Respeakis in the Customer Success Management Industry

Respeak

respeak

North and South by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . CHAPTER XXI. here CHAPTER XXI. THE DARK NIGHT. “On earth is known to none The smile that is not sister to a tear.” Elliott. Margaret and her father walked home. The night was fine, the streets clean, and with her pretty white silk, like Leezie Lindsay’s gown o’ green satin, in the ballad, “kilted up to her knee,” she was off with her father—ready to dance along with the excitement of the cool, fresh night air. “I rather think Thornton is not quite easy in his mind about this strike. He seemed very anxious to-night.” “I should wonder if he were not. But he spoke with his usual coolness to the others, when they suggested different things, just before we came away.” “So he did after dinner as well. It would take a good deal to stir him from his cool manner of speaking; but his face strikes me as anxious.” “I should be, if I were he. He must know of the growing anger and hardly smothered hatred of his workpeople, who all looked upon him as what the Bible calls a ‘hard man,’—not so much unjust as unfeeling; clear in judgment, standing upon his ‘rights’ as no human being ought to stand, considering what we and all our petty rights are in the sight of the Almighty. I am glad you think he looks anxious. When I remember Boucher’s half mad words and ways, I cannot bear to think how coolly Mr. Thornton spoke.” “In the first place, I am not so convinced as you are about that man Boucher’s utter distress; for the moment, he was badly off, I don’t doubt. But there is always a mysterious supply of money from these Unions; and, from what you said, it was evident the man was of a passionate, demonstrative nature, and gave strong expression to all he felt.” “Oh, papa!” “Well! I only want you to do justice to Mr. Thornton, who is, I suspect, of an exactly opposite nature—a man who is far too proud to show his feelings. Just the character I should have thought beforehand, you would have admired, Margaret.” “So I do—so I should; but I don’t feel quite so sure as you do of the existence of those feelings. He is a man of great strength of character—of unusual intellect, considering the few advantages he has had.” “Not so few. He has led a practical life from a very early age, has been called upon to exercise judgment and self-control. All that developes one part of the intellect. To be sure, he needs some of the knowledge of the past, which gives the truest basis for conjecture as to the future; but he knows this need—he perceives it, and that is something. You are quite prejudiced against Mr. Thornton, Margaret.” “He is the first specimen of a manufacturer—of a person engaged in trade—that I had ever the opportunity of studying, papa. He is my first olive: let me make a face while I swallow it. I know he is good of his kind, and by and by I shall like the kind. I rather think I am already beginning to do so. I was very much interested by what the gentlemen were talking about, although I did not understand half of it. I was quite sorry when Miss Thornton came to take me to the other end of the room, saying she was sure I should be uncomfortable at being the only lady among so many gentlemen. I had never thought about it, I was so busy listening; and the ladies were so dull, papa—oh, so dull! Yet I think it was clever too. It reminded me of our old game of having each so many nouns to introduce into a sentence.” “What do you mean, child?” asked Mr. Hale. “Why, they took nouns that were signs of things which gave evidence of wealth,—housekeepers, under-gardeners, extent of glass, valuable lace, diamonds, and all such things; and each one formed her speech so as to bring them all in, in the prettiest accidental manner possible.” “You will be as proud of your one servant when you get her, if all is true about her that Mrs. Thornton says.” “To be sure, I shall. I felt like a great hypocrite to-night, sitting there in my white silk gown, with my idle hands before me, when I remembered all the good, thorough, house-work they had done to-day. They took me for a fine lady, I’m sure.” “Even I was mistaken enough to think you looked like a lady, my dear,” said Mr. Hale, quietly smiling. But smiles were changed to white and trembling looks when they saw Dixon’s face, as she opened the door. “Oh, master!—Oh, Miss Margaret! Thank God you are come! Dr. Donaldson is here. The servant next door went for him, for the charwoman is gone home. She’s better now; but, oh sir! I thought she’d have died an hour ago.” Mr. Hale caught Margaret’s arm to steady himself from falling. He looked at her face, and saw an expression upon it of surprise and extremest sorrow, but not the agony of terror that contracted his own unprepared heart. She knew more than he did, and yet she listened with that hopeless expression of awed apprehension. “Oh! I should not have left her—wicked daughter that I am!” moaned forth Margaret, as she supported her trembling father’s hasty steps upstairs. Dr. Donaldson met them on the landing. “She is better now,” he whispered. “The opiate has taken effect. The spasms were very bad: no wonder they frightened your maid; but she’ll rally this time.” “This time! Let me go to her!” Half an hour ago Mr. Hale was a middle-aged man; now his sight was dim, his senses wavering, his walk tottering, as if he were seventy years of age. Dr. Donaldson took his arm, and led him into the bedroom. Margaret followed close. There lay her mother, with an unmistakeable look on her face. She might be better now; she was sleeping, but Death had signed her for his own, and it was clear that ere long he would return to take possession. Mr. Hale looked at her for some time without a word. Then he began to shake all over, and, turning away from Dr. Donaldson’s anxious care, he groped to find the door; he could not see it, although several candles, brought in the sudden affright, were burning and flaring there. He staggered into the drawing-room, and felt about for a chair. Dr. Donaldson wheeled one to him, and placed him in it. He felt his pulse. “Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse him.” “Papa!” said Margaret, with a crying voice that was wild with pain. “Papa! Speak to me!” The speculation came again into his eyes, and he made a great effort. “Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it was cruel of you!” “No, sir, it was not cruel!” replied Dr. Donaldson, with quick decision. “Miss Hale acted under my directions. There may have been a mistake, but it was not cruel. Your wife will be a different creature to-morrow, I trust. She has had spasms, as I anticipated, though I did not tell Miss Hale of my apprehensions. She has taken the opiate I brought with me; she will have a good long sleep; and to-morrow that look which has alarmed you so much will have passed away.” “But not the disease?” Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her bent head, her face raised with no appeal for a temporary reprieve, showed that quick observer of human nature that she thought it better that the whole truth should be told. “Not the disease. We cannot touch the disease, with all our poor vaunted skill. We can only delay its progress—alleviate the pain it causes. Be a man, sir—a Christian. Have faith in the immortality of the soul, which no pain, no mortal disease, can assail or touch!” But all the reply he got was in the choked words, “You have never been married, Dr. Donaldson; you don’t know what it is,” and in the deep, manly sobs, which went through the stillness of the night like heavy pulses of agony. Margaret knelt by him, caressing him with tearful caresses. No one, not even Dr. Donaldson, knew how the time went by. Mr. Hale was the first to dare to speak of the necessities of the present moment. “What must we do?” asked he. “Tell us both. Margaret is my staff—my right hand.” Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible directions. No fear for to-night—nay, even peace for to-morrow, and for many days yet. But no enduring hope of recovery. He advised Mr. Hale to go to bed, and leave only one to watch the slumber, which he hoped would be undisturbed. He promised to come again early in the morning. And, with a warm and kindly shake of the hand, he left them. They spoke but few words; they were too much exhausted by their terror to do more than decide upon the immediate course of action. Mr. Hale was resolved to sit up through the night, and all that Margaret could do was to prevail upon him to rest on the drawing-room sofa. Dixon stoutly and bluntly refused to go to bed; and, as for Margaret, it was simply impossible that she should leave her mother, let all the doctors in the world speak of “husbanding resources,” and “one watcher only being required.” So, Dixon sat, and stared, and winked, and drooped, and picked herself up again with a jerk, and finally gave up the battle, and fairly snored. Margaret had taken off her gown and tossed it aside with a sort of impatient disgust, and put on her dressing-gown. She felt as if she never could sleep again; as if her whole senses were acutely vital, and all endued with double keenness, for the purpose of watching. Every sight and sound—nay, even every thought, touched some nerve to the very quick. For more than two hours, she heard her father’s restless movements in the next room. He came perpetually to the door of her mother’s chamber, pausing there to listen, till she, not hearing his close unseen presence, went and opened it to tell him how all went on, in reply to the questions his baked lips could hardly form. At last he, too, fell asleep, and all the house was still. Margaret sat behind the curtain thinking. Far away in time, far away in space, seemed all the interests of past days. Not more than thirty-six hours ago, she cared for Bessy Higgins and her father, and her heart was wrung for Boucher; now, that was all like a dreaming memory of some former life;—everything that had passed out of doors seemed dissevered from her mother, and therefore unreal. Even Harley Street appeared more distinct; there she remembered, as if it were yesterday, how she had pleased herself with tracing out her mother’s features in her Aunt Shaw’s face,—and how letters had come, making her dwell on the thoughs of home with all the longing of love. Helstone, itself, was in the dim past. The dull gray days of the preceding winter and spring, so uneventless and monotonous, seemed more associated with what she cared for now above all price. She would fain have caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed it to return, and give her back what she had too little valued while it was yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed! How unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting! It was as if from some aërial belfry, high up above the stir and jar of the earth, there was a bell continually tolling, “All are shadows!—all are passing!—all is past!” And when the morning dawned, cool and gray, like many a happier morning before—when Margaret looked one by one at the sleepers, it seemed as if the terrible night were unreal as a dream; it, too, was a shadow. It, too, was past. Mrs. Hale herself was not aware when she awoke, how ill she had been the night before. She was rather surprised at Dr. Donaldson’s early visit, and perplexed by the anxious faces of husband and child. She consented to remain in bed that day, saying she certainly was tired; but, the next, she insisted on getting up; and Dr. Donaldson gave his consent to her returning into the drawing-room. She was restless and uncomfortable in every position, and before night she became very feverish. Mr. Hale was utterly listless, and incapable of deciding on anything. “What can we do to spare mamma such another night?” asked Margaret on the third day. “It is to a certain degree, the reaction after the powerful opiates I have been obliged to use. It is more painful for you to see than for her to bear, I believe. But, I think, if we could get a water-bed it might be a good thing. Not but what she will be better to-morrow; pretty much like herself as she was before this attack. Still, I should like her to have a water-bed. Mrs. Thornton has one, I know. I’ll try and call there this afternoon. Stay,” said he, his eye catching on Margaret’s face, blanched with watching in a sick room, “I’m not sure whether I can go; I’ve a long round to take. It would do you no harm to have a brisk walk to Marlborough Street, and ask Mrs. Thornton if she can spare it.” “Certainly,” said Margaret. “I could go while mamma is asleep this afternoon. I’m sure Mrs. Thornton would lend it to us.” Dr. Donaldson’s experience told him rightly. Mrs. Hale seemed to shake off the consequences of her attack, and looked brighter and better this afternoon than Margaret had ever hoped to see her again. Her daughter left her after dinner, sitting in her easy chair, with her hand lying in her husband’s, who looked more worn and suffering than she by far. Still, he could smile now—rather slowly, rather faintly, it is true; but a day or two before, Margaret never thought to see him smile again. It was about two miles from their house in Crampton Crescent to Marlborough Street. It was too hot to walk very quickly. An August sun beat straight down into the street at three o’clock in the afternoon. Margaret went along, without noticing anything very different from usual in the first mile and a half of her journey; she was absorbed in her own thoughts, and had learnt by this time to thread her way through the irregular stream of human beings that flowed through Milton streets. But, by and by, she was struck with an unusual heaving among the mass of people in the crowded road on which she was entering. They did not appear to be moving on, so much as talking, and listening, and buzzing with excitement without much stirring from the spot where they might happen to be. Still, as they made way for her, and, wrapt up in the purpose of her errand, and the necessities that suggested it, she was less quick of observation than she might have been, if her mind had been at ease. She had got into Marlborough Street before the full conviction forced itself upon her, that there was a restless, oppressive sense of irritation abroad among the people; a thunderous atmosphere, morally as well as physically, around her. From every narrow lane opening out on Marlborough Street came up a low distant roar, as of myriads of fierce indignant voices. The inhabitants of each poor squalid dwelling were gathered round the doors and windows, if indeed they were not actually standing in the middle of the narrow ways—all with looks intent towards one point. Marlborough Street itself was the focus of all those human eyes, that betrayed intensest interest of various kinds; some fierce with anger, some lowering with relentless threats! some dilated with fear, or imploring entreaty; and as Margaret reached the small side-entrance by the folding doors, in the great dead wall of Marlborough mill-yard, and waited the porter’s answer to the bell, she looked round and heard the first long far-off roll of the tempest;—saw the first slow-surging wave of the dark crowd come, with its threatening crest, tumble over, and retreat, at the far end of the street, which a moment ago seemed so full of repressed noise, but which now was ominously still; all these circumstances forced themselves on Margaret’s notice, but did not sink down into her pre-occupied heart. She did not know what they meant—what was their deep significance; while she did know, did feel the keen sharp pressure of the knife that was soon to stab her through and through by leaving her motherless. She was trying to realise that, in order that, when it came, she might be ready to comfort her father. The porter opened the door cautiously, not nearly wide enough to admit her. “It’s you, is it, ma’am?” said he, drawing a long breath, and widening the entrance, but still not opening it fully. Margaret went in. He hastily bolted it behind her. “Th’ folk are all coming up here, I reckon?” asked he. “I don’t know. Something unusual seemed going on; but this street is quite empty, I think.” She went across the yard and put up the steps to the house door. There was no near sound,—no steam engine at work with beat and pant,—no click of machinery, no mingling and clashing of many sharp voices; but far away, the ominous gathering roar, deep-clamouring. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell (2003). North and South. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4276/pg4276-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

THE DARK NIGHT.

