OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Red Etin

Possibly Irish folk tale.
* "The Red Ettin" in English Fairy Tales, 1894.
* "The Red Etin" in The Blue Fairy Book, 1889.
# The Slippery Slope

* related portals: England, Poverty.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
* portrait photograph of William Amias Bailward
* London Stereoscopic Co., 106 Regent St
* WILLIAM AMIAS BAILWARD.
* [Frontispiece.
THE
SLIPPERY SLOPE
AND OTHER PAPERS
ON SOCIAL SUBJECTS
BY THE LATE
WILLIAM AMIAS BAILWARD, M.A.
"I am not at all disturbed at the prospect of the slippery slope." —The Rt. Hon. H. H. Asquith. Hansard.
LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W 1920
All rights reserved
CONTENTS :
| | page |
| Introduction | v |
| Biographical Note | ix |
| Preface | xi |
| Social Study on Large Maps | 1 |
| Some Early History of Poor Relief in England | 18 |
| Some Early History of Poor Relief in Paris | 38 |
| Poor Relief in a West Country Village, 1786-1906 | 49 |
| Notes from a Workhouse Examination Committee | 55 |
| Poor Law and Charity | 71 |
| Social Reform and the New Socialism | 100 |
| Democracy and Local Elections | 117 |
| The Reports of the Commissions of 1834 and 1909 | 132 |
| The Minority Report: A Criticism (which has received no answer) | 138 |
| "The Slippery Slope" | 172 |
| The Psychology of Pauperism | 184 |
| Appendices:— |
| The Relation of Legal Relief to Private Charity | 193 |
| Some Recent Developments of Poor Relief | 210 |
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 Road to Gundagai

The mountain road goes up and down From Gundagai to Tumut Town
And, branching off, there runs a track Across the foothills grim and black,
Across the plains and ranges grey To Sydney city far away.
It came by chance one day that I From Tumut rode to Gundagai,
And reached about the evening tide The crossing where the roads divide;
And, waiting at the crossing place, I saw a maiden fair of face,
With eyes of deepest violet blue, And cheeks to match the rose in hue --
The fairest maids Australia knows Are bred among the mountain snows.
Then, fearing I might go astray, I asked if she could show the way.
Her voice might well a man bewitch -- Its tones so supple, deep, and rich.
"The tracks are clear," she made reply, "And this goes down to Sydney Town, And that one goes to Gundagai."
Then slowly, looking coyly back, She went along the Sydney track
And I for one was well content To go the road the lady went;
But round the turn a swain she met -- The kiss she gave him haunts me yet!
I turned and travelled with a sigh The lonely road to Gundagai.
This work is in the public domain in Australia because it was created in Australia and the term of copyright has expired. According to Australian Copyright Council - Duration of Copyright, the following works are public domain:
* published non-government works whose author died before January 1, 1955,
* anonymous or pseudonymous works and photographs published before January 1, 1955, and
* government works published more than 50 years ago (before January 1, 1974).
This work is also 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 Australia on the URAA date (January 1, 1996). This is the combined effect of Australia having joined the Berne Convention in 1928, and of 17 USC 104A with its critical date of January 1, 1996.
Because the Australian copyright term in 1996 was 50 years, the critical date for copyright in the United States under the URAA is January 1, 1946.
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.
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# The Road to Monterey

The Road to Monterey
By George W. Ogden Author of Trail's End, The Rustler of Wind River, The Land of Last Chance, Etc.
Chicago A. C. McClurg & Co. 1925
Contents
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1966, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 57 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.
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# The Preacher

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Preacher."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Preacher", a poem by Emily Dickinson
* "The Preacher", a poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
# The Preacher's Mistake

* related portals: Christian poetry.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
“The parish priest Of austerity Climbed up in a high church steeple, To be nearer God, So that he might hand His word down to the people.
“And in sermon script He daily wrote What he thought was sent from heaven; And he dropped it down On the people’s heads Two times one day in seven.
“In his age God said, ‘Come down and die;’ And he cried out from the steeple, ‘Where art Thou, Lord?’ And the Lord replied, ‘Down here among my people.’ ”
# The Social Significance of the Modern Drama/The Russian Drama
### THE RUSSIAN DRAMA

