OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1639/Snowdrops

* SNOWDROPS.
* O snowdrops, do not rise,
* Because the happy eyes
* That loved you once, now underneath you lie;
* Let not your buds appear,
* Each seems a frozen tear,
* That never drops, and yet is never dry.
* Such useless tears they seem.
* As in a heavy dream,
* We pour about our griefs to make them grow;
* When all the lights are pale,
* And all the cruses fail.
* And all the flowers are underneath the snow.
* M. B. Smedley.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1639/The Poet's Last Song

* THE POET'S LAST SONG.
* FROM THE DANISH OF HANS ANDERSEN.
* Like to the leaf which falleth from the tree,
* O God, such only is my earthly life.
* Lord, I am ready when Thou callest me.
* Lo! Thou canst see my heart's most bitter strife —
* 'Tis Thou alone canst know the load of sin.
* Which this my aching breast doth hold within.
* Shorten the pains of death, shake off my fear,
* Give me the courage of a trusting child.
* Father of Love, I fain would see Thee near.
* In pity judge each thought and act defiled —
* Mercy, I cry! dear Lord, Thy will be done,
* Save me I pray, through Jesus Christ Thy Son.
* A.W.
* Temple Bar.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1639/When Roses Blow

* WHEN ROSES BLOW.
* It was the time when roses blow,
* The sweetest time in all the year;
* 'Twas when the sun was red and low,
* And when the skies were warm and clear.
* I met a maiden by the gate
* That led into a field of corn;
* To see her I was proud to wait.
* For fairer girl was never born.
* I saw a blush upon each cheek,
* A bashful gleam was in her eye;
* I'd yearned to see her, hear her speak,
* Soon as the day began to die.
* For love its secret longs to hide
* Beneath green leaves when day's no more
* And when its faltering words have died,
* It turns its idol to adore.
* We lingered long beside the gate.
* And all our love was slowly told —
* Until the happy hours grew late
* And stars appeared like drops of gold.
* Rare odours seemed with us to stay,
* Faint music reached us from a rill;
* We loved the night more than the day.
* So lone, so beautiful, and still!
* Night is the time for love to spring
* Beneath a blue and star-lit sky;
* When every zephyr seems to ring
* With music as it wantons by.
* Then hearts in union gladly beat.
* And eyes with rarest brightness glow;
* For there's no other time so sweet
* For love, as that when roses blow!
* H.
* Graphic.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1640

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XII. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1640. — November 13, 1875. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXVII. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | The Atomic Theory of Lucretius Contrasted with Modern Theories of Atoms, the Constitution of Matter, and the Origination of Life, | British Quarterly Review, | 387 |
| II. | The Dilemma. Part XII. | Blackwood's Magazine, | 407 |
| III. | A Schoolmaster of the Renaissance. Vittorino da Feltre, | Macmillan's Magazine, | 416 |
| IV. | The Curate in Charge. By Mrs. Oliphant, | Macmillan's Magazine, | 425 |
| V. | Two Danes, | Temple Bar, | 431 |
| VI. | Lauzun, | Temple Bar, | 438 |
| VII. | Naturalness of Character, | Saturday Review, | 442 |
| VIII. | Philip Stanhope, | Athenæum, | 445 |
POETRY. :
| Between the Lights, | 386 | Song, | 386 |
| A Buried Love, | 386 | The Prayer of the Swine to Circe, | 447 |
| Forget-me-not, | 386 | | |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 448 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1640/A Buried Love

* A BURIED LOVE.
* Our love was born amid the purple heather,
* When winds were still, and vesper lights were red;
* For one bright year we cherished it together;
* Now, it lies cold and dead.
* Dead; and across the brown hill-ridges, wailing,
* Comes the wild autumn in her swift return.
* With sullen tears, and misty garments trailing
* Over the faded fern.
* Ah, there may come a time — God send it quickly —
* When love's lone grave shall wear a fragrant wreath
* Of blooms, and velvet mosses, piling thickly
* Upon the dust beneath.
* And we, across the heather slow returning,
* May seek, perchance, this sacred mound of ours;
* Seek it, unvexed by any foolish yearning,
* And find it lost in flowers.
* Sarah Doudney.
* Good Words.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1639/Miscellany

