OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Letter to George Rogers Clark - December 4, 1783

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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DEAR SIR — I received here about a week ago your obliging letter of Oct. 12. 1783. with the shells and seeds for which I return you many thanks. You are also so kind as to keep alive the hope of getting for me as many of the different species of bones, teeth and tusks of the Mammoth as can now be found. This will be most acceptable. Pittsburg and Philadelphia or Winchester will be the surest channel of conveyance. I find they have subscribed a very large sum of money in England for exploring the country from the Missisipi to California. They pretend it is only to promote knolege. I am afraid they have thoughts of colonising into that quarter. Some of us have been talking here in a feeble way of making the attempt to search that country. But I doubt whether we have enough of that kind of spirit to raise the money. How would you like to lead such a party? Tho I am afraid our prospect is not worth asking the question. The definitive treaty of peace is at length arrived. It is not altered from the preliminaries. The cession of the territory West of Ohio to the United states has been at length accepted by Congress with some small alterations of the conditions. We are in daily expectation of receiving it with the final approbation of Virginia. Congress have been lately agitated by questions where they should fix their residence. They first resolved on Trentown. The Southern states however contrived to get a vote that they would give half their time to Georgetown at the Falls of Patowmac. Still we consider the matter as undecided between the Delaware and Patowmac. We urge the latter as the only point of union which can cement us to our Western friends when they shall be formed into separate states. I shall always be happy to hear from you and am with very particular esteem Dr. Sir Your friend & humble servt.
# Letter to Elvis Presley

A letter written by Richard Nixon to singer Elvis Presley ten days after the two men met at the White House.
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December 31, 1970
Dear Mr. Presley:
It was a pleasure to meet with you in my office recently, and I want you to know once again how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness in giving me the commemorative World War II Colt 45 pistol, encased in the handsome wooden chest. You were particularly kind to remember me with this impressive gift, as well as your family photographs, and I am delighted to have them for my collection of special mementos.
With my best wishes to you, Mrs. Presley, and to your daughter, Lisa, for a happy and peaceful 1971,
Sincerely, RICHARD NIXON
Mr. Elvis Presley Box 417 Madison, Tennessee 37115
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).
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# Letter to Fanny Brawne, July 3, 1819

July 8th.
[Postmark, Newport, 3 July 1819.]
My dearest Lady:
I am glad I had not an opportunity of sending off a Letter which I wrote for you on Tuesday night—‘twas too much like one out of Rousseau’s Heloise. I am more reasonable this morning. The morning is the only proper time for me to write to a beautiful Girl whom I love so much: for at night, when the lonely day has closed, and the lonely, silent, unmusical Chamber is waiting to receive me as into a Sepulchre, then believe me my passion gets entirely the sway, then I would not have you see those Rhapsodies which I once thought it impossible I should ever give way to, and which I have often laughed at in another, for fear you should [think me] either too unhappy or perhaps a little mad.
I am now at a very pleasant Cottage window, looking onto a beautiful hilly country, with a glimpse of the sea; the morning is very fine. I do not know how elastic my spirit might be, what pleasure I might have in living here and breathing and wandering as free as a stag about this beautiful Coast if the remembrance of you did not weigh so upon me I have never known any unalloy’d Happiness for many days together: the death or sickness of some one has always spoilt my hours, and now when none such troubles oppress me, it is you must confess very hard that another sort of pain should haunt me.
Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it, make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me, write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days — three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. But however selfish I may feel, I am sure I could never act selfishly: as I told you a day or two before I left Hampstead, I will never return to London if my Fate does not turn up Pam or at least a Court-card. Though I could centre my Happiness in you, I cannot expect to engross your heart so entirely, indeed if I thought you felt as much for me as I do for you at this moment I do not think I could restrain myself from seeing you again tomorrow for the delight of one embrace.
But no, I must live upon hope and Chance. In case of the worst that can happen, I shall still love you, but what hatred shall I have for another!
John Keats
# Les Misérables/Volume 2/Book Eighth

