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poetical justice, as a wrong conviction by a Thus does he lay down the rules of life and jury-moves a habeas corpus for all damsels death for his regal domain of tragedy: “If I imprisoned in romance-and, if the bard kills mistake not, in poetry no woman is to kill a those of his characters who deserve to live, man, except her quality gives her the advanpronounces judgment on him as in case of tage above him; nor is a servant to kill the felony, without benefit of clergy. He is the master, nor a private man, much less a subDon Quixote of criticism. Like the hero of ject to kill a king, nor on the contrary. PoetiCervantes, he is roused to avenge fictitious cal decency will not suffer death to be dealt to injuries, and would demolish the scenic exhi- each other, by such persons whom the laws bition in his disinterested rage. In one sense of duel allow not to enter the lists together.” he does more honour to the poet than any He admits, however, that “there may be cirother writer, for he seems to regard him as an cumstances that alter the case: as where there arbiter of life and death-responsible only to is sufficient ground of partiality in an authe critic for the administration of his powers. dience, either upon the account of religion (as

Mr. Rymer has his own stately notions of Rinaldo or Riccardo, in Tasso, might kill Soliwhat is proper for tragedy; He is zealous for man, or any other 'Turkish king or great Sulpoetical justice; and as he thinks that vice tan) or else in favour of our country, for then cannot be punished too severely, and yet that a private English hero might overcome a king the poet ought to leave his victims objects of of some rival nation." How pleasant a maspity, he protests against the introduction of ter of the ceremonies is he in the regions of very wicked characters. “Therefore,” says fiction-regulating the niceties of murder like he, "among the ancients we find no malefac- the decorums of a dance with an amiable tors of this kind; a wilful murderer is, with preference for his own religion and country! them, as strange and unkvown as a parricide These notions, however absurd, result from to the old Romans. Yet need we not fancy an indistinct sense of a peculiar dignity and that they were squeamish, or unacquainted grandeur essential to tragedy-and surely this with many of those great lumping crimes in feeling was not altogether deceptive. Some that age; when we remember their Edipus, there are, indeed, who trace the emotions of Orestes, or Medea. But they took care to wash strange delight which tragedy awakens, enthe viper, to cleanse away the venom, and with tirely to the love of strong excitement, which such art to prepare the morsel; they made it is gratified by spectacles of anguish. Accordall junket to the taste, and all physic in the ing to their doctrine, the more nearly the re. operation."

presentation of sorrow approaches reality, the Our author understands exactly the balance more intense will be the gratification of the of power in the affections. He would dispose spectator. Thus Burke has gravely asserted, of all the poet's characters to a hair, according that if the audience at a tragedy were into his own rules of fitness. He would marshal formed of an execution about to take place in them in array as in a procession, and mark the neighbourhood, they would leave the theaout exactly what each ought to do or suffer. tre to witness it. We believe that experience According to him, so much of presage and no does not warrant a speculation so dishonour. more should be given—such a degree of sor- able to our nature. How few, except those of row, and no more ought a character endure; the grossest minds, are ever attracted by the vengeance should rise precisely to a given punishment of capital offenders! Even of height, and be executed by a certain appointed those whom the dreadful infliction draws 10hand. He would regulate the conduct of ficti- gether, how many are excited merely by curitious heroes as accurately as of real beings, osity, and a desire to view the last mortal and often reasons well on his own poetic deca- agony, which in a form more or less terrible logue. "Amintor,” says he, (speaking of a all must endure! We think that if, during character in the Maid's Tragedy) “should have the representation of a tragedy, the aubegged the king's pardon; should have suffered dience were compelled to feel vividly that a all the racks and tortures a tyrant could inflict; fellow-creature was struggling in the agonies and from Perillus's bull should have still bel- of a violent death, many of them would retire lowed out that eternal truth, that his promise was —but not to the scene of horror. The reality to be kept--that he is true to Aspatia, that he of human suffering would come too closely dies for his mistress! Then would his memory home to their hearts, to permit their enjoyhave been precious and sweet to after ages; ment of the fiction. How often, during the and the midsummer maidens would have of- scenic exhibition of intolerable agony-unconfered their garlands all at his grave.”

