Imagens das páginas

of fans and ordnance preparations for our navy, as, also, for the preparation of oar shell?, rockets, fireworks, ud cartridge*,—would fall into his hands!

"Eemaiaing here for a few days, until his rear, £Ued up by successive reinforcements from France, kd increased his force to, say 200,000 men, he might then safely inform the French admiral that he and his fleet being no longer required, might quietly return to Cherbourg; for it is evident that if the trench liny, after reaching Blackheath, were to be conquered, they *onld neither as corpses, nor as prisoners of war, require their own fleet, and that if they were not cuquered, the ships and nary of England would be bat too happy to take them back to France the instant they were disposed to return there.

"About a month after the French ships had arrived at Cherbourg, there would probably arrive in the Channel in a state of profuse perspiration, caused by carer and excessive haste, the British Mediterranean fleet, the admiral of which would be apprised by a commaaication, possibly dated, * Admiralty, London,' that aar damage he might do to French coasts or to French (hipping would, by the French army in England, be duly placed to the Dr. side of its account with Qreat Britain."

Though the French general might from Blackheath dictate terms of submission to the English nation, he *ould probably prefer to imitate that great bully Napoleon, and do so in a conquered capital. According, with drums beating, trumpets braying, and tamers flying, he would inarch into London, and there, we are informed, would fix his camps at various points. Those that Sir Francis indicates are:— St. James's and the Green Parks, Hyde Park, under sielter of Paston's glass palace, Regent's Park, any open ground about Hackney and Bow, Deptford Itcckyard, Clapham, Camberwell, Brixton and Batterso, Highgate, Primrose Hill: he might emulate the indent Roman camps, and look down upon London in all a conqueror's pride. It behoves, therefore, the (tellers in these localities to consider, whether they ! *ould not incur the certainty of having their taxes doubled rather than run the risk of an event like Ibis.

All large buildings, warehouses, public offices, &c. *ould be occupied as barracks or hospitals. It would a necessary to provide shelter for the horses, and in Francis considers churches peculiarly fit for the Wjose. So all parsons, whether Popish or Puseyite, •wld have to yield their places and preach in the epenair. Next to the horses, the officers would ci»tn attention. Each of these delicate animals *ouidbe billeted in a good house, requiring from four or five rooms, according to his rank, and insist upon living on free and easy terms with the family.

"The interior of the city would, of course, be strongly etched by powerful guards and numerous patrols, supjfrted by detachments occupying Btrong buildings, tither commanding useful positions, or in open places men as the squares. For these purposes and for the important object of maintaining a communication *ith the main forces in the outskirts, a precaution alnys of vital importance, the Millbank Penitentiary, the Sew Houses of Parliament, the Horse-Guards, Whitehall, the Admiralty, up to the National Gallery and Wracks adjoining, and all the other great buildings iwmd Trafalgar Square, as well as all the club-houses wnt Waterloo-Place and Pall Mall, would be strongly

occupied, and to secure a communication from these points to Regent's Park, and also to interrupt any hostile communication between the eastern and west positions of London, the whole of Rejent-street would probably be occupied. Lastly, to command the line of the Thames, which would, of course, be considered of great military importance, troops would hold, in considerable force, Hungerford Market, Somerset House, the Tower, St. Katherine's and the London Docks, the buildings of which are admirably adapted for barracks."

Having caught his fish, the French General would next proceed to dress it. Sir Francis describes this process in the language of a true tory. He endeavours to damage the liberal cause in this country by insinuating that it is allied with the national enemies, and declares that among the "humiliations" England would be compelled to suffer, would be "Parliamentary Reform," an equalisation of public burdens and public benefits, and the natural adjustment of the social machine. The French would, as he terms it, " lubricate the lower orders"1 first, and then proceed to provide for themselves. They would employ bands of renegade citizens (of course, reformers) to work out their views. These detestable individuals would make the round of the town, visit every "respectable" house, and force from every family, say half its wealth. Furniture, wine, plate, pictures, horses, carriages, merchandise, &c, would be taken in pledge of payment. Tax-gatherers, with bayonets fixed, would ransack all our dwellings, and a few refractory citizens would be hanged by way of example. And the newspapers? they would fare terribly! To every editor a message would be sent that he should print nothing disagreeable to the invaders.