PEOPLE outside of Russia, especially Anglo-Saxons, have one great objection to the Russian drama: it is too sad, too gloomy. It is often asked, "Why is the Russian drama so pessimistic?" The answer is: the Russian drama, like all Russian culture, has been conceived in the sorrow of the people; it was born in their woe and struggle. Anything thus conceived cannot be very joyous or amusing.
It is no exaggeration to say that in no other country are the creative artists so interwoven, so much at one with the people. This is not only true of men like Turgenev, Tolstoy and the dramatists of modern times. It applies also to Gogol, who in "The Inspector" and "Dead Souls" spoke in behalf of the people, appealing to the conscience of Russia. The same is true of Dostoyevsky, of the poets Nekrassov, Nadson, and others. In fact, all the great Russian artists have gone to the people for their inspiration, as to the source of all life. That explains the depth and the humanity of Russian literature.
​The modern drama naturally suggests Henrik Ibsen as its pioneer. But prior to him, Gogol utilized the drama as a vehicle for popularizing the social issues of his time. In "The Inspector," (Revizor) he portrays the corruption, graft and extortion rampant in the governmental departments. If we were to Anglicize the names of the characters in "The Inspector," and forget for a moment that it was a Russian who wrote the play, the criticism contained therein would apply with similar force to present-day America, and to every other modern country. Gogol touched the deepest sores of social magnitude and marked the beginning of the realistic drama in Russia.
However, it is not within the scope of this work to discuss the drama of Gogol's era. I shall begin with Tolstoy, because he is closer to our own generation, and voices more definitely the social significance of the modern drama.
# The Social War (novel)

one or more chapters are available in a spoken word format.
AN ENTIRELY NEW FEATURE
OF
A THRILLING NOVEL!
ENTITLED,
THE SOCIAL WAR
OF THE YEAR
1900;
OR,
THE CONSPIRATORS AND LOVERS!
BY
S. M. LANDIS, M.D., D.D.,
AUTHOR OF "SECRETS OF GENERATION," "SENSE AND NONSENSE," "MESMER, THE TERROR OF THE RICH," "COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE," "KEY TO LOVE," "KEY TO HEAVEN," ETC.
A LESSON FOR SAINTS AND SINNERS!
PUBLISHED BY "LANDIS PUBLISHING SOCIETY,"
No. 13 NORTH ELEVENTH STREET,
Philadelphia, Pa.
1872.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
SIMON M. LANDIS, M.D., D.D.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
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 Soul Of A Century/An inner life

* related portals: Czech literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
AN INNER LIFE
If you possess an inner-life Guard carefully this treasure, Or life will sear into your soul Eternal grief’s full measure.
When you step out into the world You are a stranger there, The finer blossoms of your soul, Yes, the soul itself grows bare.
Only within your inner self You grasp the world’s full scope, Therein reside unfettered thoughts, Therefrom spring deeds and hope.
Only within your inner self Can great ambitions breathe, And the sparkling diamonds of your hope Are woven in glory’s wreath.
Your inner-life is the only life Where you are free to reign, Beyond its scope you trample on Your neighbor’s fixed domain.
When beaten here and beaten there You grow weary with the strife; You are alone as a drifting spar On the stormy sea of life.
Your inner-life holds blissful peace, No quarrels threaten there, You rise within onto a mount, A giant, proud and fair.
People will come, bow down to you And honor your command, With silver words of praise they ring Your fame throughout the land.
The outer world is brightly garbed, With a siren’s call it spurs; Many a man has answered it, But never a man returns.
Who venture forth, brave angry storms, And when exhausted sleep, While the inner emptiness yields space To emotions, stirred and deep.
Learn well the art of inner life To know the joys of song. And having learned this, man decide To sing through right or wrong.
Live always in your inner-life And open not its door, Because for joys of life you give A part of you and more.
In strife I spent my inner-life, Now its songs I oft repeat. On wings of song sped life itself . . . My heart, why do you beat?
I finish now my plaintive song And lay aside the Lyre, I have lost my faith in its very strings, In myself and my desire.
The strings send forth an anguished strain Of beauty’s withered flowers, Of squandered youth, of wasted days, Of buried, ill-spent hours.
The strings have snapped and loosely hang Like a widow’s grief-torn hair, But still they ring so madly sweet Like Aeol’s harp, in air.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/An eternal symphony

