OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# McNeill v. Carroll

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
369 U.S. 149
McNeill v. Carroll
Louis J. Lefkowitz, Atty. Gen. of New York, Paxton Blair, Sol. Gen., and Isadore Siegal and Joseph J. Rose, Asst. Attys. Gen., for appellant.
Melvin L. Wulf, for appellee.
PER CURIAM.

## 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
# McNeil v. United States

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
395 U.S. 463
Carl McNEIL v. UNITED STATES.
No. 1048, Misc.
Solicitor General Griswold, for the United States.
On Petition for Writ of Certiorari to the United States Court of Appeals for the Fourth Circuit.
PER CURIAM.

## 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
# McNeill v. Carroll/Opinion of the Court

* Court Documents
* Case Syllabus
* Opinion of the Court
United States Supreme Court
369 U.S. 149
McNeill v. Carroll
Upon the suggestion of mootness submitted by counsel for the appellee by reason of the death of the appellee and of the appellant's motion to vacate the judgment of the Court of Appeals, said judgment is vacated and the case remanded to the District Court with directions to dismiss the case as moot.
Mr. Justice WHITTAKER took no part in the consideration or decision of this case.

## 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
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 115

To MRS. R. BUTLER.
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, Dec. 26.
While Francis is pro-ing and con-ing with Fanny about alterations in his house at Clewer, I may go on with my scribbling, and tell you that Honora luncheoned here, and then off we went to Mrs. Debrizey's, Mrs. Darwin's, Mrs. Hensleigh Wedgewood, Mrs. Guillemard, and Mrs. Marcet—at Mrs. Edward Romilly's.
Mrs. Darwin is the youngest daughter of Jos. Wedgewood, and is worthy of both father and mother; affectionate, and unaffected, and—young as she is, full of old times, she has her mother's radiantly cheerful countenance, even now, debarred from all London gaieties and all gaiety but that of her own mind by close attendance on her sick husband.
Mrs. Marcet was ill in bed, but Mr. and Mrs. Edward Romilly were pleasing and willing to be pleased, and he talked over his father's Memoirs candidly and sensibly, and like a good son and a man of sense.
"I had like to have forgotten "—strange expression! can Mr. Butler explain it? I had like to have forgotten and must tell Aunt Mary about Mrs. Lister calling.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 119

To MRS. R. BUTLER.
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, Feb. 24, 1841.
My ultimate intention and best hope for my own selfish satisfaction is to go with you and Mr. Butler to that poor uncentred desolate home at Edgeworthstown.
What an inexpressible comfort that you were with your mother, Lucy, and Honora, and my dear lost aunt to the last.

## Footnotes

* ↑ Mrs. Mary Sneyd died at the age of ninety, on the 10th of February 1841.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 118

To MRS. EDGEWORTH.
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, Jan. 13, 1841.
Most agreeable dinner here yesterday; the convives were: Dr. Lushington, Mr. Andrews; Mrs. Andrews at the last sent a regret—ill in bed with a headache. Honora came in her stead. Mr. Macintosh and Miss Carr; Dr. Lushington beside Fanny, and carving remarkably well and most entertaining and agreeable; he raised the heart's laugh frequently, and the head's by fresh, not old-faded-London-diner-out bon-mots, anecdotes, and facts worth knowing, all with the assistance of Mr. Andrews, so remarkably agreeable and gentlemanly a gentleman; they played into each other's hands and mine delightfully, and Fanny's, and Honora's, and the ball came to everybody pat, in turn. The ball did I say? Boomerang I should have said, for it came back always nicely to the thrower.
I must tell you an anecdote I heard yesterday from Mr. Kenyon, brother of Lord Kenyon's, a saying of Mrs. Brooke, sister of Baron Garrow, who, notwithstanding his bullying manner in court, was a man easily swayed in private, always influenced by the last thing said by the last person in his company—all which was compressed by Mrs. Brooke into: "With my brother presence is power."
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 121