Chapters:
* Chapter 1: Which treats of the Manner of entering a Convent
* Chapter 2: Fauchelevent in the Presence of a Difficulty
* Chapter 3: Mother Innocente
* Chapter 4: In which Jean Valjean has quite the Air of having read Austin Castillejo
* Chapter 5: It is not Necessary to be Drunk in order to be Immortal
* Chapter 6: Between Four Planks
* Chapter 7: In which will be found the Origin of the Saying: Don't lose the Card
* Chapter 8: A Successful Interrogatory
* Chapter 9: Cloistered
# Les Misérables/Volume 1/Book Third/Chapter 6

Chat at table, the chat of love; it is as impossible to reproduce one as the other; the chat of love is a cloud; the chat at table is smoke.
Fameuil and Dahlia were humming. Tholomyes was drinking. Zephine was laughing, Fantine smiling, Listolier blowing a wooden trumpet which he had purchased at Saint-Cloud.
Favourite gazed tenderly at Blachevelle and said:--
"Blachevelle, I adore you."
This called forth a question from Blachevelle:--
"What would you do, Favourite, if I were to cease to love you?"
"I!" cried Favourite. "Ah! Do not say that even in jest! If you were to cease to love me, I would spring after you, I would scratch you, I should rend you, I would throw you into the water, I would have you arrested."
Blachevelle smiled with the voluptuous self-conceit of a man who is tickled in his self-love. Favourite resumed:--
"Yes, I would scream to the police! Ah! I should not restrain myself, not at all! Rabble!"
Blachevelle threw himself back in his chair, in an ecstasy, and closed both eyes proudly.
Dahlia, as she ate, said in a low voice to Favourite, amid the uproar:--
"So you really idolize him deeply, that Blachevelle of yours?"
"I? I detest him," replied Favourite in the same tone, seizing her fork again. "He is avaricious. I love the little fellow opposite me in my house. He is very nice, that young man; do you know him? One can see that he is an actor by profession. I love actors. As soon as he comes in, his mother says to him: `Ah! mon Dieu! my peace of mind is gone. There he goes with his shouting. But, my dear, you are splitting my head!' So he goes up to rat-ridden garrets, to black holes, as high as he can mount, and there he sets to singing, declaiming, how do I know what? so that he can be heard down stairs! He earns twenty sous a day at an attorney's by penning quibbles. He is the son of a former precentor of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas. Ah! he is very nice. He idolizes me so, that one day when he saw me making batter for some pancakes, he said to me: `Mamselle, make your gloves into fritters, and I will eat them.' It is only artists who can say such things as that. Ah! he is very nice. I am in a fair way to go out of my head over that little fellow. Never mind; I tell Blachevelle that I adore him--how I lie! Hey! How I do lie!"
Favourite paused, and then went on:--
"I am sad, you see, Dahlia. It has done nothing but rain all summer; the wind irritates me; the wind does not abate. Blachevelle is very stingy; there are hardly any green peas in the market; one does not know what to eat. I have the spleen, as the English say, butter is so dear! and then you see it is horrible, here we are dining in a room with a bed in it, and that disgusts me with life."
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1824/Lament

Literary Gazette, 3rd January, 1824, Page 10
ORIGINAL POETRY. FRAGMENTS BY L.E.L. First Series.
Gleamings of poetry,—if I may give
That name of beauty, passion, and of grace,
To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour,
In a pale twilight, or a rose-bud morn,
Glance o'er my spirit,—thoughts that are like light,
Or love, or hope, in their effects.
LAMENT FOR THE PAST YEAR.
Farewell, thou shadowy Year, farewell!
 My heart feels light that thou art gone;
That last star was thy burial light,
 That passing wind thy funeral moan.
Another year? It cannot be,
Surely, what thou hast been to me!
Twelve months ago I sat, as now;
 Glorious was the blue midnight,
A glad sound came from many bells,
 And never shone the stars more bright;
I thought the sky, so calm, so clear,
Might be an omen of the year.
False sky! false stars! showed they their light
 But as in mockery to the eye,
That sought in their bright page to read
 A something of its destiny?
Why looked they beauty, looked they hope,
On such a darkened horoscope!
For, not one warning shadow told
 How many clouds were on the wind,
Of hopes that fell like autumn fruit,
 Leaving the sapless boughs behind!
All that has been may be again,
And yet lives in my spirit's pain.
Now there is storm upon the sky.
 The clouds hang heavy, as with care;
The stars have darkened one by one,
 A moaning sound is on the air;
And be the year the worst to me,
’Tis but what I expect should be.
Come, thou new Year ! I doubt thy life
 Will be such as thy birth has been,
Ended as it begun, in tears,
 A desolate and darkened scene.
There is now but one only thing
Which I can wish, or thou canst bring.
A deep, a lone, a silent grave,
 Is all I ask, dark Year, of thee;
To others hope and pleasure bring,
 But only bring the grave to me!
The wearied heart, in its despair,
Will seek and find a haven there.
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1824/Light and Shadows