Nature.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1640/Forget-me-not

* FORGET-ME-NOT.
* I am the flower that every age has sung.
* My name has trembled on the unwilling tongue;
* Midst sad farewells how mournfully has rung
* Forget-me-not!
* I image best the heaven's eternal blue!
* Though transient clouds may hide it from the view,
* It shineth still, faith's never-changing hue,
* Forget-me-not.
* The restless brook, the river's deeper flow.
* Beside my quiet home still come and go;
* I kiss the waters, murmuring soft and low,
* Forget-me-not.
* The birds above me hovering on the wing,
* List the hushed whisper, and the woodlands ring
* With the light choral as they answering sing,
* Forget-me-not.
* The laughing eddies hastening to the sea
* With rippling echoes mock the symphony.
* The rude winds toss it on their pinions free,
* Forget-me-not.
* And human voices catch the sweet refrain.
* In loving accents fraught with human pain,
* Repeating still the never-dying strain,
* Forget-me-not.
* Isabella M. Mortimer.
* Golden Hours.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1640/Miscellany

​Bottled Light. — Countless accidents, as every one knows, arise from the use of matches. To obtain light without employing them, and so without the danger of setting things on fire, an ingenious contrivance is now used by the watchmen of Paris in all magazines where explosive or inflammable materials are kept. Any one may easily make trial of it. Take an oblong phial of the whitest and clearest glass, and put into it a piece of phosphorus about the size of a pea. Pour some olive oil, heated to the boiling point, upon the phosphorus: fill the phial about one-third full and then cork it tightly. To use this novel light, remove the cork, allow the air to enter the phial, and then recork it. The empty space in the phial will become luminous, and the light obtained will be equal to that of a lamp. When the light grows dim, its power can be increased by taking out the cork, and allowing a fresh supply of air to enter the phial. In winter it is sometimes necessary to heat the phial between the hands in order to increase the fluidity of the oil. The apparatus, thus prepared, may be used for six months.
Cassell's Magazine.
An oriental museum has been lately opened at Vienna, which is very curious and complete. It consists of fourteen rooms assigned to China, Japan, Egypt, Persia, Turkey, Tunis, and Morocco. A well-known orientalist, Baron Hoffmann, is at the head of this new establishment.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 96

To MISS RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, March 22, 1834.
With all my heart I congratulate you on being in possession of your cottage. Harriet Butler told us how happy the people of Black Castle and Navan were, when they heard you were coming to live amongst them again. You are now as busy as possible arranging your things and considering how all and each of your friends will like what you do, and I am—very conceited—sure that you often think of Maria among the number, and that you have even already thought of a footstool for her. Emmeline has, by the bye, invented and executed, and given to my mother, the most ingenious footstool I ever saw, which folds up and can be put into a work-bag. She has also sent the nicest most agreeable presents to the little Foxes—a kaleidoscope, a little watering-pot, and a pair of little tin scales with weights; they set about directly weighing everything that could be put into them, ending with sugar-plums and sugar-candy.
We have been much amused with The Kuzzilbash and by Bubbles from the Brunnen, by Captain Head.

## Footnotes

* ↑ Dunmoe Cottage, at the end of the Black Castle demesne, about two miles from the house.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 90

To MR. BANNATYNE.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Nov. 12, 1832.
The death of Sir Walter Scott has filled us all, as his private friends and admirers, with sorrow. I do not mean that we could have wished the prolongation of his life such as it had been for the last months; quite the contrary: but we feel poignant anguish from the thought that such a life as his was prematurely shortened—that such faculties, such a genius, such as is granted but once in an age, once in many ages, should have been extinguished of its light, of its power to enlighten and vivify the world, long before its natural term for setting! Whatever the errors may have been, oh, what have been the unremitted, generous, alas! overstrained exertions of that noble nature!
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 97