To MRS. R. BUTLER.
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, April 1841.
I must tell you now of my visit to Warfield Lodge. Henrietta and Wren met me at the station, and all the way, when they spoke, it seemed as if I had parted from them but yesterday. When I saw Miss O'Beirne, there was, opposite to me, that fine, full-coloured, full of life, speaking picture of Mrs. O'Beirne. The place is as pretty as ever, and it was impossible for the most hospitable luxury to do more for me, and with the most minute recollective attention to all my olden-times habits and ways. I would not for anything that could be given or done for me, not have paid this visit.
One evening Miss O'Beirne invited some friends I was particularly glad to see—three daughters of my dear Sir John Malcolm, all very fine young women, with fine souls, and vast energy and benevolence, worthy of him.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Sept. 27.
I send you some Spanish books which I bought, with one eye upon you and one upon Rosa. I sat up till past one o'clock a few nights ago, and caught cold, looking through the whole of Hudibras, for what at last could not be found in it, though I still am confident it is there—
    Murder is lawful made by the excess.
In the middle of my hunt my mind misgave me that it was in the Fable of the Bees, and I went through it line by line, and for my pains can swear it is not there. It is wonderful that, at seventy-four, I can be so ardent in the chase, certainly not for the worth of the game, nor yet for the triumph of finding; for I care not whether I am the person to find it or not, so it is found. Pray find it for me.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, March 10, 1842.
We have been much entertained and interested in Macaulay's "Life of Hastings," in the Edinburgh; but some of it is too gaudily written, and mean gaudiness, unsuited to the subject—such as the dresses of the people at Westminster Hall; and I think Macaulay's indignation against Gleig for his adulation of Hastings, and his not feeling indignation against his crimes, is sometimes noble, and sometimes mean and vituperative.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 116

To MRS. EDGEWORTH.
January 2, 1841.
Thank you for your birthday good wishes. How many birthdays have brought me the same never-failing kindness.
A very pleasant meeting we had yesterday at your brother's. Honora, dear Honora, was so nice and kind, nobody but ourselves. At second course appeared the essential trifle, and, trifle as it was, it was quite delightful to me with Honora's smile.
Did you ever taste figs stuffed with almonds? I hope you never may taste them! very bad, I assure you, but how the almonds got in puzzled me; all tight and closed as the outer skin looks without ridge or joining.
Did you ever taste Imperial Tokay? Your brother gave me some of the best ever tasted, I am told; and what do you think I said?
"Why, this cannot be Tokay!"
"Did you ever taste Tokay before?" said he.
"O yes, very often; but this is not Tokay."
"Be pleased to tell us what it is then," quoth Lestock.
"I don't know; but not Tokay, or a different sort from what I ever tasted, for that was sour and always drunk in green glasses."
Suddenly I recollected that I meant Hock!
Do you recollect the history of the Irishman, who declared that he had seen anchovies growing on the walls at Gibraltar? Challenged a gentleman for doubting him, met, and fired, and hit his man, and when the man who was hit, sprang up as he received the shot, and the second observed—"How he capers!"
"By the powers! It was capers I meant 'stead of anchovies."

## Footnotes

* ↑ Recently married to Honora Edgeworth.
* ↑ A trifle always appeared on Maria Edgeworth's birthday, because once on New Year's Day when a trifle had been ordered and the dish was placed on the table there was found under the flowers, not cake and cream, but a little story Maria had written, "A Trifle." The young folk had a real trifle afterwards.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 117

To MRS. R. BUTLER.
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, Jan. 10, 1841.
À propos du pluie, à propos du beau temps—I think of you and ten thousand times a week. ("I hate exaggeration.") I wish for you when I am in want of some unremembered or disremembered name. I do love that Irish verb disremember, and I conjugate it daily from the infinitive to the preterpluperfect. Last week I preterpluperfectly disremembered when talking to Morris of Fortunio's gifted men, whether the legs of him who outrunneth the hare were tied with green or red? Parties run high for green and for red—please to settle the question.
Fanny has been reading to me Darwin's Voyage; delightful it is.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 120