The master mind of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . JOHN CARTER JOHN CARTER Half an hour before the evening meal we carried Xaxa and Sag Or down the spiral runway and placed them in the base of the Great Tur and Gor Hajus and I took our places on the upper platform behind the eyes and voice of the idol. Valla Dia, Dar Tarus and Hovan Du remained in the royal apartments. Our plans were well formulated. There was no one between the door at the rear of the Great Tur and the flier that lay ready on the roof in the event that we were forced to flee through any miscarriage of our mad scheme. The minutes dragged slowly by and darkness fell. The time was approaching. We heard the doors of the temple open and beyond we saw the great corridor brilliantly lighted. It was empty except for two priests who stood hesitating nervously in the doorway. Finally one of them mustered up sufficient courage to enter and switch on the lights. More bravely now they advanced and prostrated themselves before the altar of the Great Tur. When they arose and looked up into the face of the idol I could not resist the temptation to turn those huge eyes until they had rolled completely about the interior of the chamber and rested again upon the priests; but I did not speak and I think the effect of the awful silence in the presence of the living god was more impressive than would words have been. The two priests simply collapsed. They slid to the floor and lay there trembling, moaning and supplicating Tur to have mercy on them, nor did they rise before the first of the worshippers arrived. Thereafter the temple filled rapidly and I could see the word of Tur had been well and thoroughly disseminated. They came as they had before; but there were more this time, and they ranged upon either side of the central aisle and there they waited, their eyes divided between the doorway and the god. About the time that I thought the next scene was about to be enacted I let Tur’s eyes travel over the assemblage that they might be keyed to the proper pitch for what was to follow. They reacted precisely as had the priests, falling upon the floor and moaning and supplicating; and there they remained until the sounds of bugles announced the coming of the Jeddara. Then they rose unsteadily to their feet. The great doors swung open and there was the carpet and the slaves behind it. As they rolled it down towards the altar the bugles sounded louder and the head of the royal procession came into view. I had ordered it thus to permit of greater pageantry than was possible when the doors opened immediately upon the head of the procession. My plan permitted the audience to see the royal retinue advancing down the long corridor and the effect was splendid. First came the double rank of nobles and behind these the chariot drawn by the two banths, bearing the litter upon which reclined Valla Dia. Behind her walked Dar Tarus, but all within that room thought they were looking upon the Jeddara Xaxa and her favorite, Sag Or. Hovan Du walked behind Sag Or and following came the fifty young men and the fifty maidens. The chariot halted before the altar and Valla Dia descended and knelt and the voices that had been chanting the praises of Xaxa were stilled as the beautiful creature extended her hands towards the Great Tur and looked up into his face. “We are ready, Master!” she cried. “Speak! We await the word of Tur!” A gasp arose from the kneeling assemblage, a gasp that ended in a sob. I felt that they were pretty well worked up and that everything ought to go off without a hitch. I placed the speaking-tube to my lips. “I am Tur!” I thundered and the people trembled. “I come to pass judgment on the men of Phundahl. As you receive my word so shall you prosper or so shall you perish. The sins of the people may be atoned by two who have sinned most in my sight.” I let the eyes of Tur rove about over the audience and then brought them to rest upon Valla Dia. “Xaxa, are you ready to atone for your sins and for the sins of your people?” Valla Dia bowed her beautiful head. “Thy will is law, Master!” she replied. “And Sag Or,” I continued, “you have sinned. Are you prepared to pay?” “As Tur shall require,” said Dar Tarus. “Then it is my will,” I boomed, “that Xaxa and Sag Or shall give back to those from whom they stole them, the beautiful bodies they now wear; that he from whom Sag Or took this body shall become Jeddak of Phundahl and High Priest of Tur; and that she from whom Xaxa stole her body shall be returned in pomp to her native country. I have spoken. Let any who would revolt against my word speak now or for ever hold his peace.” There was no objection voiced. I had felt pretty certain that there would not be. I doubt if any god ever looked down upon a more subdued and chastened flock. As I had talked, Gor Hajus had descended to the base of the idol and removed the bonds from the feet and legs of Xaxa and Sag Or. “Extinguish the lights!” I commanded. A trembling priest did my bidding. Valla Dia and Dar Tarus were standing side by side before the altar when the lights went out. In the next minute they and Gor Hajus must have worked fast, for when I heard a low whistle from the interior of the idol’s base, the prearranged signal that Gor Hajus had finished his work, and ordered the lights on again, there stood Xaxa and Sag Or where Valla Dia and Dar Tarus had been, and the latter were nowhere in sight. I think the dramatic effect of that transformation upon the people there was the most stupendous thing I have ever seen. There was no cord or gag upon either Xaxa or Sag Or, nothing to indicate that they had been brought hither by force—no one about who might have so brought them. The illusion was perfect—it was a gesture of omnipotence that simply staggered the intellect. But I wasn’t through. “You have heard Xaxa renounce her throne,” I said, “and Sag Or submit to the judgment of Tur.” “I have not renounced my throne!” cried Xaxa. “It is all a——” “Silence!” I thundered. “Prepare to greet the new Jeddak, Dar Tarus of Phundahl!” I turned my eyes towards the great doors and the eyes of the assemblage followed mine. They swung open and there stood Dar Tarus, resplendent in the trappings of Hora San, the long dead Jeddak and high priest, whose bones we had robbed in the base of the idol an hour earlier. How Dar Tarus had managed to make the change so quickly is beyond me, but he had done it and the effect was colossal. He looked every inch a Jeddak as he moved with slow dignity up the wide aisle along the blue and gold and white carpet. Xaxa turned purple with rage. “Impostor!” she shrieked. “Seize him! Kill him!” and she ran forward to meet him as though she would slay him with her bare hands. “Take her away,” said Dar Tarus in a quiet voice, and at that Xaxa fell foaming to the floor. She shrieked and gasped and then lay still—a wicked old woman dead of apoplexy. And when Sag Or saw her lying there he must have been the first to realize that she was dead and that there was now no one to protect him from the hatreds that are leveled always at the person of a ruler’s favorite. He looked wildly about for an instant and then threw himself at the feet of Dar Tarus. “You promised to protect me!” he cried. “None shall harm you,” replied Dar Tarus. “Go your way and live in peace.” Then he turned his eyes upward towards the face of the Great Tur. “What is thy will, Master?” he cried. “Dar Tarus, thy servant, awaits thy commands!” I permitted an impressive silence before I replied. “Let the priests of Tur, the lesser nobles and a certain number of the Jeddak’s Guard go forth into the city and spread the word of Tur among the people that they may know that Tur smiles again upon Phundahl and that they have a new Jeddak who stands high in the favor of Tur. Let the higher nobles attend presently in the chambers that were Xaxa’s and do honor to Valla Dia in whose perfect body their Jeddara once ruled them, and effect the necessary arrangements for her proper return to Duhor, her native city. There also will they find two who have served Tur well and these shall be accorded the hospitality and friendship of every Phundahlian—Gor Hajus of Toonol and Vad Varo of Jasoom. Go! and when the last has gone let the temple be darkened. I, Tur, have spoken!” Valla Dia had gone directly to the apartments of the former Jeddara and the moment that the lights were extinguished Gor Hajus and I joined her. She could not wait to hear the outcome of our ruse, and when I assured her that there had been no hitch the tears came to her eyes for very joy. “You have accomplished the impossible, my chieftain,” she murmured, “and already can I see the hills of Duhor and the towers of my native city. Ah, Vad Varo, I had not dreamed that life might again hold for me such happy prospects. I owe you life and more than life.” We were interrupted by the coming of Dar Tarus, and with him were Hovan Du and a number of the higher nobles. The latter received us pleasantly, though I think they were mystified as to just how we were linked with the service of their god; nor, I am sure, did one of them ever learn. They were frankly delighted to be rid of Xaxa; and while they could not understand Tur’s purpose in elevating a former warrior of the Guard to the throne, yet they were content if it served to relieve them from the wrath of their god, now a very real and terrible god, since the miracles that had been performed in the temple. That Dar Tarus had been of a noble family relieved them of embarrassment, and I noted that they treated him with great respect. I was positive that they would continue to treat him so, for he was also high priest and for the first time in a hundred years he would bring to the Great Tur in the royal Temple the voice of god, for Hovan Du had agreed to take service with Dar Tarus, and Gor Hajus as well, so that there would never be lacking a tongue wherewith Tur might speak. I foresaw great possibilities for the reign of Dar Tarus, Jeddak of Phundahl. At the meeting held in the apartments of Xaxa it was decided that Valla Dia should rest two days in Phundahl while a small fleet was preparing to transport her to Duhor. Dar Tarus assigned Xaxa’s apartments for her use and gave her slaves from different cities to attend upon her, all of whom were to be freed and returned with Valla Dia to her native land. It was almost dawn before we sought our sleeping silks and furs and the sun was high before we awoke. Gor Hajus and I breakfasted with Valla Dia, outside whose door we had spread our beds that we might not leave her unprotected for a moment that it was not necessary. We had scarce finished our meal when a messenger came from Dar Tarus summoning us to the audience chamber, where we found some of the higher officers of the court gathered about the throne upon which Dar Tarus sat, looking every inch an emperor. He greeted us kindly, rising and descending from his dais to receive Valla Dia and escort her to one of the benches he had placed beside the throne for her and for me. “There is one,” he said to me, “who has come to Phundahl over night and now begs audience of the Jeddak—one whom I thought you might like to meet again,” and he signed to one of his attendants to admit the petitioner; and when the doors at the opposite end of the room opened I saw Ras Thavas standing there. He did not recognize me or Valla Dia or Gor Hajus until he was almost at the foot of the throne, and when he did he looked puzzled and glanced again quickly at Dar Tarus. “Ras Thavas of the Tower of Thavas, Toonol,” announced an officer. “What would Ras Thavas of the Jeddak of Phundahl?” asked Dar Tarus. “I came seeking audience of Xaxa,” replied Ras Thavas, “not knowing of her death or your accession until this very morning; but I see Sag Or upon Xaxa’s throne and beside him one whom I thought was Xaxa, though they tell me Xaxa is dead, and another who was my assistant at Thavas and one who is the Assassin of Toonol, and I am confused, Jeddak, and do not know whether I be among friends or foes.” “Speak as though Xaxa still sat upon the throne of Phundahl,” Dar Tarus told him, “for though I am Dar Tarus, whom you wronged, and not Sag Or, yet need you have no fear in the court of Phundahl.” “Then let me tell you that Vobis Kan, Jeddak of Toonol, learning that Gor Hajus had escaped me, swore that I had set him free to assassinate him, and he sent warriors who took my island and would have imprisoned me had I not been warned in time to escape; and I came hither to Xaxa to beg her to send warriors to drive the men of Toonol from my island and restore it to me that I may carry on my scientific labors.” Dar Tarus turned to me. “Vad Varo, of all others you are most familiar with the work of Ras Thavas. Would you see him again restored to his island and his laboratory?” “Only on condition that he devote his great skill to the amelioration of human suffering,” I replied, “and no longer prostitute it to the foul purposes of greed and sin.” This led to a discussion which lasted for hours, the results of which were of far-reaching significance. Ras Thavas agreed to all that I required and Dar Tarus commissioned Gor Hajus to head an army against Toonol. But these matters, while of vast interest to those most directly concerned, have no direct bearing upon the story of my adventures upon Barsoom, as I had no part in them, since upon the second day I boarded a flier with Valla Dia and, escorted by a Phundahlian fleet, set out towards Duhor. Dar Tarus accompanied us for a short distance. When the fleet was stopped at the shore of the great marsh he bade us farewell, and was about to step to the deck of his own ship and return to Phundahl when a shout arose from the deck of one of the other ships and word was soon passed that a lookout had sighted what appeared to be a great fleet far to the south-west. Nor was it long before it became plainly visible to us all and equally plain that it was headed for Phundahl. Dar Tarus told me then that as much as he regretted it, there seemed nothing to do but return at once to his capital with the entire fleet, since he could not spare a single ship or man if this proved an enemy fleet, nor could Valla Dia or I interpose any objection; and so we turned about and sped as rapidly as the slow ships of Phundahl permitted back towards the city. The stranger fleet had sighted us at about the same time that we had sighted it, and we saw it change its course and bear down upon us; and as it came nearer it fell into single file and prepared to encircle us. I was standing at Dar Tarus’ side when the colors of the approaching fleet became distinguishable and we first learned that it was from Helium. “Signal and ask if they come in peace,” directed Dar Tarus. “We seek word with Xaxa, Jeddara of Phundahl,” came the reply. “The question of peace or war will be hers to decide.” “Tell them that Xaxa is dead and that I, Dar Tarus, Jeddak of Phundahl, will receive the commander of Helium’s fleet in peace upon the deck of this ship, or that I will receive him in war with all my guns. I, Dar Tarus, have spoken!” From the bow of a great ship of Helium there broke the flag of truce and when Dar Tarus’ ship answered it in kind the other drew near and presently we could see the men of Helium upon her decks. Slowly the great flier came alongside our smaller ship and when the two had been made fast a party of officers boarded us. They were fine looking men, and at their head was one whom I recognized immediately though I never before had laid eyes upon him. I think he was the most impressive figure I have ever seen as he advanced slowly across the deck towards us—John Carter, Prince of Helium, Warlord of Barsoom. “Dar Tarus,” he said, “John Carter greets you and in peace, though it had been different, I think, had Xaxa still reigned.” “You came to war upon Xaxa?” asked Dar Tarus. “We came to right a wrong,” replied the Warlord. “But from what we know of Xaxa that could have been done only by force.” “What wrong has Phundahl done Helium?” demanded Dar Tarus. “The wrong was against one of your own people—even against you in person.” “I do not understand,” said Dar Tarus. “There is one aboard my ship who may be able to explain to you, Dar Tarus,” replied John Carter, with a smile. He turned and spoke to one of his aides in a whisper, and the man saluted and returned to the deck of his own ship. “You shall see with your own eyes, Dar Tarus.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “This is indeed Dar Tarus who was a warrior of the Jeddara’s Guard and supposedly assassinated by her command?” “It is,” replied Dar Tarus. “I must be certain,” said the Warlord. “There is no question about it, John Carter,” I spoke up in English. His eyes went wide, and when they fell upon me and he noted my lighter skin, from which the dye was wearing away, he stepped forward and held out his hand. “A countryman?” he asked. “Yes, an American,” I replied. “I was almost surprised,” he said. “Yet why should I be? I have crossed—there is no reason why others should not. And you have accomplished it! You must come to Helium with me and tell me all about it.” Further conversation was interrupted by the return of the aide, who brought a young woman with him. At sight of her Dar Tarus uttered a cry of joy and sprang forward, and I did not need to be told that this was Kara Vasa. There is little more to tell that might not bore you in the telling—of how John Carter himself took Valla Dia and me to Duhor after attending the nuptials of Dar Tarus and Kara Vasa; and of the great surprise that awaited me in Duhor, where I learned for the first time that Kor San, Jeddak of Duhor, was the father of Valla Dia; and of the honors and the great riches that he heaped upon me when Valla Dia and I were wed. John Carter was present at the wedding and we initiated upon Barsoom a good old American custom, for the Warlord acted as best man; and then he insisted that we follow that up with a honeymoon and bore us off to Helium, where I am writing this. Even now it seems like a dream that I can look out of my window and see the scarlet and the yellow towers of the twin cities of Helium; that I have met, and see daily, Cathoris, Thuvia of Ptarth, Tara of Helium, Gahan of Gathol and that peerless creature, Dejah Thoris, Princess of Mars. Though to me, beautiful as she is, there is another even more beautiful—Valla Dia, Princess of Duhor—Mrs. Ulysses Paxton. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Edgar Rice Burroughs (2023). The master mind of Mars. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/69703/pg69703-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