To MISS RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, July 29, 1834.
I cannot, my dear Lady of Dunmoe, tell when I can be with you; go I will before autumn runs away with all your leaves, but I am afraid I must let autumn turn them of a sober hue, though I will not let it go to the sear and yellow. In plain prose I am tied down now by rents and business.
We have been dining at Mrs. Blackall's, and there met her pretty sister, Mrs. Johnstone, and very intelligent Captain Johnstone, a Berkshire man from near Hare Hatch, and had a very agreeable day, and much conversation on books and authors, and found that the Diary of an Ennuyée and Female Characters of Shakespeare, both very clever books, are by a lady who was governess to Mrs. Blackall and her sisters. Mrs. Rolle, her mother, read the Diary of an Ennuyée, and wondered when she saw "Mr. and Mrs. R.," and all the places and people they had seen abroad, till she came to the name of Laura, and some lines to her by which she discovered that the author must be their former governess, Miss Murphy, now married to a very clever lawyer. All the woes and heart-breakings are mere fable in the Diary. Her last book, Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad, I like; there is a great deal of thought and feeling in it. *** Miss Edgeworth's Helen would never have been finished but for the encouragement shown by her sister Harriet, and her interest in the story. It is more of a "novel" than any of its predecessors, has more imagination, and its interest centres more around one person. Its object is to show how many of the troubles of social life arise from want of absolute truthfulness. Its principle is depicted in the explanation of one of its characters: "I wish that the word fib was out of the English language, and white lie drummed after it. Things by their right names, and we should all do much better. Truth must be told, whether agreeable or not."
Helen was well received by the public, but Miss Edgeworth had great diffidence about it. To Dr. Holland she wrote: *** I am very glad that you have been pleased with Helen—far above my expectations! and I thank you for that warmth of kindness with which you enter into all the details of the characters and plan of the story. Nothing but regard for the author could have made you give so much importance to my tale. It has always been my fault to let the moral I had in view appear too soon and too clearly, and I am not surprised that my old fault, notwithstanding some pains which I certainly thought I took to correct it, should still abide by me.

## Footnotes

* ↑ Mrs. Jameson.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 89

To MRS. R. BUTLER.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Oct. 9, 1832.
I send you one dozen out of two dozen ranunculus roots, which good, kind, dying Lady Pakenham sent to me, with a note as fresh in feeling as youth could dictate.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 9

To MRS. EDGEWORTH.
CALAIS, DESSIN'S HOTEL, Dec. 5, 1820.
Coming back to this place, to the same room where we were seven months ago, the whole seems to me and to my companions like a delightful dream, but in waking from Alps, and glaciers, and cascades, and Mont Blanc, and troops of acquaintance in splendid succession and visionary confusion, in waking from this wonderful dream, the sober certainty of happiness remains and assures us that all which has passed is not a dream. All our old friends at Paris are still more our friends than ever, and many new ones made. Every expectation, every hope that I had formed for this journey has been more than gratified, far surpassed by the reality; and we return with thorough satisfaction to our own country, looking to our dear home for permanent happiness, without a wish unsatisfied or a regret for anything we have left behind, except our friends.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 91

To MISS RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Nov. 15, 1832.
Thank you, I am quite well. My only complaint is that I never can do any day as much as I intended, and am always as much hurried by the dressing-bell as I am at this instant.
Lord Longford and Lord Silchester called here to-day on their way back from Longford and Castle Forbes; they sat till late; very agreeable. When I congratulated Lord Longford on having done so much at Pakenham Hall, and upon having still something to do, he answered, "Oh yes, I never was intended for a finished gentleman!"
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 92

To MRS. R. BUTLER.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Dec. 28, 1832.
I send Mr. Lockhart's letter on the subscription for Abbotsford; it does him honour. I combated, however, his feelings with all the feelings and reasons I have on the opposite side—that it is a national tribute, honourable, not degrading. I refused to give him Scott's letters for publication, and very painful it was to me to refuse him, at present, anything he asked; but principle and consistency, painful or not, required it, besides my own feelings. I could not bear to publish Sir Walter's praises of myself, and affectionate expressions and private sentiments. I did send one letter to Mr. Lockhart, exemplifying what I mean—the beautiful letter on his changing fortunes. As to the subscription, all depends on whether the quantity of good produced will balance the pain to the family. It would gratify me to give the £100 I set apart for the purpose, but then comes the question, with or without my name? If with, there is staring me in the face OSTENTATION. If without—set down as from an "Unknown Friend"—AFFECTATION.
Crampton said my name would be useful, and so I suppose I should do what would best serve the cause, and put out of the question all consideration of what may be thought of myself. *** Miss Edge worth's novel of Helen, begun in 1830, was finished in the summer of 1833, and read for family criticism, before being sent to the press.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 93

