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No. 103.]

VOL. IV.

SHARPE'S

London Magazine:

A JOURNAL OF ENTERTAINMENT AND INSTRUCTION
FOR GENERAL READING.

OCTOBER 16, 1847.

The Rustic Nurse.

FROM A DRAWING BY C. H. WEIGALL, ENGRAVED BY JAS. COOPER.

UNSTAMPED, 14d.

[STAMPED, 24d.

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THE RUSTIC NURSE.

OUR Illustration of this day so well tells its own tale as to need no remarks from us; for, although our little nurse seems much pleased with his change, we freely confess our thoughts were drawn to the more melancholy reflection that in these days children are too apt to be kept away from the Village School, to perform the part of the parent at home-a system equally detrimental to the interests of both old and young.

ON THE POETRY AND POETS OF THE AGE.

Ir is of a truth no easy task to set up a standard whereby we may judge of poetry and poets. If this were ever a difficulty in times past, how much greater has it become in these days, when opinion differs so widely as to the merits of various writers, and when every rhymester arrogates to himself a niche in the temple of the Muses. It is impossible in an article circumscribed as this must necessarily be, to enter fully into the niceties of such a question; but as the mariner voyaging over strange seas is enabled to estimate distances, and to tell by certain signs and tokens how far off he is from land, so, in a few brief remarks, the qualities that belong to this divine art may be enumerated, and allusion made to its most successful followers now living and speaking amongst us.

Never was there made a more barefaced attempt to foist a fallacy on the public mind, than in giving out that because a man could string together a quantity of words which should jingle harmoniously, he was worthy of being elevated to the rank of a poet. Facility of versification, and richness of invention, may be, and are, inherent in the true poet, but they do not of themselves constitute a title to that distinguished appellation.

There is something of a far higher origin wanting to complete the proper characteristic which distinguishes the man of genius from the mere maker of couplets. To this something it is almost impossible to give a name, and assuredly no easy task to afford the reader a correct idea of its literal meaning and intrinsic value. It speaks for itself in the verse of the poet; it is the reflex of the noble thoughts that have been engendered in his brain, and are revealed in glowing words, which shine upon man's spirit with the lustre shed from the bright halo of inspiration that glitters on the brow of truth-truth one and immutable-the same in every age and in every clime. We must recognise in the works of the real poet a thinking and an aspiring mind, and be able to trace his aspirations to the domains of the beautiful and the true. Poetry of the simply fictitious order, and which serves no useful end, is in our opinion scarcely deserving of the name, and may be laid aside with the other ephemeræ of its day. That the decline and fall of this species of versification is near at hand may be confidently predicted, and indeed is a consummation most devoutly to be wished. If it is an art which is to serve no purpose, let poetry at once be suffered to become obsolete and unknown, save in the fanciful imagery of some plaintive love-song. But poetry, beyond all other species of literature and the fine arts, has a natural tendency to elevate and exalt the sphere of a man's usefulness, and to free him from the

debasing influences of worldly pursuits. Poetry embodies the art of elevating the objects around and about us, of discovering and rendering apparent the beautiful in the familiar scenes of every-day life, of idealizing reality, so to speak; yet to be what it professes, it must fined to mere utterings; it is seen and felt in a thousand ever speak of, and answer to the truth. It is not conobjects of nature, which to the eyes of a prosaical, common-place mind, are mere rivers, woods, or fields, and nothing more. It is a fact that there are a great many poets amongst the mass of human beings, who are altogether unconscious of possessing one spark of this divine faculty. They see a beauty, and hear a music, to which they can give no name; they abandon themselves to a sense of pleasure in their admiration of things beautiful, but cannot tell whence it arises. There may be no expression in these men,-they may make use of no symbols and no types,-but, for all that, poetry lives and moves within them. Imagination is necessary for the poet to enable him to clothe his thoughts in words, and this is a gift of Nature's own bestowing, which no study can attain. Hence the poet as distinguished from the man in whom poetry lives; and thence it follows, that this art may be defined as the power of liberating one of the highest faculties of the intellect: not cabined or confined, but speaking very intelligible language, that shall vibrate through many hearts, and be listened for ever; like our own immortal Shakspeare, "he is not to in all seasons and in all ages. For the real poet lives for an age, but for all time." He receives from Nature an exquisite perception of the beautiful, and following out the just and unerring laws of compensation, this same Nature gives him a voice by which he shall benefit his fellow-workers in the paths of life, and this voice is the requirements which are specially needful for such a expression, or, going farther, we may say is poetry. Of all man, two must never be lost sight of-earnestness and truthfulness; for without these poetry were a mere wanton idleness, a soft delusion. Nothing contributes more to the rapture with which we hang upon the pages of Shakspeare, Milton, Byron, Dante, Homer, and Burns, each in his degree, were in earnest and spoke the than the certain conviction we possess that these men, truth.