If these orders were not complied with, the unhappy editor, says Sir Francis, would have his coat pulled off, his whiskers clipped, his hair cut short, his face covered with plaster, and daubed with pitch. He would be tortured by the soldiery, perhaps with thumbscrews, and those delicate inventions of cruelty employed by the Dutch against the English at Amboyna. Should he remonstrate or cry out, his mouth might be filled with small pica, or visited by the end of a brush dipped in hot turpentine. The presses would be broken, the types confused and scattered, the forms dashed to fragments, the offices burned. Probably, every blank cheque found on the premises would be filled up, and presented at the bauks by men with good means of enforcing payment. With thousands of riotous soldiers in its streets, London would then be a fine place to live in. You could not move without being watched—could not cross Regent-street unless under surveillance—and would probably be lightened of your purse every time you attempted to carry one. Should you wish to save your money by hiding it at home, you run the risk of being shot in revenge by a French sentinel. Meanwhile, the invaders would make their quarters comfortable. To supply the scattered camps, regular forage parties would parade the town. Butchers, bakers, grocers, wine-dcalcis,

(ll The " lower orders" are indebted to Sir Francis for this graceful compliment, which we hope our readers of that class will appreciate, 1 hey would srl! themselves to the French, we believe, for a premise of Parliamentary Reform!

and venders of provisions in all variety, would be laid under contribution. Loudon must support its conquerors. Scenes of debauch, carried to the highest point of excess, would multiply in every direction; and the ancient metropolis of the British Empire, givcu up to rapine, would suffer I he penalty of refusing to support an idle army of fifteen myriads of men. We must be annually ruined to provide against an impossible contingency.

When he liad firmly established himself in London, the French general, armed with full powers by his grateful and exulting government, would consider what fruit should be reaped after so fine a season of success. In the first place, he would seek to balance the heavy humiliations France has, in the course of time, received at the hands of England. Every banner won on victorious battle-fields would be seized and "trophied in triumphal show;" all the spoils of Trafalgar and Waterloo would be resumed; exulting songs would be sung under roofs that never before echoed but to the sound of English rejoicing; our public buildings, our records, our House of Commons— all that we are proud of—would be filled by French soldiers, and guarded as the possessions of an enemy. Above all, the venerable flag, rendered sacred by a thousand years of glory, would flap its drooping folds under the triumphant colours of an invader. Insulting proclamations, vaunts, and threats, would be placarded on the walls, and messages would be sent to our statesmen, such as would make the blood tingle in their veins. The queen, cooped up in a dockyard, with Lord John and Sir Peter Laurie, would tremblingly await the turning of the tide. Meanwhile, Sir Francis Head, being called on to serve his country, would prepare a great dose of soldiers for the French, and Curio Napier would exhibit that perfection of naval skill to which he so frequently calls our attention.

Having in every possible way enjoyed the rich feast of English humiliation, the French would next think about the solid advantages to arise from their achievement. In the first place, a small slice of India would be acceptable—perhaps that little territory called Bengal, with all forts, guns, and munitions of war belonging or appertaining thereto. Then their general would suggest that a certain small white column, set up, one fine morning, by General Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham, in Canada, should be removed, and the possessions restored. Thus would France be compensated for the shame and loss she sufl'ercd on that memorable day. The frowning fortress of Quebec, with all the fair and wealthy provinces it guards, must be delivered over. After that, an island or two in the West Indies would be acceptable. Then the little settlement at the Cape, and some good port on the Australian coast, might be ceded. When we had surrendered these, France might let us retain the rest, of our possessions, if wc would only quietly give up Gibraltar and Malta, with Singapore, Labuan, and Hong-kong, in the oriental seas. As a supplemenlary stipulation, wc must recall Sir James Brooke, whose

influence in the Indian Archipelago is rendering the English name so popular there that our neighbours fear to be wholly forgotten in that quarter.

Thus shorn of our colonics—for Sir Francis hints at no resistance to these demands—we might proceed to stipulate as to the amount of ransom to be paid fur London. Computing its population at two millions, and valuing the personal interest of each individual at 25/., the sum would amount to 50,000,000/. Add In this an equal payment from the public coffers, and France might consent to spare LondonforlOO.000,000/. When we consider that every citizen has already lost half his goods, and been compelled to contribute towards the support of the invaders, it may be imagined the cockneys would have to pay rather dearly for the privilege of entertaining such lively visitors. To be sure, a few young ladies, sociably inclined, might learn French from the foreign soldiers, and save their parenls the expense of a boarding-school education. We doubt, however, whether this advantage would compensate for the evils of the transaction.

