OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Oregon Historical Quarterly/Volume 43/The Columbia Gorge

THE COLUMBIA GORGE
E. D. BAKER
[Of the Oregon senatorial race of 1860, Bancroft said: "E. D. Baker, a prominent politician, who came from California, where his star was not propitious, to Oregon, where he hoped to have a finger in the new politics. He made many speeches during the summer campaign . . . ". One of his many triumphs that year was his Fourth of July speech at Salem: "The orator's fame had spread far and near, and when the speaker began the crowd was so vast that fully one-fourth were fortunate in finding standing room; but the eloquence of the speaker was such that in less than 20 minutes all were standing." The following sample of his eloquence, a description of the Columbia gorge, is from his first speech in the United States Senate in January, 1861.]
   Mr. President: The adventurous traveller, who wanders on the slope of the Pacific and on the verge of civilization, stands awestruck and astonished in the great chasm formed by the torrent of the Columbia, as, rushing between Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens, it breaks through the ridges of the Cascade Mountains to find the sea. Nor is this wonder lessened when he hears his slightest tones repeated and reechoed with a larger utterance in the reverberations which lose themselves at last amid the surrounding and distant hills....
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) before 1964, and copyright was not renewed.
* For Class A renewal records (books only) published between 1923 and 1963, check the Stanford University Copyright Renewal Database.
* For other renewal records of publications between 1922–1950, see the University of Pennsylvania copyright records.
* For all records since 1978, search the U.S. Copyright Office records.
Works published in 1942 could have had their copyright renewed in 1969 or 1970, i.e. between January 1st of the 27th year after publication or registration and December 31st of the 28th year. As this work's copyright was not renewed, it entered the public domain on January 1st, 1971.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1861, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 162 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.
It is imperative that contributors ascertain that there is no evidence of a copyright renewal before using this license. Failure to do so will result in the deletion of the work as a copyright violation.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Notes on the book of Revelations

Layout 2
NOTES
ON THE
BOOK OF REVELATIONS;
TO ASSIST INQUIRERS IN SEARCHING INTO THAT BOOK.
BY
JOHN NELSON DARBY.
LONDON:
CENTRAL TRACT DEPÔT, 1, WARWICK SQUARE.
1839.
London: J. Wertheimer and Co., printers, Finsbury Circus.
INDEX.
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
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/Johann Zoffany

See also the letter to the editor in response to this article.
​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/410 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/411 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/412 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/413
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/Hrolf Krake

​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/593 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/594 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/595 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/596
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/In Wartime

IN WARTIME
By permission of the author
Long years I longed for them, for the young faces, The golden hearts, that other women fold Securely in their hands' and hearts' embraces— I, empty-hearted with no hand to hold. But now, but now—surely I am the one Who sleeps in peace knowing she hath no son.
The summoning flag unfurled has stilled the aching I lived with many years; the drum, the fife, Bid me be glad that for their pitiless taking I have no treasure of young golden life. And yet, and yet—last night I lay awake, I had no peace for other women's sake.
The flying flag shows dimly through their weeping, But in their voices sounds the bugle's voice, While I, with no young gold for gift or keeping, Sit by my empty coffers and rejoice.... Not so, not so—to-night I am the one Who cannot sleep for that she gives no son.
—Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Just Thinking

JUST THINKING
Standin' up here on the fire-step, Lookin' ahead in the mist, With a tin hat over your ivory And a rifle clutched in your fist; Waitin' and watchin' and wond'rin' If the Hun's comin' over to-night— Say, aren't the things you think of Enough to give you a fright?
Things you ain't even thought of For a couple o' months or more; Things that'll set you laughin' Things that 'ull make you sore; Things that you saw in the movies, Things that you saw on the street, Things that you're not really proud of, Things that are—not so sweet.
Debts that are past collectin', Stories you hear and forget, Ball games and birthday parties, Hours of drill in the wet; Headlines, recruitin' posters, Sunsets 'way out at sea, Evenings of pay days—Golly— It's a queer thing, this memory!
​Faces of pals in homeburg, Voices of women folk, Verses you learnt in school days Pop up in the mist and smoke As you stand there grippin' that rifle, A-starin', and chilled to the bone, Wonderin' and wonderin' and wonderin', Just thinkin' there—all alone!
When will the war be over? When will the gang break through? What will the U. S. look like? What will there be to do? Where will the Boches be then? Who will have married Nell? When's that relief a-comin' up? Gosh! But this thinkin's hell!
—Hudson Hawley
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/In Praise of Righteous War