JOHN CARTER

The Golden Road by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE FIRST NUMBER OF “OUR MAGAZINE” CHAPTER V. THE FIRST NUMBER OF “OUR MAGAZINE” The first number of Our Magazine was ready on New Year’s Day, and we read it that evening in the kitchen. All our staff had worked nobly and we were enormously proud of the result, although Dan still continued to scoff at a paper that wasn’t printed. The Story Girl and I read it turnabout while the others, except Felix, ate apples. It opened with a short EDITORIAL With this number Our Magazine makes its first bow to the public. All the editors have done their best and the various departments are full of valuable information and amusement. The tastefully designed cover is by a famous artist, Mr. Blair Stanley, who sent it to us all the way from Europe at the request of his daughter. Mr. Peter Craig, our enterprising literary editor, contributes a touching love story. (Peter, aside, in a gratified pig’s whisper: “I never was called ‘Mr.’ before.”) Miss Felicity King’s essays on Shakespeare is none the worse for being an old school composition, as it is new to most of our readers. Miss Cecily King contributes a thrilling article of adventure. The various departments are ably edited, and we feel that we have reason to be proud of Our Magazine. But we shall not rest on our oars. “Excelsior” shall ever be our motto. We trust that each succeeding issue will be better than the one that went before. We are well aware of many defects, but it is easier to see them than to remedy them. Any suggestion that would tend to the improvement of Our Magazine will be thankfully received, but we trust that no criticism will be made that will hurt anyone’s feelings. Let us all work together in harmony, and strive to make Our Magazine an influence for good and a source of innocent pleasure, and let us always remember the words of the poet. “The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upwards in the night.” (Peter, IMPRESSIVELY:—“I’ve read many a worse editorial in the Enterprise.”) ESSAY ON SHAKESPEARE Shakespeare’s full name was William Shakespeare. He did not always spell it the same way. He lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth and wrote a great many plays. His plays are written in dialogue form. Some people think they were not written by Shakespeare but by another man of the same name. I have read some of them because our school teacher says everybody ought to read them, but I did not care much for them. There are some things in them I cannot understand. I like the stories of Valeria H. Montague in the Family Guide ever so much better. They are more exciting and truer to life. Romeo and Juliet was one of the plays I read. It was very sad. Juliet dies and I don’t like stories where people die. I like it better when they all get married especially to dukes and earls. Shakespeare himself was married to Anne Hatheway. They are both dead now. They have been dead a good while. He was a very famous man. FELICITY KING. (PETER, MODESTLY: “I don’t know much about Shakespeare myself but I’ve got a book of his plays that belonged to my Aunt Jane, and I guess I’ll have to tackle him as soon as I finish with the Bible.”) THE STORY OF AN ELOPEMENT FROM CHURCH This is a true story. It happened in Markdale to an uncle of my mothers. He wanted to marry Miss Jemima Parr. Felicity says Jemima is not a romantic name for a heroin of a story but I cant help it in this case because it is a true story and her name realy was Jemima. My mothers uncle was named Thomas Taylor. He was poor at that time and so the father of Miss Jemima Parr did not want him for a soninlaw and told him he was not to come near the house or he would set the dog on him. Miss Jemima Parr was very pretty and my mothers uncle Thomas was just crazy about her and she wanted him too. She cried almost every night after her father forbid him to come to the house except the nights she had to sleep or she would have died. And she was so frightened he might try to come for all and get tore up by the dog and it was a bull-dog too that would never let go. But mothers uncle Thomas was too cute for that. He waited till one day there was preaching in the Markdale church in the middle of the week because it was sacrament time and Miss Jemima Parr and her family all went because her father was an elder. My mothers uncle Thomas went too and set in the pew just behind Miss Jemima Parrs family. When they all bowed their heads at prayer time Miss Jemima Parr didnt but set bolt uprite and my mothers uncle Thomas bent over and wispered in her ear. I dont know what he said so I cant right it but Miss Jemima Parr blushed that is turned red and nodded her head. Perhaps some people may think that my mothers uncle Thomas shouldent of wispered at prayer time in church but you must remember that Miss Jemima Parrs father had thretened to set the dog on him and that was hard lines when he was a respektable young man though not rich. Well when they were singing the last sam my mothers uncle Thomas got up and went out very quitely and as soon as church was out Miss Jemima Parr walked out too real quick. Her family never suspekted anything and they hung round talking to folks and shaking hands while Miss Jemima Parr and my mothers uncle Thomas were eloping outside. And what do you suppose they eloped in. Why in Miss Jemima Parrs fathers slay. And when he went out they were gone and his slay was gone also his horse. Of course my mothers uncle Thomas didnt steal the horse. He just borroed it and sent it home the next day. But before Miss Jemima Parrs father could get another rig to follow them they were so far away he couldent catch them before they got married. And they lived happy together forever afterwards. Mothers uncle Thomas lived to be a very old man. He died very suddent. He felt quite well when he went to sleep and when he woke up he was dead. PETER CRAIG. MY MOST EXCITING ADVENTURE The editor says we must all write up our most exciting adventure for Our Magazine. My most exciting adventure happened a year ago last November. I was nearly frightened to death. Dan says he wouldn’t of been scared and Felicity says she would of known what it was but it’s easy to talk. It happened the night I went down to see Kitty Marr. I thought when I went that Aunt Olivia was visiting there and I could come home with her. But she wasn’t there and I had to come home alone. Kitty came a piece of the way but she wouldn’t come any further than Uncle James Frewen’s gate. She said it was because it was so windy she was afraid she would get the tooth-ache and not because she was frightened of the ghost of the dog that haunted the bridge in Uncle James’ hollow. I did wish she hadn’t said anything about the dog because I mightn’t of thought about it if she hadn’t. I had to go on alone thinking of it. I’d heard the story often but I’d never believed in it. They said the dog used to appear at one end of the bridge and walk across it with people and vanish when he got to the other end. He never tried to bite anyone but one wouldn’t want to meet the ghost of a dog even if one didn’t believe in him. I knew there was no such thing as ghosts and I kept saying a paraphrase over to myself and the Golden Text of the next Sunday School lesson but oh, how my heart beat when I got near the hollow! It was so dark. You could just see things dim-like but you couldn’t see what they were. When I got to the bridge I walked along sideways with my back to the railing so I couldn’t think the dog was behind me. And then just in the middle of the bridge I met something. It was right before me and it was big and black, just about the size of a Newfoundland dog, and I thought I could see a white nose. And it kept jumping about from one side of the bridge to the other. Oh, I hope none of my readers will ever be so frightened as I was then. I was too frightened to run back because I was afraid it would chase me and I couldn’t get past it, it moved so quick, and then it just made one spring right on me and I felt its claws and I screamed and fell down. It rolled off to one side and laid there quite quiet but I didn’t dare move and I don’t know what would have become of me if Amos Cowan hadn’t come along that very minute with a lantern. And there was me sitting in the middle of the bridge and that awful thing beside me. And what do you think it was but a big umbrella with a white handle? Amos said it was his umbrella and it had blown away from him and he had to go back and get the lantern to look for it. I felt like asking him what on earth he was going about with an umbrella open when it wasent raining. But the Cowans do such queer things. You remember the time Jerry Cowan sold us God’s picture. Amos took me right home and I was thankful for I don’t know what would have become of me if he hadn’t come along. I couldn’t sleep all night and I never want to have any more adventures like that one. CECILY KING. PERSONALS Mr. Dan King felt somewhat indisposed the day after Christmas—probably as the result of too much mince pie. (DAN, INDIGNANTLY:—“I wasn’t. I only et one piece!”) Mr. Peter Craig thinks he saw the Family Ghost on Christmas Eve. But the rest of us think all he saw was the white calf with the red tail. (PETER, MUTTERING SULKILY:—“It’s a queer calf that would walk up on end and wring its hands.”) Miss Cecily King spent the night of Dec. 20th with Miss Kitty Marr. They talked most of the night about new knitted lace patterns and their beaus and were very sleepy in school next day. (CECILY, SHARPLY:—“We never mentioned such things!”) Patrick Grayfur, Esq., was indisposed yesterday, but seems to be enjoying his usual health to-day. The King family expect their Aunt Eliza to visit them in January. She is really our great-aunt. We have never seen her but we are told she is very deaf and does not like children. So Aunt Janet says we must make ourselves scarece when she comes. Miss Cecily King has undertaken to fill with names a square of the missionary quilt which the Mission Band is making. You pay five cents to have your name embroidered in a corner, ten cents to have it in the centre, and a quarter if you want it left off altogether. (CECILY, INDIGNANTLY:—“That isn’t the way at all.”) ADS. WANTED—A remedy to make a fat boy thin. Address, “Patient Sufferer, care of Our Magazine.” (FELIX, SOURLY:—“Sara Ray never got that up. I’ll bet it was Dan. He’d better stick to his own department.”) HOUSEHOLD DEPARTMENT Mrs. Alexander King killed all her geese the twentieth of December. We all helped pick them. We had one Christmas Day and will have one every fortnight the rest of the winter. The bread was sour last week because mother wouldn’t take my advice. I told her it was too warm for it in the corner behind the stove. Miss Felicity King invented a new recete for date cookies recently, which everybody said were excelent. I am not going to publish it though, because I don’t want other people to find it out. ANXIOUS INQUIRER:—If you want to remove inkstains place the stain over steam and apply salt and lemon juice. If it was Dan who sent this question in I’d advise him to stop wiping his pen on his shirt sleeves and then he wouldn’t have so many stains. FELICITY KING. ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT F-l-x:—Yes, you should offer your arm to a lady when seeing her home, but don’t keep her standing too long at the gate while you say good night. (FELIX, ENRAGED:—“I never asked such a question.”) C-c-l-y:—No, it is not polite to use “Holy Moses” or “dodgasted” in ordinary conversation. (Cecily had gone down cellar to replenish the apple plate, so this passed without protest.) S-r-a:—No, it isn’t polite to cry all the time. As to whether you should ask a young man in, it all depends on whether he went home with you of his own accord or was sent by some elderly relative. F-l-t-y:—It does not break any rule of etiquette if you keep a button off your best young man’s coat for a keepsake. But don’t take more than one or his mother might miss them. DAN KING. FASHION NOTES Knitted mufflers are much more stylish than crocheted ones this winter. It is nice to have one the same colour as your cap. Red mittens with a black diamond pattern on the back are much run after. Em Frewen’s grandma knits hers for her. She can knit the double diamond pattern and Em puts on such airs about it, but I think the single diamond is in better taste. The new winter hats at Markdale are very pretty. It is so exciting to pick a hat. Boys can’t have that fun. Their hats are so much alike. CECILY KING. FUNNY PARAGRAPHS This is a true joke and really happened. There was an old local preacher in New Brunswick one time whose name was Samuel Clask. He used to preach and pray and visit the sick just like a regular minister. One day he was visiting a neighbour who was dying and he prayed the Lord to have mercy on him because he was very poor and had worked so hard all his life that he hadn’t much time to attend to religion. “And if you don’t believe me, O Lord,” Mr. Clask finished up with, “just take a look at his hands.” FELIX KING. GENERAL INFORMATION BUREAU DAN:—Do porpoises grow on trees or vines? Ans. Neither. They inhabit the deep sea. FELIX KING. (DAN, AGGRIEVED:—“Well, I’d never heard of porpoises and it sounded like something that grew. But you needn’t have gone and put it in the paper.” FELIX:—“It isn’t any worse than the things you put in about me that I never asked at all.” CECILY, SOOTHINGLY:—“Oh, well, boys, it’s all in fun, and I think Our Magazine is perfectly elegant.” FELICITY, FAILING TO SEE THE STORY GIRL AND BEVERLEY EXCHANGING WINKS BEHIND HER BACK:—“It certainly is, though SOME PEOPLE were so opposed to starting it.”) What harmless, happy fooling it all was! How we laughed as we read and listened and devoured apples! Blow high, blow low, no wind can ever quench the ruddy glow of that faraway winter night in our memories. And though Our Magazine never made much of a stir in the world, or was the means of hatching any genius, it continued to be capital fun for us throughout the year. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2008). The Golden Road. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/316/pg316-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