Literary Gazette, 31st January, 1824, Page 74
ORIGINAL POETRY.
FRAGMENTS BY L.E.L. Fifth Series.
Gleamings of poetry,—if I may give
That name of beauty, passion, and of grace,
To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour,
In a pale twilight, or a rose-bud morn,
Glance o'er my spirit,—thoughts that are like light,
Or love, or hope, in their effects.
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.
It spread beneath the summer sky,
 A green turf, as just meet
For lilies and blue violets,
 And moonlight fairies' feet.
And in the midst a rose-tree grew,
 Covered with buds and flowers,
A crimson cloud of breath and bloom,
 Like that of evening hours.
I watched the beauty of that rose,
 Its June-touched bloom, its love-sweet breath,
When suddenly I marked how dark
 Its shadow fell beneath.
Clings darkness to—I sadly thought—
 The fair in form, the fresh in hue?
Alas! there's not that thing on earth
 So bright but has its shadow too!
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1824/Moonlight

Literary Gazette, 24th April, 1824, Page 268
MOONLIGHT. T. C. Hofland.
A luxury of deep repose! the heart
Must surely beat in quiet here. The light
Is such as should be on the poet's harp
When he awakens his first song of love,
Echoed but by the wind and nightingale.
There is a silver beauty on the leaves—
The night has given it; and the green turf
Seems as just spread for fairy revelling.
I will not look on it—it is too fair!
Its green, moonlighted loveliness but mocks
The hot and hurried scenes in which we live.
God! that this Earth should be so beautiful,
And yet so wretched!
* ↑ This also probably belongs to the series 'Poetical Catalogue of Pictures'
* ↑ Signature after ensuing Song
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1824/Lament 2

Literary Gazette, 8th May, 1824, Page 299
ORIGINAL POETRY.
LOVE’S LAMENT.
Nay, pray thee, let me weep, for tears
 Are all thy love has left to me;
I love thee still! but dream no more
 Of happiness in loving thee.
My heart has been too rudely crushed,
 For its deep wounds to ever heal;
My hopes have been too coldly checked,
 For me again such hopes to feel.
My very soul is wrung! it has
 Borne for thee all that it could bear,—
Two silent pulses vibrate yet
 In pain—its love and its despair!
Love! for, to love so fond as mine
 Only the grave an end can be:
Despair! what is there that my heart
 Can hope from love, or life, or thee?
Upon my lute there is one string
 Broken, the chords were drawn too fast,—
My heart is like that string—it tried
 Too much, and snapt in twain at last!
Then, pray thee, let me weep, for tears
 Are all thy love has left to me;
And they will fall less bitterly,  If that I think they fall for Thee.
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1824/Raphael Showing his Mistress her Portrait

