OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter LVI

Chapter LVI. Near the Coast of South America
JANUARY 27 continued. -- A change came over me as if by miracle. No longer had I any wish to die, and already Curtis, who had heard my cries, was throwing me a rope. I seized it eagerly, and was hauled up on to the raft.
"Fresh water!" were the first words I uttered.
"Fresh water?" cried Curtis; "why then, my friends, we are not far from land!"
It was not too late: the blow had not been struck, and so the victim had not yet fallen. Curtis and Andre (who had regained his liberty) had fought with the cannibals, and it was just as they were yielding to overpowering numbers that my voice had made itself heard.
The struggle came to an end. As soon as the words "fresh water" had escaped my lips, I leaned over the side of the raft and swallowed the life-giving liquid in greedy draughts. Miss Herbey was the first to follow my example, but soon Curtis, Falsten, and all the rest were on their knees and drinking eagerly. The rough sailors seemed as if by a magic touch transformed back from ravenous beasts to human beings, and I saw several of them raise their hands to heaven in silent gratitude. Andre and his father were the last to drink.
"But where are we?" I asked at length.
"The land is there," said Curtis, pointing toward the west.
We all stared at the captain as though he were mocking us: no land was in sight, and the raft, just as ever, was the center of a watery waste. Yet our senses had not deceived us; the water we had been drinking was perfectly fresh.
"Yes," repeated the captain, "land is certainly there, not more than twenty miles to leeward."
"What land?" inquired the boatswain.
"South America," answered Curtis, "and near the Amazon; no other river has a current strong enough to freshen the ocean twenty miles from shore!"
# The Sign of Four

* related portals: Mystery.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
THE SIGN OF FOUR
BY
A. CONAN DOYLE
AUTHOR OF 'MICAH CLARKE,' 'THE FIRM OF GIRDLESTONE,' 'THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLESTAR,' ETC., ETC.
LONDON SPENCER BLACKETT MILTON HOUSE, 35, ST. BRIDE STREET, E.C. 1890 [All rights reserved.]
CONTENTS :
| CHAPTER | | PAGE |
| I. | THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION | 1 |
| II. | THE STATEMENT OF THE CASE | 21 |
| III. | IN QUEST OF A SOLUTION | 34 |
| IV. | THE STORY OF THE BALD-HEADED MAN | 46 |
| V. | THE TRAGEDY OF PONDICHERRY LODGE | 71 |
| VI. | SHERLOCK HOLMES GIVES A DEMONSTRATION | 89 |
| VII. | THE EPISODE OF THE BARREL | 110 |
| VIII. | THE BAKER STREET IRREGULARS | 138 |
| IX. | A BREAK IN THE CHAIN | 161 |
| X. | THE END OF THE ISLANDER | 185 |
| XI. | THE GREAT AGRA TREASURE | 207 |
| XII. | THE STRANGE STORY OF JONATHAN SMALL | 221 |
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 1930, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 93 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
# The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Cariches (1800)

THE
Scots Piper's Queries:
OR,
John Falkirk's Cariches,
TO WHICH ARE ADDED,
His Comical and Witty Jokes,
CONCLUDING WITH
The QUAKER and CLOWN, a Wonderful Tale.
GLASGOW; Printed by J. & M. ROBERTSON, SALTMARKET, 1800.
* The Scots Piper's Queries
* The Comical and Witty Jokes of John Falkirk the Merry Piper
* The Quaker and Clown
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Scots Piper's Queries

* "The Scots Piper's Queries" (n.d.), from a chapbook printed in Edinburgh
* The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Cariches, Made Both Plain and Easy (n.d.), a chapbook printed in Stirling
* "The Scots Piper's Queries" (1800), from a chapbook printed in Glasgow
* "The Scots Piper's Queries" (1804), from a chapbook printed in Glasgow
# The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Caraches (Edinburgh)

THE
Scots Piper's Queries:
OR,
John Falkirk's Caraches.
TO WHICH IS ADDED,
His Comical and Witty Jokes,
CONCLUDING WITH THE
QUAKER AND THE CLOWN
A WONDERFUL TALE.
Edinburgh: Printed by J. Morren.
* The Scots Piper's Queries
* The Comical and Witty Jokes of John Falkirk the Merry Piper
* The Quaker and Clown
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Caraches