THE FIRST NUMBER OF “OUR MAGAZINE”

Step into the vibrant crossroads of leadership and business triumph, where the elusive force of Emotional Intelligence (EI) shines. Here, leaders maneuver through more than just numbers and plans; they navigate the complex realm of human emotions. Join us in uncovering how mastering Emotional Intelligence fuels potent leadership, propelling businesses to unprecedented success. Components of Emotional Intelligence The depth of Emotional Intelligence (EI) to the core of its profound mastery, to unleash effective leadership and success across various life domains, cannot be clenched. To become an emotionally intelligent individual, some intricate skills are required, which elevate emotional intelligence above board to certainly unparalleled heights. Centered at the heart of Emotional Intelligence is self-awareness, and it forms a cornerstone and foundational. This includes leaders who are aware of their own emotions, strengths, as well as vulnerabilities. The relevance of self-awareness is in steering leaders towards being authentic and making them deeply understand the impact they have on those they lead. Self-awareness: In decision-making processes, self-aware leaders sail through challenges with clarity, aligning choices with both personal values and the objectives laid down by the organization. : Topsy-turvy ways constitute the leadership journey, and self-regulation is a rule book guiding through emotional terrain. Effective management of emotions in various leadership scenarios makes people prevent impulsive reactions and compose their demeanor. The ability to handle stress and pressure with equanimity not only bespeaks the team but also gives an example of being resilient and the ability to adapt. Self-regulation : Acts as the fuel for success, motivating propels leaders beyond personal ambition. Motivated leaders inspire the people they work with, and therefore, this creates a support structure for establishing a culture of vision and excellence. This starts from within an individual, and then it spreads to every one of the team members running them through to achieve greatness. Motivation : Understanding others constitutes the heartbeat of robust leadership. Empathy enables leaders to connect with team members on a profound level, recognizing diverse perspectives and emotions. By acknowledging and validating others' feelings, leaders construct robust relationships based on trust and mutual respect. This, in turn, establishes a supportive and collaborative work environment. Empathy Effective communication and collaborative leadership act as the social glue binding the facets of Emotional Intelligence together. Leaders with finely tuned social skills articulate their thoughts clearly, actively listen, and navigate interpersonal relationships with finesse. This results in cohesive teamwork, where diverse talents converge toward common goals, and the synergy among team members becomes a catalyst for success. Social Skills: Emotional Intelligence in Leadership Examining instances of remarkable achievements, we find individuals whose elevated Emotional Intelligence (EI) has been instrumental. A noteworthy illustration is Satya Nadella, Microsoft's CEO. His empathic approach and adept team connection have redefined Microsoft's culture, propelling innovation. Nadella's mastery of emotions showcases how EI fortifies resilient, high-performing organizations. Leadership Epitomized: Undertaking EI in leadership presents both challenges and rewards. While facing resistance and initial skepticism, the benefits are profound. Leaders wielding high EI foster robust workplace relationships, adeptly handle conflicts, and galvanize teams toward collective objectives. This results in an organizational culture thriving on collaboration and adaptability. Navigating EI in Leadership: Acknowledging EI's transformative power, organizations actively invest in programs nurturing this skill in leaders. Workshops, coaching, and mentorship programs aim to heighten self-awareness, nurture empathy, and refine interpersonal skills. Developing EI transcends personal growth—it stands as an investment in the enduring success of the entire team. Cultivating Emotional Intelligence in Leaders: Emotional Intelligence in Business Success Emotional Intelligence revolutionizes the heartbeat of any organization—the culture. Leaders attuned to the emotions of their team members foster an environment of trust, openness, and collaboration. In such cultures, employees feel valued, leading to increased loyalty and motivation. When EI permeates the workplace, innovation flourishes, and resilience becomes second nature. It's not just a feel-good factor; it's the cornerstone of a thriving organizational ecosystem. Teams fueled by Emotional Intelligence operate like well-oiled machines. Leaders with high EI navigate the complexities of human relationships, ensuring effective communication and conflict resolution. This emotional finesse creates a harmonious work environment where team members understand and support each other. With a shared sense of purpose and emotional connectivity, productivity soars, and teams become agile in the face of challenges. In essence, EI is the catalyst for unlocking the full potential of every team member. Happy employees lead to happy customers. Emotional Intelligence extends beyond the office walls, influencing how businesses interact with their clientele. Leaders skilled in EI understand the nuances of customer emotions, enhancing the overall customer experience. Whether it's empathizing with concerns or delighting in successes, businesses infused with emotional intelligence create lasting impressions. Satisfied customers not only become loyal patrons but also enthusiastic advocates, driving sustained business success. Strategies for Developing Emotional Intelligence Investing in Emotional Intelligence (EI) training is pivotal for personal and professional growth. These programs offer valuable insights and practical exercises to boost self-awareness and navigate leadership emotions effectively. One-on-one coaching provides personalized guidance, fostering self-reflection and emotional regulation, while mentoring imparts wisdom from seasoned leaders. Strategic leadership plans must seamlessly integrate EI components, signaling its cultural importance. This involves aligning recruitment, training, and performance processes with EI competencies. Leadership programs can include targeted activities to nurture EI skills, ensuring it become ingrained in the organization's leadership DNA. Measuring Emotional Intelligence Unraveling emotional intelligence (EI) is vital for personal and professional growth; tools like the Emotional Intelligence Appraisal and MSCEIT offer structured evaluations of aspects such as self-awareness and interpersonal skills. However, accurately measuring EI faces challenges due to the subjective nature of emotions, cultural influences, and self-reporting bias. To overcome these hurdles, a nuanced approach combining self-assessment with objective measures is essential for a comprehensive understanding of emotional intelligence. Measuring EI is an ongoing process requiring continuous improvement; it serves as a starting point for growth, with regular feedback, targeted development programs, and real-world applications contributing to sustained improvement. Embracing a growth mindset enables individuals to refine their emotional intelligence over time, adapting to evolving personal and professional contexts. Final Thoughts In the ever-changing realm of leadership and business, emotional intelligence quietly becomes the key to success; navigating and understanding emotions, both in oneself and others, stands as the foundation of effective leadership. By tapping into the power of emotional intelligence, leaders cultivate resilient teams, make empathetic decisions, and achieve lasting business triumphs. This seamless integration of emotions and leadership brings forth the most genuine and enduring expression of success.