Literary Gazette, 24th April, 1824, Page 268
ORIGINAL POETRY.
RAPHAEL SHOWING HIS MISTRESS HER PORTRAIT. By Mr. Brockedon. (British Gallery.)
Sorely he imaged this from his own heart?
He had been wandering with some one he loved—
Some dark-eyed beauty—when the sunset threw
In vain its crimson o'er a cheek, which blush
(That gentle answer to a lover's look)
Had died already. Parted from her side,
He thought upon her face, and painted this,
Bidding another's love breathe of his own.
I've thought upon thy brow when Night
Threw o'er my pallet her summer moonlight,
And I have looked on the midnight sky
To catch the depth and light of thy eye ;
I painted from these and from memory,
For I could not paint when I looked on thee.
I saw thee one day—the bath had shed
Over thy cheek that loveliest red
I never saw matched by rosebud or rose,
By morning's rise, or by evening's close:
Around thy brow was a turban rolled,
The hair was veiled by its graceful fold,
Save one or two rich curls that fell,
The beauty of the rest to tell;
Thy neck and rounded arms were bare,
Marble statue was never so fair;
Thy zone was unbound, but one small white hand Held thy robe while thy dark eye scanned
How it floated round in the glass beside,
With youth and woman and beauty's pride.
Now this be thy mirror—Is thine eye bright?
Curls that lip, blooms that cheek aright?
Now this be thy mirror, and it shall be
A glass, my beauty! worthy of thee—
A glass, the emblem of my heart,
From which thy image will not depart.
Perish the other works, for whose fame
I have wasted the light and oil of life's flame—
Let not one single fragment be
Of what they say is immortality.
If Time will but spare this loveliest trace
Of thy fairy form and thy radiant face,
Just leave this record of my heart
To tell how lovely and loved thou art!
* ↑ Although not designated, this probably belongs to the series 'Poetical Catalogue of Pictures'
* ↑ Signature after ensuing Song
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1824/Remembrance

Literary Gazette, 31st January, 1824, Page 74
REMEMBRANCE.
That Portrait! aye, it was a lovely face.
Those eyes, like violets on which the sun
Has looked as favourites; the long dark lash,
Sweet twilight to their playfulness; that brow,
Open as morning, white as Indian pearl,
Shadowed by those light clouds of pale brown hair,
Braided by lilies pure as she herself:—
It looks just what she was, all youth, all life,
All girlish innocence and happiness.
We were companions in our youth: we loved
With that first love life never quite forgets.
We parted,—parted too without a hope!
Hope waits on Fortune. After many years
I saw my early idol once again:
How changed, yet still how very beautiful!
Pride sat upon her brow, a reckless scorn
Mingled with bitterness in each light word,
And sorrow, ill concealed, seemed at her heart:
Yet had she wedded, and won rank and wealth,
But once we met; how deep the tenderness
That softened her so lovely countenance,
When, with a voice half music and half sorrow,
She gently said, "The seared heart doth not break."
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1824/Lake 2

The Lake.
The last pale light was on the sky,
That comes when summer sunbeams die;
An amber wave, with just a surge
Of crimson on its utmost verge;
And, spread beneath, like a green ocean,
With not one single wave in motion,
Stood a thick wood; then far away,
Dark outlined in the sky's clear gray,
Rose mountain-heights, till, to the eye,
They gloomed like storm-clouds piled on high. Upon the other eastern shore
Grew, in light groups, the sycamore—
Gay with the bright tints that recall
How autumn and ambition fall;
Alike departing in their hour,
Of riches, pride, and pomp, and power.
And in their shadow the red deer
Grazed as they had no hour of fear;
As never here a bow was drawn,
Nor hunter's cry rose with the dawn.
Near, like a wilderness of bloom,
Waved the gold banners of the broom—
Light as the graceful maiden's shape,
And sunny as the curls that 'scape
From the blue snood with which her care
Has had such pride to braid her hair.
The Lake was that deep blue, which night
Wears in the zenith moon's full light;
With pebbles shining thro', like gems
Lighting sultana's diadems:
A little isle laid on its breast,
A fairy gift in its sweet rest.
There stood a convent once—bright eyes
Wasted their light, soft lips their sighs.
Oh! who can say how much each cell
Has known of youth and hope's farewell—
Of midnight's vigil, when each prayer
Laid all the burning bosom bare,
Of those who bowed not down to sleep,
Of those whom they alone saw weep?
Or it might tell of those who sought
The peacefulness of holy thought—
The broken heart, the bleeding breast,
That turned them to a place of rest.
All is forgotten: There is not
More than trace to mark the spot
So holy once; just a stained stone,
Broken, and with gray moss o'ergrown; A fragment of a shattered wall;
One fallen arch; and these are all.
Wild roses, with their summer glow,
Are tenants of the island now;
Perhaps thus springing fresh and fair
Upon the graves of those who were
Once lovely as themselves. L. E. L.
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1824/Lamp

