OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Chinese Empire. A General & Missionary Survey/The Province of Sinkiang

​Page:The Chinese Empire. A General & Missionary Survey.djvu/366 ​Page:The Chinese Empire. A General & Missionary Survey.djvu/367 ​Page:The Chinese Empire. A General & Missionary Survey.djvu/368 ​Page:The Chinese Empire. A General & Missionary Survey.djvu/369 ​Page:The Chinese Empire. A General & Missionary Survey.djvu/370 ​baptized Christians. There are some Swedish missionaries in Kashgar, where they have been for several years. I have also received a letter from Mr. G. Raqueue of the Swedish Mission, who is engaged in medical mission work at Yarkand, so that evangelistic, colportage, and medical work are carried on to some extent in these large centres. Mr. Hans Doring hopes to go to Ili soon, and I hope to go the southern route to Kashgar when the weather becomes cooler (1906).
The Roman Catholic Church is busy in Ili and district. Surely the Protestant Churches ought not to be less zealous. There are many difficulties to overcome. Not only is Gobi travelling very difficult, but to be a fully equipped missionary in Turkestan one needs to be well acquainted with Mohammedanism, and to be able to read a little Arabic, so as to acquire their theological terms. It is also desirable to be able to speak both the Chinese and the Turkish languages. Such equipment could be attained gradually as necessity required.
Mr. Macartney, the British Consul at Kashgar, has just sent me a letter, mentioning that moneys and letters can be sent and received viâ Gilgit, Punjab, India, in 40 days from England, and that letters viâ Russia can come from England in 22 days.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The black-haired laddie

The black-haired laddie.
[David Tough.—Air, "An gilleadh duth ciar duth."]
Alack, my sad heart! how it throbs wi' its sorrow; I ne'er can awa' wi' the thoughts o' to-morrow; My father he bargain'd to part wi' his Flora, My black-hair'd dear laddie, O tak' me awa'! My black-hair'd dear laddie, O tak' me awa'!
I flee frae the grey-headed laird an' my father, I flee to my shepherd, wha trips owre the heather; We aye were fu' glad when at e'en we'd forgather; My black-hair'd dear laddie, tak' me awa'! My black-hair'd, &c.
The story is tauld, an' her father's confounded, The ha' wi' his rage an' rampagin' resounded; The horn, an' the shout's spreadin' clamour, far sounded, To tell wha the shepherd had carried awa'. To tell, &c.
Owre hill, stream, an' valley, through bramble an' bracken, They flew till the fugitives were overtaken; They've torn them asunder, their tender hearts breakin'; The black-hair'd poor shepherd they drave him awa'. The black-hair'd, &c.
The shepherd he look'd in a sad sort o' languish, An' Flora, o'ercome, in a heart-breakin' aniruish, Exclaim'd—"Frosty-headed laird ne'er shall extinguish My love for the laddie they've driven awa'." My love, &c.
Then, Flora, my life's saul, refrain thy sad sorrow, Nor heed ye the purposed plan o' to-morrow, The doitard is doited, the shepherds, dear Flora, Ere morning's grey dawnin' will hae thee awa'. Ere morning, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The blind lassie

The blind lassie.
[Thomas C. Latto.— Here first printed.—Tune, "The Flower o' Dunblane."]
O hark to the strain that sae sweetly is ringin', And echoing clearly o'er lake and o'er lea, Like some fairy bird in the wilderness singin', It thrills to my heart, yet nae minstrel I see. Round yonder rock knittin', a dear child is sittin', Sae toilin' her pitifu' pittance is won, Hersel' tho' we see nae, 'tis mitherless Jeanie,— The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.
Five years syne come autumn she cam' wi' her mither, A sodger's puir widow, sair wasted an' gane; As brown fell the leaves, sae wi' them did she wither, And left the sweet child on the wide world her lane. She left Jeanie weepin', in His holy keepin' Wha shelters the lamb frae the cauld wintry win', We had little siller, yet a' were good till her, The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun. ​An' blythe now an' cheerfu', frae mornin' to e'enin' She sits thro' the simmer, an' gladdens ilk ear, Baith auld and young daut her, sae gentle and winnin', To a' the folks round, the wee lassie is dear. Braw leddies caress her, wi' bounties would press her, The modest bit darlin' their notice would shun, For though she has naething, proud hearted this wee thing, The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The bonnie brucket lassie

