OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Science/Opinion of the Court

* Court Documents
* Case Syllabus
* Opinion of the Court
United States Supreme Court
72 U.S. 178
The Science
The evidence is clear that the vessel and her outward cargo were neutral property, destined neutral consignees at Matamoras, and that the cargo had been actually delivered as consigned.
Some of the proof tended to show that a portion of this cargo consisted of confederate uniform cloth; but there was none showing destination to enemy territory or immediate enemy use.
There was, therefore, nothing in the character of the vessel or of the outward cargo which warrants condemnation.
At the time of capture, the bark had the whole or a great part of her homeward cargo on board. It consisted of cotton and a small quantity of copper. The captain had not signed bills of lading, and, upon his preparatory examination, assigned this circumstances as a reason for not being able to give the names of the shippers at Matamoras or of the consignees at Liverpool. The presumption, arising upon the facts proved, is that it was neutral property, which must be restored.
The position of the Science, when her cargo was put on board, and when she was captured, is left in doubt by the depositions of the master and mate; but the testimony of two officers of the Virginia, read as further proof, is explicit that she was in Texan waters, and no excuse is offered for being there.
The principles just declared in the case of the Dashing Wave require, therefore, the affirmation of both decrees of the District Court.
AND THIS IS ORDERED.

## Notes

* ↑ See chart, supra, p. 173.-REP.
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
# The Schuyler Sun/Rev. Drbal rites in Howells Tuesday

* related portals: Czech lands, Nebraska, Obituaries.
* related authors: Joseph Drbal.
Published on 7 December 1963
Rev. Drbal rites in Howells Tuesday
Archbishop Gerald T. Bergan of Omaha was celebrant of the pontifical requiem high Mass for Rev. Joseph Drbal, 89, at St. John’s Catholic Church in Howells at 10:30 a. m., Tuesday, Dec. 10. Rev. Drbal was pastor of St. John’s for 30 years. Office for the dead service was held at 10 a. m., at the church where the body lay in state from 1 p. m., Monday.
Archbishop Bergan was assisted by Msgr. H. J. Kaup, V. F., Rev. Anthony Pluhacek, Rev. B. Krause, Rev. Leo Krekemeier, Rev. Vaclav Kovar, Rt. Rev. Msgr. D. E. Sheehan and Very Rev. Msgr. E. F. McCaslin. Rev. C. C. Kubesh delivered the sermon and eulogy.
Other attending clergy served as pallbearers. Burial was in the parish cemetery.
Rev. Drbal died Dec. 7 at a hospital in West Point. He had been a resident at St. Joseph’s Rest Home in West Point since he retired from parish work in 1952.
Joseph Drbal, son of Frank and Anna Prasil Drbal, was born April 18, 1874, in Osek, Moravia. He was ordained into the priesthood July 20, 1899, in Linec, Austria. He came to Nebraska in 1904 and his first assignment was at Greeley. His first parish in Colfax County was Holy Trinity at Heun. From there he went to St. Wenceslaus Church in Dodge. He went to St. John’s in Howells in 1920 and served there until his retirement in 1952.
Rev. Drbal was a member of the Knights of Columbus, Catholic Order of Forrestors and Catholic Workman. Representatives from each group attended the service in a body.
Prucha Funeral Home was in charge of arrangements.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was legally published within the United States (or the United Nations Headquarters in New York subject to Section 7 of the United States Headquarters Agreement) between 1929 and 1977 (inclusive) without a copyright notice.
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 Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Our Cottage

OUR COTTAGE.
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Paganini

BLANK VERSE.
PAGANINI.
A FRAGMENT.
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Quiet Evenings

QUIET EVENINGS.
TO THOMAS BARNES, ESQ.
WRITTEN FROM HAMPSTEAD.
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Reflections of a Dead Body

REFLECTIONS OF A DEAD BODY.
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Song of the Flowers

SONG OF THE FLOWERS.
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Songs and Chorus of the Flowers

SONGS AND CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS.
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/On a Lock of Milton's Hair

ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR.
# The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Power and Gentleness

POWER AND GENTLENESS.
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# The Sikh Religion/Volume 2/Life of Amar Das/Chapters