Literary Gazette, 7th February, 1824, Page 91
THE LAMP.
Brightly the stars shed their light,
Like love on the bosom of night,
Each rolls on his course, like a king
Come in pride and in triumphing.
But brighter the lamp that shines
Through yonder lattice of vines.
Thrice glorious that sunstar above,
Bright Jove; and the fair Queen of Love
And Beauty yet holdeth her reign
O'er a glad and a lovely domain;
And their rays, like the shivering of spears,
Glance in silvery light thro' the spheres.
But give me the lamp that shines
Through yonder lattice of vines.
By that lamp bends a Maiden fair,
Shading off the fresh night air,
Lest the gentle flame should decay,
Nor brighten her wanderer's way.
Around stream her locks in their light,
And the rose-cheek and blue eye are bright,
Of the Maid by the lamp that shines
Through yonder casement of vines.
I am near to the casement now,
I can look on her graceful brow,
I can feel the light of her eye
As she smiles when her love is nigh.
Oh brighter to me by far
Than the blaze of each glorious star,
Is the light of the lamp that shines
Through yonder lattice of vines.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1635/Question

Also published in Old and new (1890).
* QUESTION.
* But is it there, the heaven you sing?
* Shall God make whole the rents of life?
* And shall our ears no longer ring
* With the old clang of empty strife?
* Shall things be fair, yet never fleet?
* Shall laughter be the voice of mirth?
* Shall nature's force be soft, and sweet
* With tender memories of earth?
* Or, while our friends and lovers weep
* That we have passed death's iron gate,
* Shall we be lost in endless sleep,
* Nor dream of those that mourn our fate?
* W. H. P.
* Examiner.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1635/Rest

* REST.
* Beneath the western heaven's span
* Has sunk the golden day;
* The clouds' rich sunset hues and tints
* Have died in shade away;
* The dim night comes from out the east
* With gloom and vapour gray.
* The stars far in the sky's blue depths
* Their vigils 'gin to keep;
* The moon above yon eastern hill
* Climbs up the lofty steep;
* The night-winds steal with gentle wing
* Above the flowers asleep.
* The birds upon the tuneless spray
* Have folded close their wings;
* And to the silent night alone
* The winding river sings:
* Its song is of the woods and meads,
* A hundred happy things.
* No voice is in the tranquil air,
* No murmur save its own;
* The earth is hushed as heaven above,
* Where, girt with cloudy zone,
* The moon goes up among the stars
* To take her ebon throne.
* Sweet calm, and undisturbed repose,
* O'er all the landscape rest;
* Yet is there in the breathless scene
* A voice which thrills the breast,
* A something, which in thanks and love
* May only be expressed.
* Chambers' Journal.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1635

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XII. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1635. — October 9, 1875. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXVII. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Natural Religion. Part II., | Macmillan's Magazine, | 67 |
| II. | Her Dearest Foe. By the author of "The Wooing O't." Part III., | Temple Bar, | 76 |
| III. | In a Studio. By W. W. Story. Part V., | Blackwood's Magazine, | 88 |
| IV. | The Dilemma. Part X., | Blackwood's Magazine, | 102 |
| V. | Torquato Tasso: His Life and Works, | Macmillan's Magazine, | 110 |
| VI. | Some Account of a German Boarding-School, | Fraser's Magazine, | 116 |
| VII. | Coleridge, | Gentleman's Magazine, | 124 |
| VIII. | Chateaubriand, | Spectator, | 126 |
POETRY. :
| Rest, | 66 | My Voice Shalt Thou Hear in the Morning, | |
| Whithersoever, | 66 | My Voice Shalt Thou Hear in the Morning, | 66 |
| Question, | 66 | Change of Seasons, | 66 |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 128 |