The bonnie brucket lassie.
[The two first lines of this song are old. The rest is by James Tytler, commonly called "Balloon Tytler," the editor and principal compiler of the original Encyclopedia Britannica. He was a native of Brechin, and during his life was engaged in many literary speculations. He died in the province of Massachusetts, North America, in 1805, aged fifty-eight.]
The bonnie brucket lassie, She's blue beneath the een; She was the fairest lassie That danced on the green. A lad he loo'd her dearly; She did his love return: But he his vows has broken. And left her for to mourn.
My shape, she says, was handsome, My face was fair and clean; But now I'm bonnie brucket, And blue beneath the een. My eyes were bright and sparkling, Before that they turned blue; But now they're dull with weeping, And a', my love, for you.
My person it was comely; My shape, they said, was neat: But now I am quite changed; My stays they winna meet. A' nicht I sleeped soundly; My mind was never sad; But now my rest is broken Wi' thinking o' my lad.
O could I live in darkness, Or hide me in the sea, Since my love is unfaithful, And has forsaken me! No other love I suffered, Within my breast to dwell, In nought I have offended, But loving him too well. ​Her lover heard her mourning, As by he chanced to pass: And pressed unto his bosom The lovely brucket lass. My dear, he said, cease grieving; Since that you lo'ed so true, My bonnie brucket lassie, I'll faithful prove to you.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The banks of Tarf

The banks of Tarf.
[Nicholson.—Tune, "Sin' my Uncle's dead."]
Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes, Her siller wave sae saftly rows; And mony a green-wood cluster grows, An' hare-bells bloomin', bonnie, O. Below a spreadin' hazle tree, Fu' snugly hid whar nane could see, While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e, I met my bonnie Annie, O.
Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue, Her lips like roses wet wi' dew: But O, her e'e, o' azure blue, Was past expressin' bonnie, O. Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair, That lightly wanton'd in the air; But vain were a' my skill an' mair To tell the charms o' Annie, O.
While smilin' in my arms she lay, She whisperin' in my ear did say, "O how could I survive the day, Should ye prove fause, my Tammie, O!" "While spangled fish glide to the main, While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain, Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain, I'll aye be true to Annie, O."
The Beltane winds blew loud an lang, An' ripplin' raised the spray alang; We cheerfu' sat, and chierfu' sang, The banks o' Tarf are bonnie, O. Tho' sweet is spring, whan young and gay, An' blythe the blinks o' summer's day; I fear nae winter, cauld and blae, If blest wi' love an' Annie, O.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The bashfu' Wooer

The bashfu’ Wooer.
[Anderson.—Air, "Dainty Davie."]
Whene'er ye come to woo me, Tam, Dinna at the window tap, Or cough, or hem, or gi'e a clap, To let my father hear, man: He's auld and fail'd and wants his sleep, Sae by the hallan saftly creep, Ye needna watch, and glowr, and peep, I'll meet you, never fear, man. If a lassie ye wad win, Be cheerfu' ever, bashifu' never; Ilka Jock may get a Jean, If he has sense to try, man.
Whene'er we at the market meet, Dinna look like ane hauf daft, Or talk about the cauld an heat, As ye were weather-wise, man. Haud up your head, and bauldly speak, And keep the blushes frae your cheek, For he wha has his tale to seek, We lasses a' despise, man. If a lassie, &c.
I met you lately a' your lane, Ye seem'd like ane stown frae the dead, Your teeth e'en chattered in your head, But ne'er a word o' love, man; I spak', ye look'd anither way, Then trembled as ye'd got a flay, And owre your shouther cried, "gude day," Nor ance to win me strave, man. If a lassie, &c.
My aunty left me threescore poun', But deil a ane o' a' the men Till then did bare-legg'd Elspa ken, Or car'd a strae for me, man; Now tugging at me soon and late. They're cleeking but the yellow bait. Sae mind me, Tam, I needna wait, When I ha'e choice o' three, man. If a lassie, &c.
There lives a lad owre yonder muir, He has nae faut but ane—he's puir; Whene'er we meet, wi' kisses sweet He's like to be my death, man: And there's a lad ahint yon trees, Wad waud for me aboon the knees; Sae tell your mind, or, if you please, Nae langer fash us baith, man. If a lassie, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The bonnie Moor-hen