IN PRAISE OF RIGHTEOUS WAR
I am coming not in a weakling's verse, with a milksop's feeble whine, With uplifted hand and with soft-voiced drawl, aghast at the battle-line; But I come to praise the fight that is fought for the sake of Truth and Right, The fight that is fought for God and for Home, that will mate the Right with Might.
Yes, patience is good, and humility, too, and so is the pipe of peace; But the time will come when forbearance ends, and your sugary smiles must cease; Then either your hand must grip at your gun and brighten the sword from its rust, Or your slavish neck must bend to the yoke, and your mouth must chew the dust.
You must fight for the fire that toasts your feet, for the roof that shelters your head, For the herd that yields you its milk or meat, for the field that gives you bread; You must fight for bed, you must fight for board, for the woman you love the best. And, oh, you must fight with a tenfold will for the baby at her breast.
​When a mad dog comes down your village street, with the green foam in his jaws, Do you greet him with Bibles and hymn-books, and lovingly bid him pause? When a rattlesnake rises amidst your path, alert with its fiery sting, Do you pet him, and pat him, and wish him well, and a song of welcome sing?
When a big-armed bully among the Powers says the folk of a little land Must sprawl in the dirt and confess to a crime that never besmirched their land, Do you blame that people that rises up a pigmy ready to fight, A David aroused, with only a sling, defying Goliath's might?
When a vain war-lord with a swollen head, inflamed with a brute desire, Through a little State that was lapped in peace comes tramping with blood and fire Despoiling the fields and looting the towns—do you blame that blameless state For rousing in Godlike righteous wrath and hitting with righteous hate?
And war is the great Arouser; it silences whimpering tongues; ​It toughens the muscles, it hardens the fist, and brings fresh air to the lungs; Though it comes with torch and it strikes with steel, and shorten's life's petty span, That life it exalts to heroic heights, so a man is twice a man.
Yes, patience is good, and so is peace; but he is not worthy of good, Who will not rush forth when the spoiler comes to defend it with his blood; When that spoiler comes with his bandit crew to shatter with shot and shell, Let the good man rise, with a fervent prayer, and give him hell for hell!
—Walter Malone
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/In Service

Also published as "The Service Flag"
IN SERVICE
Say, Pa! What is a service flag? I see them everywhere. There's little stars sewed on them; What are they doing there? Sometimes there's lots of little stars, And sometimes just a few, Poor Widow Jones has only one— I saw her crying, too.
My darling boy, those little stars, Upon a field of white, Are emblems of our glorious boys Enrolling for the right. The border, as you see, is red, Which represents their blood; The stars are blue, the heavenly hue; The white is always good. Each star you see means some brave boy Has left his hearth and home And gone to fight for Freedom's cause Wherever he may roam.
So when you see a lot of stars Lift up your heart with joy, And when you see a single one, Pray for some mother's boy. They go away, those gallant lads, ​Across the wreck-strewn sea; They go to pledge their country's faith For God and liberty. The Stars and Stripes they bear aloft To join the British flag, And with the colors of brave France, They mean to end "Der Tag." And soon, my boy, that service flag, Born in the Nation's heart, Will show the world that, when unfurled, We proudly take our part.
—J. E. Evans
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/It is Well with the Child

IT IS WELL WITH THE CHILD
By permission of the author and the publishers, the Atlantic Monthly Company, Boston
The word has come—On the field of battle, dead. Sorrow is mine but there is no more dread.
I am his mother. See, I do not say, 'I was;' he is, not was, my son. Today He rests, is safe, is well; he is at ease From pain, cold, thirst, and fever of disease, And horror of red tasks undone or done. Now he has dropped the load he bore, my son, And now my heart is lightened of all fears, Sorrow is mine and streams of lonely tears, But not too heavy for the carrying is The burden that is only mine, not his.
At eventide I may lay down my head, Not wondering upon what dreadful bed Perchance—nay, all but certainly—he lies; And with the morn I may in turn arise, Glad of the light, of sleep, of food, now he Is where sweet waters and green meadows be And golden apples. How it was he died I know not, but my heart is satisfied: Never again of all my days shall one Bring anguish for the anguish of my son.
​Sorrow is mine but there is no more dread. The word has come—On the field of battle, dead.
—Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/God Speed Our Soldiers

