WILSON, JOHN,
Professor of Moral Philosophy, Edinburgh.—In writing a memoir of John Wilson
adequate to so eventful a career as his, and the wide literary reputation he
obtained in his day, two difficulties almost insurmountable occur at the
outset. The first arises from the absence of a regular narrative, as his
biography has still to be written—a task which, it is hoped, some one of his
distinguished contemporaries will gladly and affectionately undertake. The
second difficulty arises from the anonymous as well as miscellaneous
character of his writings, which, thrown off as they were for the hour, and
available for their especial purposes, have not yet stood the test of time,
and been tried by their intrinsic merits, irrespective of the causes in
which they originated, and the temporary or local effects they produced.
Such, indeed, in the present age, must be the fate of genius, however
transcendant, that devotes itself to periodical literature. The "Christopher
North" or "The Thunderer" of to-day, maybe supplanted by the "Ezekiel South"
or "Jupiter Olympus" of to-morrow; and the newspaper or magazine of which
they were the living soul, passes away, and gives place to the idols of a
new generation. All this is but the natural price of such a mode of writing.
The veiled author has laboured for the present, and, verily, he has had his
reward.
Of such writers whose
immediate influence was so wide and prevalent, but whose futurity is so
questionable and uncertain, John Wilson holds, perhaps, with the exception
of Francis Jeffrey, the most distinguished place in modern literature. He
was born in or near Paisley, on the 19th May, 1785 or 1786, for we are
unable to ascertain the precise year. He was the eldest, we believe, of
three brothers. As his father was a thriving Paisley manufacturer, in which
occupation he realized a considerable fortune, while his mother was of a
wealthy Glasgow family, the early youth of the future Christopher North was
not subject to those privations that crush the weak, and nurse the strong
into greater hardihood. Of the first stages of his education at a Paisley
school he has left no account; but we learn from his "Recreations," that at
a more advanced period he was placed under the tuition of a country
minister, who, in those days of scanty teinds, eked out his stipend by
receiving pupils into the manse as boarders. In this rural situation, the
boy conned his lessons within doors; but the chief training for his future
sphere consisted of many a long ramble among the beautiful scenery with
which he was surrounded, and the frolics or conversation of the peasantry,
among whom he soon became a general favourite. On reaching the age of
fourteen he was sent to the university of Glasgow, where he studied Greek
and Logic during three sessions under professors Young and Jardine. Few
literary minds could pass under the training of such teachers, and
especially the last, without finding it constitute a most important epoch in
their intellectual history; and it was to Jardine that Wilson’s great rival
in critical literature—Jeffrey—acknowledged those first mental impulses
which he afterwards prosecuted so successfully. In 1804, John Wilson went to
Oxford, and was entered into Magdalen College as a gentleman-commoner; and
there his diligence was attested by the knowledge of the best classical
writers of antiquity which he afterwards displayed; and his native genius by
the production of an English poem of fifty lines for the Newdigate prize of
£50, in which he was the successful competitor. In another kind of college
exercises he was also particularly distinguished, such as leaping, running,
and boxing, and the sports of boat-rowing, cricket-playing, and coursing,
with other amusements of a more boisterous and perhaps more questionable
nature. But in the days of "Town-and-Gown," and with such iron strength of
limb and fierce effervescence of animal spirits as Wilson possessed, the
case could scarcely have been otherwise. It was hard therefore that these
curious escapades, while an Oxford student, should have been numbered up
against him, when he sought at a future period to become the guide and
preceptor of students. On one occasion, it was said, he joined, during the
college recess, a band of strolling players, with whom he roamed from town
to town, enjoying their merry vagabond life, and playing every character,
from the lover "sighing like furnace," to the "lean and slippered
pantaloon." This we can easily believe; the event is no unfrequent recoil
from the strictness of a college life; and more than one grave personage is
yet alive, in whose venerated position, as well as awe-inspiring wrinkles,
no one could read the fact, that once on a time they had drank small beer
with king Cambyses, or handed a cracked tea-cup of gin to Cleopatra. On
another occasion, he became waiter at an inn, that he might be within the
sphere of one of its fair female residents, and in this capacity so endeared
himself by his inexhaustible glee to the whole establishment, that they were
disconsolate when he cast off his slough and disappeared. But the oddest of
all the adventures attributed to him was his having fallen in love with a
daughter of the sovereign of the gipsies, of whom he would fain have been
the king Cophetua, and for whose sake he transformed himself into an
Egyptian, and took a share in the wanderings of the tribe, until the
successful pursuit of his friends restored him to civilized life. This
incessant restlessness and love of desperate enterprise was accompanied with
many a purpose of foreign travel, and while at one time he calculated upon a
tour over the Peninsula in the rear of the British army, or a run through
Turkey; at another, he meditated an African exploration that was to extend
to Timbuctoo. But he was not destined to tread the same path
with Campbell or Byron, or even the humble missionary, John Campbell, and
these resolutions ended like dissolving views or day-dreams. It is curious
that one of such a stirring spirit was at last contented with Britain,
beyond the limits of which he never carried his peregrinations. Having
succeeded at the age of twenty-one to a considerable fortune by the death of
his father, he purchased, in 1808, the small but beautiful estate of Elleray,
in Cumberland, embosomed amidst the picturesque lakes, with their
distinguished poets for his neighbours and companions.