secrated and unredeemed-have we been comMr. Rymer is an enthusiastic champion for pelled to relieve our hearts from a weight too the poetical prerogatives of kings. No cour-heavy for endurance, by calling to mind that tier ever contended more strenuously for their the woes are fictitious! It cannot be the highdivine right in real life, than he for their pre- est triumph of an author, whose aim is to eminence in tragedy. “We are lo presume," heighten the enjoyments of life, that he forces observes he gravely, "the greatest virtues, us, in our own defence, to escape from his where we find the highest rewards; and though power. If the pleasure derived from tragedy it is not necessary that all heroes should be were merely occasioned by the love of excitekings, yet undoubtedly all crowned heads, by ment, the pleasure would be in proportion to poetical right, are heroes. This character is a the depth and the reality of the sorrow. Then flower, a prerogative, so certain, so indispen- would The Gamester be more pathetic than sably annexed to the crown, as by no poet, or Othello, and Isabella call forth deeper admiraparliament of poets, ever to be invaded." tion than Macbeth or Lear. Then would George


Barnwell be the loftiest tragedy, and the New I which power has achieved over its earthly gate Calendar the sweetest collection of pathetic frame. In short, it is the high duty of the tales. To name those instances, is sufficiently tragic poet to exhibit humanity sublimest to refute the position on which they are in its distresses—10 dignify or to sweeten sorfounded.

row-to exhibit eternal energies wrestling with Equally false is the opinion, that the plea- each other, or with the accidents of the worldsure derived from tragedy arises from a source and to disclose the depth and the immortality of individual security, while others are suffer- of the affections. He must represent humanity ing. There are no feelings more distantly as a rock, beaten, and sometimes overspread, removed from the selfish, than those which with the mighty waters of anguish, but still genuine tragedy awakens. We are carried at unshaken. We look to him for hopes, princiits representation out of ourselves, and “the ples, resting places of the soul-for emotions ignorant present time,”—by earnest sympathy which dignify our passions, and consecrate with the passions and the sorrows, not of our- our sorrows. A brief retrospect of tragedy selves, but of our nature. We feel our com- will show, that in every age when it has trimunity with the general heart of man. The umphed, it has appealed not to the mere love encrustments of selfishness and low passion of excitement, but to the perceptions of beauty are rent asunder, and the warm tide of human in the soul—to the yearnings of the deepest sympathies gushcs triumphantly from its affections to the aspirations after grandeur secret and divine sources.

and permanence, which never leave man even It is not, then, in bringing sorrow home in in his errors and afflictions. its dreadful realities to our bosoms, nor in Nothing could be more dignified than the painting it so as to make us cling to our selfish old tragedy of the Greeks. Its characters were gratifications with more earnest joy, that the demi-gods, or heroes; its subjects were often tragic poet moves and enchants us. Grief is the destinies of those lines of the mighty, but the means—the necessary means indeed, which had their beginning among the eldest by which he accomplishes his lofty purposes. deities. So far, in the development of their The grander qualities of the soul cannot be plots, were the poets from appealing to mere developed—the deepest resources of comfort sensibility, that they scarcely deigned to within it cannot be unveiled—the solemnities awaken an anxious throb, or draw forth a of its destiny cannot be shadowed forth-ex- human tear. In their works, we see the catascept in peril and in suffering. Hence peril and trophe from the beginning, and feel its influence suffering become instruments of the Tragic at every step, as we advance majestically along Muse. But these are not, in themselves, those the solemn avenue which it closes. There is things which we delight to contemplate. Va little struggle; the doom of the heroes is fixed rious, indeed, yet most distinct from these, are on high, and they pass, in sublime composure, the sources of that deep joy that tragedy pro- to fulfil their destiny. Their sorrows are awful, duces. Sometimes we are filled with a delight their deaths religious sacrifices to the power of not dissimilar to that which the Laocoon ex- Heaven. The glory that plays about their cites—an admiration of the more than mortal heads is the prognostic of their fate. A conbeauty of the attitudes and of the finishing-secration is shed over their brief and sad and even of the terrific sublimity of the folds career, which takes away all the ordinary in which the links of fate involve the charac- feelings of suffering. Their afflictions are ters. When we look at that inimitable group, sacred, their passions inspired by the gods, we do not merely rejoice in a sympathy with their fates prophesied in elder time, their deaths extreme suffering-but are enchanted with ten- almost festal. All things are tinged with sancder loveliness, and feel that the sense of dis- tity or with beauty in the Greek tragedies. tress is softened by the exquisite touches of Bodily pain is made sublime; destitution and genius. Often, in tragedy, our hearts are ele- wretchedness are rendered sacred; and the vated by thoughts “informed with nobleness” very grove of the Furies is represented as -by the view of heroic greatness of soul-by ever fresh and green. How grand is the sufthe contemplation of affections which death fering of Prometheus, how sweet the resolution cannot conquer. It is not the depth of anguish of Antigone, how appalling, yet how magnifiwhich calls forth delicious tears—it is some cent the last vision of Cassandra, how reconsweet piece of self-denial-some touch of ciling and tender, yet how awful, the circumhuman gentleness, in the midst of sorrow, stances attendant on the death of Edipus! some “glorious triumph of exceeding love,” And how rich a poetic atmosphere do the which suffuses our “subdued eyes," and mel. Athenian poets breathe over all the creations lows our hearts. Death itself often becomes of their genius! Their exquisite groups apthe source of sublime consolations : seen pear in all the venerableness of hoar antithrough the poetical medium, it often seems to quity; yet in the distinctness and in the bloom fall on the wretched “ softly and lightly, as a of unfading youth. All the human figures are passing cloud.” It is felt as the blessed means seen, sublime in attitude, and exquisite in of re-uniting faithful and ill-fated lovers—it is finishing; while, in the dim background, apthe pillow on which the long struggling patriot pear the shapes of eldest gods, and the solemn rests. Often it exhibits the noblest triumph of abstractions of life, fearfully imbodied – the spiritual over the material part of man. “Death the skeleton, and time the shadow!"The intense ardour of a spirit that “o'er-in- Surely there is something more in all this, than form'd its tenement of clay"-yet more quench- a vivid picture of the sad realities of our Jess in the last conflict, is felt to survive the human existence. struggle, and to triumph even in the victory The Romans failed in tragedy, because their