The Role of Emotional Intelligence in Leadership and Business Success

Let's take a look at how one may setup an ad-hoc, local (offline) text-to-speech synthesizer  using , piper-whistle and named pipes. piper To setup piper on a GNU/Linux based system, I'll describe a general architecture using named pipes, which is straight forward enough to allow for system wide text-to-speech, with a little bit of manual setup, the help of piper-whistle and some minor trade-offs (it's simple, yet it won't support parallel speech processing). To start, let's fetch the latest piper stand-alone built from its ( at the time of writing this). After downloading the compressed archive, we'll create a directory structure for our piper setup. The root directory shall be at with the following sub-directories: repository hosted on github 2023.11.14-2 /opt/wind (will house the piper built) /opt/wind/piper (will contain the named pipes) /opt/wind/channels After decompressing, the piper executable should be available at , as well the accompanying libraries and . /opt/wind/piper/piper espeak-ng-data For managing voice models used by piper, I'd recommend using piper-whistle, a command-line utility written in python, which makes it more convenient to download and manage voices. You can get the latest wheel file from its or release page, or use the most recent release available through pip via . After installing piper-whistle, let's fetch a voice to generate some speech. First we’ll update the database by calling . For English speech, I quite like the female voice called alba. Using whistle, we can get a list of all available English (GB) voices using . The voice is at index 2. So to install it, simply call . gitlab github pip install -U piper-whistle piper_whistle -vR piper_whistle list -l en_GB piper_whistle install en_GB 2 Next, let's create the necessary named pipes. The resulting structure will look like this: (accepts JSON payload) /opt/wind/channels/speak (read by piper) /opt/wind/channels/input (written by piper) /opt/wind/channels/ouput To create a named pipe, you may use the following command: mkfifo -m 755 /opt/wind/channels/input Finally, we create three processes in separate shells: tty0: tail -F /opt/wind/channels/speak | tee /opt/wind/channels/input tty1: /opt/wind/piper/piper -m $(piper_whistle path alba@medium) --debug --json-input --output_raw < /opt/wind/channels/input > /opt/wind/channels/output tty2: aplay --buffer-size=777 -r 22050 -f S16_LE -t raw < /opt/wind/channels/output The process on tty0 makes sure, the pipe is kept open, even after the processing by piper or has been finished. This way, we can queue TTS requests and subsequently play or save them. aplay Since piper-whistle offers additional features if you use the structure above, we can now generate speech via . On systems with X11 you may generate a spoken version of the text in your clipboard via . piper_whistle speak "This is quite neat" piper_whistle speak "$(xsel --clipboard --output)"

How To Set up Piper Speech Synthesizer on a Local Machine

স্থানীয় মেশিনে পাইপার স্পিচ সিন্থেসাইজার কীভাবে সেট আপ করবেন

So richten Sie Piper Speech Synthesizer auf einem lokalen Computer ein

Cómo configurar el sintetizador de voz Piper en una máquina local

Comment configurer le synthétiseur vocal Piper sur une machine locale

स्थानीय मशीन पर पाइपर स्पीच सिंथेसाइज़र कैसे स्थापित करें

ローカル マシンで Piper Speech Synthesizer をセットアップする方法

로컬 시스템에서 Piper Speech Synthesizer를 설정하는 방법

Como configurar o sintetizador de fala Piper em uma máquina local

Как настроить синтезатор речи Piper на локальном компьютере

Yerel Makinede Piper Konuşma Sentezleyicisi Nasıl Kurulur

Cách thiết lập Bộ tổng hợp giọng nói Piper trên máy cục bộ

如何在本地计算机上设置 Piper 语音合成器

REVIVING HOPES AND BRIGHTENING PROSPECTS.

THE MODERN THEORY OF LIGHT

Mr. Cheesacre's Fate

Rouge et Noir

North and South by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . CHAPTER XXIX. here CHAPTER XXIX. A RAY OF SUNSHINE. “Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it, And one or two poor melancholy pleasures, Each in the pale unwarming light of hope, Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by— Moths in the moonbeam!” Coleridge. The next morning brought Margaret a letter from Edith. It was affectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the affection was charming to Margaret’s own affectionate nature; and she had grown up with the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it. It was as follows:— “Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from England to see my boy! He is a superb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most especially in the one you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered, persevering little lady! Having made all the mothers here envious, I want to show him to somebody new, and hear a fresh set of admiring expressions; perhaps, that’s all the reason; perhaps it is not—nay, possibly, there is just a little cousinly love mixed with it; but I do want you so much to come here, Margaret! I’m sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale’s health; everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue, and our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from morning till night; and, to come back to the burden of my ditty, my baby always smiles. I am constantly wanting you to draw him from me, Margaret. It does not signify what he is doing; that very thing is prettiest, gracefullest, best. I think I love him a great deal better than my husband, who is getting stout, and grumpy—what he calls ‘busy.’ No! he is not. He has just come in with news of such a charming pic-nic, given by the officers of the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below. Because he has brought in such a pleasant piece of news, I retract all I said just now. Did not somebody burn his hand for having said or done something he was sorry for? Well, I can’t burn mine, because it would hurt me, and the scar would be ugly; but I’ll retract all I said as fast as I can. Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a bit stout, and as ungrumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes he is very, very busy. I may say that without love—wifely duty—- where was I?—I had something very particular to say, I know, once. Oh, it is this—Dearest Margaret!—you must come and see me; it would do Aunt Hale good, as I said before. Get the doctor to order it for her. Tell him that it’s the smoke of Milton that does her harm. I have no doubt it is that, really. Three months (you must not come for less) of this delicious climate—all sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries, would quite cure her. I don’t ask my uncle”—(Here the letter became more constrained, and better written. Mr. Hale was in the corner, like a naughty child, for having given up his living.)—“because, I dare say, he disapproves of war, soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many Dissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he would not like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy; and I’ll hide up Cosmo’s red coat and sword, and make the band play all sorts of grave, solemn things; or, if they do play pomps and vanities, it shall be in double slow time. Dear Margaret, if he would like to accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try and make it pleasant, though I’m rather afraid of any one who has done anything for conscience’ sake. You never did, I hope. Tell Aunt Hale not to bring any warm clothes, though I’m afraid it will be late in the year before you can come. But you have no idea of the heat here! I tried to wear my great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic. I kept myself up with proverbs as long as I could; ‘Pride must abide,’—and such wholesome pieces of pith; but it was no use. I was like mamma’s little dog Tiny with an elephant’s trappings on; smothered, hidden, killed with my finery; so I made it into a capital carpet for us all to sit down upon. Here’s this boy of mine, Margaret—if you don’t pack up your things as soon as you get this letter, and come straight off to see him, I shall think you’re descended from King Herod!” Margaret did long for a day of Edith’s life—her freedom from care, her cheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could have transported her, she would have gone off; just for one day. She yearned for the strength which such a change would give—even for a few hours to be in the midst of that bright life, and to feel young again. Not yet twenty! and she had had to bear up against such hard pressure that she felt quite old. That was her first feeling after reading Edith’s letter. Then she read it again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at its likeness to Edith’s self, and was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale came into the drawing-room, leaning on Dixon’s arm. Margaret flew to adjust the pillows. Her mother seemed more than usually feeble. “What were you laughing at, Margaret?” asked she, as soon as she had recovered from the exertion of settling herself on the sofa. “A letter I have had this morning from Edith. Shall I read it to you, mamma?” She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her mother, who kept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy, and suggesting all probable names, and all possible reasons why each and all of these names should be given. Into the very midst of these wonders Mr. Thornton came, bringing another offering of fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could not—say rather, he would not—deny himself the chance of the pleasure of seeing Margaret. He had no end in this but the present gratification. It was the sturdy wilfulness of a man usually most reasonable and self-controlled. He entered the room, taking in at a glance the fact of Margaret’s presence; but after the first cold distant bow, he never seemed to let his eyes fall on her again. He only stayed to present his peaches—to speak some gentle kindly words—and then his cold offended eyes met Margaret’s with a grave farewell, as he left the room. She sat down silent and pale. “Do you know, Margaret, I really begin to like Mr. Thornton.” No answer at first. Then Margaret forced out an icy “Do you?” “Yes! I think he is really getting quite polished in his manners.” Margaret’s voice was more in order now. She replied, “He is very kind and attentive—there is no doubt of that.” “I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I am ill, because of the water-bed.” “I dare say, she hears how you are from her son.” “Still, I should like to see her. You have so few friends here, Margaret.” Margaret felt what was in her mother’s thoughts—a tender craving to bespeak the kindness of some woman towards the daughter that might soon be left motherless. But she could not speak. “Do you think,” said Mrs. Hale, after a pause, “that you could go and ask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me? Only once—I don’t want to be troublesome.” “I will do anything, if you wish it, mamma—but if—but when Frederick comes——” “Ah, to be sure! we must keep our doors shut—we must let no one in. I hardly know whether I dare wish him to come or not. Sometimes I think I would rather not. Sometimes I have such frightful dreams about him.” “Oh, mamma! we’ll take good care. I will put my arm in the bolt sooner than he should come to the slightest harm. Trust the care of him to me, mamma. I will watch over him like a lioness over her young.” “When can we hear from him?” “Not for a week yet, certainly—perhaps more.” “We must send Martha away in good time. It would never do to have her here when he comes, and then send her off in a hurry.” “Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was thinking that, if we wanted any help in the house while he is here, we could perhaps get Mary Higgins. She is very slack of work, and is a good girl, and would take pains to do her best, I am sure, and would sleep at home, and need never come upstairs, so as to know who is in the house.” “As you please. As Dixon pleases. But, Margaret, don’t get to use these horrid Milton words. ‘Slack of work:’ it is a provincialism. What will your aunt Shaw say, if she hears you use it on her return?” “Oh, mamma! don’t try and make a bugbear of aunt Shaw,” said Margaret, laughing. “Edith picked up all sorts of military slang from Captain Lennox, and aunt Shaw never took any notice of it.” “But yours is factory slang.” “And if I live in a factory town, I must speak factory language when I want it. Why, mamma, I could astonish you with a great many words you never heard in your life. I don’t believe you know what a knobstick is.” “Not I, child. I only know it has a very vulgar sound; and I don’t want to hear you using it.” “Very well, dearest mother, I won’t. Only I shall have to use a whole explanatory sentence instead.” “I don’t like this Milton,” said Mrs. Hale. “Edith is right enough in saying it’s the smoke that has made me so ill.” Margaret started up as her mother said this. Her father had just entered the room, and she was most anxious that the faint impression she had seen on his mind that the Milton air had injured her mother’s health, should not be deepened—should not receive any confirmation. She could not tell whether he had heard what Mrs. Hale had said or not; but she began speaking hurriedly of other things, unaware that Mr. Thornton was following him. “Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal of vulgarity since we came to Milton.” The “vulgarity” Margaret spoke of, referred purely to the use of local words, and the expression arose out of the conversation they had just been holding. But Mr. Thornton’s brow darkened; and Margaret suddenly felt how her speech might be misunderstood by him; so, in the natural sweet desire to avoid giving unnecessary pain, she forced herself to go forwards with a little greeting, and continue what she was saying, addressing herself to him expressly. “Now, Mr. Thornton, though ‘knobstick’ has not a very pretty sound, is it not expressive? Could I do without it, in speaking of the thing it represents? If using local words is vulgar, I was very vulgar in the Forest,—was I not, mamma?” It was unusual with Margaret to obtrude her own subject of conversation on others; but, in this case, she was so anxious to prevent Mr. Thornton from feeling annoyance at the words he had accidentally overheard, that it was not until she had done speaking that she coloured all over with consciousness, more especially as Mr. Thornton seemed hardly to understand the exact gist or bearing of what she was saying, but passed her by, with a cold reserve of ceremonious movement, to speak to Mrs. Hale. The sight of him reminded her of the wish to see his mother, and commend Margaret to her care. Margaret, sitting in burning silence, vexed and ashamed of her difficulty in keeping her right place, and her calm unconsciousness of heart, when Mr. Thornton was by, heard her mother’s slow entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would come and see her; see her soon; to-morrow, if it were possible. Mr. Thornton promised that she should—conversed a little, and then took his leave; and Margaret’s movements and voice seemed at once released from some invisible chains. He never looked at her; and yet, the careful avoidance of his eyes betokened that in some way he knew exactly where, if they fell by chance, they would rest on her. If she spoke, he gave no sign of attention, and yet his next speech to any one else was modified by what she had said; sometimes there was an express answer to what she had remarked, but given to another person as though unsuggested by her. It was not the bad manners of ignorance; it was the wilful bad manners arising from deep offence. It was wilful at the time; repented of afterwards. But no deep plan, no careful cunning could have stood him in such good stead. Margaret thought about him more than she had ever done before; not with any tinge of what is called love, but with regret that she had wounded him so deeply,—and with a gentle, patient striving to return to their former position of antagonistic friendship; for a friend’s position was what she found that he had held in her regard, as well as in that of the rest of the family. There was a pretty humility in her behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising for the over-strong words which were the reaction from the deeds of the day of the riot. But he resented those words bitterly. They rung in his ears; and he was proud of the sense of justice which made him go in every kindness he could offer to her parents. He exulted in the power he showed in compelling himself to face her, whenever he could think of any action which might give her father or mother pleasure. He thought that he disliked seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was mistaken. It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and feel her presence. But he was no great analyser of his own motives and was mistaken, as I have said. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell (2003). North and South. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4276/pg4276-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

A RAY OF SUNSHINE.