Thus settled for the time as
a border laird, Wilson was as yet too young to subside into regular study or
peaceful meditation; and on many occasions the turbulence of life within him
only burst out the more violently from the compression of such narrow
limits. One specimen of his desperate frolics at this period is thus
recorded: "A young man, name not given, had taken up his abode in the Vale
of Grasmere, anxious for an introduction to Mr. Wilson, and strolled out
early one fine summer morning—three o’clock—to that rocky and moorish common
(called the White Moss) which overhangs the Vale of Rydal, dividing it from
Grasmere. Looking southward in the direction of Rydal, he suddenly became
aware of a huge beast advancing at a long trot, with the heavy and
thundering tread of a hippopotamus, along the public road. The creature soon
arrived within half a mile of him, in the gray light of morning—a bull
apparently flying from unseen danger in the rear. As yet, all was mystery;
till suddenly three horsemen emerged round a turn in the road, hurrying
after it at full speed, in evident pursuit. The bull made heavily for the
moor, which he reached; then paused, panting, blowing out smoke, and looking
back. The animal was not safe, however; the horsemen scarcely relaxing their
speed, charged up hill, gained the rear of the bull, and drove him at full
gallop over the worst part of this impracticable ground to that below; while
the stranger perceived by the increasing light that the three were armed
with immense spears, fourteen feet long. By these the fugitive beast was
soon dislodged, scouring down to the plain, his hunters at his tail, toward
the marsh, and into it; till, after plunging together for a quarter of an
hour, all suddenly regained terra firma, the bull making again for
the rocks. Till then there had been the silence of phantasmagoria, amidst
which it was doubtful whether the spectacle were a pageant of aerial
spectres, ghostly huntsmen, imaginary lances, and unreal bull; but just at
that crisis a voice shouted aloud—‘Turn the villain—turn that villain, or he
will take to Cumberland.’ It was the voice of Elleray (Wilson) for whom the
young stranger succeeded in performing the required service, the villain
being turned to flee southwards; the hunters, lance in rest, rushed after
him, all bowing their thanks as they fled past, except, of course, the
frantic object of chase. The singular cavalcade swiftly took the high road,
doubled the cape, and disappeared, leaving the quiet valley to its original
silence; while the young stranger, and two grave Westmoreland statesmen just
come into sight, stood quietly wondering, saying to themselves, perhaps,
The air hath bubbles, as the water
hath,
And these are of them.’
It was no bubble however; the
bull was substantial, and may have taken no harm at all from being turned
out occasionally for a midnight run of fifteen or twenty miles—no doubt to
his own amazement, and his owner’s perplexity at the beast’s bedraggled
condition next day." Thus far goes the account of one of Wilson’s early
frolics; and certainly it was "very tragical mirth;" but thus to hunt a poor
domestic bull that from its earliest calf-ship has been snubbed and
cudgelled into submission, has almost as little of the romantic in it as the
flight of a terrified dog with a pan tied to its tail, and the whole village
school in close pursuit. If a man must needs taurize, let it be in the
appointed lists, where
"Spanish cavaliers with lances,
At once wound bulls and ladies’ fancies."
There, the chances are pretty
fairly balanced between the bull and his bold antagonist, and when the
career commences it is difficult to tell whether lance or horn shall have
the better of it.