The bonnie Moor-hen.
[Hunting song, written by Burns. Music by Lee.]
The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, Our lads gaed a hunting ae day at the dawn, O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen, At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen. ​I red you beware at the hunting, young men, I red you beware at the hunting, young men; Tak' some on the wing, And some as they spring, But cannily steal on the bonnie moor-hen.
Old Phœbus, himself, as he peeped o'er the hill, In spite at her plumage he tried his skill:
He levelled his rays where she basked in the brae, His rays were outshone, and but marked where she lay.
They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,
The best o' our lads wi' the best o' their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
Then, whirr! she was over a mile at a flight.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The bonnie Redesdale Lassie

The bonnie Redesdale Lassie.
[Robert White of Newcastle.—Here printed for the first time.]
The breath o' spring is gratefu', As mild it sweeps alang, Awaukening bud an' blossom The broomy braes amang; And wafting notes o' gladness Fra ilka bower and tree; Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is sweeter still to me! ​How bright is summer's beauty! When, smilin' far an' near, The wildest spots o' nature Their gayest livery wear: And yellow-cups, an' daisies Are spread on ilka lea; But the bonnie Redesdale lassie Mair charming is to me.
O! sweet is mellow autumn! When, wide owre a' the plain, Slow waves in rustlin' motion The heavy-headed grain; Or in the sunshine glancin', And rowin' like the sea; Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is dearer far to me!
As heaven itsel', her bosom Is free o' fraud or guile; What hope o' future pleasure Is centred in her smile! I wadna lose for kingdoms The love-glance o' her e'e;— O! the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is life and a' to me!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The bloom hath fled

The bloom hath fled.
[William Motherwell.]
The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary, As spring's rath blossoms die, And sadness hath o'ershadowed now Thy once bright eye; But, look on me, the prints of grief Still deeper lie. Farewell!
Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary, Thy step is sad and slow, The morn of gladness hath gone by Thou erst did know; I, too, am changed like thee, and weep For very woe. Farewell!
It seems as 'twere but yesterday We were the happiest twain, When murmured sighs and joyous tears, Dropping like rain, Discoursed my love, and told how loved I was again. Farewell!
'Twas not in cold and measured phrase We gave our passion name; Scorning such tedious eloquence, Our heart's fond flame And long imprisoned feelings fast In deep sobs came. Farewell!
Would that our love had been the love That merest worldlings know, When passion's draught to our doomed lips Turns utter woe, And our poor dream of happiness Vanishes so! Farewell!
But in the wreck of all our hopes, There's yet some touch of bliss, Since fate robs not our wretchedness Of this last kiss: Despair, and love, and madness, meet In this, in this.
Farewell!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The bonnie red ribbon

The bonnie red ribbon.
[Andrew Sharpe.]
My Sandy was handsome, good-natur'd, and gay; An' my Sandy wad never gainsay me; An' down in St. Johnston, ae braw market day, A bonnie red ribbon he ga'e me.
Nane looked like Sandy, sae mild and sae meek; An' nane could sae winsome array me; But death came and withered the rose on his check, That was red as the ribbon he ga'e me.
Now lanely I wander o'er mountain an' moss, Or where fancy wild wishes to stray me; And tell, wi' a tear-weet-e'e, Sandy's sad loss, To the bonnie red ribbon he ga'e me.
But shortly, some ev'ning amang the saft dew, Low down in his grave will I lay me; Syne bid a' the sorrows I suffer adieu! An' the bonnie red ribbon he ga'e me.
# The Best Hundred Books

THE Best Hundred Books.
By the Best Judges.
Pall Mall Gazette "Extra"—No. 24.
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 1924, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 99 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
# The Collected Works of Theodore Parker/Volume 08

