earned. We would not have Mr. Crayon, however, plume himself too much upon this sage observation for though we, and other great lights of public judgment, have decided that his former level has been maintained in this work with the most marvellous precision, we must whisper in his ear that the million are not exactly of that opinion; and that the common buzz among the idle and impatient critics of the drawing-room is, that, in comparison with the Sketch Book, it is rather monotonous and languid; and there is too little variety of characters for two thick volumes; and that the said few characters come on so often, and stay so long, that the gentlest reader detects himself in rejoicing at being done with them. The premises of this enthymem we do not much dispute; but the conclusion, for all that, is wrong: For, in spite of these defects, Bracebridge Hall is quite as good as the Sketch Book; and Mr. C. may take comfort,-if he is humble enough to be comforted with such an assurance-and trust to us that it will be quite as popular, and that he still holds his own with the efficient body of his English readers. The great charm and peculiarity of this work consists now, as on former occasions, in the singular sweetness of the composition, and the mildness of the sentiments,-sicklied over perhaps a little, now and then, with that cloying heaviness into which unvaried sweetness is too apt to subside. The rythm and melody of the sentences is certainly excessive: As it not only gives an air of mannerism, from its uniformity, but raises too strong an impression of the labour that must have been bestowed, and the importance which must have been attached to that which is, after all, but a secondary attribute to good writing. It is very ill-natured in us, however, to object to what has given us so much pleasure; for we happen to be very intense and sensitive admirers of those soft harmonies of studied speech in which this author is so apt to indulge; and have caught ourselves, oftener than we shall confess, neglecting his excellent matter, to lap ourselves in the liquid music of his periods and letting ourselves float passively down the mellow falls and windings of his soft-flowing sentences, with a delight not inferior to that which we derive from fine versification. We should reproach ourselves still more, however, and with better reason, if we were to persist in the objection which we were also at first inclined to take, to the extraordinary kindliness and disarming gentleness of all this author's views and suggestions; and we only refer to it now, for the purpose of answering, and discrediting it, with any of our readers to whom also it may happen to have occurred. It first struck us as an objection to the anthor's courage and sincerity. It was que unnatural, we said to ourselves, for any boly to be always on such very amiable terms with his fellow-creatures; and this air of eternal philanthropy could be nothing but a pretence put on to bring himself into favour; and then we proceeded to assimilate him to those silken parasites who are in raptures with every body they meet, and ingratiate themselves in general society by an unmanly suppression of all honest indignation, and a timid avoidance of all subjects of disagreement. Upon due consideration, however, we are now satisfied that this was an unjust and unworthy interpreta tion. An author who comes deliberately before the public with certain select monologues of doctrine and discussion, is not at all in the condition of a man in common society; on whom various overtures of baseness and folly are daily obtruded, and to whose sense and honour appeals are perpetually made, which must be manfully answered, as honour and conscience suggest. The author, on the other hand, has no questions to answer, and no society to select: his professed object is to instruct and improve the world-and his real one, if he is tolerably honest, is nothing worse than to promote his own fame and fortune by succeeding in that which he professes. Now, there are but two ways that we have ever heard of by which men may be improvedeither by cultivating and encouraging their amiable propensities, or by shaming and frightening them out of those that are vicious; and there can be but little doubt, we should imagine, which of the two offices is the highest and most eligible-since the one is left in a great measure to Hell and the hangman,and for the other, we are taught chiefly to look to Heaven, and all that is angelic upon earth. The most perfect moral discipline would be that, no doubt, in which both were combined; but one is generally as much as human energy is equal to; and, in fact, they have commonly been divided in practice, with out surmise of blame. And truly, if men have been hailed as great public benefactors, merely for having beat tyrants into moderation, or coxcombs into good manners, we must be per mitted to think, that one whose vocation is different may be allowed to have deserved well of his kind, although he should have confined his efforts to teaching them mutual charity and forbearance, and only sought to repress their evil passions, by strengthening the springs and enlarging the sphere of those that are generous and kindly. The objection in this general form, therefore, we soon found could not be maintained: -But, as we still felt a little secret spite lingering within us at our author's universal affability, we set about questioning ourselves more