Of the poetry and poets of the present day it is confessedly an ungracious office to speak; for opinions are still strangely divided as to the merits of several of our very cleverest writers. It would seem that an entirely school of a very different order to any that has prenew school has sprung up within the last few years, a ceded it. Its merits appear to consist in the elaboration of intense thought, and the power of clothing with a beauty all their own things of every-day life. To this may be added a high sense of the loveliness of external nature. Its chief defects consist of a too great disregard to the conventionalities of the world, an occasional able obscurity. Wordsworth, who was never more read looseness of construction, and in many places considerthan he is at the present time, may be called the highpriest of this new fraternity. Of his longer poems we will not now speak; but upon the shorter pieces, particularly the sonnets, we must bestow our warmest eulogium. In this class of composition, he stands without a rival; in it he displays all the pathos and energy of a man of feeling, and of the most refined mind. We open the volume at random, and take the first verses that present themselves.

SONNET

ON SIR WALTER SCOTT'S QUITTING ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES.
"A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:
Spirits of Power assembled there complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again and yet again:

Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue

Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean and the midland sea,
Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope."

The late Thomas Hood, whose comic effusions have so often set the table in a roar, was very successful in this walk of poesy. We may instance his Sonnet on Silence as being a perfect model for the gentle craft; but as a specimen of his more general style, we will adduce this, his last dying inspiration

STANZAS.

"Farewell Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim:
Thronging shadows cloud the light,-
Like the advent of the night-
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapour chill;
Strong the earthy odour grows

I smell the mould above the rose!
Welcome Life! the Spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,---
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapour cold-

I smell the rose above the mould."

Rogers, Moore, and Leigh Hunt, cannot be said to have any characteristics in common with this new epoch of the poetic art; therefore, on this occasion, we will not enter into their merits, which belong to a totally different order. Tennyson, among the writers of this school, however, claims a distinguished position, and deserves a more lengthened notice here, for his poetry is everywhere attracting general attention, and daily appealing, by its energetic beauty, to fresh audiences. In the verses of this poet there is an accumulative force, and apposite flow of rhythm, which will convert, in due season, even such of his readers as are most inclined to waver in their faith, and fail in their appreciation of his great genius. His verses will yet find an echo in many a young and susceptible heart. His sympathies are grandly felt and nobly expressed. If ever man possessed that which an American writer has designated as OVER-SOUL, it is this man. To quote is to mutilate him. He must be read, learnt by heart, studied, read again, and, more than all, thought over. Then will come a discovery of the natural beauty of his poetry. "The Two Voices," the "Morte d'Arthur," "Locksley Hall," "Mariana," Dora," the "Day Dream," are all gems not easily

matched.

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No poet ever betrayed the effect of high thinkings so freely as this one. None ever concentrated beautiful ideas so thoroughly or so well. Nearly allied to him in style, is a lady who has lately entered the pale of matrimony, Mrs. Browning. In some of her compositions we are astounded at the force and fervour which glow and move in every line, and can scarcely be persuaded we are listening to chords struck by a woman's hand. Here, too, we trace the impressions produced by intense thought; and are charmed with the music of its melodious flow, and delighted with the very agreeable fancies we encounter at every page. The "Romaunt of Margret," the "Poet's Vow," and "Lady May," are examples of her great command of language and power of depicting emotion. It is to be regretted that conceits should so often mar the effect of many of her most pleasing verses, and the constant recurrence of forced rhythms, made-up words, and accentuated particles, is objectionable.