C.S. EDGEWORTH to MRS. C.S. EDGEWORTH.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, May 27, 1833.
After breakfast yesterday I had a stroll with Mrs. Edgeworth through Maria's flower-garden. I wish you could see her peony tree: it is in the very perfection of bloom, as indeed everything is here. After luncheon dinner, the pony-carriage came round, but was refused by all: however, as I was putting in execution my long-formed project of getting a ladder and making the ladies go up into the sycamore-tree with me, we drove that far. I fixed the ladder: I went up, and Fanny, Harriet, and Honora, with a little hesitation, followed. They were all delighted with this airy parlour, lined with the softest, thickest moss; natural seats with backs, a delightful peep of the house, gay parterres and groves. It was amusing, Mrs. Edgeworth's and Maria's surprise when called to from above, as they passed in the carriage. Then we drove round Francis's new walk through the Horse Park fields: beautiful. Then the ladies flocked to their flower-beds, and I was accompanied by one or two in my rambles, speaking to old workmen, and bribing new to banish the sparrows. After tea much talking, and a little reading; Harriet read out a new story by Mr. Brittain, who wrote Hyacinth O'Gara, and whom I knew at college.
This morning was everything that was exquisite, and I have since breakfast had the gardener and heaps of workmen, and have been sawing beech-branches, to my great satisfaction and the approval of others; and in criticism I have found all agree with me, for Helen is begun, and at eleven we meet in the library; and Harriet has read aloud four chapters. It is altogether in Maria's best style; and I think the public will like it as hers, the return to an old friend.
31st.
I am sure you would like the cheerful fusion of this home party: each star is worthy of separate observation for its serenity, brilliancy, or magnitude; but it is as a constellation they claim most regard, linked together by strong attachment, and moving in harmony through their useful course. The herons sail about and multiply, the rookery is banished, the reign of tulips now almost o'er, and peonies of many bells are taking their place.
I am a stranger to any book but Helen, scarcely looking at the newspaper, which Mr. Butler devours. Harriet has gone in the pony-carriage for Molly, and she is to be driven by Francis's walk and Maria's garden.
June 1.
Aunt Mary's interest in Helen is delightful. Never did the whole family appear to more advantage; the accordance of opinion, yet cheerfulness of discussion, is charming.
When the evening reading of Helen was finished, Harriet and I walked round the lawn; the owls shrieking and flitting by in pursuit of bats: clouds in endless varieties in the unsettled heavens. The library, as we looked in at it through the windows, with all its walls and pictures lighted up by the lamps, looked beautiful. I thought how my father would have been touched to look in as we did on his assembled family.

## Footnotes

* ↑ Mrs. Mary Sneyd.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 95

To C.S. EDGEWORTH.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, March 14, 1834.
Having now done with business I may turn to a little pleasure; a great deal you have given me, my dear Sneyd, by your friend Mr. Smedley's approbation of Helen. His polite playful allusion to the names of the horses, which names at this moment I forget, reminds me of a similar touch of the Duchess of Wellington in describing one of the Duke's battles, she quoted from the Knapsack, "Let the sugar basin be my master."
I have written to Fanny about Lady Charlotte Fitzgerald's death. I was very much shocked at it: I loved her; she was one of my earliest friends—"Leaf by leaf drops away."
# Letters to Atticus/4.19