The Life of Guru Amar Das, The Third Guru will be available to read as a single view (pages 68–153 from the original book), or in smaller parts:
* Chapter I (pp. 58–63)
* Chapter II (pp. 63–70)
* Chapter III (pp. 70–74)
* Chapter IV (pp. 75–78)
* Chapter V (pp. 78–86)
* Chapter VI (pp. 87–93)
* Chapter VII (pp. 93–100)
* Chapter VIII (pp. 101–106)
* Chapter IX (pp. 106–111)
* Chapter X (pp. 111–130)
** The Anand (pp. 117–129)
* Chapter XI (pp. 130–136)
* Chapter XII (pp. 136–140)
* Chapter XIII (pp. 141–149)
* Chapter XIV (pp. 149–153)
** The Sadd (pp. 151–153) The Calling, an account of the death of Guru Amar Das, written by Sundar Das in the time of Guru Arjan, and sung by Sikhs on occasions of mourning.
The early life of Amar Das is covered in the last three chapters of Life of Guru Angad, The Second Guru:
* Chapter V (pp. 28–35)
* Chapter VI (pp. 35–41)
* Chapter VII (pp. 41–45)
# The Sikh Religion/Volume 2/Life of Guru Angad/Chapters

The Life of Guru Angad, The Second Guru is available to read as a single view (pages 1–45 from the original book), or in smaller parts:
* Chapter I (pp. 1–6) Parents and birth; conversion of Lahina and service to Guru Nanak.
* Chapter II (pp. 6–12) Lahina's devotion; Guru Nanak bestows the name Angad; appointed successor and the passing of Guru Nanak.
* Chapter III (pp. 12–19) Nihali, Bhai Budha, and the seclusion of Guru Angad; visit of Jogis; advice to other petitioners.
* Chapter IV (pp. 19–28) Emperor Babar; Mana and the thief; the rebeck players; Coronation Ode.
* Chapter V (pp. 28–35) The Chaudhri of Khadur; Amar Das; founding of Gobindwal.
* Chapter VI (pp. 35–41) Drought and the Tapa of Khadur; the devotion of Amar Das.
* Chapter VII (pp. 41–45) Amar Das and the weavers; death and succession of Guru Angad.
# The Strand Magazine/Volume 5

(transcription project)
EDITED BY
GEORGE NEWNES
Vol. V.
JANUARY TO JUNE
London: GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED., 8, 9, 10, & 11, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, AND EXETER STREET, STRAND 1893
* No. 25. - January 1893.
* No. 26. - February 1893.
* No. 27. - March 1893.
* No. 28. - April 1893.
* No. 29. - May 1893.
* No. 30. - June 1893.
* Index to Volume V.
# The Strand Magazine/Volume 4/Issue 24/Types of English Beauty

Layout 4
Types of English Beauty.
From Photographs by Messrs. W. and D. Downey, Ebury Street, W.
# The Strand Magazine/Volume 5/Issue 25

Layout 4
"WE SWEAR!" (Margarita, the Bond Queen of the Wandering Dhahs.)
* Shafts from an Eastern Quiver, No. VII. Margarita, the Bond Queen of the Wandering Dhahs, by Charles J. Mansford. Illustrated by A. Pearse.
* Illustrated Interviews. No. XIX. The Lord Bishop of Ripon, by Harry How.
* A Little Surprise, from the French of Abraham Dreyfus. Illustrated by W. S. Stacey.
* Zig-Zags at the Zoo, No. VII. Zig-Zag Cursorean by Arthur Morrison. Illustrated by J. A. Shepherd.
* One and Two, by Walter Besant. Illustrated by John Gülich.
* Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives.
* W. Clark Russell,
* Queen Marie of Rumania,
* Ferdinand I of Roumania,
* Fred Leslie,
* Dorothea Gerard
* Stuart Knill
* Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Adventure XIV. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box, by A. Conan Doyle. Illustrated by Signey Paget.
* Types of English Beauty.
* Peculiar Playing Cards, by George Clulow.
* The Courtship of Halil, by A. E. Burn. Illustrated by H. R. Millar.
* From Behind the Speaker's Chair, by Henry W. Lucy. Illustrated by F. C. Gould.
* A Child's Tear, from the French of Edouard Lemoine. Illustrated by Paul Hardy.
* The Queer Side of Things
** The Dwindling Hour, by J. F. Sullivan.
** Pal's Puzzle Page by Jean de Paléologue
** Mandrake Roots.
** Cloaks and Overcoats of All Times.
** The Hunter and the Bird.
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 Sources of Standard English