Multiple editions of a Scottish chapbook.
* The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Caraches, printed in Edinburgh (n.d.)
* The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Caraches, printed in Edinburgh (n.d.), possibly a duplicate of the above
* The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Carriches, printed in Edinburgh (c. 1790)
* The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Caraches, printed in Edinburgh (n.d.)
* The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Caraches, printed in Edinburgh (n.d.)
* The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Caraches, printed in Stirling (n.d.)
* The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Cariches, printed in Glasgow (1800)
* The Scots Piper's Queries, or, John Falkirk's Cariches, printed in Glasgow (1804)
# The Strand Magazine/Volume 2/Issue 12

December, 1891. (transcription project)
Layout 4
​ PREPARING FOR THE PANTOMIME.
* Illustrated Interviews. No. VI. Sir Augustus Harris, by Harry How. Illustrations by J. L. Wimbush.
* Two Kisses. Illustrations by H. R. Millar.
* Ghosts, written and illustrated by Irving Montagu.
* Told in the Studios, by "Rita". Illustrations by Paul Hardy.
* An Unpublished Letter of Charles Lamb by W. Carew Hazlitt.
* Major Pendallas, a Christmas Story, by Frank R. Stockton. Illustrations by A. Pearse.
* Miss Mary Anderson.
* Andrew Lang.
* Lord Coleridge.
* Prince Bismarck.
* Joseph Parker, D.D.
* A. Conan Doyle.
* Madam Cathinca Amyot.
* Otto's Folly, from the German of P. K. Rosegger. Illustrations by J. Finnemore & W. H. J. Boot.
* Christmas Crackers. Illustrations by Alf J. Johnson.
* The Winding Walk, by Frank L. Moir. Illustrations by Allan Barraud.
* A Day in the Country, by David Christie Murray. Illustrations by John Leighton.
* Quixarvyn's Rival, by H. Greenhough Smith. Illustrations by Paul Hardy.
* A Vision of St. Nicholas, a Poem for Children, by C. C. Moore. Illustrations by Gordon Browne.
* The Queer Side of Things
** The Economical Club by J. F. Sullivan.
** A Prize Family
** Miscellaneous
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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
# The Symbolism of Freemasonry/Chapter XVII

Chapter XVII. Ritualistic Symbolism.
We have hitherto been engaged in the consideration of these simple symbols, which appear to express one single and independent idea. They have sometimes been called the "alphabet of Freemasonry," but improperly, I think, since the letters of the alphabet have, in themselves, unlike these masonic symbols, no significance, but are simply the component parts of words, themselves the representatives of ideas.
These masonic symbols rather may be compared to the elementary characters of the Chinese language, each of which denotes an idea; or, still better, to the hieroglyphics of the ancient Egyptians, in which one object was represented in full by another which bore some subjective relation to it, as the wind was represented by the wings of a bird, or courage by the head and shoulders of a lion.
It is in the same way that in Masonry the plumb represents rectitude, the level, human equality, and the trowel, concord or harmony. Each is, in itself, independent, each expresses a single elementary idea.
But we now arrive at a higher division of masonic symbolism, which, passing beyond these tangible symbols, brings us to those which are of a more abstruse nature, and which, as being developed in a ceremonial form, controlled and directed by the ritual of the order, may be designated as the ritualistic symbolism of Freemasonry.
It is to this higher division that I now invite attention; and for the purpose of exemplifying the definition that I have given, I shall select a few of the most prominent and interesting ceremonies of the ritual.
Our first researches were into the symbolism of objects; our next will be into the symbolism of ceremonies.
In the explanations which I shall venture to give of this ritualistic symbolism, or the symbolism of ceremonies, a reference will constantly be made to what has so often already been alluded to, namely, to the analogy existing between the system of Freemasonry and the ancient rites and Mysteries, and hence we will again develop the identity of their origin.
Each of the degrees of Ancient Craft Masonry contains some of these ritualistic symbols: the lessons of the whole order are, indeed, veiled in their allegoric clothing; but it is only to the most important that I can find opportunity to refer. Such, among others, are the rites of discalceation, of investiture, of circumambulation, and of intrusting. Each of these will furnish an appropriate subject for consideration.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Irish Arms' Bill