These rural pursuits of
Wilson were oddly enough combined with the study of law, for on leaving the
university of Oxford he had resolved to betake himself to the Scottish bar.
Such was the case with many young gentlemen at this time, who, although of
independent fortune, were desirous of passing as advocates, on account of
the specific rank and literary standing with which the title was
accompanied. Having finished the usual terms, Mr. Wilson was enrolled among
the advocates in 1814. It will scarcely be imagined however, that he was
either the most anxious or the most industrious of barristers; the "Stove
School," if it then existed in the outer court of Parliament House, was more
likely to enjoy his presence, than the solemn atmosphere of the inner halls.
But already he had commenced his public literary career, and in the
character of a poet, by a set of beautiful stanzas entitled the "Magic
Mirror," which were published in the Annual Register for 1812. During the
same year he also published, but anonymously, an elegy on the death of James
Graham, author of the Sabbath, with which Joanna Baillie was so highly
pleased, that she applied to Sir Walter Scott for the name of the author.
Sir Walter sent the desired information, and added: "He is now engaged in a
poem called the Isle of Palms, something in the style of Southey. He
is an eccentric genius, and has fixed himself upon the banks of Windermere,
but occasionally resides in Edinburgh, where he now is. He seems an
excellent, warmhearted, and enthusiastic young man; something too much,
perhaps, of the latter quality, places him among the list of originals."
During the same year "The Isle of Palms, and other Poems" was published, a
work that at once stamped their author as one of the poets of the Lake
school—a class after which the whole host of critics were at present in full
cry. It was much, therefore, that at such a period Wilson should have
produced a poem that, according to the Edinburgh reviewers, promised "to
raise its name, and advance its interests, even among the tribes of the
unbelievers." Much however as the "Isle of Palms" was admired and beloved in
its day, and abounding though it unquestionably did in touches of true
feeling and passages of great poetical power, it has been unable to endure
the test of time, and therefore it was quietly consigned to general
forgetfulness long before the author himself had passed away. Such indeed
has also been the fate of the "Curse of Kehama," upon which the
versification of the "Isle of Palms" was evidently modelled. Still, the
approbation which his effort excited was enough to encourage Wilson to a
renewed effort in poetry; and accordingly, in 1816, he produced "The City of
the Plague," a dramatic poem of a higher as well as more masculine character
than his former production. But it too has failed to secure that enduring
popularity which has been accorded to the productions of the highest and
even the second- rate poets of his own period. Perhaps he was unfortunate in
the subject of his choice, which was the great plague of London in 1665. But
indeed it would require the powers of a Milton, or even of a Shakspeare, to
invest such a theme with fresh interest, after the descriptions of De Foe.
In the same volume, among other smaller productions, was a dramatic fragment
entitled "The Convict," in which Wilson was more successful, perhaps because
the subject was less daring, and more within the usual scope of poetry.
Whatever might be his
poetical merits, a sufficient proof had now been given that Wilson could
scarcely establish a permanent celebrity by these alone. But he was fitted
for greater excellence in a different sphere, and that sphere he was now to
find. Blackwood’s Magazine had been started as the champion of Tory
principles in opposition to the Edinburgh Review; and as Thomas Pringle, its
amiable and talented editor, was a Whig, he was obliged to abandon its
management after the publication of a few numbers. On the disruption that
ensued between the two rival publishers, Constable and Blackwood, Wilson, in
company with Hogg and Lockhart, took part with the latter; and soon after
the Chaldee Manuscript appeared, a production, the remarkable wit of which
was insufficient to redeem it from merited condemnation, on account of its
profanity. Its first draught in the rough had been drawn up by the Ettrick
Shepherd, in which form it is said to have scarcely amounted to more than a
third of its published bulk; but the idea being reckoned a happy one, it was
expanded, chiefly, as has been supposed, by Wilson and Lockhart, until it
finally grew into an article that raised the public excitement into an
absolute uproar. After the storm had been successfully weathered, the
character of the Magazine, notwithstanding its manifold trespasses, which on
more than one occasion led to cudgelling, and even to bloodshed, continued
to grow in reputation, until it reached the highest rank in the world of
literature and criticism. And who was the veiled editor under whose
remarkable management all this success had been achieved? The question was a
universal one, and the answer generally given was—"John Wilson." The high
reputation he had already won, and his well-known connection with Maga, made
the public voice single him out in preference to all the other writers by
whom its pages were enriched. It was a natural mistake, but a mistake after
all. This important part of the business was retained by Ebony himself, who
selected the articles, corresponded with the contributors, and discharged
all the business duties of the editorship. But the living soul and literary
spirit was Wilson himself, so that in spite of every disclamation he was
proclaimed by the public voice the editor of Blackwood’s Magazine until
within a few years of his death.