strictly as to its true nature and tendency; and think we at last succeeded in tracing it to an eager desire to see so powerful a pen and such great popularity employed in demolishing those errors and abuses to which we had been accustomed to refer most of the unhappiness of our country. Though we love his gentleness and urbanity on the whole, we should have been very well pleased to see him a little rude and surly, now and then, to our particular opponents; and could not but think it showed a want of spirit and discrimi nation that he did not mark his sense of their demerits, by making them an exception to his general system of toleration and indulgence. doubt chiefly on account of this nfluence and favour that we and others are rashly desirous to see him take part against our adversariesforgetting that those very qualities which render his assistance valuable, would infallibly desert him the moment that he complied with our desire, and vanish in the very act of his compliance. Being Whigs ourselves, for example, we could not but take it a little amiss, that one born and bred a republican, and writing largely on the present condition of England, should make so little distinction between that party and its opponents and should even choose to attach himself to a Tory family, as the proper type and emblem of the old English character. Nor could we well acquit him of being "pigeon- The question then comes to be, not properly livered and lacking gall," when we found whether there should be any neutrals in great that nothing could provoke him to give a pal- national contentions-but whether any man pable hit to the Ministry, or even to employ should be allowed to aspire to distinction by his pure and powerful eloquence in reproving acts not subservient to party purposes?—a the shameful scurrilities of the ministerial question which, even in this age of party and press. We were also a little sore, too, we be- polemics, we suppose there are not many lieve, on discovering that he took no notice of who would have the hardihood seriously to Scotland! and said absolutely nothing about propound. Yet this, we must be permitted to our Highlanders, our schools, and our poetry. repeat, is truly the question:-For if a man Now, though we have magnanimously cho- may lawfully devote his talents to music, or sen to illustrate this grudge at his neutrality architecture, or drawing, or metaphysics, or in our own persons, it is obvious that a dis- poetry, and lawfully challenge the general adsatisfaction of the same kind must have been miration of his age for his proficiency in those felt by all the other great and contending par- pursuits, though totally disjoined from all poties into which this and all free countries are litical application, we really do not see why necessarily divided. Mr. Crayon has rejected he may not write prose essays on national the alliance of any one of these; and reso- character and the ingredients of private haplutely refused to take part with them in the piness, with the same large and pacific purstruggles to which they attach so much im- poses of pleasure and improvement. To Mr. portance; and consequently has, to a certain C. especially, who is not a citizen of this counextent, offended and disappointed them all. try, it can scarcely be proposed as a duty to But we must carry our magnanimity a step take a share in our internal contentions; and farther, and confess, for ourselves, and for though the picture which he professes to give others, that, upon reflection, the offence and of our country may be more imperfect, and disappointment seem to us altogether unrea- the estimate he makes of our character less sonable and unjust. The ground of complaint complete, from the omission of this less tractis, that we see talents and influence-inno-able element, the value of the parts that he cently, we must admit, and even beneficially employed-but not engaged on our side, or in the particular contest which we may feel it our duty to wage against the errors or delusions of our contemporaries. Now, in the first place, is not this something like the noble indignation of a recruiting serjeant, who thinks it a scandal that any stout fellow should degrade himself by a pacific employment, and takes offence accordingly at every pair of broad shoulders and good legs which he finds in the possession of a priest or a tradesman? But the manifest absurdity of the grudge consists in this. First, That it is equally reasonable in all the different parties who sincerely believe their own cause to be that which ought to prevail; while it is manifest, that, as the desired champion could only side with one, all the rest would be only worse off by the termination of his neutrality; and secondly, That the weight and authority, for the sake of which his assistance is so coveted, and which each party is now so anxious to have thrown into its scale, having been entirely created by virtues and qualities which belong only to a state of neutrality, are, in reality, incapable of being transferred to contending parties, and would utterly perish and be annihilated in the attempt. A good part of Mr. C.'s reputation, and certainly a very large share of his influence and popularity with all parties, has been acquired by the indulgence with which he has treated all, and his abstinence from all sorts of virulence and hostility; and it is no has been able to finish will not be lessened, and the beneficial effect