London: MacMillan & Co, page v
THE SOURCES
OF
STANDARD ENGLISH
BY
T. L. KINGTON OLIPHANT, M.A.
Attention Reader:
This volume is too fragile for any future repair. Please handle with great care.
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN LIBRARY-CONSERVATION & BOOK REPAIR
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1873
All rights reserved
CONTENTS :
| CHAPTER | PAGE |
| Preface | vii |
| Contents | xiii |
| Chapter I - English in its Earliest Shape | 1 |
| Chapter II - The Old and Middle English | 35 |
| Chapter III - The Rise of the New English | 182 |
| Chapter IV - The Inroad of French Words into England | 215 |
| Chapter V - The New English | 253 |
| Chapter VI - Good and Bad English in 1873 | 322 |
| Chapter VII - Twelve Hundred Years of English | 349 |
| Index | 371 |
| Educational Books | 438 |
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 Sources and Analogues of 'A Midsummer-Night's Dream'/The Fairy Queen
## The Fairy Queen

       Come, follow, follow me,
       You fairy elves that be,
       Which circle on the green,
       Come follow me your queen;
    Hand in hand let's dance around,
    For this place is fairy ground.
       When mortals are at rest,
       And snorting in their nest,
       Unheard and unespied
       Through keyholes we do glide:
    Over tables, stools, and shelves.
    We trip it with our fairy elves.
       And if the house be foul,
       Or platter, dish, or bowl,
       Upstairs we nimbly creep
       And find the sluts asleep;
    There we pinch their arms and thighs;
    None escapes nor none espies.
       But if the house be swept,
       And from uncleanness kept,
       We praise the household maid
       And surely she is paid;
    For we do use, before we go,
    To drop a tester in her shoe.
       Upon a mushroom's head
       Our table we do spread;
       A corn of rye or wheat
       Is manchet which we eat,
    Pearly drops of dew we drink
    In acorn cups filled to the brink.
       The brains of nightingales
       With unctuous dew of snails
       Between two nutshells stewed
       Is meat that's easily chewed;
    And the beards of little mice
    Do make a feast of wondrous price.
       On tops of dewy grass
       So nimbly do we pass,
       The young and tender stalk
       Ne'er bends when we do walk;
    Yet in the morning may be seen
    Where we the night before have been.
       The grasshopper and fly
       Serve for our minstrelsy.
       Grace said, we dance awhile,
       And so the time beguile;
    And when the moon doth hide her head,
    The glow-worm lights us home to bed.
          From The Mysteries of Love and
          Eloquence (1658); with a preface
          signed E[dward] P[hillips].
The poem was given by Percy in his Reliques from The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, a curious book of which the preface is signed E.P.; the British Museum Catalogue attributes these initials to Edward Phillips, the nephew of John Milton. But Rimbault pointed out that this song occurs in a tract of 1635, A Description of the King and Queen of the Fairies, attributed to Robert Herrick; a single copy of this pamphlet is known, and is in the Bodleian Library.
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Redeeming the Time