THE IRISH ARMS' BILL.
I.
My country, alas! we may blush for thee now, The brand of the slave broadly stamp'd on thy brow! Unarm'd must thy sons and thy daughters await The Sassenagh's lust or the Sassenagh's hate.
II.
Through the length and the breadth of thy regions they roam; Many huts and some halls may be there—but no home; Rape and Murder cry out "let each door be unbarr'd! Deliver your arms, and then—stand on your guard!"
III.
For England hath waken'd at length from her trance— She might knuckle to Russia, and truckle to France— And, licking the dust from America's feet, Might vow she had ne'er tasted sugar so sweet.
IV.
She could leave her slain thousands, her captives, in pawn, And Akhbar to lord it o'er Affghanistan, And firing the village or rifling the ground Of the poor murder'd peasant—slink off like a hound.
V.
What then? She can massacre wretched Chinese— Can rob the Ameers of their lands, if she please— And when Hanover wrings from her duties not due, She can still vent her wrath, enslav'd Erin, on you!
VI.
Thus—but why, belov'd land, longer sport with thy shame? If my life could wipe out the foul blot from thy fame, How gladly for thee were this spirit outpoured On the scaffold, as free as by shot or by sword!
VII.
Yet, oh! in fair field, for one soldier-like blow, To fall in thy cause, or look far for thy foe— To sleep on thy bosom, down-trodden, with thee, Or to wave in thy breeze the green flag of the free!
VIII.
Heaven! to think of the thousands far better than I, Who for thee, sweetest mother, would joyfully die! Then to reckon the insult—the rapine—the wrong— How long, God of love!—God of battles!—how long?
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Leinster War Song

THE LEINSTER WAR-SONG.
I.
Bondsmen!—compatriots!—scoff of the stranger, Grasp the war-torch, and the chain-breaking sword; Or crouch, like lash'd hounds, at the foreigner's manger, And lick the red scourge of your Sassenagh lord!
II.
Lo! thy proud chivalry, Leinster, advances!— Wildly the "Rosg-Catha" swells from the glen— The dance of thy banners—the flash of thy lances— Awake Alleluiahs again and again.
III.
Rouse you!—for shame!—from the slumber of ages, Sons of the murdered, by forest and caves— Shout like the ocean, when fierce tempest rages, Rise with the strength of ten millions of waves!
IV.
Light your war-brands at the flame of Kildara— The "Sun-burst" has flapped her green wings on the gale!— Take down the harp from the ruins of Tara, And strike forth the march of array'd Innisfail!
V.
Sound a loud hymn; for the gathering Nation, Surging and murmuring, heaves like the sea— Sound! and full soon the glad harp-strings' vibration Shall chime to the chorus of millions made free!
VI.
By the crimson Clontarf, and the Liffey's dark waters— By shore, vale, and stream, with our hearts' blood that runs!— By Barrow and Boyne, conflagration and slaughter Shall toss their red plumes in the blaze of our guns!
VII.
Ere for life the pale dastard his liberty barters, Let him pause, for each sod is a patriot's tomb; And if green are our vales, 'twas the blood of our martyrs Enrich'd them for aye with that Emerald bloom.
VIII.
But go, living corse, and kneel down to the stranger In thy festering cearment of infamy roll'd— Go! traitor and cow'rd, in our deadliest danger, Sell country and soul to the Saxon for gold.
IX.
Oh! burning reproach!—To such damning prostration Has the fetter corroded God's image away, That while curses and groans overwhelm the nation, The sneering destroyer is hailed on his way!
X.
O'Toole and the Geraldine, Eustace, O'Farrell, Chiefs who led Leinster to conquest of yore; O'Byrne, MacMorragh, O'Melachlin, O'Carrol, Plunket, and Nugent, O'Faly, O'More.
XI.
Shall we crouch on the plains where your sharp sabres clashing, Lit the spring-tide of battle's magnificent flow; As in midnight's deep gloom, o'er the stormy wave flashing, The balefires of ruin exultingly glow?
XII.
Oh! never, by heaven! the nation hath spoken, "The foul foreign idol shall bleed on our plains, ​If bolts forged in hell by man's might can be broken, If not we can perish—'The grave has no chains.'"
XIII.
And sweet for green Erin to fall crush'd and gory, In some vale shamrock-spangled that honour illumes, That valour has hallow'd to freedom and glory, And sleep, like the brave, in the proud "Pass of Plumes."
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Lion and the Serpent. A Fable