of the representation will, in all probability, be increased. For our own parts, we have ventured, on former occasions, to express our doubts whether the polemical parts, even of a statesman's duty, do not hold too high a place in public esteemand are sure, at all events, that they ought not to engross the attention of those to whom such a station has not been intrusted. It should never be forgotten, that good political institutions, the sole end and object of all our party contentions, are only valuable as means of promoting the general happiness and virtue of individuals; and that, important as they are, there are other means, still more direct and indispensable for the attainment of that great end. The cultivation of the kind affections, we humbly conceive, to be of still more importance to private happiness, than the good balance of the constitution under which we live; and, if it be true, as we most firmly believe, that it is the natural effect of political freedom to fit and dispose the mind for all gentle as well as generous emotions, we hold it to be equally true, that habits of benevolence, and sentiments of philanthropy, are the surest foundations on which a love of liberty can rest. A man must love his fellows before he loves their liberty; and if he has not learned to interest himself in their enjoyments, it is impossible that he can have any genuine concern for that liberty, which, after all, is only valuable as a means of enjoyment. We con sider, therefore, the writers who seek to soften There are not many of our readers to whom it can be necessary to mention, that it is in substance, and almost in form, a continuation of the Sketch Book; and consists of a series of little descriptions, and essays on matters principally touching the national character and old habits of England. The author is supposed to be resident at Bracebridge Hall, the Christmas festivities of which he had commemorated in his former publication, and among the inmates of which, most of the familiar incidents occur which he turns to account in his lucubrations. These incidents can scarcely be said to make a story in any sense, and certainly not one which would admit of being abstracted; and as we are under a vow to make but short extracts from popular books, we must see that we choose well the few passages upon which we may venture. There is a short Introduction, and a Farewell, by the author; in both which he alludes to the fact of his being a citizen of America in a way that appears to us to deserve a citation. The first we give chiefly for the beauty of the writing. England is as classic ground to an American, as Italy is to an Englishman; and old London teems with as much historical association as mighty Rome. "But what more especially attracts his notice. are those peculiarities which distinguish an old country, and an old state of society, from a new one. I have never yet grown familiar enough with the crumbling monuments of past ages, to blunt the intense interest with which I at first beheld them. Accustomed always to scenes where history was, in a manner, in anticipation; where every thing in art was new and progressive, and pointed to the future rather than to the past; where, in short, the works of man gave no ideas but those of young existence, and prospective improvement; there was something inexpressibly touching in the sight of enormous piles of architecture, grey with antiquity, and sinking to decay. I cannot describe the mute but deep-felt enthusiasm with which I have contemplated a vast monastic ruin, like Tintern Abbey, buried in the bosom of a quiet valley, and shut up from the world, as though it had existed merely for itself; or a warrior pile, like Conway Castle, standing in stern loneliness, on its rocky height, a mere hollow, yet threatening phantom of departed power. They spread a grand and melancholy, and, to me, an unusual charm over the landscape. I for the first time beheld signs of national old age, and empire's decay; and proofs of the tran sient and perishing glories of art, amidst the everspringing and reviving fertility of nature. But, in fact, to me every thing was full of matter: The footsteps of history were every where to be traced; and poetry had breathed over and sanctified the land. I experienced the delightful freshness of feeling of a child, to whom every thing is new. I pictured to myself a set of inhabitan's and a mode of life for every habitation that I saw; from the aristocratical mansion, amidst the lordly straw-thatched cottage, with its scanty garden and repose of stately groves and solitary parks, to the its cherished woodbine. I thought I never could be sated with the sweetness and freshness of a country so completely carpeted with verdure where every air breathed of the balmy pasture and the honeysuckled hedge. I was continually coming somed hawthorn, the daisy, the cowslip, the primupon some little document of poetry, in the blosrose, or some other simple object that has received a supernatural value from the Muse. The first time that I heard the song of the nightingale, I was intoxicated more by the delicious crowd of remem. and I shall never forget the thrill of ecstasy with bered associations, than by the melody of its notes; which I first saw the lark rise, almost from beneath my feet, and wing its musical flight up into the morning sky."