The poetry of Browning, the husband of this talented

lady, as exhibited in his "Bells and Pomegranates," and Sordello and Paracelsus, is in many respects very striking, but the obscurity which accompanies it detracts so much from its merits, that few persons are tempted to peruse it. Horne has done some wonderful things; his plays, and the epic "Orion," are as finely conceived as they are ably executed. He is gifted with a nice judg ment, and can adapt his verses to the scene or time of their action with great facility and fluency.

Many passages in Taylor's "Van Artevelde" are equal to some of the best productions of our old Elizabethan dramatists. This author is peculiarly happy in delineating character, and in the episode which divides the two parts of his historical play, there are bits of exquisite imagery, which must delight at every fresh reading.

In thus reviewing what has been passing of late years in the regions of poesy, and noticing some of the leading minstrels of the age we live in, it must not for a moment be supposed that the subject has been otherwise than cursorily treated.

There are many meritorious authors, pilgrims bend. ing their steps towards Parnassus, persons of genius, whose names and productions have not been here alluded to. The theme is one which embraces a number of remarks and observations, incompatible with the limits of a single article. The subject is a most interesting and attractive one, and increases in its importance to the literary world with every passing year; for education is making rapid strides throughout the country, and the knowledge of this great fact has a natural tendency to stimulate the mass of mankind to inquire who are the presiding spirits of the age. The question has been here mooted, and but imperfectly answered; still it is to be hoped that it may, in some slight measure, assist the inquirers who would investigate a subject of so lofty a nature.

THE MAIDEN AUNT.-No. IV.1

CHAP. IV.

Edith from the necessity of answering this embarrassing A SUDDEN knocking at the door of the room relieved question.

wishes to see you before you go to bed." "If you please, ma'am, Captain Kinnaird is come, and

Mrs. Dalton could not restrain a laugh at the alacrity with which her friend responded to this summons. "Good night," said she, kissing her, "you are quitte chise you, I will take precautions against these stage pour la peur this time, and when next I want to catesurprises. I do believe it was preconcerted."

"Dear Mrs. Dalton, how can you-?" was Edith's not very intelligible answer. "I am only so very glad to see my brother again; it is six months since we met."

She wrapped herself in a shawl as she spoke, and hurried to the dressing-room to receive her brother, while Mrs. Dalton withdrew to her own apartment.

Kinnaird, having kissed his sister heartily, examined her closely by the light of the lamp, pronounced that she was somewhat paler than her wont, and that dissipation did not agree with her, asked a few scattered questions relative to her proceedings for the last six months, and involved information relative to his own, professed himvolunteered a vast quantity of rambling, rattling, and self tired, and wished her good night. But Edith lingered by the table with his candle in her hand, which was assuredly longer in getting lighted than ever candle was before. At last she said abruptly,

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“I hope, Frank, you didn't forget my birthday." "To be sure not, darling," was his rejoinder. just a fortnight since; I was in Wales, drank your health in the very best Château Margaux it ever was my luck to taste. I suppose you are in a hurry for your birthtill my portmanteau is unpacked. When a young lady day present," he added, laughing, "but you must wait like you attains her majority, you know, one can't pay 377. p.

(1) Continued from

homage to her with a mere trifle, such as one may carry in one's pocket."

