OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1634/The Children's Bed-time

* THE CHILDREN'S BED-TIME.
* The clock strikes seven in the hall,
* The curfew of the children's day,
* That calls each little pattering foot
* From dance and song and livelong play;
* Their day that in our wider light
* Floats like a silver day-moon white,
* Nor in our darkness sinks to rest,
* But sets within a golden west.
* Ah, tender hour that sends a drift
* Of children's kisses through the house,
* And cuckoo-notes of sweet "Good night,"
* That thoughts of heaven and home arouse;
* And a soft stir to sense and heart.
* As when the bee and blossom part;
* And little feet that patter slower.
* Like the last droppings of the shower.
* And in the children's rooms aloft
* What blossom shapes do gaily slip
* Their dainty sheaths, and rosy run
* From clasping hand and kissing lip,
* A naked sweetness to the eye, —
* Blossom and babe and butterfly
* In witching one, so dear a sight!
* An ecstasy of life and light.
* And, ah, what lovely witcheries
* Bestrew the floor! an empty sock,
* By vanished dance and song left loose
* As dead birds' throats; a tiny smock
* That, sure, upon some meadow grew,
* And drank the heaven-sweet rains; a shoe
* Scarce bigger than an acorn cup;
* Frocks that seem flowery meads cut up.
* Then lily-drest in angel-white
* To mother's knee they trooping come,
* The soft palms fold like kissing shells.
* And they and we go singing home, —
* Their bright heads bowed and worshipping.
* As though some glory of the spring.
* Some daffodil that mocks the day.
* Should fold his golden palms and pray.
* The gates of Paradise swing wide
* A moment's space in soft accord,
* And those dread angels. Life and Death,
* A moment vail the flaming sword.
* As o'er this weary world forlorn
* From Eden's secret heart is borne
* That breath of Paradise most fair.
* Which mothers call "the children's prayer."
* Ah, deep pathetic mystery!
* The world's great woe unconscious hung,
* A rain-drop on a blossom's lip;
* White innocence that woos our wrong,
* And Love divine that looks again,
* Unconscious of the cross and pain,
* From sweet child-eyes, and in that child
* Sad earth and heaven reconciled.
* Then kissed, on beds we lay them down,
* As fragrant-white as clover'd sod.
* And all the upper floors grow hushed
* With children's sleep, and dews of God.
* And as our stars their beams do hide.
* The stars of twilight, opening wide,
* Take up the heavenly tale at even,
* And light us on to God and heaven.
* Jane Ellice Hopkins
* Macmillan's Magazine.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1635/Change of Seasons

Also published in Exotics: attempts to domesticate them (1876). Translation of "Es liegt der heiße Sommer" (1823).
* CHANGE OF SEASONS.
* All seasons we may come to seek
* Where thou, my dear one, art, —
* Warm summer on the little cheek.
* Cold winter in the heart.
* But all things change; and so, my love.
* These seasons shall depart:
* The winter to thy cheek shall move,
* The summer, to thy heart!
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1635/Miscellany

Athenæum.
Cassell's Magazine.
Sweet Perfumes. — Few people are aware of the commercial importance of perfumes, and of the extent to which their manufacture is now carried on. The flower-harvest of the district of the Var, in the south-east of France, includes no less than 1,475,000 lbs. of orange-blossoms, 530,000 lbs. of roses, 100,000 lbs. of jasmine, 75,000 lbs. of violets, 45,000 lbs. of acacia, 30,000 lbs. of geranium, 24,000 lbs. of tuberose, and 5,000 lbs. of jonquil. A well-known perfume-manufacturer at Cannes uses annually 140,000 lbs. of rose-leaves alone, and other perfume-laden flowers in proportion.
Cassell's Magazine.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1635/My Voice Shalt Thou Hear in the Morning

* MY VOICE SHALT THOU HEAR IN THE MORNING.
* My voice shalt Thou hear this morning,
* For the shades have passed away.
* And out from the dark like a joyous lark
* My heart soars up with the day;
* And its burden all is blessing.
* And its accents all are song;
* For Thou hast refreshed its slumbers.
* And Thy strength hath made it strong.
* My voice shalt Thou hear this morning,
* For the day is all unknown;
* And I am afraid without Thine aid
* To travel its hours alone.
* Give me Thy light to lead me.
* Give me Thy hand to guide.
* Give me Thy living presence.
* To journey side by side.
* Star of eternal morning,
* Sun that can ne'er decline.
* Day that is bright with unfading light,
* Ever above me shine.
* For the night shall all be noontide.
* And the clouds shall vanish far,
* When my path of life is gilded
* By the bright and morning star.
* George Matheson
* Sunday Magazine.
# Letter to Varina Howell Davis

