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Lonesome and lost: of whom, and whose past Intoxicating service! I might say

life,

(Not to forestall such knowledge as may be More faithfully collected from himself,) This brief communication shall suffice.

"Though now sojourning there, he, like myself,
Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage
Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract
Where many a shelter'd and well-tended plant,
Bears, on the humblest ground of social life,
Blossoms of piety and innocence.

Such grateful promises his youth display'd:
And, having shown in study forward zeal,
He to the ministry was duly call'd;
And straight incited by a curious mind

Fill'd with vague hopes, he undertook the charge
Of chaplain to a military troop,

Cheer'd by the Highland bagpipe, as they march'd
In plaided vest,-his fellow countrymen.
This office filling, yet by native power
And force of native inclination, made
An intellectual ruler in the haunts

Of social vanity-he walk'd the world,
Gay, and affecting graceful gayety;
Lax, buoyant-less a pastor with his flock
Than a soldier among soldiers-lived and roam'd
Where fortune led:-and fortune, who oft proves
The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known
A blooming lady-a conspicuous flower,
Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised;
Whom he had sensibility to love,
Ambition to attempt, and skill to win.

"For this fair bride, most rich in gifts of mind,
Nor sparingly endow'd with worldly wealth
His office he relinquish'd; and retired
From the world's notice to a rural home.
Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past,
And she was in youth's prime. How full their joy,
How free their love! nor did that love decay,
Nor joy abate, till, pitiable doom!

In the short course of one undreaded year
Death blasted all.-Death suddenly o'erthrew
Two lovely children-all that they possess'd!
The mother follow'd:-miserably bare
The one survivor stood; he wept, he pray'd
For his dismissal; day and night, compell'd
By pain to turn his thoughts towards the grave,
And face the regions of eternity.
And uncomplaining apathy displaced
This anguish; and, indifferent to delight,
To aim and purpose, he consumed his days,
To private interest dead, and public care.
So lived he; so he might have died.

"But now,

To the wide world's astonishment, appear'd
A glorious opening, the unlook'd for dawn,
That promised everlasting joy to France!
Her voice of social transport reach'd e'en him!
He broke from his contracted bounds, repair'd
To the great city, an emporium then
Of golden expectations, and receiving
Freights every day from a new world of hope.
Thither his popular talents he transferr'd
And, from the pulpit, zealously maintain'd
The cause of Christ and civil liberty,
As one, and moving to one glorious end.

A happy service; for he was sincere
As vanity and fondness for applause,

And new and shapeless wishes, would allow.
"That righteous cause (such power hath freedom)
bound,

For one hostility, in friendly league
Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves;
Was served by rival advocates that came
From regions opposite as heaven and hell,
One courage seem'd to animate them all:
And, from the dazzling conquests daily gain'd
By their united efforts, there arose

A proud and most presumptuous confidence
In the transcendent wisdom of the age,
And her discernment; not alone in rights,
And in the origin and bounds of power
Social and temporal; but in laws divine,
Deduced by reason, or to faith reveal'd.
An overweening trust was raised; and fear
Cast out, alike of person and of thing.

Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane
The strongest did not easily escape:

And he, what wonder! took a mortal taint.
How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell
That he broke faith with them whom he had laid
In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope!
An infidel contempt of holy writ

Stole by degrees upon his mind; and hence
Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced;
Vilest hypocrisy, the laughing, gay
Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride.
Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls
But, for disciples of the inner school,

Old freedom was old servitude, and they
The wisest whose opinions stoop'd the least
To known restraints: and who most boldly drew
Hopeful prognostications from a creed,
That, in the light of false philosophy,
Spread like a halo round a misty moon,
Widening its circle as the storms advance.
"His sacred function was at length renounced;
And every day and every place enjoy'd
Th' unshackled layman's natural liberty;
Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise.
I do not wish to wrong him ;-though the course
Of private life licentiously display'd
Unhallow'd actions-planted like a crown
Upon the insolent, aspiring brow
Of spurious notions-worn as open signs
Of prejudice subdued-he still retain'd,
'Mid such abasement, what he had received
From nature-an intense and glowing mind.
Wherefore, when humbled liberty grew weak,
And mortal sickness on her face appear'd,
He colour'd objects to his own desire
As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods
Of pain were keen as those of better men,
Nay keener-as his fortitude was less,
And he continued, when worse days were come,
To deal about his sparkling eloquence,
Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal
That show'd like happiness: but, in despite
Of all this outside bravery, within,
He neither felt encouragement nor hope:
For moral dignity, and strength of mind,

Were wanting; and simplicity of life;
And reverence for himself; and, last and best,
Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of him
Before whose sight the troubles of this world
Are vain as billows in a tossing sea.