-Vol. i. pp. 6-9. We know nothing more beautiful than the melody of this concluding sentence; and if think he has no right to admire the Vision of the reader be not struck with its music, we Mirza, or any of the other delicious cadences of Addison. it is matter to which we shall miss no fit ocThe Farewell we quote for the matter; and casion to recur,-being persuaded not only that it is one of higher moment than almost any other to which we can now apply our selves, but one upon which the honest perseverance, even of such a work as ours may in We allude to the animosity which intemperate time produce practical and beneficial effects. writers on both sides are labouring to create, or exasperate, between this country and America, and which we, and the writer be fore us, are most anxious to allay. There is no word in the following quotation in which we do not most cordially concur. We receive with peculiar satisfaction the assurances of the accomplished author, as to the kindly disposition of the better part of his countrymen; and are disposed to place entire confidence in it, not only from our reliance on his judgment and means of information, but from the accuracy of his representation of the sort of persons to whom the fashion of abusing the Americans has now gone down, on this side of the Atlantic. Nothing, we think, can be more handsome, persuasive, or grateful, than the whole following passage. "And here let me acknowledge my warm, my thankful feelings, at the effect produced by one of my trivial lucubrations. I allude to the essay in the Sketch-Book, on the subject of the literary feuds between England and America. I cannot express the heartfelt delight I have experienced at the unexpected sympathy and approbation with which those remarks have been received on both sides of the Atlantic. I speak this not from any paltry feelings of gratified vanity; for I attribute the effect to no merit of my pen. The paper in question was brief and casual, and the ideas it con. veyed were simple and obvious. It was the cause; it was the cause' alone. There was a predisposi tion on the part of my readers to be favourably af-, fected. My countrymen responded in heart to the filial feelings I had avowed in their name towards the parent country; and there was a generous sympathy in every English bosom towards a solitary individual, lifting up his voice in a strange land, to vindicate the injured character of his nation.There are some causes so sacred as to carry with them an irresistible appeal to every virtuous bosom; and he needs but little power of eloquence, who defends the honour of his wife, his mother, or his country. "I hail, therefore, the success of that brief paper, as showing how much good may be done by a kind word, however feeble, when spoken in season-as showing how much dormant good feeling actually exists in each country, towards the other, which only wants the slightest spark to kindle it into a genial flame-as showing, in fact what I have all along believed and asserted, that the two nations would grow together in esteem and amity, if meddling and malignant spirits would but throw by their mischievous pens, and leave kindred hearts to the kindly impulses of nature. spirit is daily becoming more and more prevalent in From the body of the work, we must indulge ourselves with very few citations. But we cannot resist the following exquisite description of a rainy Sunday at an inn in a country town. It is part of the admirable legend of "the Stout Gentleman," of which we will not trust ourselves with saying one word more. The following, however, is perfect, independent of its connections. "I once more assert, and I assert it with increased conviction of its truth, that there exists, among the great majority of my countrymen, a favourable feeling towards England. I repeat this assertion, because I think it a truth that cannot too often be reiterated, and because it has met with some contradiction. Among all the liberal and enlightened minds of my countrymen, among all those which eventually give a tone to national opinion, there exists a cordial desire to be on terms of courtesy and friendship. But, at the same time, there unfortunately exists in those very minds a distrust of reciprocal goodwill on the part of England. They have been rendered morbidly sensitive by the attacks made upon their country by the English press; and their occasional irritability on this sub-ment. ject has been misinterpreted into a settled and unnatural hostility. For my part, I consider this jealous sensibility as belonging to generous natures. I should look | upon my countrymen as fallen indeed from that independence of spirit which is their birth-gift; as fallen indeed from that pride of character, which they inherit from the proud nation from which they sprung. could they tamely sit down under the infliction of contumely and insult. Indeed, the very impatience which they show as to the misrepresentations of the press, proves their respect for English opinion, and their desire for English amity; for there is never jealousy where there is not strong regard. To the magnanimous spirits of both countries must we trust to carry such a natural alliance of affection into full effect. To pens more powerful than mine I leave the noble task of promoting the cause of national amity. To the intelligent and enlightened of my own country, I address my parting voice, entreating them to show themselves superior to the petty attacks of the ignorant and the worthless, and still to look with a dispassionate and