Page images
PDF
EPUB

The same distinction applies to the mimicry, if it may be so called, of an author's style and manner of writing. To copy his peculiar phrases or turns of expression-to borrow the grammatical structure of his sentences, or the metrical balance of his lines-or to crowd and string together all the pedantic or affected words which he has become remarkable for using-applying, or misapplying all these without the least regard to the character of his genius, or the spirit of his compositions, is to imitate an author only as a monkey might imitate a man—or, at best, to support a masquerade character on the strength of the Dress only; and at all events, requires as little talent, and deserves as little praise, as the mimetic exhibitions in the neighbourhood of Port-Sydney. It is another matter, however, to be able to borrow the diction and manner of a celebrated writer to express sentiments like his own-to write as he would have written on the subject proposed to his imitator-to think his thoughts, in short, as well as to use his words—and to make the revival of his style appear but a consequence of the strong conception of his peculiar ideas. To do this in all the perfection of which it is capable, requires talents, perhaps, not inferior to those of the original on whom they are employed-together with a faculty of observation, and a dexterity of application, which that original might not always possess; and should not only afford nearly as great pleasure to the reader, as a piece of composition,-but may teach him some lessons, or open up to him some views, which could not have been otherwise disclosed. The exact imitation of a good thing, it must be admitted, promises fair to be a pretty good thing in itself; but if the resemblance be very striking, it commonly has the additional advantage of letting us more completely into the secret of the original author, and enabling us to understand far more clearly in what the peculiarity of his manner consists, than most of us should ever have done without this assistance. The resemblance, it is obvious, can only be rendered striking by exaggerating a little, and bringing more conspicuously forward, all that is peculiar and characteristic in the model: And the marking features, which were somewhat shaded and confused in their natural presentment, being thus magnified and disengaged in the copy, are more easily observed and comprehended, and their effect traced with infinitely more ease and assurance;-just as the course of a river, or a range of mountains, is more distinctly understood when laid down on a map or plan, than when studied in their natural proportions. Thus, in Burke's imitation of Bolingbroke (the most perfect specimen, perhaps, which ever will exist of the art of which we are speaking), we have all the qualities which distinguish the style, or we may indeed say the genius, of that noble writer, as it were, concentrated and brought at once before us; so that an ordinary reader, who, in perusing his genuine works, merely felt himself dazzled and disappointed -delighted and wearied he could not tell why, is now enabled to form a definite and

precise conception of the causes of those opposite sensations,-and to trace to the nobleness of the diction and the inaccuracy of the reasoning-the boldness of the propositions and the rashness of the inductions-the magnificence of the pretensions and the feebleness of, the performance, those contradictory judg ments, with the confused result of which he had been perplexed in the study of the original. The same thing may be said of the imitation of Darwin, contained in the Loves of the Triangles, though confessedly of a satirical or ludicrous character. All the peculiarities of the original poet are there brought together, and crowded into a little space; where they can be compared and estimated with ease. His essence in short, is extracted, and separated in a good degree from what is common to him with the rest of his species;-and while he is recognised at once as the original from whom all these characteristic traits have been borrowed, that original itself is far better understood--because the copy presents no traits but such as are characteristic.

This highest species of imitation, therefore, we conceive to be of no slight value in fixing the taste and judgment of the public, even with regard to the great standard and original authors who naturally become its subjects. The pieces before us, indeed, do not fall correctly under this denomination:-the subject to which they are confined, and the occasion on which they are supposed to have been produced, having necessarily given them a certain ludicrous and light air, not quite suitable to the gravity of some of the originals, and imparted to some of them a sort of mongrel character in which we may discern the features both of burlesque and of imitation. There is enough, however, of the latter to answer the purposes we have indicated above; while the tone of levity and ridicule may answer the farther purpose of admonishing the authors who are personated in this exhibition, in what directions they trespass on the borders of absurdity, and from what peculiarities they are in danger of becoming ridiculous. A mere parody or travestie, indeed, is commonly made, with the greatest success, upon the tenderest and most sublime passages in poetry-the whole secret of such performances consisting in the substitution of a mean, ludicrous, or disgusting subject, for a touching or noble one. But where this is not the case, and where the passages imitated are conversant with objects nearly as familiar, and names and actions almost as undignified, as those in the imitation, the author may be assured, that what a moderate degree of exaggeration has thus made eminently laughable, could never have been worthy of a place in serious and lofty poetry.-But we are falling, we perceive, into our old trick of dissertation, and forgetting our benevolent intention to dedicate this article to the amusement of our readers.-We break off therefore, abruptly, and turn without farther preamble to the book.

The first piece, under the name of the loyal Mr. Fitzgerald, though as good, we suppose, as the original, is not very interesting. Whether

1

it be very like Mr. Fitzgerald or not, however, it must be allowed that the vulgarity, servility, and gross absurdity of the newspaper scribblers is well rendered in the following lines:

"Gallia's stern despot shall in vain advance
From Paris, the metropolis of France;

By this day month the monster shall not gain
A foot of land in Portugal or Spain.