A CHANCE MEETING

Mathilda by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . CHAPTER VIII here CHAPTER VIII I was carried to the next town: fever succeeded to convulsions and faintings, & for some weeks my unhappy spirit hovered on the very verge of death. But life was yet strong within me; I recovered: nor did it a little aid my returning health that my recollections were at first vague, and that I was too weak to feel any violent emotion. I often said to myself, my father is dead. He loved me with a guilty passion, and stung by remorse and despair he killed himself. Why is it that I feel no horror? Are these circumstances not dreadful? Is it not enough that I shall never more meet the eyes of my beloved father; never more hear his voice; no caress, no look? All cold, and stiff, and dead! Alas! I am quite callous: the night I was out in was fearful and the cold rain that fell about my heart has acted like the waters of the cavern of Antiparos and has changed it to stone. I do not weep or sigh; but I must reason with myself, and force myself to feel sorrow and despair. This is not resignation that I feel, for I am dead to all regret. I communed in this manner with myself, but I was silent to all around me. I hardly replied to the slightest question, and was uneasy when I saw a human creature near me. I was surrounded by my female relations, but they were all of them nearly strangers to me: I did not listen to their consolations; and so little did they work their designed effect that they seemed to me to be spoken in an unknown tongue. I found if sorrow was dead within me, so was love and desire of sympathy. Yet sorrow only slept to revive more fierce, but love never woke again—its ghost, ever hovering over my father’s grave, alone survived—since his death all the world was to me a blank except where woe had stampt its burning words telling me to smile no more—the living were not fit companions for me, and I was ever meditating by what means I might shake them all off, and never be heard of again. My convalescence rapidly advanced, yet this was the thought that haunted me, and I was for ever forming plans how I might hereafter contrive to escape the tortures that were prepared for me when I should mix in society, and to find that solitude which alone could suit one whom an untold grief seperated from her fellow creatures. Who can be more solitary even in a crowd than one whose history and the never ending feelings and remembrances arising from it is known to no living soul. There was too deep a horror in my tale for confidence; I was on earth the sole depository of my own secret. I might tell it to the winds and to the desart heaths but I must never among my fellow creatures, either by word or look give allowance to the smallest conjecture of the dread reality: I must shrink before the eye of man lest he should read my father’s guilt in my glazed eyes: I must be silent lest my faltering voice should betray unimagined horrors. Over the deep grave of my secret I must heap an impenetrable heap of false smiles and words: cunning frauds, treacherous laughter and a mixture of all light deceits would form a mist to blind others and be as the poisonous simoon to me. I, the offspring of love, the child of the woods, the nursling of Nature’s bright self was to submit to this? I dared not. sic How must I escape? I was rich and young, and had a guardian appointed for me; and all about me would act as if I were one of their great society, while I must keep the secret that I really was cut off from them for ever. If I fled I should be pursued; in life there was no escape for me: why then I must die. I shuddered; I dared not die even though the cold grave held all I loved; although I might say with Job Where is now my hope? For my hope who shall see it? They shall go down together to the bars of the pit, when our rest together is in the dust— Yes my hope was corruption and dust and all to which death brings us.—Or after life—No, no, I will not persuade myself to die, I may not, dare not. And then I wept; yes, warm tears once more struggled into my eyes soothing yet bitter; and after I had wept much and called with unavailing anguish, with outstretched arms, for my cruel father; after my weak frame was exhausted by all variety of plaint I sank once more into reverie, and once more reflected on how I might find that which I most desired; dear to me if aught were dear, a death-like solitude. I dared not die, but I might feign death, and thus escape from my comforters: they will believe me united to my father, and so indeed I shall be. For alone, when no voice can disturb my dream, and no cold eye meet mine to check its fire, then I may commune with his spirit; on a lone heath, at noon or at midnight, still I should be near him. His last injunction to me was that I should be happy; perhaps he did not mean the shadowy happiness that I promised myself, yet it was that alone which I could taste. He did not conceive that ever qu. ? again I could make one of the smiling hunters that go coursing after bubles that break to nothing when caught, and then after a new one with brighter colours; my hope also had proved a buble, but it had been so lovely, so adorned that I saw none that could attract me after it; besides I was wearied with the pursuit, nearly dead with weariness. never I would feign to die; my contented heirs would seize upon my wealth, and I should purchase freedom. But then my plan must be laid with art; I would not be left destitute, I must secure some money. Alas! to what loathsome shifts must I be driven? Yet a whole life of falsehood was otherwise my portion: and when remorse at being the contriver of any cheat made me shrink from my design I was irresistably led back and confirmed in it by the visit of some aunt or cousin, who would tell me that death was the end of all men. And then say that my father had surely lost his wits ever since my mother’s death; that he was mad and that I was fortunate, for in one of his fits he might have killed me instead of destroying his own crazed being. And all this, to be sure, was delicately put; not in broad words for my feelings might be hurt but Whispered so and soIn dark hint soft and low with downcast eyes, and sympathizing smiles or whimpers; and I listened with quiet countenance while every nerve trembled; I that dared not utter aye or no to all this blasphemy. Oh, this was a delicious life quite void of guile! I with my dove’s look and fox’s heart: for indeed I felt only the degradation of falsehood, and not any sacred sentiment of conscious innocence that might redeem it. I who had before clothed myself in the bright garb of sincerity must now borrow one of divers colours: it might sit awkwardly at first, but use would enable me to place it in elegant folds, to lie with grace. Aye, I might die my soul with falsehood untill I had quite hid its native colour. Oh, beloved father! Accept the pure heart of your unhappy daughter; permit me to join you unspotted as I was or you will not recognize my altered semblance. As grief might change Constance so would deceit change me untill in heaven you would say, “This is not my child”—My father, to be happy both now and when again we meet I must fly from all this life which is mockery to one like me. In solitude only shall I be myself; in solitude I shall be thine. Alas! I even now look back with disgust at my artifices and contrivances by which, after many painful struggles, I effected my retreat. I might enter into a long detail of the means I used, first to secure myself a slight maintenance for the remainder of my life, and afterwards to ensure the conviction of my death: I might, but I will not. I even now blush at the falsehoods I uttered; my heart sickens: I will leave this complication of what I hope I may in a manner call innocent deceit to be imagined by the reader. The remembrance haunts me like a crime—I know that if I were to endeavour to relate it my tale would at length remain unfinished. I was led to London, and had to endure for some weeks cold looks, cold words and colder consolations: but I escaped; they tried to bind me with fetters that they thought silken, yet which weighed on me like iron, although I broke them more easily than a girth formed of a single straw and fled to freedom. The few weeks that I spent in London were the most miserable of my life: a great city is a frightful habitation to one sorrowing. The sunset and the gentle moon, the blessed motion of the leaves and the murmuring of waters are all sweet physicians to a distempered mind. The soul is expanded and drinks in quiet, a lulling medecine—to me it was as the sight of the lovely water snakes to the bewitched mariner—in loving and blessing Nature I unawares, called down a blessing on my own soul. But in a city all is closed shut like a prison, a wiry prison from which you can peep at the sky only. I can not describe to you what were the frantic nature of my sensations while I resided there; I was often on the verge of madness. Nay, when I look back on many of my wild thoughts, thoughts with which actions sometimes endeavoured to keep pace; when I tossed my hands high calling down the cope of heaven to fall on me and bury me; when I tore my hair and throwing it to the winds cried, “Ye are free, go seek my father!” And then, like the unfortunate Constance, catching at them again and tying them up, that nought might find him if I might not. How, on my knees I have fancied myself close to my father’s grave and struck the ground in anger that it should cover him from me. Oft when I have listened with gasping attention for the sound of the ocean mingled with my father’s groans; and then wept untill my strength was gone and I was calm and faint, when I have recollected all this I have asked myself if this were not madness. While in London these and many other dreadful thoughts too harrowing for words were my portion: I lost all this suffering when I was free; when I saw the wild heath around me, and the evening star in the west, then I could weep, gently weep, and be at peace. sic Do not mistake me; I never was really mad. I was always conscious of my state when my wild thoughts seemed to drive me to insanity, and never betrayed them to aught but silence and solitude. The people around me saw nothing of all this. They only saw a poor girl broken in spirit, who spoke in a low and gentle voice, and from underneath whose downcast lids tears would sometimes steal which she strove to hide. One who loved to be alone, and shrunk from observation; who never smiled; oh, no! I never smiled—and that was all. Well, I escaped. I left my guardian’s house and I was never heard of again; it was believed from the letters that I left and other circumstances that I planned that I had destroyed myself. I was sought after therefore with less care than would otherwise have been the case; and soon all trace and memory of me was lost. I left London in a small vessel bound for a port in the north of England. And now having succeeded in my attempt, and being quite alone peace returned to me. The sea was calm and the vessel moved gently onwards, I sat upon deck under the open canopy of heaven and methought I was an altered creature. Not the wild, raving & most miserable Mathilda but a youthful Hermitess dedicated to seclusion and whose bosom she must strive to keep free from all tumult and unholy despair—The fanciful nunlike dress that I had adopted; the knowledge that my very existence was a secret known only to myself; the solitude to which I was for ever hereafter destined nursed gentle thoughts in my wounded heart. The breeze that played in my hair revived me, and I watched with quiet eyes the sunbeams that glittered on the waves, and the birds that coursed each other over the waters just brushing them with their plumes. I slept too undisturbed by dreams; and awoke refreshed to again enjoy my tranquil freedom. In four days we arrived at the harbour to which we were bound. I would not remain on the sea coast, but proceeded immediately inland. I had already planned the situation where I would live. It should be a solitary house on a wide plain near no other habitation: where I could behold the whole horizon, and wander far without molestation from the sight of my fellow creatures. I was not mysanthropic, but I felt that the gentle current of my feelings depended upon my being alone. I fixed myself on a wide solitude. On a dreary heath bestrewen with stones, among which short grass grew; and here and there a few rushes beside a little pool. Not far from my cottage was a small cluster of pines the only trees to be seen for many miles: I had a path cut through the furze from my door to this little wood, from whose topmost branches the birds saluted the rising sun and awoke me to my daily meditation. My view was bounded only by the horizon except on one side where a distant wood made a black spot on the heath, that every where else stretched out its faint hues as far as the eye could reach, wide and very desolate. Here I could mark the net work of the clouds as they wove themselves into thick masses: I could watch the slow rise of the heavy thunder clouds and could see the rack as it was driven across the heavens, or under the pine trees I could enjoy the stillness of the azure sky. My life was very peaceful. I had one female servant who spent the greater part of the day at a village two miles off. My amusements were simple and very innocent; I fed the birds who built on the pines or among the ivy that covered the wall of my little garden, and they soon knew me: the bolder ones pecked the crumbs from my hands and perched on my fingers to sing their thankfulness. When I had lived here some time other animals visited me and a fox came every day for a portion of food appropriated for him & would suffer me to pat his head. I had besides many books and a harp with which when despairing I could soothe my spirits, and raise myself to sympathy and love. Love! What had I to love? Oh many things: there was the moonshine, and the bright stars; the breezes and the refreshing rains; there was the whole earth and the sky that covers it: all lovely forms that visited my imagination, all memories of heroism and virtue. Yet this was very unlike my early life although as then I was confined to Nature and books. Then I bounded across the fields; my spirit often seemed to ride upon the winds, and to mingle in joyful sympathy with the ambient air. Then if I wandered slowly I cheered myself with a sweet song or sweeter day dreams. I felt a holy rapture spring from all I saw. I drank in joy with life; my steps were light; my eyes, clear from the love that animated them, sought the heavens, and with my long hair loosened to the winds I gave my body and my mind to sympathy and delight. But now my walk was slow—My eyes were seldom raised and often filled with tears; no song; no smiles; no careless motion that might bespeak a mind intent on what surrounded it—I was gathered up into myself—a selfish solitary creature ever pondering on my regrets and faded hopes. Mine was an idle, useless life; it was so; but say not to the lily laid prostrate by the storm arise, and bloom as before. My heart was bleeding from its death’s wound; I could live no otherwise—Often amid apparent calm I was visited by despair and melancholy; gloom that nought could dissipate or overcome; a hatred of life; a carelessness of beauty; all these would by fits hold me nearly annihilated by their powers. Never for one moment when most placid did I cease to pray for death. I could be found in no state of mind which I would not willingly have exchanged for nothingness. And morning and evening my tearful eyes raised to heaven, my hands clasped tight in the energy of prayer, I have repeated with the poet— Before I see another day Oh, let this body die away! Let me not be reproached then with inutility; I believed that by suicide I should violate a divine law of nature, and I thought that I sufficiently fulfilled my part in submitting to the hard task of enduring the crawling hours & minutes—in bearing the load of time that weighed miserably upon me and that in abstaining from what I in my calm moments considered a crime, I deserved the reward of virtue. There were periods, dreadful ones, during which I despaired—& doubted the existence of all duty & the reality of crime—but I shudder, and turn from the rememberance. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (2005). Mathilda. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/15238/pg15238-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