"THE Chemistry building is full today," an undergraduate said to me late in May as we were walking past that structure.
"What's the show?" I asked.
"Oh, it's the loafers and the procrastinators trying to make up for lost time."
It is a misconception not confined to youth that if you let Opportunity go by you, you can catch her easily by cutting round the corner.
"My son failed in two subjects last semester," a father wrote me this week. "Since he has now got the hang of college, will it not be possible next semester for him to carry these two subjects in addition to his regular course?" Having carried but nine hours one semester, most loafers feel confident that they can easily carry twenty-five the next.
​"I can make it up before the end of the semester;" "When I get out of college I shall find time for these things;" "After I am married I intend to cut out all my bad habits." How familiar these things sound. It seems a simple matter to redeem our lost time. If we have social or intellectual or moral delinquencies we expect, all of us, to atone for them in the near future.
Every sinner condones his evil life by promising himself that he will ere long become a saint; every loafer expects soon to brace up, to develop interest, and get down to hard work and win success; every intellectual delinquent looks forward to the time when his studies will be creditably completed. We all expect, no matter how late the day, to redeem the lost opportunity; but it is next to impossible.
There is no young person in college today, if he amounts to anything, who will ever have as much leisure time as he has at this moment; who will ever have as easy a chance ​Redeeming the Time to be wise and good and happy as he has today. The time and the opportunity that is lost is seldom if ever redeemed. Those who wait until the last to do their work, to make their reforms, usually fail. Behold now is the accepted time, behold today is the day of salvation.
Every one has some important work that calls him. Get at it today.
May
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Respect for Books

RAN across grandmother's geograph this morning, The Village Elementary Geography, standing primly beside Bob's First Year Latin Lessons. Bob is my nephew. Grandmother's book is yellowed with age, but, save for a few thumb prints, the pages are clean and without dog ears. It is still covered with the bright calico which her grandmother sewed on for her to keep the book from being soiled or injured when the little girl carried it to school.
Grandmother's name and the date are on the fly leaf written in a cramped childish hand, for grandmother was only eight when she got the book, and the date is near the beginning of the last century. They had respect for books in those days.
Robert's book presents a somewhat different appearance. It was bought only a ​few months ago, but the cover is torn and battered and hangs by a thread. Inside, pages are mutilated or missing, and pen sketches and hieroglyphics are scrawled across the text making it almost unreadable. As I turn through I find dignified Cicero wearing a sombrero and smoking a pipe, and Caesar with a beard done in India ink. The book has suffered every insult and indignity possible to be thought of by a child of fourteen. Robert knows more than grandmother did at his age, but neither he nor the children with whom he associates have much love or respect for books.
As for me, I should as soon see a dear friend abused as a book I have worked with and come to know and to understand. I do not mind the ordinary wear of use and age any more than I am annoyed by wrinkles in the faces of my friends who are growing old, but intentional indignities hurt me.
Is it because books are so plentiful or so cheap that we care so little for them? Is it ​because they cost us now no sacrifice, no struggle, no tender thought or anxious anticipation that we think of them so lightly and toss them about so carelessly? I have heard grandmother tell how happy she was and how proud when her father first put the little geography into her hands. Neither children nor college students often feel so today.
We give courses in the appreciation of poetry and music and art; we have made rapid advancement in teaching children since grandmother's time. Why do we not still teach them to love and respect their books?
August
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Stung

I WAS ten, I suppose, and the pup and I were wandering across the dry stubble of prairie grass. I was picking my way cautiously in a vain endeavor to save my bare feet from the sharp ends of the dead weeds. The pup—young, curious, and unsophisticated—was making wide excursions in all directions, searing up flocks of quails or nosing in a gopher's hole. I was carrying a jug of water to the men in the hay field; the pup was intent on new experiences.
We had not gone far until we came upon a bumble bees' nest buried under the prairie sod. The bees were not in a good humor.
They were buzzing about petulantly, and, remembering former experiences, I veered to one side. The pup was fascinated. He showed interest, but with head erect he kept at first at a safe distance. Then, his curios​ity getting the better of him, he drew nearer. A hoary obese bumble bee made a pass at him, and he ran yelping to me.
The temptation to see something new was too great for him, however, and not heeding my voice, he went slowly back, stuck his nose into the hole, and was stung.
It was a sad little pup, with a limp tail and a wry distorted countenance, that trotted dejectedly and thoughtfully at my heels as we wended our way back from the hay fields. He had sought and found adventure, he had seen the world, he had had experience, but he had paid dearly for it.
His is an experience not confined to young and venturesome dogs. It is characteristic of youth. The young fellow just entering college—curious, eager, unsophisticated, full of vitality—finds it hard to avoid the bumble bees' nest. There is the temptation to grow wise, to see a little of life, to approach near enough to these untried dangers to satisfy curiosity and yet not to be stung. Few boys ​Stung expect to come out of these derelict excursions any the worse for the experience; they want only to see; but he is the rare exception who does not ultimately feel the sting of shame or disgrace, and physical pain.
The girl who is eager to be a good fellow, who is out for a lark, and who laughs at conventionalities, is running into the bumble bees' nest. She will hardly be able to keep herself from criticism, from vulgar cheap comment, from the sting of a tarnished reputation.
It is a foolish pup that sticks his nose into a bees' nest.
September
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Profanity