Poem no. VIII from the collection Cosmic Songs (Písně kosmické)
AN ETERNAL SYMPHONY (Cosmic Songs)
World! Master Poet! You have passed through aeons long Before you set the stars in the verses of your song; Before, each single sun and its planet’s varied flowers, You wove in rhythmic cadences of poetic sparkling showers. ‘Ere out of the confusion of your chaotic thought You brought the suns together and set their wars at nought. ‘Ere to the new-born earth you said: “Awake to life!” When first you set the pace of a heart’s pulsating beat, Brought light to human eyes and said: “Go forth to strife.”
World! Master Poet! Your Hymn outlives all time Your every stanza breathes life’s restless, ageless rhyme And when it blooms, your hands once more enfold As grateful seeds of life, death’s lifeless, pallid mold. World! Master Poet! What span your Hymns’ wide wings? Darkened mystic depths, across the world’s hidden springs. Tell me how far the wings of your hymns are spread? When ’cross the sea they bic w, the ocean’s bottoms rise . . . When through the land they blow, the earth smolders to the skies. When o’er the skies they blow, worlds pause as in breathless dread.
World! Master Poet! What meaning holds your Hymn? All that within it dies, immortally lives on? There is no beauty known that does not bloom in you, There is no morn yet born that shines not in your dew. There is no ray of light that you do not reflect, And not a flower to which you pay not your respect.
Nor are there feathered throats that do not sing your strain, No children’s laughter where it does not ring out, There are no tears through which your sorrow does not spout, No wild despair wherein it does not tug in vain. There is no struggle that your thunder does not feed, No martyred hero known through whom you did not bleed. There is no longing thought in which it does not breathe, No love, no passion known wherein it does not seethe. There are no hearts on earth with tender, kindred feeling, That do not beat in tune with your Hymn’s majestic pealing.
World! Master Poet! You are the poet’s God And yet a poet too, in whose footsteps all bards must plod. And though your Hymn is as spacious as the sky, What you offer therein, but your mere fragments of your ‘I’. And we who read today the lines you wrote before, We are enthused, yet say; “The poet felt much more.” You with a creator’s joy must share the creator’s pain, And who of those who read, know the anguish your Hymns contain.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/And what I was, that I was glad to be