"The glory of the times fading away,
The splendour, which had given a festal air
To self-importance, hallow'd it, and veil'd
From his own sight,-this gone, he forfeited
All joy in human nature; was consumed,
And vex'd, and chafed, by levity and scorn,
And fruitless indignation; gall'd by pride;
Made desperate by contempt of men who throve
Before his sight in power or fame, and won,
Without desert, what he desired; weak men,
Too weak e'en for his envy or his hate!
Tormented thus, after a wandering course
Of discontent, and inwardly opprest
With malady-in part, I fear, provoked
By weariness of life, he fix'd his home,
Or, rather say, sate down by very chance,
Among these rugged hills; where now he dwells,
And wastes the sad remainder of his hours
In self-indulging spleen, that doth not want
Its own voluptuousness; on this resolved,
With this content, that he will live and die
Forgotten, at safe distance from a world
Not moving to his mind.""

6

These serious words

Closed the preparatory notices
That served my fellow traveller to beguile
The way, while we advanced up that wide vale.
Diverging now (as if his quest had been
Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall
Of water-or some boastful eminence,
Renown'd for splendid prospect far and wide)
We scaled, without a track to ease our steps,
A steep ascent; and reach'd a dreary plain,
With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops
Before us; savage region! which I paced
Dispirited when, all at once, behold!
Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale,
A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high
Among the mountains; even as if the spot
Had been, from eldest time by wish of theirs,
So placed, to be shut out from all the world!
Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn;
With rocks encompass'd, save that to the south
Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge
Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close:
A quiet, treeless nook, with two green fields,
A liquid pool that glitter'd in the sun,
And one bare dwelling; one abode, no more!
It seem'd the home of poverty and toil,
Though not of want: the little fields, made green
By husbandry of many thrifty years,
Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house.
There crows the cock, single in his domain :
The small birds find in spring no thicket there
To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales
The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops,
Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place.
Ah! what a sweet recess, thought I, is here!
Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease
Upon a bed of heath;-full many a spot
Of hidden beauty have I chanced t' espy

Among the mountains; never one like this;
So lonesome, and so perfectly secure :
Not melancholy-no, for it is green,
And bright, and fertile, furnish'd in itself
With the few needful things that life requires.
In rugged arms how soft it seems to lie,
How tenderly protected! Far and near
We have an image of the pristine earth,
The planet in its nakedness; were this
Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat,
First, last, and single in the breathing world,
It could not be more quiet: peace is here
Or nowhere; days unruffled by the gale
Of public news or private; years that pass
Forgetfully; uncall'd upon to pay
The common penalties of mortal life,
Sickness or accident, or grief, or pain.

On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay
In silence musing by my comrade's side,
He also silent: when from out the heart
Of that profound abyss a solemn voice,
Or several voices in one solemn sound,
Was heard ascending: mournful, deep, and slow
The cadence, as of psalms-a funeral dirge;
We listen'd, looking down upon the hut,
But seeing no one: meanwhile from below
The strain continued, spiritual as before.
And now distinctly could I recognise

These words:"Shall in the grave thy love be
known,

In death thy faithfulness ?"-" God rest his soul!"
The wanderer cried, abruptly breaking silence,-
"He is departed, and finds peace at last!"

This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains
Not ceasing, forth appear'd in view a band
Of rustic persons, from behind the hut
Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which
They shaped their course along the sloping side
Of that small valley; singing as they moved;
A sober company and few, the men
Bareheaded, and all decently attired!
Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge
Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued
Recovering, to my friend I said, "You spake,
Methought, with apprehension that these rites
Are paid to him upon whose shy retreat
This day we purposed to intrude."-" I did so,
But let us hence, that we may learn the truth:
Perhaps it is not he but some one else
For whom this pious service is perform'd;
Some other tenant of the solitude."