I was carried to the next town

Mr. and Mrs. Quiverful Are Made Happy. Mr. Slope is Encouraged by the Press

Ullathorne Sports—Act III

On War by Carl Von Clausewitz, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . Flank Positions Book VI: Chapter XIV. Flank Positions We have only allotted to this prominent conception, in the world of ordinary military theory, a special chapter in dictionary fashion, that it may the more easily be found; for we do not believe that anything independent in itself is denoted by the term. Every position which is to be held, even if the enemy passes by it, is a flank position; for from the moment that he does so it can have no other efficacy but that which it exercises on the enemy’s strategic flank. Therefore, necessarily, all strong positions are flank positions as well; for as they cannot be attacked, the enemy accordingly is driven to pass them by, therefore they can only have a value by their influence on his strategic flank. The direction of the proper front of a strong position is quite immaterial, whether it runs parallel with the enemy’s strategic flank, as Colberg, or at right angles as Bunzelwitz and Drissa, for a strong position must front every way. But it may also be desirable still to maintain a position which is not unassailable, even if the enemy passes by it, should its situation, for instance, give us such a preponderating advantage in the comparative relations of the lines of retreat and communication, that we can not only make an efficacious attack on the strategic flank of the advancing enemy, but also that the enemy alarmed for his own retreat is unable to seize ours entirely; for if that last is not the case, then because our position is not a strong, that is not an unassailable one, we should run the risk of being obliged to fight without having the command of any retreat. The year 1806 affords an example which throws a light on this. The disposition of the Prussian army, on the right bank of the Saal, might in respect to Buonaparte’s advance by Hof, have become in every sense a flank position, if the army had been drawn up with its front parallel to the Saal, and there, in that position, waited the progress of events. If there had not been here such a disproportion of moral and physical powers, if there had only been a Daun at the head of the French army, then the Prussian position might have shown its efficacy by a most brilliant result. To pass it by was quite impossible; that was acknowledged by Buonaparte, by his resolution to attack it; in severing from it the line of retreat even Buonaparte himself did not completely succeed, and if the disproportion in physical and moral relations had not been quite so great, that would have been just as little practicable as the passing it by, for the Prussian army was in much less danger from its left wing being overpowered than the French army would have been by the defeat of their left wing. Even with the disproportion of physical and moral power as it existed, a resolute and sagacious exercise of the command would still have given great hopes of a victory. There was nothing to prevent the Duke of Brunswick from making arrangements on the 13th, so that on the morning of the 14th, at day-break, he might have opposed 80,000 men to the 60,000 with which Buonaparte passed the Saal, near Jena and Dornburg. Had even this superiority in numbers, and the steep valley of the Saal behind the French not been sufficient to procure a decisive victory, still it was a fortunate concurrence of circumstances, and if with such advantages no successful decision could be gained, no decision was to be expected in that district of country; and we should, therefore, have retreated further, in order to gain reinforcements and weaken the enemy. The Prussian position on the Saal, therefore, although assailable, might have been regarded as a flank position in respect to the great road through Hof; but like every position which can be attacked, that property is not to be attributed to it absolutely, because it would only have become so if the enemy had not attempted to attack it. Still less would it bespeak a clear idea if those positions which cannot be maintained after the enemy has passed by them, and from which, in consequence of that, the defensive seeks to attack the assailant’s flank, were called flank positions merely because his attack is directed against a flank; for this flank attack has hardly anything to do with the position itself, or, at least, is not mainly produced by its properties, as is the case in the action against a strategic flank. It appears from this that there is nothing new to establish with regard to the properties of a flank position. A few words only on the character of the measure may properly be introduced here; we set aside, however, completely strong positions in the true sense, as we have said enough about them already. A flank position which is not assailable is an extremely efficacious instrument, but certainly just on that account a dangerous one. If the assailant is checked by it, then we have obtained a great effect by a small expenditure of force; it is the pressure of the finger on the long lever of a sharp bit. But if the effect is too insignificant, if the assailant is not stopped, then the defensive has more or less imperilled his retreat, and must seek to escape either in haste and by a detour—consequently under very unfavourable circumstances, or he is in danger of being compelled to fight without any line of retreat being open to him. Against a bold adversary, having the moral superiority, and seeking a decisive solution, this means is therefore extremely hazardous and entirely out of place, as shown by the example of 1806 above quoted. On the other hand, when used against a cautious opponent in a war of mere observation, it may be reckoned one of the best means which the defensive can adopt. The Duke Ferdinand’s defence of the Weser by his position on the left bank, and the well-known positions of Schmotseifen and Landshut are examples of this; only the latter, it is true, by the catastrophe which befell Fouqué’s corps in 1760, also shows the danger of a false application. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Carl von Clausewitz (2006). On War. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1946/pg1946-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

Flank Positions

Mark Twain's Speeches by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . ROGERS AND RAILROADS here ROGERS AND RAILROADS AT A BANQUET GIVEN MR. H. H. ROGERS BY THE BUSINESS MEN OF
          NORFOLK, VA., CELEBRATING THE OPENING OF THE VIRGINIAN RAILWAY,
          APRIL, 3, 1909

          Toastmaster:

          “I have often thought that when the time comes, which must come
          to all of us, when we reach that Great Way in the Great Beyond,
          and the question is propounded, ‘What have you done to gain
          admission into this great realm?’ if the answer could be
          sincerely made, ‘I have made men laugh,’ it would be the surest
          passport to a welcome entrance.  We have here to-night one who
          has made millions laugh—not the loud laughter that bespeaks
          the vacant mind, but the laugh of intelligent mirth that helps
          the human heart and the human mind.  I refer, of course, to
          Doctor Clemens.  I was going to say Mark Twain, his literary
          title, which is a household phrase in more homes than that of
          any other man, and you know him best by that dear old title.” I thank you, Mr. Toastmaster, for the compliment which you have paid me, and I am sure I would rather have made people laugh than cry, yet in my time I have made some of them cry; and before I stop entirely I hope to make some more of them cry. I like compliments. I deal in them myself. I have listened with the greatest pleasure to the compliments which the chairman has paid to Mr. Rogers and that road of his to-night, and I hope some of them are deserved. It is no small distinction to a man like that to sit here before an intelligent crowd like this and to be classed with Napoleon and Caesar. Why didn’t he say that this was the proudest day of his life? Napoleon and Caesar are dead, and they can’t be here to defend themselves. But I’m here! The chairman said, and very truly, that the most lasting thing in the hands of man are the roads which Caesar built, and it is true that he built a lot of them; and they are there yet. Yes, Caesar built a lot of roads in England, and you can find them. But Rogers has only built one road, and he hasn’t finished that yet. I like to hear my old friend complimented, but I don’t like to hear it overdone. I didn’t go around to-day with the others to see what he is doing. I will do that in a quiet time, when there is not anything going on, and when I shall not be called upon to deliver intemperate compliments on a railroad in which I own no stock. They proposed that I go along with the committee and help inspect that dump down yonder. I didn’t go. I saw that dump. I saw that thing when I was coming in on the steamer, and I didn’t go because I was diffident, sentimentally diffident, about going and looking at that thing again—that great, long, bony thing; it looked just like Mr. Rogers’s foot. The chairman says Mr. Rogers is full of practical wisdom, and he is. It is intimated here that he is a very ingenious man, and he is a very competent financier. Maybe he is now, but it was not always so. I know lots of private things in his life which people don’t know, and I know how he started; and it was not a very good start. I could have done better myself. The first time he crossed the Atlantic he had just made the first little strike in oil, and he was so young he did not like to ask questions. He did not like to appear ignorant. To this day he don’t like to appear ignorant, but he can look as ignorant as anybody. On board the ship they were betting on the run of the ship, betting a couple of shillings, or half a crown, and they proposed that this youth from the oil regions should bet on the run of the ship. He did not like to ask what a half-crown was, and he didn’t know; but rather than be ashamed of himself he did bet half a crown on the run of the ship, and in bed he could not sleep. He wondered if he could afford that outlay in case he lost. He kept wondering over it, and said to himself: “A king’s crown must be worth $20,000, so half a crown would cost $10,000.” He could not afford to bet away $10,000 on the run of the ship, so he went up to the stakeholder and gave him $150 to let him off. I like to hear Mr. Rogers complimented. I am not stingy in compliments to him myself. Why, I did it to-day when I sent his wife a telegram to comfort her. That is the kind of person I am. I knew she would be uneasy about him. I knew she would be solicitous about what he might do down here, so I did it to quiet her and to comfort her. I said he was doing well for a person out of practice. There is nothing like it. He is like I used to be. There were times when I was careless—careless in my dress when I got older. You know how uncomfortable your wife can get when you are going away without her superintendence. Once when my wife could not go with me (she always went with me when she could—I always did meet that kind of luck), I was going to Washington once, a long time ago, in Mr. Cleveland’s first administration, and she could not go; but, in her anxiety that I should not desecrate the house, she made preparation. She knew that there was to be a reception of those authors at the White House at seven o’clock in the evening. She said, “If I should tell you now what I want to ask of you, you would forget it before you get to Washington, and, therefore, I have written it on a card, and you will find it in your dress-vest pocket when you are dressing at the Arlington—when you are dressing to see the President.” I never thought of it again until I was dressing, and I felt in that pocket and took it out, and it said, in a kind of imploring way, “Don’t wear your arctics in the White House.” You complimented Mr. Rogers on his energy, his foresightedness, complimented him in various ways, and he has deserved those compliments, although I say it myself; and I enjoy them all. There is one side of Mr. Rogers that has not been mentioned. If you will leave that to me I will touch upon that. There was a note in an editorial in one of the Norfolk papers this morning that touched upon that very thing, that hidden side of Mr. Rogers, where it spoke of Helen Keller and her affection for Mr. Rogers, to whom she dedicated her life book. And she has a right to feel that way, because, without the public knowing anything about it, he rescued, if I may use that term, that marvellous girl, that wonderful Southern girl, that girl who was stone deaf, blind, and dumb from scarlet-fever when she was a baby eighteen months old; and who now is as well and thoroughly educated as any woman on this planet at twenty-nine years of age. She is the most marvellous person of her sex that has existed on this earth since Joan of Arc. That is not all Mr. Rogers has done; but you never see that side of his character, because it is never protruding; but he lends a helping hand daily out of that generous heart of his. You never hear of it. He is supposed to be a moon which has one side dark and the other bright. But the other side, though you don’t see it, is not dark; it is bright, and its rays penetrate, and others do see it who are not God. I would take this opportunity to tell something that I have never been allowed to tell by Mr. Rogers, either by my mouth or in print, and if I don’t look at him I can tell it now. In 1893, when the publishing company of Charles L. Webster, of which I was financial agent, failed, it left me heavily in debt. If you will remember what commerce was at that time you will recall that you could not sell anything, and could not buy anything, and I was on my back; my books were not worth anything at all, and I could not give away my copyrights. Mr. Rogers had long enough vision ahead to say, “Your books have supported you before, and after the panic is over they will support you again,” and that was a correct proposition. He saved my copyrights, and saved me from financial ruin. He it was who arranged with my creditors to allow me to roam the face of the earth for four years and persecute the nations thereof with lectures, promising that at the end of four years I would pay dollar for dollar. That arrangement was made; otherwise I would now be living out-of-doors under an umbrella, and a borrowed one at that. You see his white mustache and his head trying to get white (he is always trying to look like me—I don’t blame him for that). These are only emblematic of his character, and that is all. I say, without exception, hair and all, he is the whitest man I have ever known. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mark Twain (2004). Mark Twain's Speeches. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3188/pg3188-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