philosophic eye to the moral character of England, as the intellectual source of our own rising great ness; while I appeal to every generous-minded Englishman from the slanders which disgrace the press, insult the understanding, and belie the magnanimity of his country: and I invite him to look to America, as to a kindred nation, worthy of its origin; giving, in the healthy vigour of its growth, the best of comments on its parent stock; and reflecting, in the dawning brightness of its fame, the moral effulgence of British glory. "I am sure, too, that such appeal will not be made in vain. Indeed I have noticed, for some time past, an essential change in English sentiment with regard to America. In Parliament, that fountain-head of public opinion, there seems to be an emulation, on both sides of the House, in holding the language of courtesy and friendship. The same 81 "It was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month of November. I had been detained, in the course of a journey, by a slight indisposition, from which I was recovering; but I was still feverish, and was obliged to keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn! whoever has had the luck to experience one can alone judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the casements; the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest of something to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had been placed completely out of the reach of all amuseThe windows of my bed-room looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of nothing more calcu lated to make a man sick of this world than a stableyard on a rainy day. The place was littered with wet straw that had been kicked about by travellers and stable-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of water, surrounding an island of muck. There were several half-drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable, crest-fallen cock, drenched out of all life and spirit; his drooping tail matted, as it were, into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his back. Near the cart was a half-dozing cow, chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapour rising from her reeking hide. A wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves. An unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house hard by, uttered something every now and then, between a bark and a yelp. A drab of a kitchen wench tramped backwards and forwards through the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself. Every thing, in short, was comfortless and forlorn-excepting a crew of hard-drinking ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and making a riotous noise over their liquor. "I sauntered to the window and stood gazing at the people, picking their way to church, with petticoats hoisted mid-leg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bells ceased to toll, and the streets became silent. I then amused myself with watching the daughters of a tradesman opposite; who, being confined to the house for fear of wetting their Sunday finery, played off their charms at the front wi dows, to fascinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at length were summoned away by a viguant vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further from without to amuse me. "The day continued lowering and gloomy. The slovenly, ragged, spongy clouds, drifted heavily 3 D 2 along. There was no variety even in the rain; it was one dull, continued, monotonous patter-patter-patter, excepting that now and then I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops upon a passing umbrella. It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed phrase of the day) when, in the course of the morning, a horn blew, and a stage coach whirled through the street, with outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, and reeking with the steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjamins. The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of vagabond boys, and vagabond dogs, and the car roty-headed hostler, and that nondescript animal ycleped Boots, and all the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn; but the bustle was transient. The coach again whirled on its way; and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to their holes. The street again became silent, and the rain continued to rain on. "The evening gradually wore away. The travel. lers read the papers two or three times over. Some drew round the fire, and told long stories about their horses, about their adventures, their overturns, and breakings-down. They discussed the credits of different merchants and different inns; and the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty chambermaids and kind landladies. All this passed as they were quietly taking what they called their night-caps, that is to say, strong glasses of brandy and water and sugar, or some other mixture of the kind; after which, they one after another rang for "Boots" and the chambermaid, and walked off to bed, in old shoes, cut down into marvellously uncomfortable slippers. and moan if there is the least draught of air When any one enters the room, they make a most tyran. nical barking that is absolutely deafening. They are insolent to all the other dogs of the establish ment. There is a noble stag-hound, a great favourite of the squire's, who is a privileged visitor to the parlour; but the moment he makes his