So, to a steep and difficult descent
Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag,
Where passage could be won; and, as the last
Of the mute train, upon the heathy top
Of that off-sloping outlet, disappear'd,
I, more impatient in my downward course,
Had landed upon easy ground; and there
Stood waiting for my comrade. When behold
An object that enticed my steps aside!
A narrow, winding entry open'd out
Into a platform-that lay, sheepfold wise,
Enclosed between an upright mass of rock
And one old moss-grown wall;-a cool recess,
And fanciful! For, where the rock and wall
Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed,

By thrusting two rude staves into the wall
And overlaying them with mountain sods;
To weather-fend a little turf-built seat
Whereon a full grown man might rest, nor dread
The burning sunshine, or a transient shower;
But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands!
Whose skill had throng'd the floor with a proud show
Of baby-houses, curiously arranged;
Nor wanting ornaments of walks between,
With mimic trees inserted in the turf,

And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight,
I could not choose but beckon to my guide,
Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance,
Impatient to pass on, when I exclaim'd,

No dearer relic, and no better stay,
Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen,
Impure conceits discharging from a heart
Harden'd by impious pride! I did not fear
To tax you with this journey ;"-mildly said
My venerable friend, as forth we stepp'd
Into the presence of the cheerful light-
"For I have knowledge that you do not shrink
From moving spectacles ;-but let us on."

So speaking, on he went, and at the word
I follow'd, till he made a sudden stand:
For full in view, approaching through a gate
That open'd from the enclosure of green fields
Into the rough uncultivated ground,

"Lo! what is here ?" and stooping down, drew Behold the man whom he had fancied dead! forth

A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss
And wreck of party-colour'd earthenware
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise
One of those petty structures. "Gracious heaven!"
The wanderer cried, "it cannot but be his,
And he is gone?" The book, which in my hand
Had open'd of itself, (for it was swoln
With searching damp, and seemingly had lain
To the injurious elements exposed
From week to week,) I found to be a work

In the French tongue, a novel of Voltaire,
His famous optimist. Unhappy man!"

I knew, from his deportment, mien, and dress,
That it could be no other; a pale face,

A tall and meagre person, in a garb
Not rustic, dull and faded like himself!
He saw us not, though distant but few steps;
For he was busy, dealing, from a store
Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings
Of red, ripe currants; gift by which he strove,
With intermixture of endearing words,

To soothe a child, who walk'd beside him, weeping
As if disconsolate." They to the grave

Are bearing him, my little one," he said,
"To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain;

Exclaim'd my friend: "here then has been to him His body is at rest, his soul in heaven."

Retreat within retreat, a sheltering place

Within how deep a shelter! He had fits,
E'en to the last, of genuine tenderness,

And loved the haunts of children here, no doubt.
Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports,
Or sate companionless; and here the book,
Left and forgotten in his careless way,
Must by the cottage children have been found:
Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work!
To what odd purpose have the darlings turn'd
This sad memorial of their hapless friend!"

"Me," said I," most doth it surprise to find
Such book in such a place!"-" A book it is,”
He answered, " to the person suited well,
Though little suited to surrounding things;
'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been
To see the man who own'd it, dwelling here,
With one poor shepherd, far from all the world!
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away,
As from these intimations I forbode,
Grieved shall I be-less for my sake than yours;
And least of all for him who is no more."

By this, the book was in the old man's hand; And he continued, glancing on the leaves An eye of scorn. "The lover," said he, "doom'd To love when hope hath fail'd him—whom no depth Of privacy is deep enough to hide, Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, And that is joy to him. When change of times Hath summon'd kings to scaffolds, do but give The faithful servant, who must hide his head Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood, And he too hath his comforter. How poor, Beyond all poverty how destitute,

Must that man have been left, who, hither driven, Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him

More might have follow'd-but my honour'd
friend

Broke in upon the speaker with a frank
And cordial greeting.-Vivid was the light
That flash'd and sparkled from the other's eyes :
He was all fire: the sickness from his face
Pass'd like a fancy that is swept away;
Hands join'd he with his visitant, a grasp,
An eager grasp; and many moments' space,
When the first glow of pleasure was no more,
And much of what had vanish'd was return'd,
An amicable smile retain'd the life
Which it had unexpectedly received,
Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said,
"Nor could your coming have been better timed:
For this, you see, is in our narrow world
A day of sorrow. I have here a charge❞—
And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly
The sunburnt forehead of the weeping child-
"A little mourner, whom it is my task
To comfort;-but how came ye ?-if yon track
(Which doth at once befriend us and betray)
Conducted hither your most welcome feet,
Ye could not miss the funeral train-they yet
Have scarcely disappear'd." "This blooming child,"
Said the old man, " is of an age to weep
At any grave or solemn spectacle,
Inly distress'd or overpower'd with awe,
He knows not why ;-but he, perchance, this day,
Is shedding orphan's tears; and you yourself
Must have sustain'd a loss."-"The hand of death,"
He answer'd," has been here; but could not well
Have fall'n more lightly, if it had not fall'n
Upon myself."-The other left these words
Unnoticed, thus continuing.-