To MRS. EDGEWORTH.
March 14, 1841.
Here I am, like a Sybarite, but with luxuries such as a Sybarite or Sybaritess never dreamed of: a cup of good coffee and some dry toast and butter, a good coal fire on my right, a light window on my left, dressing-table opposite, with large looking-glass, which reflects, not my face, which for good reasons of my own I never wish to see, but a beautiful green lawn and cedars of Lebanon; and on my mantelpiece stand jars of Nankin china, and shells from—Ocean knows where. And where do you think I am? At Heathfield Lodge, Croydon, the seat of Gerard Ralstone, Esq.; and met here at a large dinner yesterday Mr. Napier, and he comes for me to-morrow, and takes me to Forest Hill. At this dinner were two celebrated American gentlemen—Mr. Sparkes, who wrote Washington's Life; and Mr. Clisson, a man of fortune, and benevolently enthusiastic about colonisation in Liberia.
After luncheon I saw march by to church a whole regiment of youths from Addiscombe, which is near here.
But now I must retrograde to tell you, as I have a few minutes more than I expected, of a visit I had an hour before I set out, from a man fresh from Africa—a Scotchman by birth, a missionary by vocation, who had been twenty years abroad, almost all that time in Africa: sent to the Hottentots in the first place, and he converted many. They were taught to sow and to reap, and the women to sew in the other way, all by this indefatigable Mr. Moffatt; and they taught him on their part how to do the CLUCK, and Mr. Moffatt did it for me. It is indescribable and inimitable. It is not so loud as a hen's cluck to her chickens, but more quick and abrupt.
He said that when he was ordered to return home, he felt it as a sentence of banishment. "I had lived so long in Africa, I felt it my home, and I had almost forgotten how to speak English. I almost dreaded to be among white faces again."
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET.
Mr. Napier brought me here by half after twelve.
I had a delightful drive with him in his little pony phaeton from Croydon to Forest Hill. Mr. and Mrs. Napier are more and more delightful to me in conversation and manners the more I see of them. A brother, Captain Napier, very conversable, and full of humour; he has a charming daughter, and has been in all parts of the world, and loves Ireland and the Irish.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 122

To MRS. BEAUFORT.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, March 12.
Mr. Creed, my dear good Mr. Creed, has been most kind in taking into his employment one of the young Gerrards who behaved so gallantly in recovering their father's arms from robbers. The poor people are seldom rewarded when they do right, yet surely, in the government of human creatures, Hope and Reward are strong and elevating powers, while Fear and Punishment can at best only restrain from crime. Hope can produce the finest and most permanent springs of action.
We have not been able to go on with our reading for some days. The more I live I see more and more the misery of uncultivated minds, and the happiness of the cultivated, when they can keep themselves free from literary and scientific jealousies and party spirit.
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Willow