appearance, these intruders fly at him with furious rage; and I have admired the sovereign indifference and cca. tempt with which he seems to look down upon his puny assailants. When her ladyship drives out, these dogs are generally carried with her to take the air; when they look out of each window of the carriage, and bark at all vulgar pedestrian dogs." | Vol. i. pp. 75—77. We shall venture on but one extract more and it shall be a specimen of the author's more pensive vein. It is from the chapter of "Family Reliques ;" and affords, especially in the latter part, another striking instance of the pathetic melody of his style. The introductory part is also a good specimen of his sedulous, and not altogether unsuccessful imitation of the inimitable diction and colloquial graces of Addison. "The place, however, which abounds most with mementos of past times, is the picture gallery; and there is something strangely pleasing, though melancholy, in considering the long rows of portraits which compose the greater part of the collection. They furnish a kind of narrative of the lives of the family worthies, which I am enabled to read with the assistance of the venerable housekeeper, who is the family chronicler, prompted occasionally by Master Simon. There is the progress of a fine lady, for instance, through a variety of portraits. One represents her as a little girl, with a long waist and hoop, holding a kitten in her arms, and ogling the spectator out of the corners of her eyes, as if she could not turn her head. In another we find her in the freshness of youthful beauty, when she was a celebrated belle, and so hard-hearted as to cause several unfortunate gentlemen to run despe rate and write bad poetry. In another she is de picted as a stately dame, in the maturity of her charms, next to the portrait of her husband, a gal lant colonel in full-bottomed wig and gold-laced hat, who was killed abroad: and, finally, her monument is in the church, the spire of which may be seen from the window, where her effigy is carved in marble, and represents her as a venerable dame of The whole description of the Lady Lilly-seventy-six.-There is one group that particularly craft is equally good in its way; but we can only make room for the portraits of her canine attendants. "There was only one man left; a short-legged, long-bodied, plethoric fellow, with a very large sandy head. He sat by himself with a glass of port wine egus, and a spoon; sipping and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep bolt upright in his chair, with the empty glass standing before him; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too! for the wick grew long, and black, and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that remained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Around hung the shapeless, and almost spectral box-coats of departed travellers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping toper, and the drippings of the rain, drop -drop-drop, from the eaves of the house." Vol. i. pp. 112-130. "She has brought two dogs with her also, out of a number of pets which she maintains at home. One is a fat spaniel, called Zephyr-though heaven defend me from such a zephyr! He is fed out of all shape and comfort; his eyes are nearly strained out of his head; he wheezes with corpulency, and cannot walk without great difficulty. The other is a little, old, grey-muzzled curmudgeon, with an unhappy eye, that kindles like a coal if you only look at him; his nose turns up; his mouth is drawn into wrinkles, so as to show his teeth; in short, he has altogether the look of a dog far gone in misanthropy, and totally sick of the world. When he walks, he has his tail curled up so tight that it seems to lift his hind feet from the ground; and he seldom makes use of more than three legs at a time, keeping the other drawn up as a reserve. This last wretch is called Beauty. These dogs are full of elegant ailments unknown to vulgar dogs; and are petted and nursed by Lady Lillycraft with the tenderest kindness. They have cushions for their express use, on which they lie before the fire, and yet are apt to shiver interested me. It consisted of four sisters of nearly the same age, who flourished about a century since, and, if I may judge from their portraits, were extremely beautiful. I can imagine what a scene of gaiety and romance this old mansion must have been, when they were in the hey-day of their charms; when they passed like beautiful visions through its halls, or stepped daintily to music in the revels and dances of the cedar gallery; or printed, with delicate feet, the velvet verdure of these lawns," &c. "When I look at these faint records of gallantry and tenderness; when I contemplate the fading portraits of these beautiful girls, and think that they have long since bloomed, reigned, grown old, died, and passed away, and with them all their graces, their triumphs, their rivalries, their admirers; the whole empire of love and pleasure in which they ruled- all dead, all buried, all forgotten,'I find a cloud of melancholy stealing over the present gaieties around me. I was gazing, in a musing mood, this very morning, at the portrait of the lady whose husband was killed abroad, when the fair Julia entered the gallery, leaning on the arm of the captain. The sun shone through the row of win dows on her as she passed along, and she seemed to beam out each time into brightness, and relapse |