I RAN into Brown the other night about eight o'clock as I was com ing down Green Street. He was with two or three companions, well known men about the campus. It was a commonplace discussion that they were carrying on, but he was swearing profanely and loudly, mixing his oaths with vulgar gutter talk. I was not shocked, for as a boy I had been thrown with all conditions of the underworld—coal heavers and river rats, and ignorant section gangs, and I had heard the talk of the riff raff that follows a threshing outfit in the northwest—but I was surprised.
You must not class Brown as the ordinary loud-mouthed underclassman. He is a senior who has an educated, religious father and a refined, gentle mother. At home Brown is himself an active member of the leading ​Protestant church, and sometimes at vacations he leads the Christian Endeavor meeting. At college he is a prominent man. He was wearing an "I" sweater when I met him, and he is a member of one of the best known organizations of upper classmen. He is not a coarse fellow; he has simply learned to swear as he learned in the grades to chew tobacco—because he thought it was smart and made him appear grown up. He swore at first to let people know, who would not otherwise have suspected it, what a young devil he was, and he swears now because he wants people to realize what an important character he is.
Of course, at home he doesn't swear at his mother or his father or his pastor or at any one or in the presence of any one whom he respects; and at college he is more or less careful who hears him. With his profanity he tries to impress his over-worked landlady and the laundry boy, and he awes under classmen who see a good deal of his swagger ​and hear a good deal of his profane talk.
It is a habit easily acquired but not so easily broken. Brown does not stop to think how coarse and vulgar and commonplace it makes him; how irreverent it is. Nor does he realize how every vulgar profane word he utters throws discredit upon his teachers and his father and his mother and himself.
"Every fellow does it" is the excuse offered if one ever stops to offer an excuse. It is a common vulgar fault, too common and vulgar in fact for the college man who has opportunities and training and who, if he is to get far in the world, should have ideals above the low and the profane.
October
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/The Freshman

I WAS sitting in the office at the close of a tiresome registration week when he came in shyly and apologetically. He was a freshman, two thousand miles from home, he said, and he was sick—too sick to study, too sick to eat.
I inquired as to his symptoms, but they were indefinite, elusive. He was suffering, but his pain was not "localized" as the physicians say. As I suggested remedies, other troubles presented themselves, until finally he broached the subject of going home, and I knew he was homesick. I fixed him up—no matter how. The main point of the story is that he stuck; he fought it out as every manly boy does. He is an instructor now teaching other freshmen, and very likely has forgotten the whole circumstance.
​If in all the disorder and confusion of the new duties and the new scenes incident to the opening of college some lonesome freshman has felt the call of home, there is nothing in that to be ashamed of. Perhaps those who have not had these feelings are less to be commended than those who have. It is rather a credit than otherwise to be in love with home.
Before long, if you keep at it, the interest in your daily work will develop, the thing which seemed so chaotic and confused will resolve itself into the orderly and the familiar; friends will spring up, pleasant associations will be formed—associations almost as pleasant, perhaps, as those you had at home, and the pain and the longing will grow less. As I recall them now, the boys who have grown homesick have usually been those who have cared most for the ideals and the principles of home; they have been good boys who, if they stayed, have developed into strong men.
​Some day not far distant as you catch a glimpse of a newly formed friend across the green quadrangle stretching in front of University Hall, or as you see "Bart" kick a difficult goal on Illinois Field or Pogue carry the ball across the line for a touchdown, a wave of feeling will rush over you, and you will realize that you are a part of it all, and that it is your college and your campus, and your team, and that it is home here, and you love it.
And the homesick feeling will be gone.
September