you’re tired, and so you lie at rest.) And there’s a grey-haired, weary man beside the campfire glow: (O fiddle mine! the tears to-night are drumming on your breast.)
# Rhymes of a Rolling Stone/Her Letter

Her Letter
“I’m taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me; My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow, And even with my glasses on I’m troubled sore to see.... You’d little know your mother, boy; you’d little, little know. You mind how brisk and bright I was, how straight and trim and smart; ’Tis weariful I am the now, and bent and frail and grey. I’m waiting at the road’s end, lad; and all that’s in my heart, Is just to see my boy again before I’m called away.”
“Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea; ’Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I. You said that you’d be home again in two years, maybe three; But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by. I know it’s cruel hard for you, you’ve bairnies of your own; I know the siller’s hard to win, and folks have used you ill: But oh, think of your mother, lad, that’s waiting by her lone! And even if you canna come — just write and say you will.”
“Aye, even though there’s little hope, just promise that you’ll try. It’s weary, weary waiting, lad; just say you’ll come next year. I’m thinking there will be no ‘next’; I’m thinking soon I’ll lie With all the ones I’ve laid away... but oh, the hope will cheer! You know you’re all that’s left to me, and we are seas apart; But if you’ll only say you’ll come, then will I hope and pray. I’m waiting by the grave-side, lad; and all that’s in my heart Is just to see my boy again before I’m called away.”
# Rhymes of a Rolling Stone/Home and Love

Home and Love
Just Home and Love! the words are small Four little letters unto each; And yet you will not find in all The wide and gracious range of speech Two more so tenderly complete: When angels talk in Heaven above, I’m sure they have no words more sweet  Than Home and Love.
Just Home and Love! it’s hard to guess Which of the two were best to gain; Home without Love is bitterness; Love without Home is often pain. No! each alone will seldom do; Somehow they travel hand and glove: If you win one you must have two,  Both Home and Love.
And if you’ve both, well then I’m sure You ought to sing the whole day long; It doesn’t matter if you’re poor With these to make divine your song. And so I praisefully repeat, When angels talk in Heaven above, There are no words more simply sweet  Than Home and Love.
# Rhymes of a Rolling Stone/I'm Scared of It All

I’m Scared of it All
I’m scared of it all, God’s truth! so I am; It’s too big and brutal for me. My nerve’s on the raw and I don’t give a damn For all the “hoorah” that I see. I’m pinned between subway and overhead train, Where automobillies swoop down: Oh, I want to go back to the timber again — I’m scared of the terrible town.
I want to go back to my lean, ashen plains; My rivers that flash into foam; My ultimate valleys where solitude reigns; My trail from Fort Churchill to Nome. My forests packed full of mysterious gloom, My ice-fields agrind and aglare: The city is deadfalled with danger and doom — I know that I’m safer up there.
I watch the wan faces that flash in the street; All kinds and all classes I see. Yet never a one in the million I meet, Has the smile of a comrade for me. Just jaded and panting like dogs in a pack; Just tensed and intent on the goal: O God! but I’m lonesome — I wish I was back, Up there in the land of the Pole.
I wish I was back on the Hunger Plateaus, And seeking the lost caribou; I wish I was up where the Coppermine flows To the kick of my little canoe. I’d like to be far on some weariful shore, In the Land of the Blizzard and Bear; Oh, I wish I was snug in the Arctic once more, For I know I am safer up there!
I prowl in the canyons of dismal unrest; I cringe — I’m so weak and so small. I can’t get my bearings, I’m crushed and oppressed With the haste and the waste of it all. The slaves and the madman, the lust and the sweat, The fear in the faces I see; The getting, the spending, the fever, the fret — It’s too bleeding cruel for me.
I feel it’s all wrong, but I can’t tell you why — The palace, the hovel next door; The insolent towers that sprawl to the sky, The crush and the rush and the roar. I’m trapped like a fox and I fear for my pelt; I cower in the crash and the glare; Oh, I want to be back in the avalanche belt, For I know that it’s safer up there!
I’m scared of it all: Oh, afar I can hear The voice of my solitudes call! We’re nothing but brute with a little veneer, And nature is best after all. There’s tumult and terror abroad in the street; There’s menace and doom in the air; I’ve got to get back to my thousand-mile beat; The trail where the cougar and silver-tip meet; The snows and the camp-fire, with wolves at my feet; Good-bye, for it’s safer up there.
To be forming good habits up there; To be starving on rabbits up there; In your hunger and woe, Though it’s sixty below, Oh, I know that it’s safer up there!
# Rhymes of a Rolling Stone/Prelude

Prelude
I sing no idle songs of dalliance days, No dreams Elysian inspire my rhyming; I have no Celia to enchant my lays, No pipes of Pan have set my heart to chiming. I am no wordsmith dripping gems divine Into the golden chalice of a sonnet; If love songs witch you, close this book of mine,  Waste no time on it.
Yet bring I to my work an eager joy, A lusty love of life and all things human; Still in me leaps the wonder of the boy, A pride in man, a deathless faith in woman. Still red blood calls, still rings the valiant fray; Adventure beacons through the summer gloaming: Oh long and long and long will be the day  Ere I come homing!
This earth is ours to love: lute, brush and pen, They are but tongues to tell of life sincerely; The thaumaturgic Day, the might of men, O God of Scribes, grant us to grave them clearly! Grant heart that homes in heart, then all is well. Honey is honey-sweet, howe’er the hiving. Each to his work, his wage at evening bell  The strength of striving.