Written in Richmond, on June 19 1862.
Dear Wife,
I bore the trip very well and partook heartily of the lunch you put up for us. Dr. Garnett insisted upon tasting the no Garnett whiskey. I found Joe and the household all well. Mr. Eggeling informed me that it was well I had returned for Jim had announced that he could not wait for me another day and E. seemed to think he would have been off to Raleigh. Genl. Dick Taylor was here during my absence he spoke in handsome terms of the gallant conduct of Capt Kearey. The La. Brigade has won extraordinary fame and I think has fairly and fully earned it. I send you the little pistol in it's box. It is capped and loaded, you can get out in the woods and each of the family take a shot, then you can have all the chambers reloaded and when you go out again see how much your previous practice has improved you. Mrs. Greenhow when she came brought me three oranges and a box of Jelly. One orange I sent to Custis Lee one to Genl. Johnston, Becca asked for one, the box of Jelly was left on the mantel piece when I came back it was still there but had been broken open, it goes in its altered state with the pistol. I directed a bundle of assorted candy for the Children to be put in the bundle, the inventory of which is completed by the addition of Joes cap and of Helen's shawl for the use of which I return my thanks. The vision of my angel baby in pain and exhaustion haunts me ever. God grant to him a speedy recovery. Kiss my dear children whose sweet faces I last saw in sleep, and from whose door I turned reluctantly in the morning upon your announcing "all sound" with a manner that warned me against waking them.
I left a soft pencil for you on your mantel piece, having noticed you had none. I hope you found it as they are rare with us now. The postage stamps were given to Col. Johnston and I thought they had been sent to you but found that he had them and when we were parting on the cars he gave them to me. I left them with you. Nothing important here, except movements not understood by the public and of which you will hear in due time. Lee is working systematically co-operating cordially and the army is said to feel the beneficial effect of it.
Beauregard left his command to seek rest, and restore his health. The sedentary life at Corinth must have been hard to bear as he reports himself exhausted and his army undergoing reorganization. Van Dorn goes to Jackson &c
Farewell dear Wife ever affectionately
    your Husband

## Footnotes

* ↑ Davis had just left his family in Raleigh, to head to Richmond.
* ↑ A.Y.P. Garnett
* ↑ Edward G. Eggeling
* ↑ Their son, William
# Letter to Watt regarding his marriage

Extract printed in the book "David Livingstone: His Life and Letters", p. 85. Letter sent in July, 1844.
After nearly four years of African life as a bachelor, I screwed up my courage to put a question beneath one of the fruit-trees [in Kuruman], the result of which was that I became united in marriage to Mr. Moffat's eldest daughter Mary. Having been born in the country and being expert in household matters, she was always the best spoke in the wheel at home; and, on two occasions, when I took her to Lake Ngami and far beyond, she endured more than some who have written large books of travels.
# Letter to Mohammed bin Zeini

As translated in the 1885 The Adventures of the Caliph Haroun Alraschid
In the Name of GOD the Compaſſionate, the Merciful !
To proceed. This Letter is from Haroun, the Son of Mohadi, ſt to His Highneſs Mohammed the Son of Zeini, who hath been encompaſſed by my Beneficence, and whom I conſtituted Viceroy of a part of my Dominions. Be it known to thee that I am highly diſpleafed at certain Things which have lately occurred at Ealfora y and now I deſire that on the Arrival of Noureddin, the Son of Fadladdin, who is the Bearer of this Letter, thou wilt divert thyſelf of the regal Authority and ſeat him in thy Place ; ſo diſobey not my Commands, and Peace be with thee !
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Letter to N.E.B. Ezra (1920)