THE WILLOW
“Et moi, j’ai aussi été en Arcadie”
My parent stem was nurtured in the soil Of St. Helena, near the grave of him Who shook the world in many a battle-broil, And died a captive where dark waters swim, In that lone isle of Afric’s subtle coil— A memory no time or age may dim.
Torn from that ever memorable tree, I was borne long and weary miles away, Across a mighty waste of restless sea, To be enrooted in the honored clay That guards the noblest son of Liberty Asleep, awaiting the eternal day.
So, after mingling with heroic dust— Napoleon, Washington—I came at last To find a final resting place, I trust; Where the Savannah’s tawny tide glides past A city venerable and august— In a glad garden I was fondly cast.
I bravely grew, wooed by a Southern sun, A graceful tree, with opulence of tress. The vital sap through all my fibers spun, And dainty damsels gave me their caress. A lovely matron all my senses won, And so I longed her happy home to bless.
Anon, the winter stripped me of my leaves, Until I stood disheveled and forlorn; But still my tropic heart clung to the eaves Of that dear household, in the night and morn. Soon the lord Spring, who blesses and reprieves, Poured emerald largess o’er my features shorn.
How have I thrilled when they I loved were gay, In the warm sunshine and the alert breeze! When round the festal board wit ruled the day And wisdom was espoused to pleasantries. How have I wished such happiness could stay, Unsmitten always with sad memories!
Alas! there came a dread, dissolving scene To snap the jocund circle of my friends! So, one by one, they fled all things terrene, To seek the mystic shore that never ends— Where Mortal must on th’ Immortal lean, Where the true Ideal with the Real blends.
The reverend grandsire left my grateful shade And baby eyes beheld my form no more; The dazzling lawyer in the sod was laid; The keen preceptor fell, with all his lore; The brilliant master slumbers in the glade— Not lost, but in due meekness gone before.
Still lingers my sweet matron, gravely bright, With stalwart sons and daughters tall and grand. They stand between her and the ghosts who might Become a mournful, melancholy band. I watch her, when the hours are aflight, Her gaze uplifted to the shining strand!
Perchance, you think a willow has no tongue, No sentient touch, no article of speech, No power to soothe the heart, in anguish wrung, No message to impart or moral teach. But lo! a poet all my dreams has sung, And who that sorcery will dare impeach?
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/There's Life in the Old Land Yet

THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET
By blue Patapsco’s billowy dash The Tyrant’s war shout comes, Along with the cymbal’s fitful clash And the growl of his sullen drums; We hear it—we heed it, with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget— There’s faith in the streams, there’s hope in the hills, There’s Life in the Old Land yet!
Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead, We are crushed—we are scourged—we are scarred— We crouch—’tis to welcome the triumph-tread Of the peerless Beauregard. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde When the Southern braves are met— There’s faith in the victor’s stainless sword— There’s Life in the Old Land yet!
Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind With the clank of an iron chain; The Spirit of Freedom sings in the wind O’er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane! And we—though we smite not—are not thralls, We are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry’s dungeon walls There’s Life in the Old Land yet!
Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poniard dares the day In their dear, defiant hands! They will strip their tresses to string our bows Ere the Northern sun is set— There’s faith in their unrelenting woes, There’s Life in the Old Land yet!
There’s life, thought it throbbeth in silent veins, ’Tis vocal without noise— It gushed o’er Manassas’ solemn plains From the blood of the Maryland boys! That blood shall cry aloud, and rise With an everlasting threat— By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies, There’s Life in the Old Land yet!
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/Why the Robin's Breast is Red

WHY THE ROBIN’S BREAST IS RED
The Saviour, bowed beneath his cross, Clomb up the dreary hill, While from the agonizing wreath Ran many a crimson rill. The brawny Roman thrust him on With unrelenting hand— Till, staggering slowly ’mid the crowd, He fell upon the sand.
A little bird that warbled near, That memorable day, Flitted around and strove to wrench One single thorn away; The cruel spike impaled his breast, And thus ’tis sweetly said, The Robin wears his silver vest In panoplies of red.
Ah Jesu! Jesu! Son of Man! My dolour and my sighs Reveal the lesson taught by this Winged Ishmael of the skies. I, in the palace of delight, Or caverns of despair, Have plucked no thorns from Thy dear brow, But planted thousands there!
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Place of Rest

THE PLACE OF REST
I am not happy, though my smiles betoken The jocund fancies which I do not feel; I am not happy, all my hopes are broken Upon the world’s inexorable wheel. ’Tis said the dying shed no useless tears, And so, I weep not for the vanished years.
I weep not for them, though they flock around me In solitude, and in the noontide glare; I weep not for them, though fond eyes confound me, With midnight havened in their realmless stare. With jests upon my lips I stand aghast O’er the Dead Angel that we call the Past.
No More! O terrible, wild word! the days That have been shudder in the iron grave; And lo, I totter on, in blind amaze, ’Mid the black gulches of th’ o’erwhelming wave: No star-bright seas, no Pharos-litten shore, While the hoarse Raven croaks, “No More! No More!”
And still I weep not, it may be, alas! That I am hardened into more than stone— Ah, happy they whose hearts like brittle glass, Break ere the worst of bitterness is known. The cold remain, the gentle pass away, In their white innocence—how happy they!
The drums are clattering in the crowded streets, The fife and bugle warlike concords blend, The roar of cannon to my soul repeats: Peace, weary one, thy pilgrimage can end— There’s rest for thee upon the battle field, With Triumph towering in thy shattered shields!
# Maryland (c. 1862 printing)