GOD SPEED OUR SOLDIERS
Permission of the author
They know not where the journey ends, Our Boys that march away; They only know their Country sends Them on its work to-day. To foreign lands 'neath alien skies The foeman's might to brave— There Liberty deep-wounded lies And calls on us to save.
Ye lads that leave our homes forlorn As forth to War ye go, What though our hearts with grief are torn, Yet would we have it so. Could France—friend of our infancy— Appeal to us in vain? France, that for our liberty bled On Yorktown's storied plain!
God speed you, gallant gentlemen, Columbia's Chivalry! Fare forth to fields of Fame again, For Faith and Memory. We know your hearts beat strong and true, That Freedom's blood will tell; Dear Lads, our hats are off to you, God keep you all. Farewell.
—George Frederic Viett
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Hay Fever

HAY FEVER
I do not wish the Kaiser ill, I wish him nothing that would kill, No bombs with neatness and dispatch To wipe him from life's kaffe klatch; No dagger thrust between his ribs, That would destroy His Royal Nibs; I would not have him swiftly die, That's much too good for such a guy; I only wish the Kaiser might Hay Fever get and get it right!
I wish the Kaiser's royal nose Might know the woes my poor nose knows; I only wish his royal chest Might always feel a sore distress, As mine must feel until the day October's frost shall come our way. I wish the royal piece of cheese Might be forever doomed to sneeze. Death is too good for such a king, Hay fever would be just the thing.
A pair of watery eyes and red, An aching throat and fevered lips; And then a nose that constant drips, The wish for sleep, but all in vain; To end one cough to cough again, ​All these are parcel of the wish I cherish for that royal fish, If I could work my will sublime, He'd suffer till the end of time.
I'd never let the Kaiser die, Although for death he'd often cry, For punishment for all he's done, His nose it would forever run,— A million years on earth he'd stay And sneeze a million times a day. Sweet sleep would never find his bed, All night alone the floor he'd tread, Death is too good for such a king, Hay fever would be just the thing!
—Anonymous
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Harvest in Flanders

HARVEST IN FLANDERS
In Flanders' fields the crosses stand— Strange harvest for a fertile land! Where once the wheat and barley grew, With scarlet poppies running through. This year the poppies bloom to greet Not oats nor barley nor white wheat, But only crosses, row by row, Where stalwart reapers used to go.
In Flanders' fields no women sing, As once they sang, at harvesting; No men now come with scythes to mow The little crosses, row by row. The poppies wonder why the men And women do not come again!
In Flanders, at the wind's footfall, The crosses do not bend at all, As wheat and barley used to do Whenever wind went running through. The poppies wonder when they see The crosses stand so rigidly!
O God, to whom all men must bring What they have done for reckoning, At harvest-time what byre or bin Have you to put these crosses in? ​What word for men who marched to sow Not wheat, but crosses, row by row?
Alas! Our tears can never bring The men who came here harvesting And come no more! We do not know What way the singing women go, Their songs all still! But crosses stand Row after row in Flanders land!
—Louise Driscoll
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/In Flanders Fields

IN FLANDERS FIELDS
Permission of the New York Times
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks still bravely singing fly, Scarce heard amidst the guns below. We are the dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe, To you from failing hands we throw The Torch—be yours to hold it high; If ye break faith with us who die, We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
—Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/"Blacklegs"

​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/578 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/579
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/"Our once-fat friend"

​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/704 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/705 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/706 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/707
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/"The greater light"

​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/573 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/574 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/575 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/576 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/577 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/578
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/"Wish not;" or, Something new

​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/429 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/430 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/431 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/432 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/433 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/434
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/"An apostle indeed"

“AN APOSTLE INDEED.”
Early in December, 1836, the news went far and wide through the South of Ireland, that the “Apostle of Temperance,” Father Mathew, had paid the last debt of nature. He died, as he had lived, devoted to the good cause of reclaiming his volatile countrymen from their arch—enemy, the whiskey-bottle; and his name ought to stand, in Ireland at least, written in the brightest and most indelible colours among the roll of her philanthropists and patriots.
Theobald Mathew’s life, from first to last, was in full keeping and harmony with his profession as a priest of the church in which his lot was cast. We have been, of late years, by far too much familiarized with such warlike spirits as Dr. Cahill and John McHale, as types of the Irish Roman Catholic clergy, to fancy that one so meek, so gentle, so humble, so self-denying as “Father Mathew,” could have submitted to the ecclesiastical tonsure in the sister island, and worn the monastic cowl. Yet so it was: Father Mathew was not only a Roman Catholic, but a Roman Catholic priest; nor only a priest but a monk—a humble Capuchin. But under the Capuchin’s coarse dress he concealed the heart of a Christian and a gentleman. No doubt, some portion of those qualities he owed to the fact that gentle blood flowed in his veins; and that, instead of being taken (as most Irish priests are) from the plough-tail to the altar, via Maynooth, he was brought up in the refined society of his kinsman, the late Earl of Llandaff, and of his sister, Lady Elizabeth Mathew; and that, in the family-circle of Thomastown House, and amongst its guests, as a boy, he rubbed off some of that rust, and most of those angles, which, somehow or other, seem to mark for life the man who has once passed the gates of ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/424 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/425 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/426
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/"April"