29 Rue Moliere, 24 April.1920.
Mr. N. E. B. Ezra, Shanghai.
Dear Mr. Ezra:
I have read you letter and the copy of "Israel's Messenger" with much interest, and wish to assure you of my sympathy for this movement -which is one of the greatest movements of the present time. All lovers of Democracy cannot help but support whole-heartedly and welcome with enthusiasm the movement to restore your wonderful and historic nation, which has contributed so much to the civilization of the world and which rightfully deserve an honorable place in the family of nations.
I am, Yours very truly,
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in its home country on the URAA date (January 1, 1996 for most countries).
The longest-living author of this work died in 1925, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 98 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
# Letter to Oliver Cowdery from W. W. Phelps

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* "Letter to Oliver Cowdery from W. W. Phelps" in Latter Day Saints' Messenger and Advocate 1 (4)
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* "Letter to Oliver Cowdery from W. W. Phelps" in Latter Day Saints' Messenger and Advocate 1 (6)
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* "Letter to Oliver Cowdery from W. W. Phelps" in Latter Day Saints' Messenger and Advocate 1 (10)
* "Letter to Oliver Cowdery from W. W. Phelps" in Latter Day Saints' Messenger and Advocate 1 (12)
* "Letter to Oliver Cowdery from W. W. Phelps" in Latter Day Saints' Messenger and Advocate 2 (1)
* "Letter to Oliver Cowdery from W. W. Phelps" in Latter Day Saints' Messenger and Advocate 2 (2)
* "Letter to Oliver Cowdery from W. W. Phelps" in Latter Day Saints' Messenger and Advocate 2 (10)
# Landscape Painting/Chapter 14

XIV
ON VISION
Vision! the key to the door of art; the power to see with the eyes of the soul! as necessary to the artist as faith to the true believer. We have been talking of color, vibration, refraction, drawing, and so on—all so much useless lumber if a painter have not the one divine gift. I once knew an artist who had all these technical things at his finger tips; he was an able draughtsman, a strong colorist, and the difficulties of refraction and vibration were to him a mere bagatelle. Yet one of his pictures was like a man without a soul a veritable Frankenstein Monster of art for he lacked the artist vision.
W. Elmer Schofield—"Winter in Picardy"
​Fortunately, the true vision is not a rare endowment. By the grace of God many of us are born with the sense of beauty; and even if we are gifted with but a tiny spark, this spark can be fostered until it grows into a clear and luminous flame whose light will transform the most commonplace scene or object into a vision of infinite loveliness. If we look always for beauty we shall come at last to find it in the most unexpected places and under many strange garbs. But the true vision means not only the power to see and to recognize beauty, but the power to see it stripped of all vulgarities and inessentials; the power to see the soul of the thing and to grasp its essential beauty. For any landscape has a soul as well as a body. Its body is our great rock-ribbed mother-earth with her endless expanse of fields and ​hills, of rivers and surging seas. Its soul is the spirit of light—of sunlight, of moonlight, of starlight—which plays ceaselessly across the face of the landscape, veiling it at night in mystery and shadow, painting it at dawn with the colors of the pearl-shell, and bathing it at mid-day in a luminous glory. To this and to the ambient and all-enveloping atmosphere, with its clouds and its mists, its rain and its veiling haze, are due the infinite and ever-shifting moods of nature. He who paints the body alone may be an excellent craftsman, but the true artist is he who paints the beautiful body informed and irradiated by the still more lovely and fascinating spirit—he who renders the mood.
The painter who lacks this greatest of all gifts, or who, having it, fails to use it, might just as well scrape his ​palette and close his color-box, for his message to humanity will not be worth the telling.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 136/Issue 1753/The Northern Lights; a Norse Superstition