* related portals: Czech literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
AND WHAT I WAS, THAT I WAS GLAD TO BE
Why should I grumble at my Fate, and be sad Because Fate used me as a bouncing ball, That it patted me, or whipped me till I’d fall, That it made much of me, either good or bad From a humble question to a proud reply, I fell a hundred times and rose with glee. Many a role in God’s wide world played I, And what I was, that I was glad to be.
Fate placed me in a hardworn, narrow crib, And sewed a patch upon my humble cloak. To still my tears, floods of new tears it woke And held me short, by stabbing at my rib. Yet all about me, base pride reached high Hence to lash the pampered sons I then felt free. Many a role in God’s wide world played I, And what I was, that I was glad to be.
Then to my poverty Fate added strength, And with on even stride I measured life, Each day, each year, I grew more strong with strife. From boy to manhood I attained at length, Humble in asking, haughty in reply, And none would dare to taunt or humble me. Many a role in God’s wide world played I, And what I was, that I was glad to be.
Thus when I reached my manhood, groomed and suave, And taunting maidens made of me, as is their way, Their gardener, to serve them day by day, They sweetly said to me, “Hence you shall be our slave. Tend carefully our youth, that swiftly passes by, Youth that would ever bloom, but soon must ripened be.” Many a role in God’s wide world played I,
And what I was, that I was glad to be.
Then Fate stepped in and said: “Time flies, old man, beware! When you have reached the height of love divine, Forcefully tear her lifeless lips from thine, You live, and in your heart her dying image bear. Though longing, while the frosts of scorn rise high. Alone traverse life’s storm-swept, tossing sea.” Many a role in God’s wide world played I, And what I was, that I was glad to be.
Fate said to me, “You be the Czech’s own bard, Sing only songs that stir unhappy souls, Desperate anger, poverty’s sad tolls. Your song of love its bitterness shall guard, Its cruel frost, life’s summers will defy It shall heal men, while your heart shall shattered be Many a role in God’s wide world played I, And what I was, that I was glad to be.
It further said. “Be a soldier, do your best. Stand as the foremost guard in every strife. Though spat upon by foes throughout your life, And rocks of anger pound against your chest, Though wounded thousand times, as often die, And feel your own, your peoples’ grief and glee.” Many a role in God’s wide world played I, And what I was, that I was glad to be.
Perhaps my Fate holds other dreams in store. I know I always stood, where stood the right. And in my heart and soul, all’s sound and light. Fate as from childhood, anew my strength will try, Let each new day bring new hopes unto me. Many a role in God’s wide world played I And what I was, that I was glad to be.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/An autumn evening

* related portals: Czech literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
AN AUTUMN EVENING
Into the heated atmosphere, hungrily is seeping The twilight’s greying onrush, while the fire throws A bloody reflex on the walls . . . My soul is weeping With the subdued music of a dream whose melancholy grows.
The fog casts its darkened shadows across the lonely graves Where crosses, as if faintly sketched, pierce through the somber scene The light of eternal lamps radiates in crimson waves Over the frescoed walls and carved-out alter screens.
The forest ranges dip into a sea of silver foams, And the streams of darkened waters thicken with fogs overhead. The song of saintly nuns escapes from their cloister homes, And heavy painless sleep descends upon each sick-room bed.
Upon the marble steps, dew’s sparkling tears delay, The skeletons of trees are huddled in a greyish gear, The heavens above the earth, like a chiseled arch of grey Fashioned of vaulted rocks, span across the darkened sphere.
Time flows into the void; night’s shadows quake with dearth, The dikes of the black sea of space crumble beneath the night’s wrath, The heavy foam of darkness sputters forth, and the earth Swallowed by the gaping depths, swerves from its beaten path.
From these gigantic dimensions, I sense the hum and breath As of a thousand wings that fluttered through the night, I hear the exultant notes of souls redeemed by death, I hear the mournful plaint of a newborn’s helpless plight.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Arise! On guard!

ARISE! ON GUARD!
We know not how to sacrifice or die, Die for our country, nation, freedom’s cause! Against the benefits and blessings to our land, We cautiously weigh each selfish loss.
We know not how to sacrifice or die, We know not how to live and act as men! But should our wondrous country die some day Could we but try to live such lives again?
Through centuries we felt Fate’s heavy hand, But this shall not pursue us unto death. Though all the temples we had built by day Were shattered in the night, by treason’s breath.
Yea, every blow bestowed on us by fate Must help us anew in every risen plight. Hence let us learn to build our shrines anew, To work by day and guard them through the night.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Barkochba

BARKOCHBA
(An Excerpt)
Herein again you see our fateful lot, Eternal weeping and eternal groans! They knock their heads against the temple walls And yet, in truth, for this they should be blessed, For their despondent grief is but a sign, A living witness that we are alive.
Though we are scorned and endlessly complain; Just as a river flows beneath the ice Thus underneath the Roman tyrant’s yoke A nation lives and who shall still its voice? Before this wall, the ices are released, We are, we live, we breathe and feel again, Once more we are a Nation; ’tis this that really counts.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Adolf Heyduk