love of mere excitement was too keen to per-| death have deprived it of its terrors. In Shaksmit them to enjoy it. They had “supped full peare, the passionate is always steeped in the of horrors." Familiar with the thoughts of beautiful. Sometimes he diverts sorrow with real slaughter, they could not endure the philo- tender conceits, which, like little fantastic sophic and poetic view of distress in which it rocks, break its streams into sparkling casis softened and made sacred. Their imagina-cades and circling eddies. And when it must tions were too practical for a genuine poet to flow on, deep and still, he bends over it affect. Hence, in the plays which bear the branching foliage and graceful flowers-whose name of Seneca, horrors are heaped on hor- leaves are seen in its dark bosom, all of one rors-the most unpleasing of the Greek fictions sober and harmonious hue-but in their clearest (as that of Medea) are re-written and made form and most delicate proportions. ghastly—and every touch that might redeem is The other dramatists of Shakspeare's age, carefully effaced by the poet. Still, the gran- deprived, like him, of classical resources, and deur of old tragedy is there-still“ the gorgeous far inferior to him in imagination and wisdom, pall comes sweeping by"-still the dignity sur-strove to excite a deep interest by the wildness vives, though the beauty has faded.

of their plots, and the strangeness of the inciIn the productions of Shakspeare, doubtless, dents with which their scenes were crowded. tragedy was divested of something of its external Their bloody tragedies are, however, often grandeur. The mythology of the ancient world relieved by passages of exquisite sweetness. had lost its living charm. Its heroic forms Their terrors, not humanized like those of remained, indeed, unimpaired in beauty or Shakspeare, are yet far removed from the grace, in the distant regions of the imagination, vulgar or disgusting. Sometimes, amidst the but they could no longer occupy the foreground gloom of continued crimes, which often follow of poetry. Men required forms of flesh and each other in stern and awful succession, are blood, animated by human passion, and awak- fair pictures of more than earthly virtue, tinted ening human sympathy. Shakspeare, there with the dews of heaven, and encircled with fore, sought for his materials nearer to common celestial glories. The scene in The Broken humanity than the elder bards. He took also, Heart, where Calantha, amidst the festal crowd, in each play, a far wider range than they had receives the news of the successive deaths of dared to occupy. He does not, therefore, con- those dearest to her in the world, yet dances vey so completely as they did one grand har-on-and that in which she composedly settles monious feeling, by each of his works. But all the affairs of her empire, and then dies who shall affirm, that the tragedy of Shaks- smiling by the body of her contracted lordpeare has not an elevation of its own, or that are in the loftiest spirit of tragedy. They it produces pleasure only by exhibiting spec- combine the dignity and majestic suffering of tacles of varied anguish?' The reconciling the ancient drama, with the intenseness of the power of his imagination, and the genial influ- modern. The last scene unites beauty, tenderences of his philosophy are ever softening and ness, and grandeur, in one harmonious and consecrating sorrow. He scatters the rainbow stately picture—as sublime as any single scene hues of fancy over objects in themselves repul- in the tragedies of Æschylus or Shakspeare. sive. He nicely developes the “soul of good of the succeeding tragedians of England, ness in things evil,” to console and delight us. the frigid imitators of the French Drama, it is He blends all the most glorious imagery of na- necessary to say but little. The elevation of ture with the passionate expressions of afflic- their plays is only on the stilts of declamatory tion. He sometimes, in a single image; ex- language. The proportions and symmetry of presses an intense sentiment in all its depth, their