In addition to these demands, there would be certain treaties required to be signed with respect to commerce, slavery, the right of search, the limitations of the English colonial empire, and favourable terms of trade for the French. At length, should we gracefully yield, all would be arranged, and the invader would return to his capital after a three years' residence in the British metropolis. Of course we must pay his fare back to Paris.

Such are the humiliations—indicated rather than described—which Sir Francis declares wc must suffer when the French choose to invade our shores. But should we be refractory,—should the English spirit burst forth, and Englishmen fly to arms in defence of their capital city! Invention faints, fancy is coal, and imagination is barren, when required to depict the scene that would ensue. London must expiate in ruin the fanaticism of its citizens!

At the signal of havoc, the army would close on the devoted city. A storm of martial music would sound around it, and troops would pour in on every side, to consummate its destruction. Soldiers, frantic with rage, would throng its streets; they would set the houses on fire, burst open the stores of wealth, ransack the dwellings, rob the churches, spoil the altars, sack the banks, burn the shipping, invade the palace, and trample down the throne. Crown, coronet, mitre, aud cardinal's bat, with all the frippery of greatness, would be tossed into bonfires,—no place, no thing would be spared; no person, from sex, age, orstation, would find respect. The more splendid the building, the brighter blaze it will make; the more "exalted" the individual, the better object of sport; the fairer and more tender the woman, the richer the prize for a savage and drunken soldiery. Children spitted on the bayonet; men hewed to pieces, or burned; women insulted and tortured—all these, and worse, are the horrors suggested by Sir Francis Head to accompany his view of the sack of London anil the slaughter of its inhabitants: we cannot, enlarge the

i ske'cli. Most readers are familiar with the idcis of a city in such a situation; to those who arc not, we recommend a perusal of the recent work by General Pepe, on the Revolution in Italy. There we have, graphically painted, the most vivid pictures of the 1 atrocities committed, by command of the Austrian Emperor, upon the brave republicans of Brescia. That wili faintly suggest the idea of such a city as London in the hands of invaders, thirsting for blood and plunder. At the end of about three years, when Eugland had been ruined, an army and fleet might be gathered sa&cient to revenge its wrongs. A poor consolation! At any rate, however, when the French had anniiiikted our commerce, stricken our industry with paralysis, stopped all the wheels of government, and brought eternal infamy on the nation's name, it would be some satisfaction to rout their armies, drive theni 'ram London, chase them to the borders of the sea, iunt them into their ships, and then, with our navy, to sweep their fleets oif the water, and overwhelm l'jem with ruin at a blow! If this he cold comfort, it is all Sir Francis Head affords us.

Now, however, that we have awakened from this broken dream of terror, we may leave speculations, and examine some of the facts which alarm Sir Francis Head. Europe, he reminds us, is concentrating enormous masses of armed men, which menace i the peace of the whole world. In the event of a reneral war, our poor armies would stand but a small . chance with the gigantic hosts of France and Russia. , Let us first see what is the force of the English army, 'and then compare it with those of foreign nations. In England we have about 37,000 men; in Ireland 1 about 24,000; in the Mediterranean, 8,000; in Asia, 30,500 "royal troops," with, perhaps, 100,000 in the pay of the East India Company; in Africa, nearly 4,000; in the rest of our colonies, 20,000 ;—making a total of about 230,000, besides 30,000 pensioners, 3iore or less worn out; 8,000 dock-yard men, occasionally drilled; 13,000 yeomanry (why not 300,000 ?) and in the Channel Islands, nearly 9,000 effective rsDitia. The standing army in England, in fact, is too small to protect, too large to be supported, and night well be replaced by a comparatively costless, aad infinitely more dignified defence, in the shape of national militia.

h France there is a regular army of 4SS.000 men, fitii a national guard numbering 2,030,000. In Austria, during peace, there are 378,552 soldiers I under arms ; but during war, the Landwehr, or reserve 'of the regular army, would raise the total to nearly | 600,000. In Prussia, the regular army, on its war footing, is composed of 54.0,(570 men, besides 100,000 above forty years of age, who could be summoned on great emergencies. The military forces of Russia amount to 950,000 men, so that about three millions of enemies may be supposed—according to the prophets of evil—to threaten the sanctity of our scale'rt isle. But, as we have terrified our friends, let to appease their fears by a few facts borrowed from in able and wclL informed contemporary—the United

Service 'Magazine. They show the strength of those floating fortresses—the sole and sufficient defence of England—which place us beyond the danger of invasion. At the prcseut moment, when war hangs like a thunder-cloud on the horizon, such an account is peculiarly interesting and valuable.