* THE NORTHERN LIGHTS.
* A NORSE SUPERSTITION.
* "Nay, mother, nay; the pictured coal is glowing,
* Dully and redly on the hearthstone there;
* Yon was no flame of careless idlers' throwing,
* Nor rocket flashing through the startled air;
* 'Twas but the gleaming of the Northern Lights —
* Ah, there again, they reddened Huntcliff heights.
* "So, let me raise you softly on the pillow,
* See, how the crimson lustre flares and dies,
* Turning to red the long heave of the billow,
* And the great arch of all the starless skies;
* The fishers say such beauty bodes them sorrow,
* Telling of storm, and wind to blow to-morrow."
* "No, child, the busy wife may bait her lines,
* And net and gear lie ready for the morning,
* No presage in that wavering glory shines,
* No doom in the rich hues the clouds adorning;
* They do but say the lingering hours are past,
* The gates, the golden gates, unclose at last.
* "Won, the long hill so steep and drear to climb,
* Done, the long task so bitter hard in learning;
* The tears are shed, and garnered up by time,
* The heart beats, freed from all its lonely yearning;
* The bar swings back, and, flooding seas and skies,
* Burst out the deathless lights of Paradise.
* "See, see, by the great valves of pearl they stand,
* Friends, children, husband; see glad hands outreaching!
* For me, for me, the undiscovered land,
* Its promise in that roseate signal teaching;
* Ay, kiss me, child, the lips will soon be dumb,
* That yet in earthly words can say, 'I come.'"
* Again the banner of the Northern Lights
* Waved broad and bright across the face of heaven;
* And in the cottage on the rugged heights,
* The passing radiance, by their glory given,
* Showed a pale orphan weeping by the bed,
* And the calm smiling of the happy dead.
* All The Year Round.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 136/Issue 1755/At Rouen

* AT ROUEN.
* The aisles grow dim, and as by winding ways
* I eager climb St. Ouen's stately height
* The silver censers vanish from my gaze,
* As shooting stars upon a dusky night;
* I hear the chanted vespers at my feet
* Like wordless water-music faint and sweet.
* On priest and acolyte and people fall
* From western windows many a sapphire ray.
* The sculptured knights within the nichèd wall
* Look not more marble-like and mute than they.
* Living arid dead, with fingers clasped, seem praying,
* Christ and the angels hear what they are saying.
* Where am I now? As if a dream went by,
* And dream still fairer came, I breathless gaze,
* Fearing to break by whispered word or sigh
* The rapture of my spirit's deep amaze.
* The sleeping world beneath my vision lies,
* Only the stars divide me from the skies.
* The city gleams with lights that come and go,
* The hills stand out against the opal west,
* The river hath a soft and onward flow
* As some tired spirit fain to seek its rest,
* Whilst from outlying valleys deep between
* Tinkles some vesper bell of church unseen.
* Monk, martyr, saint, and paladin arise
* Around me in a pinnacled array;
* An hour ago they seemed to touch the skies,
* And now I stand as near to heaven as they.
* And mid this mute companionship of stone
* I cannot feel that I am quite alone.
* For who is quite alone? In solitude,
* Things that would else be dumb discourse to men,
* Leading the mind to an ecstatic mood
* That hath no name and cannot come again.
* These sculptured saints and martyrs seemed to be
* Spirits that claimed a brotherhood with me.
* O life! take back thy burden. I am free.
* Pain, sorrow, fruitless toil, love ill-bestowed,
* Are as they were not; and the mystery
* Of death is as a star that leaves a cloud.
* What matters where I go or whence I come?
* Spring and the daisies far outlive the tomb.
* O, Nature ! if I strayed from thy control,
* Resume thy empire now, and with delights
* Unspeakable, conduct my dreaming soul
* From sordid things unto sublimest heights.
* Give back the thoughts that once aspired in vain,
* New joyful wings with which to mount again!
* Ah me! the curfew with its silvery chime
* Too swiftly breaks the witchery of the hour;
* With clanging keys I hear the beadle climb
* The cobwebbed mazes of the belfry tower.
* I quit with wistfulness akin to pain
* My visionary world for that of men.
* The stars are out; gargoyle and image quaint,
* Rare ogive, frieze fantastic, oriel,
* Hero and martyred monk and virgin saint,
* Make up a world where mortals cannot dwell.
* Why do I linger? What so chaineth me
* Unto this mute and mystic company?
* Good Words.M. B. E..
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 136/Issue 1755

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XXI. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1755. — February 2, 1878. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXXVI. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | France as a Military Power in 1870 and in 1878. By Sir Garnet Wolseley, | Nineteenth Century, | 259 |
| II. | Erica. Part X. Translated for The Living Age from the German of | Frau von Ingersleben, | 271 |
| III. | The Greek Mind in Presence of Death, interpreted from Reliefs and Inscriptions on Athenian Tombs, | Contemporary Review, | 280 |
| IV. | The Czar's Clemency; a Polish Priest's Story. Conclusion, | Cornhill Magazine, | 294 |
| V. | The Little Health of Ladies. By Frances Power Cobbe, | Contemporary Review, | 302 |
| VI. | The Decay of the Monarchical Principle, | Spectator, | 315 |
| VII. | French Dinners, | Saturday Review, | 317 |
| VIII. | Short-Sight, | Spectator, | 320 |
POETRY. :
| At Rouen, | 258 | Cassandra's Speech, | 258 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 136/Issue 1756