While he was thus holding
onward in his meteoric course, at one part of the year at Elleray and the
other in Edinburgh alternately—running down bulls on the Scottish border,
and bores in the metropolis—and becoming loved, dreaded, or wondered
at in his various capacities of hospitable country gentleman, rough-riding
sportsman, gay, civic symposiarch, Abbot of Misrule, and Aristarchus of
reviewers and magazine writers, his means of settled domestic tranquillity
and happiness had been such as seldom fall to the lot either of meditative
poets or belligerent journalists. For in 1810, after he had set his
beautiful home among the lakes in order, and furnished it with all the
comforts that wealth, directed by a classical taste, could devise, he
married an English lady of great beauty, accomplishments, and amiable
disposition, who further enriched him with a fortune of £10,000. But only
ten years thereafter, Wilson, now the father of two sons and three
daughters, was reduced to a very limited income compared with his former
resources. As profuse of his money as of his ideas, he had flung both about
with reckless prodigality; but while the latter stock, like the purse of
Fortunatus, underwent no diminution let him squander it as he pleased, it
was otherwise with the former, which had dissolved he knew not how. Thus it
was with him to the end of his days: he made little or no account of money
while it lasted, and was one of those happy uncalculating spirits, to whom
the difference between £10 and £100 is a mere nothing. Something more
than the scanty relics of his fortune, with the additional profits of
authorship, was necessary; and in 1820 a favourable prospect occurred, in
consequence of the death of Dr. Thomas Brown, by which the chair of moral
philosophy in the university of Edinburgh became vacant. Wilson presented
his name among the candidates for the charge, and his friends commenced an
active canvass in his behalf. But the proposal took Edinburgh aback. Wilson
a teacher of morals! The religious remembered the unlucky Chaldee
Manuscript, and the grave and orderly bethought them of his revels. Even
those who took a more tolerant view of the subject, could not comprehend how
the president of Ambrose’s noctes could be fitted for the chair of
Brown and Dugald Stewart. But what, perhaps, weighed more heavily with the
citizen-electors was the fact of his Toryism, to which, like the generality
of shopkeepers and merchants, they were decidedly hostile. All these
obstacles, Sir Walter Scott, who had long known and admired the genius of
the applicant, fully calculated, and thus expressed in his usual tolerant
manner: "You are aware that the only point of exception to Wilson may be,
that, with the fire of genius, he has possessed some of its eccentricities;
but did he ever approach to those of Henry Brougham, who is the god of
Whiggish idolatry? If the high and rare qualities with which he is invested
are to be thrown aside as useless, because they may be clouded by a few
grains of dust which he can blow aside at pleasure, it is less a punishment
on Mr. Wilson than on the country. I have little doubt he would consider
success in this weighty matter as a pledge for binding down his acute and
powerful mind to more regular labour than circumstances have hitherto
required of him; for indeed, without doing so, the appointment could in no
point of view answer his purpose. . . .You must of course recommend to
Wilson great temper in his canvass—for wrath will do no good. After all, he
must leave off sack, purge and live cleanly as a gentleman ought to do;
otherwise, people will compare his present ambition to that of Sir Terry
O’Fagg, when he wished to become a judge. ‘Our pleasant follies are made the
whips to scourge us,’ as Lear says; for otherwise, what could
possibly stand in the way of his nomination? I trust it will take place, and
give him the consistence and steadiness which are all he wants to make him
the first man of the age." The nomination did take place according to Sir
Walter’s wish, notwithstanding an amount of opposition seldom offered in
such elections; and Wilson, to the general surprise of all classes, became
professor of moral philosophy, a grave and important charge which he
occupied thirty-two years.