"Yes, I am twenty-one," said Edith, sighing. From the moment in which childhood leaves us, we begin to count our birthdays with sighs instead of smiles. They are involuntary pauses, forcing a consciousness of life, even upon the giddiest,-steps are they in the ladder of time, and whether we consider them as leaving the past, or leading to the future, the thought is equally sobering. But Satan's great aim is to paint our life's picture for us without any shadows; where he cannot eradicate them, he gilds them over; well knowing that so he shall destroy the proportions, and confuse the conception of the whole,-overpowering the bright composure of the everlasting sky by the gaudy and obtrusive splendours of earth. And so the healthful solemnities which God has provided for man are by man forcibly transmuted into festivals; so we celebrate a baptism by a dinner-party, and build an hospital by a ball! Kinnaird looked earnestly at his sister, and then, with his customary straightforwardness, answered the question which he believed to lurk in that sigh. "It is a month since I heard from Everard," said he. Edith started | at the name; the idea of the person whom we love is, as it were, compressed, and centred in the name, and so the heart shrinks from it, even when most familiar with the thought which it implies; just as a single speck of intense light will force tears from the eyes which could gaze steadily at the same amount of brightness spread over a larger space.

"He was at Marseilles when he wrote," continued Frank, "and must have been detained, or he would have been home long ere this. I wrote you word I had heard from him, from Marseilles."

"You did," answered Edith, as she moved towards the door. "Good night, Frank," added she, hurriedly and with averted face, pausing, as if for a moment ere she left the room, "You never tell me anything about these letters. What does he say of me-of our engagement?"

The words were almost inaudible, but, even so, it cost Edith much to utter them. During the last three years she had regularly received from her brother notice of all Everard's proceedings, as reported in his own letters; but not one word of herself, not one allusion to their engagement. For some time she attributed this to delicacy or thoughtlessness in Frank; then she tried to break the oppressive silence by hints or allusions, but in vain. She could scarcely have given any tangible form to her suppositions, but there could be no doubt that her vanity was piqued, and the fortnight which had elapsed since her twenty-first birthday, without bringing any tidings of Everard, had not helped to soothe it. At length she was resolved to ask the question; and the embarrassment immediately visible in her brother's face made her heart stop suddenly in its beating, as if a hand had laid cold grasp upon it.

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Oh," replied he, with a little hesitation, "I always give him full particulars concerning you; and as to the engagement, you know, he does not say much about that, because, you see, he takes it for granted;-it is a thing understood-a matter of course.'

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"Good night," repeated Edith, as, with a flushed face and a step of unwonted stateliness, she left the apart

ment.

Frank Kinnaird's embarrassment was genuine and profound. The fact was, that, during the whole course of their correspondence, Everard had never once mentioned Edith's name. It is true that Kinnaird had always given abundant information concerning her without waiting to be questioned, and though puzzled by such unbroken silence on a subject so interesting, he had satisfied his own mind by the reflection that Everard was "an odd fellow, who never felt or acted exactly as other men did, and he must be allowed to go his own way." But he did not think these considerations at all

likely to satisfy the mind of Edith, who, in Mrs. Dalton's words, was "a woman most unlikely to forego her sex's privilege of being wooed." The manner in which he evaded her question was, however, much less calculated to satisfy her than a simple statement of the fact. The severity of reserve bears witness to the strength of the feeling which it is intended to restrain: a cord may bind a child, but you need chains of iron to fetter a man. Absolute silence may be more expressive than the most cloquent oration; but small talk seems to be expressive of nothing but indifference. The conclusion which Edith carried away from this conversation was, that Everard had alluded to his engagement in terms so light, so cool, and so easy, that her brother did not like to report them to her.

It is singular how close the union, how strong the affection between brother and sister may be, without their even approaching to a comprehension of each other's characters-without the smallest admixture of that sympathy, which, as has been before said, is the basis of friendship. One kind of sympathy, indeed, they must necessarily possess; they must be ready to weep for each other's sorrows, to rejoice in each other's happiness,—but this, perhaps, without any quick perception of the personal causes which deepen either the joy or the grief. The bond between them is one rather of habit than of instinct, and differs herein most conspicuously from the love of parent and child, which is a part of the life of the heart, acting by secret unisons and spiritual accordances which cannot be put to silence, save by breaking the strings on which they vibrate. Not that this deeper union does not frequently exist in the case of the other relationship to which we are adverting, giving birth to a holy and tranquil friendship, whose sanctuary no light thought or evil doubt is suffered to profane. We are rather calling attention to the fact, that it is quite possible for a very strong, warm, and even tender affection to exist without it. It is quite possible to love a brother with your whole heart, and yet to feel that he is as far from conjecturing what passes in that heart as the stranger to whom you were introduced yesterday.