"From yon crag

Down whose steep sides we dropp'd into the vale,

We heard the hymn they sang-a solemn sound
Heard anywhere, but in a place like this
'Tis more than human! Many precious rites
And customs of our rural ancestry

Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope,
Will last for ever. Often have I stopp'd

When on my way, I could not choose but stop,
So much I felt the awfulness of life,

In that one moment when the corse is lifted

In silence, with a hush of decency,

Answer'd the sick man with a careless voice-
"That I came hither; neither have I found
Among associates who have power of speech,
Nor in such other converse as is here,
Temptation so prevailing as to change
That mood, or undermine my first resolve."-
Then speaking in like careless sort, he said
To my benign companion,-" Pity 'tis
That fortune did not guide you to this house
A few days earlier; then would you have seen

Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, What stuff the dwellers in a solitude,

And confidential yearnings, to its home,

Its final home in earth. What traveller-who-
(How far soe'er a stranger) does not own

The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go,
A mute procession on the houseless road;
Or passing by some single tenement

Or cluster'd dwellings, where again they raise
The monitory voice? But most of all
It touches, it confirms, and elevates,
Then, when the body, soon to be consign'd
Ashes to ashes, dust bequeath'd to dust,

Is raised from the church aisle, and forward borne
Upon the shoulders of the next in love,
The nearest in affection or in blood;

Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt

Beside the coffin, resting on its lid

In silent grief their unuplifted heads,

That seems by nature hollow'd out to be
The seat and bosom of pure innocence,
Are made of; an ungracious matter this!
Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too
Of past discussions with this zealous friend
And advocate of humble life, I now
Will force upon his notice; undeterr'd
By the example of his own pure course,
And that respect and deference which a soul
May fairly claim, by niggard age enrich'd
In what she values most-the love of God
And his frail creature, man :-but ye shall hear.
I talk-and ye are standing in the sun
Without refreshment!"

Saying this, he led
Towards the cottage ;-homely was the spot;
And, to my feeling, ere we reach'd the door,

And heard meanwhile the psalmist's mournful Had almost a forbidding nakedness;

plaint,

And that most awful scripture which declares
We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed!-
Have I not seen ?-Ye likewise may have seen-
Son, husband, brothers-brothers side by side,
And son and father also side by side,
Rise from that posture ;-and in concert move,
On the green turf following the vested priest,
Four dear supporters of one senseless weight,
From which they do not shrink, and under which
They faint not, but advance toward the grave
Step after step-together, with their firm
Unhidden faces; he that suffers most,
He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps,
The most serene, with most undaunted eye!
O! blest are they who live and die like these,
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow
mourn'd!"

"That poor man taken hence to-day," replied The solitary, with a faint, sarcastic smile

Less fair, I grant, e'en painfully less fair,
Than it appear'd when from the beetling rock
We had look'd down upon it. All within,
As left by the departed company,
Was silent; and the solitary clock

Tick'd, as I thought, with melancholy sound.-
Following our guide, we clomb the cottage stairs
And reach'd a small apartment dark and low,
Which was no sooner enter'd than our host
Said gayly, "This is my domain, my cell,
My hermitage, my cabin,-what you will-
I love it better than a snail his house.
But now ye shall be feasted with our best."
So, with more ardour than an unripe girl
Left one day mistress of her mother's stores,
He went about his hospitable task.
My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less,
And pleased I look'd upon my gray-hair'd friend,
As if to thank him: he return'd that look,
Cheer'd, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck

Which did not please me, "must be deem'd, I fear, Had we around us! scatter'd was the floor,

Of the unblest; for he will surely sink

Into his mother earth without such pomp
Of grief, depart without occasion given

By him for such array of fortitude.
Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark!
This simple child will mourn his one short hour
And I shall miss him; scanty tribute! yet,
This wanting, he would leave the sight of men,
If love were his sole claim upon their care,
Like a ripe date which in the desert falls
Without a hand to gather it." At this
I interposed, though loath to speak, and said,
"Can it be thus among so small a band
As ye must needs be here? in such a place
I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight
Of a departing cloud."-" "Twas not for love,"

And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf,
With books, maps, fossils, wither'd plants and

flowers,

And tufts of mountain moss: mechanic tools
Lay intermix'd with scraps of
paper, some
Scribbled with verse; a broken angling-rod
And shatter'd telescope, together link'd
By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook;
And instruments of music, some half made,
Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls.-
But speedily the promise was fulfill'd;

A feast before us, and a courteous host

Inviting us in glee to sit and eat.