plots are but an accordance with arbitrary yet identifies it with the widest and the grandest rules. Yet was there no reason to fear that objects of creation. Thus he makes Timon, the sensibilities of their audience should be in the bitterness of his soul, set up his tomb too strongly excited, without the alleviations of on the beached shore, that the wave of the fancy or of grandeur, because their sorrows ocean may once a day cover him with its em- are unreal, turgid, and fantastic. Cato is a bossed foam_expanding an individual feel classical petrifaction. Its tenderest expression ing into the extent of the vast and eternal sea; is, “ Be sure you place his urn near mine," yet making us feel it as more intense, from the which comes over us like a sentiment frozen very sublimity of the image. The mind can in the ulterance. Congreve's Mourning Bride always rest without anguish on his catastro- has a greater air of magnificence than most phies, however mournful. Sad as the story of tragedies of his 'or of the succeeding time; Romeo and Juliet is, it does not lacerate or but its declamations fatigue, and its labyrinthine tear the heart, but relieves it of its weight by plot perplexes. Venice Preserved is cast in the awakening sweet tears. We shrink not at mould of dignity and of grandeur; but the their tomb, which we feel has set a seal on characters want nobleness, the poetry cohertheir loves and virtues, but almost long with ence, and the sentiments truth. them there " to set up our everlasting rest.” The plays of Hill, Hughes, Philips, Murphy, We do not feel unmingled agony at the death and Rowe, are dialogues, sometimes ill and of Lear; when his aged heart, which has been sometimes well written-occasionally stately beaten so fearfully, is at rest-and his withered in numbers, but never touching the soul. It frame, late o'er-informed with terrific energy, would be unjust to mention Young and Thomreposes with his pious child. We are not son as the writers of tragedies. shocked and harrowed even when Hamlet falls; The old English feeling of tender beauty has for we feel that he is unfit for the bustle of this at last begun to revive. Lamb's John Woodvil, world, and his own gentle contemplations on I despised by the critics, and for a while neg

lected by the people, awakened those gentle | scenes of Barry Cornwall, passages of the pulses of deep joy which had long forgoiten to daintiest beauty abound-the passion is every beat. Here first, after a long interval, instead where breathed tenderly forth, in strains which of the pompous swelling of inane declamation, are “silver sweet"-and the sorrow is relieved the music of humanity was heard in its sweet by tenderness the most endearing. Here may est tones. The air of freshness breathed over be enjoyed “a perpetual feast of nectared its forest scenes, the delicate grace of its images, sweets, where no crude surfeit reigrs.”—In its nice disclosure of consolations and venera- these and in the works of Shiel, and even of blenesses in the nature of man, and the exqui- Maturin-are the elements whence a tragedy site beauty of its catastrophe, where the stony more noble and complete might be moulded, remorse of the hero is melted into child-like than any which has astonished the world since tears, as he kneels on the little hassock where Macbeth and Lear. We long to see a stately subhe had often kneeled in infancy, are truly ject for tragedy chosen by some living aspirantShakspearean. Yet this piece, with all its the sublime struggle of high passionsfor the mas. delicacies in the reading, wants that striking tery displayed—the sufferings relieved by gloriscenic effect, without which a tragedy cannot ous imaginations, yel brought home to our souls, succeed on the stage. The Remorse of Cole and the whole conveying one grand and harmoridge is a noble poem; but its metaphysical nious impression to the general heart. Let us clouds, though fringed with golden imagina- hope that this triumph will not long be wanting, tions, brood too heavily over it. In the detached to complete the intellectual glories of our age.