In this manner, at the early
age of thirty-four, a man esteemed so reckless in temper and unfixed in
purpose, so devoted to the whim of the passing hour and careless of the
morrow, had yet by sheer force of talent fought his way to an eminence of
the highest literary as well as moral responsibility. As a reviewer, his
dictum in the world of authorship was the guide of thousands, who received
it as an oracle; as a general essayist, he directed the public taste, and
imbued it with his own feelings; and now, as a national teacher of
moral truth, he was to train the characters and direct the minds of those
who were in turn to become the guides and instructors of a future
generation. Was this the same man who but yesterday, was the midnight
tauridor upon the wilds of Cumberland? That the old spirit had neither died
nor become deadened within him, his Noctes Ambrosianoe, to speak of
no other token, were sufficient evidence. As a professor, his elevation
introduced a remarkable change in the chair of moral philosophy in
Edinburgh. Hitherto, metaphysics, that science so congenial to the Scottish
intellect, had there obtained full predominance, whether propounded
according to Aristotelian rule, or the innovations of Locke and Bacon; but
Wilson, though he could dream like Plato himself, was no practised
metaphysician. It also behoved him to establish a theory of morals, and
demonstrate it with all the exactness and nicety of a mathematical problem;
but with Wilson it was enough that he knew what was right—and was not wholly
ignorant of its opposite. Whence, then, was he to derive those materials for
which his pupils were hungering and thirsting? Even from the resources of
that fertile mind which as yet had never failed him. He could enter into the
very pith and marrow of a subject, and detect truth or error however
concealed. And all this he could illustrate with a poetical array of imagery
and eloquence of language, such as has seldom issued from the lips of an
expounder of hard things in ethical and metaphysical philosophy. Such was
the kind of teaching in which his classes delighted—a suggestive and
impulsive course, in which, after having been kindled with his ardour, each
pupil might start off upon the career of inquiry best suited to his own
tastes and capacities. This, indeed, was not science, properly so called—but
was it not something as good? The toils of lecturing during each session,
were combined with the more onerous labour of examining some hundreds of
class essays; and it is perhaps needless to add, that in such a work
Professor Wilson was completely in his element. In this way he taught the
young ideas how to shoot; and if they did not produce rich fruits, the
cultivator at least was not to blame. At the close of the season, the
official gown was thrown off and Christopher North was himself again. He
hied away during the spring to Elleray, and spent the summer and autumn in
the districts of the Tweed or the Highland hills, while his exploits in
fishing and shooting, or his musings among the varied scenery, came pouring
in close succession and rich variety into the pages of his magazine.
Among these recreations by
land and water which were so dear to the heart of Wilson, we must not omit
that from which he derived his title of "Admiral of the Lake." This he
enjoyed in consequence of his taking the lead in those splendid regattas
which were held upon the lake of Windermere, when his yacht was commonly to
be seen at the head of the gay armada. One of these, held in honour of a
visit from Mr. Canning, the premier, and Sir Walter Scott, in 1825, is thus
chronicled in the life of the latter by his son-in-law:——"There were
brilliant cavalcades through the woods in the mornings, and delicious
boatings on the lake by moonlight; and the last day ‘the Admiral of the
Lake’ presided over one of the most splendid regattas that ever enlivened
Windermere. Perhaps there were not fewer than fifty barges following in the
professor’s radiant procession, when it paused at the point of Storrs to
admit into the place of honour the vessel that carried kind and happy Mr.
Bolton and his guests. The bards of the lakes led the cheers that hailed
Scott and Canning; and music and sunshine, flags, streamers, and gay
dresses, the merry hum of voices, and the rapid splashing of innumerable
oars, made up a dazzling mixture of sensations as the flotilla wound its way
among the richly-foliaged islands, and along bays and promontories peopled
with enthusiastic spectators." On one occasion, Wilson’s rank of admiral
promoted him to an office at which Nelson, Collingwood, Howe, and Jervis
would have laughed with sailor-like merriment; it invested him with the
command of a real fleet, instead of an armament of cockleshells. "I
remember," he said in his old days, "being with my friend, Sir Pulteney
Malcolm, when he commanded the experimental squadron in the Channel—in 1832,
I think—one day on the flag-ship’s quarter-deck, amidst the officers and
ladies, Sir Pulteney suddenly took me rather aback by saying, in his loudest
official tone, ‘Professor Wilson will now put the ship about!’ It was really
expected of me, I believe; so setting the best face upon it, and having
previously paid attention to such evolutions, I took voice, and contrived to
get through it very creditably—in a fine working breeze, when the worst of
it was that the eyes of thousands of people were upon us, and the whole
column of ships were to follow in regular succession. The flutter of that
critical moment when the helm was put down, and the least error in seizing
it must have hung the noble line-of-battle-ship in stays, I shall never
forget. I had rather have failed in carrying the class—nay, ten thousand
classes—through a point of casuistry in moral philosophy. Yet the sensation
was glorious; there was a moral grandeur in the emotion. The feelings of a
great admiral in difficult weather bringing on a battle must, in some
respects, surpass even those of Shakspeare imagining Hamlet or Lear!"