The naval force of Great Britain consists of about 088 vessels, of from 1 to 120 guns each, employing 45,000 able-bodied seamen, 2,000 lads, and 14,000 royal marines. This fleet contains 105 war-stcamcrs. Our mercantile navy and our fishing marine supply additional stores of strength, perfectly inexhaustible, and ready trained.

The French navy consists altogether of about 400 vessels, manned by 25,000 men.

The Russian fleets arc composed of ISO ships, manned by 42,000 men. The navy of the prosperous American Republic, of which England need fear nothing, since it is our best friend, contains 80 ships, manned by some of the finest sailors in the world.

We have no space to review, as our contemporary has done, the causes which contribntc to maintain the absolute supremacy of Great Britain ou the sea. No foreign navy approaches hers in power. As for a standing army, we want none. Sir Francis Head's proposal of a military force of 150,000 men quartered in the country is monstrous. The experiment would sink the country into bankruptcy, or drive it into revolution. The English fleets, in case of attempted invasion, will protect the English shores. No armament could ever leave the French coast with less than a year's preparation. Napoleon, with all his genius, was compelled to g've up the darling scheme. He knew the heart of England was impregnable; and what he could not attempt, what man in France could now accomplish? By the time the invading armament was ready, our seas would swarm with ships, our shores would be covered with men, ready to defend their hearths and homes. At the signal, "They have set sail!" the whole, country would awake. Every man would leave his fireside, every mother would send her son, every forge in the island would glow, and every anvil bear the strokes of hammers, shaping iron into pikes and swords. The railways would pour myriads on myriads of armed men to the scene of danger; the fleet, recruited from the merchant navy, would throw itself between our cliffs and the enemy's armament, and, in the words of the United Service Magazine, "the sixty thousand men would probably thank their stars if we left them a cockboat, to paddle hack to their native coasts."

If wc have jested with Sir Francis Head, it has been with all courtesy, and with very good humour. Wc relished his book very much. We advise our friends to read it. It is full of a novel and fascinating interest, pleasantly written, and, in some parts, absolutely romantic. The ladies, to whom it is dedicated, must acknowledge Sir Francis to plead well for their protection. He is anxious for their safety. So are wc. But all the fair ones in the country may rest assured, that if we decline to vote for air army of 150,000 men to guard tliem, it is not from a carelessness of their safety. On the contrary, we beg all terrified damsels to beliere us to have such an opinion of Englishmen, that, when the occasion occurs, we would trust to their impromptu valour the defence of those who form the richest treasures of the land!


I Have a peculiar affection for old clocks; especially that sober race of puritanical clocks, with long, lank bodies, that stand so primly in the corners of rooms, slowly and discreetly ticking away the hours, as if it were a sober, solemn business, this disposing of time, as in truth it is: and that keep their hands always before their pious faces, as if to shut out the frivolous forms and fopperies of their later days. How impertinently your new-fangled clocks appear beside them! With what a rattle-headed jerk they tick off the minutes, as if they were impatient to come to the striking, and hear themselves jingle in their folly! You sec none of this in the good oldfashioned time-pieces. I think tlicy abominate striking: it gives them such spasms, and they strike so slowly and fearfully, that I am sure they dread it. Then how pertly these new clocks put their hands before their faces, like silly school girls, tittering at everything they sec! Give me the good old-fasliioned clocks, in their rich mahogany casings, that smack of the olden time: the quaint old clocks, that look as if they had innumerable stories to tell mc of my greatgrandfather, who died an hundred years ago at Salem, in " the witch time." I hope I am not blinded by family prejudice, but I did use to think that my grandfather's clock was the worthiest clock that ever ran up and down in the race with Time.