Translated by Evelyn Shuckburgh
To Atticus on his way to Rome, from Rome, November 54 BC
At last the long-expected letter from you! Back to Italy, how delightful! What wonderful fidelity to your promise! What a charming voyage! About this last, by Hercules, I was very nervous, remembering the fur wrappers of your former crossing. But, unless I am mistaken, I shall see you sooner than you say in your letter. For I believe you thought that your ladies were in Apulia, and when you find that not to be the case, what can there be to detain you there? Are you bound to give Vestorius some days, and must you go through the stale banquet of his Latin Atticism again after an interval? Nay, fly hither and visit (the remains) of that genuine Republic of ours! ..
Observe my strength of mind and my supreme indifference to the Felician one-twelfth legacy, and also, by heaven, my very gratifying connexion with Caesar—for this delights me as the one spar left me from the present shipwreck—Caesar, I say, who treats your and my Quintus, heavens! with what honour, respect, and favours! It is exactly as if I were the imperator. The choice was just lately offered him of selecting any of the winter quarters, as he writes me word. Wouldn't you be fond of such a man as that? Of which of your friends would you, if not of him?
But look you! did I write you word that I was legatus to Pompey, and should be outside the city from the 13th of January onwards? This appeared to me to square with many things. But why say more? I will, I think, reserve the rest till we meet, that you may, after all, have something to look forward to. My very best regards to Dionysius, for whom, indeed, I have not merely kept a place, but have even built one. In fine, to the supreme joy of your return, a finishing stroke will be added by his arrival. The day you arrive, you and your party will, I entreat you, stay with me.

## Footnotes

* ↑ There are some words here too corrupt to be translated with any confidence. They appear to convey a summary of news already written in several letters as to the bribery at the elections, the acquittal of Gabinius, and the rumour of a dictatorship.
* ↑ A legacy of a twelfth left by a certain Felix to Cicero and Quintus had been rendered null by a mistake as to the will. See the letter to Quintus, 3.9.
# Letters to Atticus/4.4a

Translated by Evelyn Shuckburgh

## To Atticus returning from Epirus
### Rome, 28 January 56 BC

I was charmed to see Cincius when he called on me on the 28th of January before daybreak. For he told me that you were in Italy and that he was sending slaves to you. I did not like them to go without a letter from me; not that I had anything to say to you, especially as you are all but here, but that I might express merely this one thing—that your arrival is most delightful and most ardently wished for by me. Wherefore fly to us with the full assurance that your affection for me is fully reciprocated. The rest shall be reserved for our meeting. I write in great haste. The day you arrive, mind, you and your party are to dine with me.
# Letters to Atticus/4.13

Translated by Evelyn Shuckburgh

## To Atticus at Rome
### Tusculum, 15 November 55 BC

I see that you know of my arrival at Tusculum on the 14th of November. I found Dionysius there. I wish to be at Rome on the 17th. Why do I say "wish"? Rather I am forced to be so. Milo's wedding. There is some idea of an election. Even supposing that to be confirmed, I am glad to have been absent from the wrangling debates which I am told have taken place in the senate. For I should either have defended him, which would have been against my opinion, or have deserted him whom I was bound to defend. But, by Hercules, describe to me to the utmost of your power those events, and the present state of politics, and how the consuls stand this bother. I am very ravenous for news, and, to tell you the truth, I feel no confidence in anything. Our friend Crassus indeed, people say, started in his official robes with less dignity than in the old times did L. Paullus, at the same time of life as he is, and, like him, in his second consulship. What a sorry fellow! About my oratorical books, I have been working hard. They have been long in hand and much revised: you can get them copied. I again beg of you an outline sketch of the present situation, that I may not arrive in Rome quite a stranger.

## Footnotes

* ↑ Ego, ut sit rata, Schutz's reading, which seems the best for the unintelligible ergo et si irata of the MSS. It would mean, "though I regret not having been back for Domitius's election (if it has taken place), I am glad to have been away from the previous wrangling in the senate."
* ↑ Crassus starts for Syria; he compares him to L. Aemilius Paullus starting for the war with Perses (B.C. 168). Paullus was, like Crassus, sixty years old, and in his second consulship. Paullus set out with good omens, Crassus with a curse, denounced by the tribune C. Ateius Capito (de Div. 1.29; Plutarch, Crass. 16).
* ↑ By his librarii. Atticus was again acting as his publisher.