“APRIL.”
# Phantasmagoria and Other Poems/Stanzas for Music

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
The morn was bright, the steeds were light,
The wedding guests were gay;
Young Ellen stood within the wood
And watched them pass away.
She scarcely saw the gallant train,
The tear-drop dimmed her ee;
Unheard the maiden did complain
Beneath the Willow tree.
"O Robin, thou didst love me well,
Till on a bitter day
She came, the Lady Isabel,
And stole my Love away.
My tears are vain, I live again
In days that used to be,
When I could meet thy welcome feet
Beneath the Willow tree.
"O Willow gray, I may not stay
Till Spring renew thy leaf,
But I will hide myself away,
And nurse a hopeless grief.
It shall not dim life's joy for him,
My tears he shall not see;
While he is by, I'll come not nigh
My weeping Willow tree.
"But when I die, O let me lie
Beneath thy loving shade,
That he may loiter careless by
Where I am lowly laid.
And let the white white marble tell,
If he should stoop to see,
'Here lies a maid that loved thee well,
Beneath the Willow tree.'"
# Phantasmagoria and Other Poems/The Three Voices

THE THREE VOICES.
* First Voice
* Second Voice
* Third Voice
# Phantasmagoria and Other Poems/The Three Voices/Third Voice

The Third Voice.
Not long this transport held its place:
Within a little moment's space
Quick tears were raining down his face.
His heart stood still, aghast with fear;
A wordless voice, nor far nor near,
He seemed to hear and not to hear.
"Tears kindle not the doubtful spark:
If so, why not? Of this remark
The bearings are profoundly dark."
"Her speech," he said, " hath caused this pain;
Easier I count it to explain
The jargon of the howling main,
"Or, stretched beside some sedgy brook,
To con, with inexpressive look,
An unintelligible book."
Low spake the voice within his head,
In words imagined more than said,
Soundless as ghost's intended tread:
"If thou art duller than before,
Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?
Why not endure, expecting more?"
"Rather than that," he groaned aghast,
"I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast,
Some loathly vampire's rich repast."
"'Twere hard," it answered, "themes immense
To coop within the narrow fence
That rings thy scant intelligence."
"Not so," he urged, "nor once alone:
But there was that within her tone
Which chilled me to the very bone.
"Her style was anything but clear,
And most unpleasantly severe;
Her epithets were very queer.
"And yet, so grand were her replies,
I could not choose but deem her wise;
I did not dare to criticise;
"Nor did I leave her, till she went
So deep in tangled argument
That all my powers of thought were spent."
A little whisper inly slid;
"Yet truth is truth: you know you did—"
A little wink beneath the lid.
And, sickened with excess of dread,
Prone to the dust he bent his head,
And lay like one three-quarters dead.
Forth went the whisper like a breeze;
Left him amid the wondering trees,
Left him by no means at his ease.
Once more he weltered in despair,
With hands, through denser-matted hair,
More tightly clenched than then they were.
When, bathed in dawn of living red,
Majestic frowned the mountain head,
"Tell me my fault," was all he said.
When, at high noon, the blazing sky
Scorched in his head each haggard eye,
Then keenest rose his weary cry.
And when at eve the unpitying sun
Smiled grimly on the solemn fun,
"Alack," he sighed, "what have I done?"
But saddest, darkest was the sight,
When the cold grasp of leaden Night
Dashed him to earth, and held him tight.
Tortured, unaided, and alone,
Thunders were silence to his groan,
Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:
"What? Ever thus, in dismal round,
Shall Pain and Misery profound
Pursue me like a sleepless hound,
"With crimson-dashed and eager jaws,
Me, still in ignorance of the cause,
Unknowing what I brake of laws?"
The whisper to his ear did seem
Like echoed flow of silent stream,
Or shadow of forgotten dream;
The whisper trembling in the wind:
"Her fate with thine was intertwined," So spake it in his inner mind;
"Each orbed on each a baleful star,
Each proved the other's blight and bar,
Each unto each were best, most far:
"Yea, each to each was worse than foe,
Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low,
And she, an avalanche of woe."