I sat by the fireside one December night, looking full in the face of this old clock, counting its slow tickings, and wondering if it never got tired and stiff, standing there so straight and prim, and wishing all the while that my grandfather would begin his promised story. But he seemed in no haste; for he sat in his accustomed corner, quietly smoking his pipe, and looking steadily into the glowing coals; peering, as I thought, into the changing embers to recognise the familiar forms and faces of old comrades and friends. 1 ventured to express this idea in a whisper to a little urchin whom my grandfather had undertaken to "bring up," and who now sat before the ruddy fire, trying on for the fiftieth time his first pair of boots. He said he "thought it probable that he was;" and further, he "thought it sensible in the old gentlemen to look there, as he knew no other place than the fire where my grandfather would be likely to find the forms of those old soldier 'nobs' with whom he had caroused in the wars." Having relieved himself of this opinion, he carefully shut one eye for the space of half a minute, then opened it with a ierk, and went into the leather business with renewed energy. I was uot a little scandalized at the

impiidencr of the fellow, so I sat perfectly still, and relinquished my idea.

As I said before, my grandfather seemed in no hurry to commence his story, so I sat quite quiet, communing with my old friend the clock. I don't know but I might have continued to gaze at its honest face until this time, had it not suddenly stopped ticking, and distinctly winked at me! Yes, "Old Knick," that old clock winked at me; not lewdly, as is but too common now-a-days, but solemnly and drowsily; not once, but twice, thrice, four times; and then it nodded; and what with nodding and winking, at length I lost sight of it entirely.

When I opened my eyes again, mcthought I saw a long baronial hall, with a polished oaken floor, and quaint oaken panelling, and thick oaken cornices round the ceiling; and then there were huge antlers nailed upon the walls, and prim, stately pictures starting out from the oaken waiuscotting, and a gre;it fireplace on one side, with a roaring fire in it, that sent dancing and flickering lights and shadows upon the polished panels, and played fantastic tricks with the old paintings, making them wave and quiver, and nod to one another in the most familiar and friendly manner. I assure you, Sir, I could hardly believe the evidence of my own senses when I saw that there was a goodly company of old-fashioned clocks assembled there. There were fat old oaken clocks, plethoric gcutknien, who wheezed and talked with difficulty, and there were slim mahogany clocks, prim stately ladies of the old school, who tossed their haughty heads, and "bridled up," and made sweeping courtesies, when the old gentlemen saluted them and facetiously asked " how time went with 'em." And then there were brazen-faced, and solemn-faced, and wooden-headed looking clocks; but they all bustled about, and chatted, and gossiped, in a truly wonderful manner for such ancient people. My grandfather's clock was there, and a gallant sprig of a beau he was. His puritanical manner had quite disappeared; he talked a great deal, and cut a great many jokes, and paid such pointed attentions to a blooming widow of a clock, that he kept her breast in a continual flutter. Ah! his attentions were almost scandalous; such as I never should have suspected of the staid old clock who used to stand in my grandfather's kitchen and tell the church time on Sunday mornings!

Just at this moment there was a great bustle at the further end of the hall, and in stalked a gentleman whom I knew immadiatcly by his scythe and grey beard, for I had seen a picture of him in the primer only the day before. He bustled into the centre of the hall, and said, in quite a cheerful voice for so old a man, "The company mustn't lose time!"—at which pleasantry all the clocks smiled. Then he took a bunch of keys from his girdle, and stepping up to one of the clocks, thrust it into his breast and turned it for some time: at which liberty the clock looked indignant, and made a chuckling noise, and seemed as if about to strike; but he thought better of it and didn't. When the old gentleman had visited all the company n like manner, he stepped to one side of the room and cried out that "now they were wound up they could go:" at which all the clocks smiled again, as if old Time had "come a good turn" on 'em. And now there was a great bowing and scraping among the clocks, and finally they all took their places on the floor and moved slowly off—' tick, tick, tick'— in the measure of the contra-dance. Forward and back, slowly, up and down, stately, vud-cis, this wheezy old gentleman balancing to that t mi matron opposite, and that sleepy-looking clock at the farther end of the room hob-nobbing to himself, forgetting time and tune. Tick, tick! Mahoganies change; my grandfather's clock and the blooming widow down the middle and up the outside; down the outside and up the middle; bless her! how her heart palpitated, and bow amorously the old fellow eyed her! Ah, I fear be had but a sorry character in bis youthful days, vhen he was nothing but a watch! Still, up and oWn, over and back (they kept wonderful time for such old people), until the Oaks got out of breath and the Mahoganies looked red in the face. Then they stopped and gathered into little groups, and began to be facetious and witty. One old fellow remarked that he felt nearly "run down;" at which the gentlemen smothered their laughter, and the ladies grew redder in the face, and looked out of the window; for it reminded them of "running dairn at the heel," and "heel" wasn't exactly a proper word to use in the presence of high-born