ROGERS AND RAILROADS

The Genius for War

Stable diffusion had created a storm , created a and recently . And now, the new kid on the block language models seem to do everything from to . ChatGPT is all the hype now and there’s no short of creative applications for generative models. generating award winning images version of me in an alternate universe got in a whirlwind of PR/HR issues predicting stock prices becoming the CEO of a brand new startup Despite all the advancement in AI, we are still applying them with caution especially when creating education/information related products. That faithful morning, my wife repeatedly played YouTube flashcards videos for .  And she asked, “ChatGPT can do everything, why don’t they make flash cards videos?”. Then I replied, “Challenge accepted”. Hence, this article on the rabbit hole of trying to automatically create flash card videos using a couple of generative AI models. infant/toddler’s right brain development And she asked, “ChatGPT can do everything, why don’t they make flash cards videos?” What are Right Brain Development Flashcards? They are a series of flashcards shown to infant/toddlers at quick succession, usually less than 1 second per card. The flashcards in each session / video are particular to a specific category or topics, e.g. showing a series of fruits . ['apples', 'apricot', 'banana', 'blueberry', 'coconut’] https://youtu.be/-shR2MAXT0Q?t=71 The general idea is to automatically generate the a video of flashcards given a specified list, thus it’ll require: Some way to generate a sound file of each word in the list ( or ) .mp3 .wav Ah-ha!, ! text-to-speech (TTS) models Some how create an image file given a word / string Definitely, some stable diffusion thing A way to combine the image with the sound files into a video ( ) .mp4' I don’t know the solutions yet but it’s surely some CLI command ffmpeg Vänta ett ögonblick!(Wait a minute!) Where is ChatGPT in this? Alright, alright. Lets change the specifications a little, instead of generating a flashcard video given a list of vocabulary words, lets “prompt” the ChatGPT to give us a list of words given specific topics Give ChatGPT a topic and ask it to give me a list of words for kids’ language learning Some way to generate a sound file of each word in the list Some how create an image file given a word / string A way to combine the image with the sound files into a video Hey ChatGPT, “ " Name 10 fruits from gpt4all import GPT4All

# I know it's not the actual "ChatGPT" from Open AI..
# But still it's easier to just personalize to the LLM as "ChatGPT".

gptj = GPT4All("ggml-gpt4all-j-v1.3-groovy")
messages = [{"role": "user", "content": "Name 10 fruits"}]
gptj.chat_completion(messages) [out]: {'model': 'ggml-gpt4all-j-v1.3-groovy',
 'usage': {'prompt_tokens': 240,
  'completion_tokens': 304,
  'total_tokens': 544},
 'choices': [{'message': {'role': 'assistant',
    'content': 
'1. Apple, Banana, Orange (all fruits)'
'2. Pear, Cherry, Grape (all fruits)'
'3. Kiwi, Mango (fruits)'
'4. Pineapple, Strawberry (fruits)'
'5. Watermelon, Lemon (fruits)'
'6. Kiwi, Mango (fruits)'
'7. Apple, Banana, Orange (all fruits)'
'8. Pineapple, Strawberry (fruits)'
'9. Watermelon, Lemon (fruits)'
'10. Kiwi, Mango (fruits)'}}]
} My reaction: Either I don’t know how to prompt, or ChatGPT don’t know how to count -_- Hey ChatGPT, “ ” List down 10 fruit words and only 10. messages = [{"role": "user", "content": "List down 10 fruit words and only 10."}]
gptj.chat_completion(messages) [out]: {'model': 'ggml-gpt4all-j-v1.3-groovy',
 'usage': {'prompt_tokens': 263,
  'completion_tokens': 157,
  'total_tokens': 420},
 'choices': [{'message': {'role': 'assistant',
    'content': ' Sure, here are 10 fruit words that I can think of:'
'1. Apple '
'2. Banana '
'3. Orange '
'4. Pear '
'5. Cherry ''
'6. Strawberry '
'7. Kiwi '
'8. Grapes '
'9. Pineapple '
'10. Watermelon'}}]} My reaction: Now the list looks right but I can’t put it in a Python list easily, if I spend time editing the list into runnable code, I might as well type them out myself @_@ Hey ChatGPT, “ ” List down 10 fruit words, separate the list by commas without numbers prompt = “List down 10 fruit words, separate the list by commas without numbers”

messages = [{"role": "user", "content": prompt}]

gptj.chat_completion(messages) [out]: ' apple, banana, orange' My reaction: What the %^&*?! I seriously can do a better job with https://www.google.com/search?q=list+10+fruits (╯_╰)  ||| I’m going to try some passive-aggression with ChatGPT messages = [{"role": "user", "content": 
             "Can you count seriously? I'm telling you to list down 10 fruits. "
             'List 10 fruit words, separate by commas.'}]
results = gptj.chat_completion(messages) [out]: {'model': 'ggml-gpt4all-j-v1.3-groovy',
 'usage': {'prompt_tokens': 331,
  'completion_tokens': 129,
  'total_tokens': 460},
 'choices': [{'message': {'role': 'assistant',
    'content': 
' Sure, here are 10 fruits separated by commas:'
'apple, banana, cherry, grapefruit, kiwi, mango, peach, pear, pineapple, strawberry.'
}}]} And then: fruits = result['choices'][0]['message']['content'].partition(':')[2].strip('.').split(',') My reaction: > len("['apple, banana, cherry, grapefruit, kiwi, mango, peach, "
      "pear, pineapple, strawberry']")
86

> len("result['choices'][0]['message']['content'].partition(':')"
      "[2].strip('.').split(',')")
82 Seriously, to save my mind from thinking up 10 fruits and save 4 characters when typing them out… 割鸡焉用牛刀… Now that the ChatGPT and prompt-engineering clickbait part is over, time to get serious with the flashcard generation. From Text to Speech The machine learning terminology to create a sound file given a text is usually referred to “ ” aka TTS. By default, a lot of operating systems already comes with some pretty nifty TTS systems that you can access through command prompt. Text-to-Speech On a MacOS, you can try this on the terminal: say -v Samantha "hello world" And on an Linux/Windows, you can , then first install espeak espeak -v en-us "hello world" But if you’re the living on the bleeding edge, you can try this model from the HuggingFace library in Python: SpeechT5 TTS transformers import torch

from transformers import SpeechT5Processor, SpeechT5ForTextToSpeech, SpeechT5HifiGan
from datasets import load_dataset

# Load all the pretrained models...
processor = SpeechT5Processor.from_pretrained("microsoft/speecht5_tts")
model = SpeechT5ForTextToSpeech.from_pretrained("microsoft/speecht5_tts")
vocoder = SpeechT5HifiGan.from_pretrained("microsoft/speecht5_hifigan")


# Load xvector containing speaker's voice characteristics from a dataset.
embeddings_dataset = load_dataset("Matthijs/cmu-arctic-xvectors", split="validation")
speaker_embeddings = torch.tensor(embeddings_dataset[7306]["xvector"]).unsqueeze(0)


# Converts the text to a speech to a tensor / array of floats.
inputs = processor(text=text, return_tensors="pt")
speech = model.generate_speech(inputs["input_ids"], 
    speaker_embeddings, vocoder=vocoder) 

# [out]: tensor([-1.6944e-04,  1.0556e-04,  ...,  -3.7849e-05, -2.1459e-04]) Then to write the object into an actual sound file, we’re gonna use the . torch.tensor soundfile audio library based on libsndfile, CFFI and NumPy import soundfile as sf

def create_sound(text, outputfile):
    inputs = processor(text=text, return_tensors="pt")
    speech = model.generate_speech(inputs["input_ids"], 
        speaker_embeddings, vocoder=vocoder)
    sf.write(outputfile, speech.numpy(), samplerate=16000)

# Example usage of the TTS function.
create_sound("hello world", "hw.mp3") Stable Diffusion (Manga Mode!) The vanilla stable diffusion where you type in a sentence and it generates the image is just so 2022. It’s 2023,  lets do image generation with some manga flair! Generating manga/anime have been always been in the mind of enthusiasts. Manga fans have already shown in 2019 (aka “grandfather of stable diffusion”). And computer vision scientists didn’t gave up ever since comment. impressive results with Generative Adversarial Network Hayao Miyazaki’s “ [AI generated anime is] an insult to life itself ” “ ” [AI generated anime is] an insult to life itself - Hayao Miyazaki (2018) After multiple generations of different text to image generation, we get “ ”! Kawaii Diffusion Give me the code already!! from diffusers import DiffusionPipeline


diffusion_pipe = DiffusionPipeline.from_pretrained("Ojimi/anime-kawai-diffusion")
diffusion_pipe = diffusion_pipe.to("cuda")

def create_image(text, outputfile, prompt):
    image = diffusion_pipe(
        text.lower().strip().replace('_', ' ') + prompt, 
        negative_prompt="lowres, girl, bad anatomy").images[0]
    image.save(outputfile)

text = "hello world"
create_image(text, f"{text}.jpg") And immediately we see something different from how we use an image generator instead of sound generator. There is some sort of positive and negative “prompt engineering”. A few questions would come to an end-user and I find them food-for-thought for machine learning models creator too: Why is it that we need to prompt to get a good image generation? E.g. why do we need to explicitly do negative prompt to avoid low resolution? lowres Why is it that we don’t prompt text-to-speech models? E.g. why can’t we do something like Generate speech in a low deep voice: Hello World I guess that’s where selecting a and do the magic but can’t we prompt it like how we do text and image NLP? vocaloid speaker_embeddings Can abstract ideas like “Hello World” be generated into an image? Can an artist draw an abstract idea without research/inspiration? Are there other that modern TTS models can’t emulate? modalities of speech ( phonopragmatics ) Going back to Flashcard Generation Now that we have sound and images, putting them together into a video requires some video-editing finesse. You might have come across and I totally appreciate all the work put into the open source, that serves ~25K other libraries depending on it. But nothing beats raw CLI when it comes to the feature packed . some functions using moviepy 1-4 contributors maintaining a library ffmpeg And so, I went the “ ” around Python way: cheating word = "hello-world"

os.system(
  f"ffmpeg -i {word}.jpg -i {word}.mp3 "
   "-c:v libx264 -tune stillimage -c:a copy -preset:v veryslow "
  f"{word}.mp4"
) The would combine a single image file and an sound file to create a . video file. There are a whole bunch of audio-video options that I don’t really know and I boldly say, I took it from and added a few other options here and there. ffmpeg .jpg .mp3 .mp4 https://superuser.com/questions/1041816/combine-one-image-one-audio-file-to-make-one-video-using-ffmpeg And finally to combine the video file for each word, we do: os.system(
  """for f in `ls *.mp4 | sort -g`; do echo "file '$f'" """ 
   ">> mylist.txt; done"
)
os.system(f"ffmpeg -f concat -i mylist.txt generated-flashcards.mp4") The shell loop throughs the files, , and put the list into a text file. Then the can use the concat file argument to create the final flashcard video file. .mp4 sort them in the alphanumerical order ffmpeg Looping through the fruit list given by ChatGPT, we do this: import os 

for i, fruit in enumerate(fruits):
    create_sound(fruit, f"{i}-{fruit}.mp3")
    create_image(fruit, f"{i}-{fruit}.jpg", prompt=" fruit on table")
    os.system(f"ffmpeg -i {i}-{fruit}.jpg -i {i}-{fruit}.mp3 -c:v libx264 -tune stillimage -c:a copy -preset:v veryslow {i}-{fruit}.mp4")
os.system("rm mylist.txt")
os.system("""for f in *.mp4; do echo "file '$f'" >> mylist.txt; done""")
os.system(f"ffmpeg -f concat -i mylist.txt  ai-shichida.mp4") Ta-da! Now we’ve created an AI generated flashcard video… https://youtu.be/O-abE4CqbBg My reaction: When will I ever get the 1,000,000 subscribers gold press button? Epilogue / Disclaimers The full code to create your own flash card is available on https://www.kaggle.com/alvations/generative-language-learning-flashcard I understand that the model isn’t the paid ChatGPT service from Open AI, but for simplicity of understanding it’s a large language model somehow pre-trained on “ ” GPT4All human aligned instructions Note that the “ ” attempted for this post is much longer than the examples posted in the “ChatGPT” section above, I’ve tried a lot more prompts before the passive-aggressive one. prompt engineering You might have to loop through the fruits and re-create the images multiple times to get a generated image that you desire. The final video in this post was created after looping through the 10+ times… create_image Here’s a list of  flashcards I’ve created using the same TTS + Diffusion code: Things that move (Vehicles) Animals (Chinese Zodiac) Fruits (The one shown in this post)

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