CONTENTS TO VOL. VIII.
THE
COLLECTED WORKS
OF
THEODORE PARKER
MINISTER OF THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CONGREGATIONAL SOCIETY AT BOSTON, U.S.
CONTAINING HIS
THEOLOGICAL, POLEMICAL, AND CRITICAL WRITINGS, SERMONS, SPEECHES, AND ADDRESSES, AND LITERARY MISCELLANIES.
EDITED BY
FRANCES POWER COBBE.
VOL. VIII.
SERMONS OF THEISM, ATHEISM, AND THE POPULAR THEOLOGY.
Second Edition.
LONDON:
N. TRÜBNER & CO., 60, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1867.
LONDON: W. STEVENS, PRINTER, 37, BELL YARD, TEMPLE BAR.
MISCELLANEOUS
D I S C O U R S E S
BY
THEODORE PARKER.
LONDON:
TRÜBNER & CO., 60, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1864.
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 Coming Race (1871)/Chapter VI

CHAPTER VI.
I remained in tins unconscious state, as I afterwards learned, for many days, even for some weeks, according to our computation of time. When I recovered I was in a strange room, my host and all his family were gathered round me, and to my utter amaze my host's daughter accosted me in my own language with but a slightly foreign accent.
"How do you feel?" she asked It was some moments before I could overcome my surprise enough to falter out, "You know my language? How? Who and what are you?"
My host smiled and motioned to one of his sons, who then took from a table a number of thin metallic sheets on which were traced drawings of various figures—a house, a tree, a bird, a man, &c.
​In these designs I recognised my own style of drawing. Under each figure was written the name of it in my language, and in my writing; and in another handwriting a word strange to me beneath it.
Said the host, "Thus we began; and my daughter Zee, who belongs to the College of Sages, has been your instructress and ours too."
Zee then placed before me other metallic sheets, on which, in my writing, words first, and then sentences, were inscribed. Under each word and each sentence strange characters in another hand. Rallying my senses, I comprehended that thus a rude dictionary had been effected. Had it been done while I was dreaming?" That is enough now," said Zee, in a tone of command. "Repose and take food."
# The Coming Race (1871)/Chapter VIII

CHAPTER VIII.
When I once more awoke I saw by my bedside the child who had brought the rope and grappling-hooks to the house in which I had been first received, and which, as I afterwards learned, was the residence of the chief magistrate of the tribe. The child, whose name was Taë (pronounced Tar-ēē), was the magistrate's eldest son. I found that during my last sleep or trance I had made still greater advance in the language of the country, and could converse with comparative ease and fluency.
This child was singularly handsome, even for the beautiful race to which he belonged, with a countenance very manly in aspect for his years, and with a more vivacious and energetic expression than I had hitherto seen in the serene and passionless faces of the men. He brought me ​the tablet on which I had drawn the mode of my descent, and had also sketched the head of the horrible reptile that had scared me from my friend's corpse. Pointing to that part of the drawing, Taë put to me a few questions respecting the size and form of the monster, and the cave or chasm from which it had emerged. His interest in my answers seemed so grave as to divert him for a while from any curiosity as to myself or my antecedents. But to my great embarrassment, seeing how I was pledged to my host, he was just beginning to ask me where I came from, when Zee fortunately entered, and, overhearing him, said, "Taë, give to our guest any information he may desire, but ask none from him in return. To question him who he is, whence he comes, or wherefore he is here, would be a breach of the law which my father has laid down for this house."
"So be it," said Taë, pressing his hand to his heart; and from that moment, till the one in which I saw him last, this child, with whom I became very intimate, never once put to me any of the questions thus interdicted.
# The Coming Race (1871)/Chapter III