(RETROSPECTIVE Review, No. 2.)

THERE are, perhaps, few individuals, of in- determination not to repress it, because it is tense personal conciseness, whose lives, writ- part of himself, and therefore will only increase ten by themselves, would be destitute of interest the resemblance of the picture. Rousseau did or of value. Works of this description enlarge not more clearly lay open to the world the the number of our intimacies without inconve- depths and inmost recesses of his soul, than nience; awaken, with a peculiar vividness, Cibber his little foibles and minikin weakpleasant recollections of our own past career; nesses. The philosopher dwelt not more inand excite that sympathy with the little sor- tensely on the lone enthusiasm of his spirit, rows, cares, hopes, and enjoyments of others, on the alleviations of his throbbing soul, on which infuses new tenderness into all the the long draughts of rapture which he eagerly pulses of individual joy. The qualification drank in from the loveliness of the universe, which is most indispensable to the writer of than the player on his early aspirings for scenic such auto-biographies, is vanity. If he does applause, and all the petty triumphs and mornot dwell with gusto on his own theme, he will lifications of his passion for the favour of the communicate no gratification to his reader. He town. How real and speaking is the descripmust not, indeed, fancy himself too outrage- tion which he gives of his fond desires for the ously what he is not, but should have the bright course of an actor-of his light-hearted higbest sense of what he is, the happiest relish pleasure, when, in the little part of the Chapfor his own peculiarities, and the most confi- lain, in The Orphan, he received his first apdent assurance that they are matters of great plause-and of his highest transport, when, interest to the world. He who feels thus, will the next day, Goodman, a retired actor of note, not chill us by cold generalities, but trace with clapping him on the shoulder at a rehearsal, an exquisite minuteness all the felicities of his exclaimed, with an oath, that he must make a life, all the well remembered moments of grati- good actor, which almost took away his breath, fied vanity, from the first beatings of hope and and fairly drew tears into his eyes! The spirit first taste of delight, to the time when age is of gladness, which gave such exquisite keengladdened by the reflected tints of young enter- ness to his youthful appetite for praise, susprise and victory. Thus it was with Colley tained him through all the changes of his forCibber; and, therefore, his Apology for his own tune, enabling him to make a jest of penury, Jife is one of the most amusing books that assisting him to gather fresh courage from have ever been written. He was not, indeed, every slight, adding zest to every success, until a very wise or lofty character-nor did he affect he arrived at the high dignity of “ Patentee of great virtue or wisdom-but openly derided the Theatre Royal.” When "he no revenue gravity, bade defiance to the serious pursuits had but his good spirits to feed and clothe of life, and honestly preferred his own lightness him," these were ample. His vanity was to of heart and of head, to knowledge the most him a kingdom. The airiest of town butter. extensive or thought the most profound. He flies, he sipped of the sweets of pleasure wherwas vain even of his vanity. At the very ever its stray gifts were found; sometimes in commencement of his work, he avows his; the tavern among the wits, but chiefly in the

golden sphere of the theatre,—that magic circles" made of one blood," and equal in the sanctiwhose majesties do not perish with the chances ties of their being. Surely the art that produces of the world. In reading his life, we become an effect like this—which separates, as by a possessed of his own feathery lightness, and divine alchemy, the artificial from the real in seem to follow the course of the gayest and humanity-which supplies to the artisan in the emptiest of all the bubbles, that, in his age the capital, the place of those woods and free of happy trifling, floated along the shallow but airs, and mountain streams, which insensibly glittering stream of existence.