THE LION AND THE SERPENT.
AN ARMS' BILL FABLE.
In days of old the Serpent came To the Lion's rocky hall, And the forest king spread the sward with game, And they drank at the torrent's fall; And the Serpent saw that the woods were fair, And she long'd to make her dwelling there.
But she saw that her host had a knack of his own, At tearing a sinew or cracking a bone, And had grinders unpleasantly strong; So she said to herself, "I'll bamboozle the king With my plausible speech, and all that sort of thing, That, since Eve, to my people belong:
"These claws and those grinders must certainly be Inconvenient to you as they're dreadful to me— Draw 'em out, like a love, I'm so 'frighted! And, then, since I've long had an amorous eye on Yourself and your property, dear Mr. Lion, We can be (spare my blushes) united."
So subtle the pow'r of her poisonous kisses, So deadly to honour the falsehood she hisses, The lion for once is an ass. Before her, disarmed, the simpleton stands, The Union's proclaimed, but the hymen'al bands Are ponderous fetters of brass.
The Lion, self-conquer'd, is chained on the ground, And the breath of his tyrant sheds poison around The fame and the life of her slave. How long in his torture the stricken king lay Historians omit, but 'tis known that one day The Serpent began to look grave;
For when passing, as usual, her thrall with a sneer, She derisively hiss'd some new taunt in his ear— He shook all his chains with a roar; ​And, observing more closely, she saw with much pain, That his tusks and his claws were appearing again, A fact she'd neglected before.
From that hour she grew dangerously civil, indeed, And declared he should be, ere long, totally freed From every dishonouring chain. "The moment, my dearest, our friend, the Fox, draws Those nasty sharp things from your Majesty's jaws, You must bound free as air o'er the plain."
But the captive sprung from his dungeon floor, And he bow'd the woods with a scornful roar, And his burning eyes flash'd flame; And as echo swell'd the shout afar, The stormy joy of Freedom's war O'er the blast of the desert came.
And the Lion laugh'd, and his mirth was loud As the stunning burst of a thunder cloud, And he shook his wrathful mane; And hollow sounds from his lash'd sides come, Like the sullen roll of a 'larum drum, He snapp'd, like a reed, the chain, And the Serpent saw that her reign was o'er, And hissing, she fled from the lion's roar.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Invocation

THE INVOCATION.
Sweet Lyrist, wreath a song for me, Such as my fathers loved of old— Thy theme our cause, the melody The sweetest on thy strings of gold.
​Too long we've wept; though blood and tears May rust, they break not slavery's chain, And forty weary woe-worn years We've wept (as we have bled) in vain.
Then strike as though thy fingers hold Our heart-strings 'neath thy touch of fire; Nor blush to wake those songs of old, For Irish hearts on Erin's lyre.
In Egypt's storied land of yore, Ere Pharoah reigned, ere Nile ran blood, Majestic on her sandy shore, Her Memnon's giant statue stood.
And countless wealth, by sages told, Lay buried near that statue tall, And theirs to seek for gems and gold Where Memnon's head o'erthrown should fall.
But he who watched at noon-tide hour The shadow pointing to his prize May teach that even the gloom of power Can show where Freedom's treasure lies.
And Memnon's lips sweet music sung Whene'er the sun, with orient glow, Awoke sweet morn, and gaily flung Her blushes on that marble brow.
Now breaks for us bright Freedom's day, Now broken falls our mouldering chain; And, touched by Freedom's dawning ray, The mystic Harp shall sound again.
Then, Lyrist, wreathe a song for me, Such as my fathers loved of old— Thy theme our cause, the melody The sweetest on thy strings of gold.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Memory of the Dead

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
I.
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? Who blushes at the name? When cowards mock the patriots' fate, Who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave, or half a slave, Who slights his country thus; But a true man, like you, man, Will fill your glass with us.
II.
We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few— Some lie far off beyond the wave, Some sleep in Ireland, too; All—all are gone—but still lives on The fame of those who died; All true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride.
III.
Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made, But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam— In true men, like you, men, Their spirit's still at home.
IV.
The dust of some is Irish earth; Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part.
V.
They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas! that might can vanquish Right— They fell and pass'd away; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day.
VI.
Then here's their memory—may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate; And true men be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Men of Tipperary