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XXI. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1756. — February 9, 1878. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXXVI. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | The Dutch in Java. By David Wedderburn, | Fortnightly Review, | 323 |
| II. | Erica. Part XI. Translated for The Living Age from the German of | Frau von Ingersleben, | 338 |
| III. | Schools of Mind and Manners, | Blackwood's Magazine, | 352 |
| IV. | Will o' the Mill, | Cornhill Magazine, | 366 |
| V. | The Death of Victor Emaunel, | Spectator, | 378 |
| VI. | The Vice of Talking Shop, | Examiner, | 380 |
| VII. | Baron Munchausen's Frozen Words, | Spectator, | 381 |
| VIII. | Milk Supply, | Pall Mall Gazette, | 383 |
POETRY. :
| A Picture, | 322 | A Poet’s Proem, | 322 |
| Song of Arran, | 322 | Whittier, | 322 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 136/Issue 1754

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XXI. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1754. — January 26, 1878. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXXVI. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Ulfilas, the Apostle of the Goths, | Edinburgh Review, | 195 |
| II. | Macleod of Dare. By William Black. Part II., | Advance Sheets, | 213 |
| III. | Hydrophobia and Rabies, | Nineteenth Century, | 220 |
| IV. | Within the Precincts. By Mrs. Oliphant. Part II., | Advance Sheets, | 231 |
| V. | Charles Dickens's Verse, | Spectator, | 237 |
| VI. | Doris Barugh. A Yorkshire Story. By Katharine S. MacQuoid, the author of "Patty." Conclusion. | Good Words, | 241 |
| VII. | Charles Dickens's Manuscripts, | Chambers' Journal, | 252 |
| VIII. | Fetichism in Animals, | Nature, | 254 |
| IX. | Ruhmkorff, | Nature, | 256 |
POETRY. :
| Holy Communion, | 194 | The Beguiling of Merlin, | 194 |
| Sleep, | 194 | |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 136/Issue 1754/Holy Communion

* HOLY COMMUNION.
* "As the living Father hath sent me, and I live by
* the Father; so he that eateth me, even he shall live by
* me." — St. John vi. 57.
* "Amen, Allelujah!"
* We sing the everlasting truth
* Of words that Jesus said:
* There is a holy human life
* Upon the earth we tread.
* It was poured out our faith to win,
* It has prevailed against our sin,
* It brings eternal glory in,
* E'en here among the dead.
* 0 Lord of all the angel host
* And of the church above,
* We know thee in the midst of us
* By thy descending dove.
* We in our prison stained and dim,
* With cherubim and seraphim,
* Lift up to thee the heaven-born hymn
* Of joy, and praise, and love.
* Hail, bread of God that men may take! —-
* His spirit teaches how.
* The dying soul that eateth thee
* Shall even live as thou. -
* "Come, eat," the faithful witness saith
* To sinners breathing mortal breath,
* "And live forever after death;
* Yea, live forever now."
* This being, with its ransomed powers,
* Oh let thy body feed,
* And make the very life it lives
* An endless life indeed.
* With faith in thy anointing shod,
* It chooses paths which thou hast trod,
* And offers to the living God
* Its whole immortal need.
* Soldiers and servants by thy grace,
* But helpless children first,
* We gather round our Father's board
* In hunger and in thirst.
* Bold through the love which thou hast shown,
* Rich without substance of our own,
* We give thee, not our best alone,
* But all our least and worst.
* The treasure worthless in our hands
* Transformed in thine we see.
* Thou takest from us what we are,
* How spoiled soe'er it be.
* In thy participating name,
* We pour out sorrows, tremblings, shame,
* The empty hope, the failing aim;
* And then we feast on thee.
* It is for service that we live,
* Destroyer of our sin.
* It is to keep the children's place,
* With all its discipline.
* But sweet be our communion song,
* The whole contented way along.
* God gave us thee, and we are strong
* For life to triumph in.
* Sunday Magazine.A. L. Waring.