After a little time they took their places for a Sooten reel, and my grandfather's clock was just

i swinging his partners off in gallant style, when the lalidoor burst open, and in rushed a jaunty rabble of Bodern clocks! They came in laughing and chattering like magpies. They all had short bodies and slim legs, which they dangled about curiously, looking like a troup of modern ballet-dancers. The old clocks were quite shocked at the indecent spectacle, and with a haughty step they all moved out of the room, except my grandfather's, who stood looking angrily at them. Zounds! what a clatter and bustle there is there! How the young clocks hopped and sauced through the cotillion. Right and left, hurry aiui tumble, short bodies and slim legs—how they Sew round one another and round themselves! Up and down, and off in tangents; and how they giggled and tittered, and couldn't have stood still if they were going to be burnt. And then, when they came

1 to the jig, whew! how they " went it!"—rat-a-ta-tat! each one " going in to win "—and how the merry bells of each one jingled and rattled, keeping time to the clattering feet on the oaken floor! My grandfather's dock could stand it no longer, so he strode firmly up to the dancers and exclaimed, " One!"

When I looked up, my grandfather had his hand on tlie bed-room door-latch. He had told his story, and I had missed it. Reader, so have you; but if I'm so sleepy another time, you may call my grandfather a torj!—Ar. Y. Knickerbocker,


Amongst all compositions, these alone deserve the name of sacred lyrics. These alone contain a poetry that meets the spiritual nature in all its moods and in all its wants, which strengthens virtue with glorious exhortations, gives angelic eloquence to prayer, and almost rises to the seraph's joy in praise. Iu distress and fear, they breathe the low, sad murmur of complaint; in penitence, they groan with the agony of the troubled soul. They have a gentle music for the peace of faith; in adoration, they ascend to the glory of creation, and the majesty of God. For assemblies or for solitude, for all that gladdeus and all that grieves, for our heaviness and despair, for our remorse aud our redemption, we find in these divine harmonies the loud or the low expression. Great has been their power iu the world. They resounded amidst the courts of the tabernacle; they floated through the lofty and solemn spaces of the temple. They were sung with glory in the halls of Zion; they were suug with sorrow by the streams of Babel. And when Israel had passed away, the harp of David was still awakened in the church of Christ. In all the eras and ages of that church, from the hymn which first it whispered in an upper chamber, until its anthems Clled the earth, the inspiration of the royal prophet has enraptured its devotions, and ennobled its rituals.

And thus it has been, not alone, in the august cathedral or the rustic chapel. Chorused by the winds of heaven, they have swelled through God's own temple of the sky and stars; they have rolled over the broad desert of Asia, in the matins and vespers of ten thousand hermits. They have rung through the deep valleys of the Alps, in the sobbing voices of the forlorn Waldenses; through the steeps aud caves of Scottish highlands, in the rude cliantings of the Scottish covenanters; through the woods and wilds of primitive America, in the heroic hallelujahs of the early pilgrims.

Nor is it in the congregation, alone, that David has given to the religious heart a voice. He has given an utterance, also, for its privacy,—for the low-lying invalid,—soothing the dreariness of pain, softening the monotony of hoavy time, supplying the prayer or the promise, with which to break the midnight or the sleepless hour: for the unhappy, to give them words of sadness, by which to relieve their disquieted and their cast-down souls; by which to murmur between themselves and God, the holy sorrow Hint heaven alone should hear: for the penitent, when the arrows of conviction rankle in his breast, when the light of grace would seem departed, and the ear of mercy closed,—then David gives the cry of his own impassioned deprecation, in supplication aud confession. And when contrition has found repose, and the tempest of lamentation been stilled by the assurance of peace, he gives the hymn of his exultant and of his grateful praise.

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