harmonize the peasant's character-which The Life of Cibber is peculiarly a favourite gives the poorest to feel the old grandeur of with us, not only by reason of the superlative tragedy, sweeping by with sceptred pall—which coxcombry which it exhibits, but of the due makes the heart of the child leap with strange veneration which it yields to an art too fre-jay, and enables the old man to fancy himself quently under-rated, even among those to whose again a child—is worthy of no mean place gratification it ministers. If the degree of en- among the arts which refine our manners, by joyment and of benefit produced by an art be exalting our conceptions ! any test of its excellence, there are few, indeed, It has sometimes been objected to the theawhich will yield to that of the actor. His ex. trical artist, that he merely repeats the lanertions do not, indeed, often excite emotions so guage and imbodies the conceptions of the deep or so pure as those which the noblest poet. But the allegation, though specious, is poeiry inspires, but their genial influences are unfounded. It has been completely established, far more widely extended. The beauties of by a great and genial critic of our own time, the most gifted of bards, find in the bosoms of that the deeper beauties of poetry cannot be a very small number an answering sympathy. shaped forth by the actor,* and it is equally Even of those who talk familiarly of Spenser true, that the poet has little share in the highand Milton, there are few who have fairly read, est triumphs of the performer. It may, at first, and still fewer who truly feel, their divinest appear a paradox, but is, nevertheless, proved effusions. It is only in the theatre, that any by experience, that the fanciful cast of the lanimage of the real grandeur of humanity-any guage has very little to do with the effect of picture of generous heroism and noble self- an acted tragedy. Mrs. Siddons would not sacrifice-is poured on the imaginations, and have been less than she is, though Shakspeare sent warm to the hearts of the vast body of had never written. She displayed genius as the people. There, are eyes, familiar through exalted in the characters drawn by Moore, months and years only with mechanic toil, Southern, Otway, and Rowe, as in those of the suffused with natural lears. There, are the first of human ards. Certain great situations deep fountains of hearts, long encrusted by are all the performer needs, and the grandest narrow cares, burst open, and a holy light is emotions of the soul all that he can imbody. sent in on the long sunken forms of the imagi. He can derive little aid from the noblest imagination, which shone fair and goodly in boy- nations or the richest fantasies of the author. hood by their own light, but have since been He may, indeed, by his own genius, like the sealed and forgotien in their “sunless treasu-matchless artist to whom we have just alluded, ries.” There, do the lowest and most ignorant consecrate sorrow, dignify emotion, and kindle catch their only glimpse of that poetic radiance the imagination as well as awaken the sympa. which sheds its glory around our being. While thies. But this will be accomplished, not by They gaze, they forget the petty concerns of the texture of the words spoken, but by the their own individual lot, and recognise and living magic of the eye, of the tone, of the rejoice in their kindred with a nature capable action; by all those means which belong exof high emprise, of meek suffering, and of de-clusively to the actor. When Mrs. Siddons fiance to the powers of agony and the grave. cast that unforgotten gaze of blank horror on They are elevated and softened into men. the corpse of Beverley, was she indebted to the They are carried beyond the ignorant present playwright for the conception? When, as time; feel the past and the future on the instant, Arpasia, in Tamerlane, she gave that look of and kindle as they gaze on the massive reali- inexpressible anguish, in which the breaking ties of human virtue, or on those fairy visions of the heart might be seen, and the cold and which are the gleaming foreshadows of golden rapid advances of death traced—and fell withyears, which hereafter shall bless the world. out a word, as if struck by the sudden blow of Their horizon is suddenly extended from the destiny-in that moment of unearthly power, narrow circle of low anxieties and sellish joys, when she astonished and terrified even her to the farthest boundaries of our moral horizon; oldest admirers, and after which, she lay herand they perceive, in clear vision, the rocks of self really senseless from the intensity of her defence for their nature, which their fellow own emotion—where was the marvellous stage men have been privileged to raise. While direction, the pregnant hint in the frigid declathey feel that " which gives an awe of things matory iext, from which she wrought this above them,” their souls are expanded in the amazing picture, too perilons to be often reheartiest sympathy with the vast body of their peated ? Do the words “I'm satisfied,” in fellows. A thousand hearts are swayed at Cato, convey the slightest image of that high once by the same emotion, as the high grass of struggle—that contest between nature long rethe meadow yields, as a single blade, to the breeze which sweeps over it. Distinctions of See Mr. Lamb's Essay on the Tragedies of Shaks. fortune, rank, talent, age, all give way to the peare, as adapted to representation on the stage--a piece, warm tide of emotion, and every class feel which combines more of profound thought, with more of

deep feeling and exquisite beauty, than any criticism only as partakers in one primal sympathy, with which we are acquainted.


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