Now, Frank Kinnaird's affection for Edith was precisely of this latter description. He was proud of her, and fond of her,-nay, he positively doated upon her: yet if he had been asked to name any of the particulars which individualized her character, and caused her to differ from other women, he would have answered by a most blank silence. His notions of women in general might have been worth a passing examination, if it were not that he shared them in common with so many of his sex a heterogeneous compound they were, full of startling contradictions and pleasant inconsistencies. He had a strong theory that woman was a ministering angel; combined with a more practical belief that she was a domestic animal, and a vague doubt whether she really had any more soul than a kitten. Intellect he considered decidedly disadvantageous to her; yet it did not appear that he sought the society, or enjoyed the conversation of those who were destitute of such a portion of it as he was capable of appreciating. Self-dependence in a woman he vehemently detested; yet no one could be more utterly bored by the practical results of the opposite quality, except in the case of the individuals who, for the time, occupied his fancy and commanded his attentions. Intense, but not ungraceful vanity, a kind of shallow tenderness, abundant in tears, but unprepared for sacrifices, a pretty alacrity in white lies and innocent deceptions-these were, according to him, marks of the sex too indisputable to require discussion; and there is scarcely any imaginable instance of frivolity or falsehood which would not have elicited from him the appropriate comment, "What a thorough woman!” Nevertheless, no one could more readily recognise the merits of such particular instances as came under his personal observation; no one more indignantly testify to disparities, moral or intellectual, between

wife and husband; no one more cordially pity the former, more carnestly condemn the latter, when the case demanded it. But his admiration for excellencies in women arose out of his natural love of whatever was good or noble; his leniency to their faults, out of the poverty and meanness of his ideal-what woman would accept such charity? Nor let it be supposed that in this any special censure on Frank Kinnaird is intended; like most other men, he had never taken the trouble to combine his scattered opinions, so as to detect the unreality of some and the inconsistency of all. And we suspect that if this operation could be performed on the opinions of most other men, the result would be a theory not very unlike that which we have just described. And what, after all, does it signify? If the harp have three octaves, the most pertinacious playing, for a lifetime, on three notes, has no power to reduce the compass of the instrument. True, the useless strings may grow untunable, and return discord instead of harmony to the careless touch; but there they are still, undestroyed, for good or for evil; there they are still, and the various melody and the rich concord still sleep in them, ready to awake beneath the hand of a skilful player.

Thus much it has been necessary to say in order to explain what followed upon Frank Kinnaird's arrival at Selcombe Park, and to account for the view which he took of Edith's conduct. He immediately perceived that she was, to use the fashionable phrase, flirting, to no inconsiderable extent with three gentlemen at once. Jealous for his friend, whose faith it never once occurred to him to doubt, and with whose fastidious delicacy he was well acquainted, he became angry with Edith, and he showed his anger in the most injudicious manner possible. His sister was a spoilt child, wayward, highspirited, and vain; she had been breathing an air artificially softened for three years, and it would have required the most gradual tenderness to accustom her to a healthier temperature:-Frank took her out in an east wind at once, and then was astonished that she caught cold. Though undisciplined in mind, she was full of generous and noble feelings, and an affectionate and judicious friend might have moulded her as he pleased; but the idea that she was doing wrong, that her frivolous and useless life was a perpetual sin,-that her constant and unintermitted intercourse with the world, even with the amiable world, was unconsciously lowering her principles and injuring her character, had never once occurred to her; and now, on a sudden, she found the brother whom she had always hitherto ranked as one of her warmest worshippers, encountering her with a most unreasonable petulance, with an apparent resolution to disapprove all she did and dispute all she said, with those broad rebukes and unsoftened taunts which the freedom of family intercourse is sometimes supposed to sanction, but which sadly rub the bloom from family affection. Was it wonderful that she was exceedingly indignant, and felt herself extremely ill-used? Nay, was it unnatural that she pertinaciously resolved to follow her own way? that she made an object of what had hitherto been only an amusement? that she rather studied to exhibit the pleasure she took in the attentions of her admirers than to withdraw from those attentions, and assume unconsciousness of them? Several days passed, and matters seemed rather to get worse than to improve; there was still no intelligence of Captain Everard; Edith continued to amuse herself and provoke her brother, and the latter, growing more and more surly, resolved at last upon an open remonstrance.