In this way the life of
Wilson went onward for years, of which unfortunately no memorial has as yet
been published; while of the ten thousand rumours that have endeavoured to
supply the deficiency, scarcely a tithe would be worthy of the least
attention. He so largely occupied the public notice, that every literary
gossip had some tale to tell of him, either fabricated for the purpose or
picked up at second hand, and each story-teller endeavoured to establish the
veracity of his narrative, by its superior amount of romance and
extravagance. After the death of Blackwood in 1834, Wilson took little
further concern in the magazine; indeed, he had already done so much for it,
and placed it in so firm a position, that he may have felt as if his task in
that department had ended, and might be safely intrusted to younger hands.
His class also was sufficient to occupy his full attention, more especially
when the increase of intellectual demand, and the growing improvements in
public education, required every teacher to be up and doing to his
uttermost. His private life, tamed down to the gravity of age, without
losing its health or vivacity, continued to be enlivened with the society of
the learned and talented, of whom a new generation was fast springing up,
and among whom he was venerated as a father, while he was loved as a
companion and friend. His chief public exhibitions were now at the Burns’
Festival, where he was a regular attendant as well as chief orator. In 1851,
that profitable literary distinction now so generously accorded by
government in the form of a substantial pension, was bestowed upon him,
amounting to £300 per annum; and on the spring of the following year he
resigned his professorship, after holding it thirty-two years, and
without making the usual claim of a retiring allowance. After this, he was
almost daily to be seen upon his accustomed walk in Prince’s Street, until
the beginning of the present year (1854), when paralysis, and a dropsical
affection, laid him wholly aside, and he died in his house in Gloucester
Place, on the morning of the 3d of April. His remains were interred in the
Dean Cemetery on the 7th, and the funeral, which was a public one, was
attended by thousands, consisting of every rank and occupation, who thus
indicated their respect for one so universally known and esteemed.
Proceedings for a monument to his memory in the city of Edinburgh have been
so successful, that its site and particular character are now the only
subjects of question.
The poetical productions of
Wilson, by which he commenced his career as an aspirant for the honours of
authorship, we have already enumerated. The oblivion into which they are
even already sinking, shows that it was not by his poems that he was to
build for himself a name, admired though they were at their first appearance
before the public. They satisfied a certain temporary taste which at that
time happened to be predominant; and having done this, they had fulfilled
their purpose, and were therefore quietly laid aside. Neither was the matter
greatly amended by his subsequent attempts as a novelist; and his three
productions in this capacity—the "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life,"
"The Foresters," and the "Trials of Margaret Lyndsay," have been placed
by public estimation in the same category with the "Isle of Palms" and "City
of the Plague." In fact, he lacked that quality of inventiveness so
essential for the construction of a tale, whether in poetry or prose, and
therefore his narratives have little or no plot, and very few incidents—a
defect which neither fine writing nor descriptive power is sufficient to
counterbalance. It is upon Blackwood’s Magazine that his claims to
posthumous distinction must fall back; for there we find his whole heart at
work, and all his intellectual powers in full action. Of these productions,
too, his critical notices can scarcely be taken into account—vigorous, just,
and often terrible though they were; nor even his Noctes Ambrosianoe,
though these for the time were by far the most popular of all his writings.
But it is as Christopher North, whether in his shooting-jacket, or with his
fishing-rod, or "under canvas," that he will be best remembered and most
highly valued. The scenery which in that character he has so beautifully
painted, and the deep emotions to which he has given utterance, are not
things of a day, but for all time, and will continue to be read, admired,
and cherished, when the rest of his numerous writings have passed away.
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