This copy is not attributed, and was printed in Savannah, likely in 1862. The song was originally printed in 1861.
Maryland.
Air--“My Normandy.”
The despot’s heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His touch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle queen of yore, Maryland! My Maryland!
Hark to a wand’ring son’s appeal, Maryland! My mother State! to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland! My Maryland!
Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll’s sacred trust, Remember Howard’s warlike thrust— And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland! My Maryland!
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance, does thee wrong, Maryland! Come! to thine own heroic throng, That stalks with Liberty along, And give a new Key to thy song, Maryland! My Maryland!
Dear Mother! burst the tyrant’s chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain— “Sic semper,” ’tis the proud refrain, That baffles millions back amain, Maryland! Arise, in majesty again, Maryland! My Maryland!
I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! But thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek From hill to hill, from creek to creek— Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland! My Maryland!
Thou wilt not yield the vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to this control, Maryland! Better the fire upon the roll, Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland!
I hear the distant thunder-hum, Maryland! The Old Line’s bugle, fife and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb— Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! She breathes—she burns! she’ll come! she’ll come! Maryland! My Maryland!
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
# Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Unconquered Banner

THE UNCONQUERED BANNER
“A Lost Cause!” If lost, it was false; if true, it is not lost. If the Cause is lost, the Constitution is lost; the Union, defined by it is lost; the liberty of the States and the people, which they both at first and for half a century guarded, are lost.”—Henry A. Wise.
“Yet, Freedom yet, thy banner, torn though flying, Streams, like a thunderstorm, against the wind.”
—Byron.
The sad priest-singer, in his dread despair, When our war-trumpets ceased their charging blare, Wailed, in melodious numbers, o’er the South, Her righteous Cause crushed at the cannon-mouth. He bade us fold our banner and for aye, Because its night had come and not one ray Of hope remained to gild its glorious head, And that it typified the hopeless dead.
The peerless poet of that desperate age Wrote an immortal lyric, but the rage Of the aggressive section is no more, And thus our Southern flag, from shore to shore, Emerges like an eagle from its sleep To woo the sun, and, in its heart to keep The never-dying principle of Right, Surviving every fierce, unequal fight.
Men die, but principles can know no death— No last extinguishment of mortal breath. We fought for what our fathers held in trust; It did not fall forever in the dust. Our foemen sought to make us worse than slaves And envy all who sleep in hero-graves; They failed at last to do the deed they meant— They failed in trying God to circumvent.
And well for them they failed, for, in the end, Their fate and ours must ever interblend, If we have Cæsar, so must Cæsar be With them in fullest perpetuity. If they have empire and the sordid ban Of Shylock and the money-changing clan; The South is blameless; for she holds in fee The stainless swords of Washington and Lee.
There was scant glory in our overthrow— Not Valor did it, but a brutal blow. Five hundred thousand Hessians and a horde Of blacks and Tories broke the Southern Sword. Shut from the sea, o’erwhelmed upon the land, We fought the battle to a final stand. But the Great Cause, outlasting all debates, Lives in free union of unfettered States.
Now, let our Banner, symbol of the Right, Kiss every wind in its unconquered might; Let the glad spirit of the poet-priest Hover above this grand Reunion feast To watch our Banner, from the grave of strife Rise with the glory of a new-born life; Twined with the ancient flag, o’er land and main, And wed to deathless liberty again.