ADOLF HEYDUK
(1835–1923)
Adolph Heyduk, a contemporary of Halek and Neruda was born June 7th, 1835 and died, February 6th, 1923. Unlike so many of the Czech poets, Heyduk was not a journalist or lawyer, but spent his active years as a professor of drawing in the technical (real) schools of Pisek. The years spent in the peaceful small town environment had a marked mellowing effect upon Heyduk and his poetry reflects all the soothing tenderness of undisturbed nature. Heyduk’s genuinely sincere lyrics are a faithful reproduction of every mood of nature, of,every whim of man. His poetry is plain, simple and yet full of beauty and emotional depths. Heyduk’s journey to Italy, to Slovakia and to the Caucasus have added richness and breadth to his otherwise local subject matter, and have inspired such works as Southern Tunes, The Cymbal and the Violin and Upon the Waves
* Gypsy melodies
* Farewell
* Southern tunes
* Winter
* A letter
* Torcello
* I was ever thinking
* A dream
# The Soul Of A Century/After us .. the deluge

AFTER US . . THE DELUGE
(Apres nous deluge.)
You good old pals, you who went out to break With tight clenched fists, defiance in your hearts, You who for men a new paradise would make To you I sing before I leave these parts . . .
My own defiance chilled with rains of time And rust has sealed in one, my sheathe and sword, I know a brutal, singing crew of crime, And I love with all my heart this reckless horde.
My friends each day live for their appetites, To sink tomorrow to privations way. At night they raise their heads and each recites “Diem Perdidi” . . . I have lost a day . . .
With godly owe they do not kiss a girl . . And fertile females their interest don't claim . . In night cafes, mid squallid smoky whirl They are the knights of dames of doubtful fame . . .
I have as friends extravagent old men, We’ll gladly give our all its last refuge . . . Weflauntredrosesinourhair . . and then . .
When we are gone . . “after us, the deluge . .”
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/And when I die

AND WHEN I DIE (Graveyard Blossoms)
IV.
And when I die, my friends, wish ’twere today, Bury me in the deep woods far away, Where semi-darkness hovers through the brightest day Where it is cool, though the summer’s hot winds blow, And where, in narrow streams, the sunrays play; Where in the moss the choicest flowers grow, Where rarely sighs a plaintive forest bird, Sings not a song, but pleads in a warning tone; And where, from mankind hides, lest it be heard, Mute, hapless Love, wishing to dwell alone.
As through the woods, alone I passed life’s test, Just dreaming of my happiness and love, And when I grieved I sang to the skies above. Hence, when I die, alone I want to rest.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Procession

* The Procession, in in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Volume 29, 1831.
* The Procession, in Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans, 1836.
# The Proclamation Day

THE PROCLAMATION DAY
J. McC. SIMPSON.
Music—Tramp! Tramp!! Tramp!!!
Come my friend and let us sing, Let us make the welkin ring, For it is a glorious Celebration Day, When one dash of Lincoln's pen, Made Four Million Chattels, Men, And their yoke and galling fetters wiped away. Chorus—Hark! Hark! Hark! the Trumpet's sounding, "Hear ye the echo on the breeze? "Ninety days and you shall be, "From your yoke of bondage free, And may labor for just whom and where you please."
When the Rebel hordes with might, Were preparing for the fight, O, how gloomy was our sad condition then; We could see no glimmering ray, Not a cheering hope of day, Till we saw Old Father Abraham raise his pen. Chorus—Hark! Hark! Hark! &c.
When the rebels took their stand, With their muskets in their hand, And declared the Stars and Stripes should cease to wave, Father Abraham replied, If the Union you divide, You shall cease to hold the Negro as a slave. Chorus—Hark! Hark! Hark! &c.
Now we'll join the merry lay, This is Abr'am Lincoln's day, And we'll let the Nations know that we are free, While this banner proudly waves, We will never more be slaves; O, how thankful to our God we ought to be. Chorus—Shout! Shout! Shout! the Trumpet's sounding "All men from bondage now are free," On Columbia's pleasant soil, We no more as slaves shall toil, Now we'll join in the general jubilee.
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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