Edith," said he, encountering his sister in the hall, as he was seeking her for this purpose," will you come and walk with me in the garden? I have something to say to you."

Edith's rapid step was checked in an instant. "Have you letters?" asked she hurriedly.

"No, no; but I particularly want to speak to you." "Out of the question!" cried she gaily, "I am going

to give Mr. Thornton a German lesson, and shall not be at leisure for at least an hour. If you have anything very particular to say, tell me now-quick-this instant, for my pupil is waiting for me!"

"Your pupil is, of course, a person of far greater consequence than your brother," said Frank, with that sour kind of playfulness in which the joke is only assumed for the privilege which it gives the speaker of saying far ruder things than he could possibly say in plain earnest.

"Oh, I see you are cross!" returned his sister; "how glad I am that I have got an engagement! Anything is pleasanter than being scolded. I hope by the time I am at your service you will be in a better humour ;" and, with a curtsey of mock solemnity, she darted away into the library. Kinnaird stood still for a moment, feeling most disproportionately angry, and then slowly followed her, and betaking himself to an easy chair and a newspaper, watched with no indulgent eyes the proceedings of the two students. A formidable array of grammars and dictionaries lay on the table as a sort of challenge to the whole world to disprove that they were going to study; Halm's "Son of the Desert" was open before them, and from this they read alternately, Edith occasionally supplying her pupil (whose knowledge of the language seemed scarcely inferior to her own) with the meaning of a word.

"I wonder how that play would act," said Mrs. Dalton, who was playing chaperone, as they closed the book. "Exquisite as it is, and full of truth and pathos, the unity of interest is so unrelieved that it is scarcely dramatic."

"Oh, that is the very peculiarity in which I delight!" exclaimed Edith; "there is a kind of repose, even in passion when it is uninterrupted; episodes and contrasts do jar so with one's feelings when they are really interested. I cannot endure that perpetual recurrence of an underplot, or another set of characters, when the first conception has been grand, and true, and simple. It is as if you were to paint every alternate figure in a frieze by way of relieving the eye from the glare of white marble."

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"No," said Mr. Thornton, " don't paint the figures, but paint the background, if you please; the white figures of the Parthenon stand upon a ground of pure blue. In the episodes and underplots which have disgusted you, the fault lies in the execution, not the idea, for it is only by contrast that unity becomes salient. Unity in multiplicity' was the old Italian definition of beauty, and we shall not easily find a better. You can trace a silver thread in a crimson web, but make the whole fabric crimson and the separate filaments are no longer to be discovered."

"But is not the life that one lives background enough to throw the conceptions of art into most bold relief?" inquired Mrs. Dalton; "not blue, truly, but russet or lead colour."

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There is truth in that remark," said Mr. Thornton; "and perhaps that is the reason why, when daily life has attained the acmé of civilization, that is to say, of artificialness and corruption, art seems to assume a second childhood, as if in despair at its own decrepitude. Vast and complex creations appear no longer possible; we have a new generation of lyrical poets, and we have the lyrical spirit in all art, differing, however, from its earlier manifestation as the twilight of evening differs from that of morning; the one hurries into day, the other loiters into darkness. Simple forms, and short but lofty flights, are the true artist's only refuge from the wearisome varieties of reality as it exists now."

As he spoke he was carelessly turning the leaves of the book, and, lighting upon Parthenia's song, he handed it to Mrs. Dalton with a look of entreaty. "Sing it in English," said he. She complied, and the rich notes of the simple but passionate melody, rang through the room, with a tone irresistibly saddening, though the expression was rather wistful than melancholy.

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