CHAPTER III.
Slowly and cautiously I went my solitary way down the lamplit road and towards the large building I have described. The road itself seemed like a great Alpine pass, skirting rocky mountains of which the one through whose chasms I had descended formed a link. Deep below to the left lay a vast valley, which presented to my astonished eye the unmistakable evidences of art and culture. There were fields covered with a strange vegetation, similar to none I have seen above the earth; the colour of it not green, but rather of a dull leaden hue or of a golden red.
There were lakes and rivulets which seemed to have been curbed into artificial banks; some of pure water, others that shone like pools of naphtha. At my right hand, ravines and defiles ​opened amidst the rocks, with passes between, evidently constructed by art, and bordered by trees resembling, for the most part, gigantic ferns, with exquisite varieties of feathery foliage, and stems like those of the palm-tree. Others were more like the cane-plant, but taller, bearing large clusters of flowers. Others, again, had the form of enormous fungi, with short thick stems supporting a wide dome-like roof, from which either rose or drooped long slender branches. The whole scene behind, before, and beside me, far as the eye could reach, was brilliant with innumerable lamps. The world without a sun was bright and warm as an Italian landscape at noon, but the air less oppressive, the heat softer. Nor was the scene before me void of signs of habitation. I could distinguish at a distance, whether on the banks of lake or rivulet, or halfway upon eminences, embedded amidst the vegetation, buildings that must surely be the homes of men. I could even discover, though far off, forms that appeared to me human moving amidst the landscape. As I paused to gaze, I saw to the right, gliding quickly through ​the air, what appeared a small boat, impelled by sails shaped like wings. It soon passed out of sight, descending amidst the shades of a forest. Right above me there was no sky, but only a cavernous roof. This roof grew higher and higher at the distance of the landscapes beyond, till it became imperceptible, as an atmosphere of haze formed itself beneath.
Continuing my walk, I started,—from a bush that resembled a great tangle of sea-weeds, interspersed with fern-like shrubs and plants of large leafage shaped like that of the aloe or prickly pear,—a curious animal about the size and shape of a deer. But as, after bounding away a few paces, it turned round and gazed at me inquisitively, I perceived that it was not like any species of deer now extant above the earth, but it brought instantly to my recollection a plaster cast I had seen in some museum of a variety of the elk stag, said to have existed before the Deluge. The creature seemed tame enough, and, after inspecting me a moment or two, began to graze on the singular herbage around undismayed and careless.
# The Coming Race (1871)/Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.
I now came in full sight of the building. Yes, it had been made by hands, and hollowed partly out of a great rock. I should have supposed it at the first glance to have been of the earliest form of Egyptian architecture. It was fronted by huge columns, tapering upward from massive plinths, and with capitals that, as I came nearer, I perceived to be more ornamental and more fantastically graceful than Egyptian architecture allows. As the Corinthian capital mimics the leaf of the acanthus, so the capitals of these columns imitated the foliage of the vegetation neighbouring them, some aloe-like, some fern-like. And now there came out of this building a form—human;—was it human? It stood on the broad way and looked around, beheld me and approached. It came within a few yards of me, ​and at the sight and presence of it an indescribable awe and tremor seized me, rooting my feet to the ground. It reminded me of symbolical images of Genius or Demon that are seen on Etruscan vases or limned on the walls of Eastern sepulchres—images that borrow the outlines of man, and are yet of another race. It was tall, not gigantic, but tall as the tallest men below the height of giants.
Its chief covering seemed to me to be composed of large wings folded over its breast and reaching to its knees; the rest of its attire was composed of an under tunic and leggings of some thin fibrous material. It wore on its head a kind of tiara that shone with jewels, and carried in its right hand a slender staff of bright metal like polished steel. But the face! it was that which inspired my awe and my terror. It was the face of man, but yet of a type of man distinct from our known extant races. The nearest approach to it in outline and expression is the face of the sculptured sphinx—so regular in its calm, intellectual, mysterious beauty. Its colour was peculiar, more like that of the red man than any ​other variety of our species, and yet different from it—a richer and a softer hue, with large black eyes, deep and brilliant, and brows arched as a semicircle. The face was beardless; but a nameless something in the aspect, tranquil though the expression, and beauteous though the features, roused that instinct of danger which the sight of a tiger or serpent arouses. I felt that this manlike image was endowed with forces inimical to man. As it drew near, a cold shudder came over me. I fell on my knees and covered my face with my hands.
# The Bird of Time/Songs of the Springtime/Golden Cassia

Golden Cassia
O brilliant blossoms that strew my way, You are only woodland flowers they say.
But, I sometimes think that perchance you are Fragments of some new-fallen star;
Or golden lamps for a fairy shrine, Or golden pitchers for fairy wine.
Perchance you are, O frail and sweet! Bright anklet-bells from the wild spring's feet,
Or the gleaming tears that some fair bride shed Remembering her lost maidenhead.
But now, in the memoried dusk you seem The glimmering ghosts of a bygone dream.