THE MEN OF TIPPERARY.
I.
Let Britain boast her British hosts, About them all right little care we; Not British seas, nor British coasts, Can match The Man of Tipperary.
II.
Tall is his form, his heart is warm, His spirit light as any fairy; His wrath is fearful as the storm That sweeps The Hills of Tipperary.
III.
When woe or want oppress his friends, Though State and Fate proclaim despair, he Against them all "the Pass" defends, And rights The Wrongs of Tipperary.
IV.
Yet meet him in his cabin rude, Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary, You'd swear they knew no other mood Than mirth and Love in Tipperary.
V.
Soft is his girl's sunny eye, Her mien is mild, her step is airy, Her heart is fond, her soul is high; Oh! she's The Pride of Tipperary.
VI.
You're free to share his scanty meal; His plighted word he'll never vary. In vain they tried with gold and steel To shake The Faith of Tipperary.
VII.
Send him to fight for native land— His is no courage cold and wary; The troops live not on earth would stand The headlong Charge of Tipperary.
VIII.
Let Britain brag her motley rag; We'll lift The Green more proud and airy;— Be mine the lot to bear that flag, And head The Men of Tipperary.
IX.
Though Britain boasts her British hosts, About them all right little care we; Give us to guard our native coasts The Matchless Men of Tipperary.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Irish Maiden to her Lover

THE IRISH MAIDEN TO HER LOVER.
I.
O, tell me not love's light, and joyous tale; Sing not to me love's soft delicious lay; But let thy tale be sad—thy strains the wail Of men enslaved—let not thy song be gay ​Tune not thy harp to joy. No merry sound Should wake its captive chords to melody, Each gladsome note is to my soul a wound, For Erin wears the chains of slavery.
II.
And if thy fingers wake, perhaps, a strain Of joy, in passing heedless o'er the chords. Let not thy voice re-echo it again— Let not its brightness pass into thy words. No; rather sing of death and of the grave, Then will thy lay claim more of sympathy; These are the themes that best befit the slave, For death at least will make the bondsman free.
III.
Then sing not now the melting lay of love, Its notes should not be uttered by a slave; But if thou wouldst thy heart's devotion prove, Recover first the freedom Heaven gave; Then when that first, best gift thou shalt regain, A willing ear I'll lend thy minstrelsy; But sing not to me love's light, joyous strain Till thou canst say—"My native land is free."
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Men of Twenty-Five

"THE MEN OF TWENTY-FIVE."
Air—"When my Old Cap was New."
I.
Rouse, Erin, rouse, and clap your wings, Look forth on coming joys; Wake, Erin's muse, and sweep your strings, And cheer our "Irish Boys;" Those "Boys" who'll chase each Saxon drone From Ireland's recking hive; Our nation's marrow, blood, and bone, Our "Men of Twenty-Five."
II.
Our fathers were a noble race, But mournful was their doom; They blenched before the cut-throat's face, They sleep in Slavery's tomb. "Unhonored sleep"—but we, their sons, Our rusty chains will rive; We little dread their whips and guns, We're "Men of Twenty-five."
III.
The Saxons say we thirst for blood, The villains base, they lie; ​But if they're in a fighting mood, Why—let them come and try. But Britain's Lion couchant crawls, Exhausted, though alive, He wants, behind his "Wooden Walls," The "Men of Twenty-five."
IV.
Then, brothers, wake—you are awake— Then up—from vale and hill— For Liberty, for Ireland's sake, Sustain the "green flag" still; And ere your years are "twenty-six," As sure as God's alive, Bright Victory's sun his beams will fix On th' "Men of Twenty-five."
V.
And when our gallant-hearted band Down life's calm noon-tide run, We'll smile upon that happy land Our youthful vigour won. And when our heads are old and grey, If, haply, we survive, "He was," our sons shall proudly say, "A Man of Twenty-five!"
* ↑ "A New Race, a new spring of sentiments has grown up amongst the Irish people during the last ten years, and have spread themselves over the land, and evidently displaced the timid, cautious class, whose boyhood was impressed with the terrors of the early portion of the present century. The men of twenty-five have placed in the rere ranks the men of fifty, and they come forward with all the energies and all the courage of their grandfathers—the Volunteers of 1782—to declare that they will not be content with a secondary position for Ireland amongst the nations of the earth."—Extract from the Planet (a Saxon journal), quoted in The Nation of July 29th, 1843.
* ↑ "The Young Irish Agitators, they are full of the dark vices of Jacobinism. They worship revenge as a virtue. It excites the gloomy character of their souls. They look forward to the slaughter of those they hate as the geatest enjoyment they could experience."—London Morning Post, quoted in The Nation of July 15th.