A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook
By which it had been bleach'd, o'erspread the board;
And was itself half cover'd with a load

Of dainties,-oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream. Upon the laws of public charity.

And cakes of butter curiously emboss'd,
Butter that had imbibed from meadow flowers
A golden hue, delicate as their own,
Faintly reflected in a lingering stream;

Nor lack'd, for more delight on that warm day,
Our table, small parade of garden fruits,
And whortleberries from the mountain side.
The child, who long ere this had still'd his sobs
Was now a help to his late comforter,
And moved, a willing page, as he was bid,
Ministering to our need.

In genial mood,

While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate
Fronting the window of that little cell,
I could not, ever and anon, forbear

To glance an upward look on two huge peaks,
That from some other vale peer'd into this.
"Those lusty twins," exclaim'd our host, "if here
It were your lot to dwell, would soon become
Your prized companions.-Many are the notes
Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth
From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing
shores;

And well those lofty brethren bear their part
In the wild concert-chiefly when the storm
Rides high; then all the upper air they fill
With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow,
Like smoke, along the level of the blast,
In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song
Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails;
And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon,
Methinks that I have heard them echo back
The thunder's greeting:-nor have nature's laws
Left them ungifted with a power to yield
Music of finer tone; a harmony,

So do I call it, though it be the hand

Of silence, though there be no voice ;-the clouds,
The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns,
Motions of moonlight, all come thither-touch,
And have an answer-thither come, and shape
A language not unwelcome to sick hearts
And idle spirits :-there the sun himself,
At the calm close of summer's longest day,
Rests his substantial orb ;-between those heights
And on the top of either pinnacle,

The housewife, tempted by such slender gains
As might from that occasion be distill'd,
Open'd, as she before had done for me,
Her doors t' admit this homeless pensioner;
The portion gave of course but wholesome fare
Which appetite required-a blind, dull nook
Such as she had-the kennel of his rest!
This, in itself not ill, would yet have been
Ill borne in earlier life, but his was now
The still contentedness of seventy years.
Calm did he sit beneath the wide-spread tree
Of his old age; and yet less calm and meek.
Willingly meek or venerably calm,
Than slow and torpid; paying in this wise
A penalty, if penalty it were,

For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime.
I loved the old man, for I pitied him!
A task it was, I own, to hold discourse
With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts,
But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes;
Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way,
And helpful to his utmost power: and there
Our housewife knew full well what she possess'd!
He was her vassal of all labour, till'd
Her garden, from the pasture fetch'd her kine;
And, one among the orderly array

Of haymakers, beneath the burning sun
Maintain'd his place: or heedfully pursued
His course, on errands bound, to other vales,
Leading sometimes an inexperienced child,
Too young for any profitable task.

So moved he like a shadow that perform'd
Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn
For what reward! The moon her monthly round
Hath not completed since our dame, the queen
Of this one cottage and this lonely dale,
Into my little sanctuary rush'd—
Voice to a rueful treble humanized,
And features in deplorable dismay-

I treat the matter lightly, but, alas!
It is most serious: persevering rain
Had fall'n in torrents; all the mountain tops
Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides;
This had I seen, and saw; but, till she spake,
Was wholly ignorant that my ancient friend,

More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, Who at her bidding, early and alone,

Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud.

Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man
Than the mute agents stirring there:-alone
Here do I sit and watch."-

A fall of voice,

Regretted like the nightingale's last note,
Had scarcely closed this high-wrought rhapsody,
Ere with inviting smile the wanderer said,

Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf
For winter fuel, to his noontide meal
Return'd not, and now, haply, on the heights
Lay at the mercy of this raging storm.

Inhuman!'-said I, ' was an old man's life
Not worth the trouble of a thought ?-alas?
This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw
Her husband enter-from a distant vale.

"Now for the tale with which you threaten'd us!" We sallied forth together; found the tools

"In truth the threat escaped me unawares;
Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand
For my excuse. Dissever'd from mankind,
As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seem'd
When ye look'd down upon us from the crag,
Islanders of a stormy mountain sea.
We are not so ;-perpetually we touch
Upon the vulgar ordinance of the world,
And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day
Relinquish'd, lived dependent for his bread

Which the neglected veteran had dropp'd,
But through all quarters look'd for him in vain.
We shouted-but no answer! Darkness fell
Without remission of the blast or shower,
And fears for our own safety drove us home.
I, who weep little, did I will confess,
The moment I was seated here alone,
Honour my little cell with some few tears
Which anger and resentment could not dry.
All night the storm endured; and soon as help

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