[Marmont

See Wellington in Salamanca's field
Forces his favourite General to yield,
Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted
Expiring on the plain without an arm on:
Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth,
And then the villages still further south!
Base Bonaparte, filled with deadly ire,
Sets one by one our playhouses on fire:
Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on
The Opera House-then burnt down the Pantheon:
Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames,
Next at Millbank he cross'd the river Thames.
Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise?
Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies?
Who thought in flames St. James's court to pinch?
Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?
Why he, who, forging for this Isle a yoke,
Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,

The tree of Freedom is the British oak.'"

The next, in the name of Mr. W. Wordsworth, is entitled "The Baby's Début;" and is characteristically announced as intended to have been "spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise, by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter." The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry But has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his Alice Fell, and the greater part of his last volumes -of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering imitation. We give a stanza or two as a specimen :

"My brother Jack was nine in May,
And I was eight on New Year's Day;
So in Kate Wilson's shop
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me last week a doll of wax,
And brother Jack a top.

"Jack's in the pouts-and this it is.
He thinks mine came to more than his,
So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and, oh, my stars!
He pokes her head between the bars,

And melts off half her nose!"-pp. 5, 6. Mr. Moore's Address is entitled "The Living Lustres," and appears to us a very fair imitation of the fantastic verses which that ingenious person indites when he is merely gallant; and, resisting the lures of voluptuousness, is not enough in earnest to be tender. It begins:

"O why should our dull retrospective addresses
Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?
Away with blue devils, away with distresses,
And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!
Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,

The richest to me is when woman is there;

The question of Houses I leave to the jury;

The main drift of the piece, however, as well as its title, is explained in the following stanzas:

"How well would our artists attend to their duties, Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit, In lieu of yon lamps if a row of young beauties Glanc'd light from their eyes between us and the pit. [is on Attun'd to the scene, when the pale yellow moon Tower and tree, they'd look sober and sage; And when they all wink'd their dear peepers in unison,

Night, pitchy night would envelope the stage. Ah! could I some girl from yon box for her youth pick,

I'd love her as long as she blossom'd in youth' Oh! white is the ivory case of the toothpick, But when beauty smiles how much whiter the tooth!" pp. 26, 27.

The next, entitled "The Rebuilding," is in name of Mr. Southey; and is one of the best in the collection. It is in the style of the Kehama of that multifarious author; and is supposed to be spoken in the character of one of his Glendoveers. The imitation of the diction and measure, we think, is nearly perfect; and the descriptions quite as good as the original. It opens with an account of the burning of the old theatre, formed upon the pattern of the Funeral of Arvalan.

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

Grazier and brazier,

Thro' streets and alleys pour'd,
All, all abroad to gaze.

And wonder at the blaze."-pp. 29, 30.

There is then a great deal of indescribable intriguing between Veeshnoo, who wishes to rebuild the house through the instrumentality of Mr. Whitbread, and Yamen who wishes to prevent it. The Power of Restoration, however, brings all the parties concerned to an amicable meeting; the effect of which, on the Power of Destruction, is thus finely represented:

66 Yamen beheld, and wither'd at the sight; Long had he aim'd the sun-beam to control, For light was hateful to his soul: Go on, cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen : Go on, cried the hellish one, yellow with spite;

Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca's queen. I'll toil to undo every night. The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor,

And Yamen's visage grows blanker and blanker
The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown,
And Yamen's cheek is a russety brown.
Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds!
The solicitor reads,

And, merit of merit!
Red wax and green ferret

Are fix'd at the foot of the deeds!"

pp. 35, 36.

Drury's Dirge," by Laura Matilda, is not

The fairest to me is the house of the fair."-p. 25. of the first quality. The verses, to be sure,

are very smooth, and very nonsensical-as | venturously assumed by the describer. After was intended: But they are not so good as the roof falls in, there is silence and great con Swift's celebrated Song by a Person of Qua- sternation:lity; and are so exactly in the same measure, and on the same plan, that it is impossible to avoid making the comparison. The reader may take these three stanzas as a sample:

"Lurid smoke and frank suspicion,

Hand in hand reluctant dance;
While the god fulfils his mission,
Chivalry resigns his lance.
"Hark! the engines blandly thunder,
Fleecy clouds dishevell❜d lie;
And the firemen, mute with wonder,
On the son of Saturn cry.
"See the bird of Ammon sailing,

Perches on the engine's peak,
And the Eagle fireman hailing,

Soothes them with its bickering beak."

"A Tale of Drury," by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably executed; though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty Minstrel's characteristic love of localities:

"Then London's sons in nightcap woke!
In bedgown woke her dames;

For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,

[ocr errors]

The Playhouse is in flames!'

And lo! where Catherine Street extends,

A fiery tail its lustre lends

To every window pane:

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport,

A bright ensanguin'd drain ;
Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height
Where patent shot they sell:
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall.
Partakes the ray with Surgeons' Hall,
The ticket porters' house of call,
Old Bedlam, close by London wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,

And Richardson's Hotel."-pp. 46, 47. The mustering of the firemen is not less meritorious:

"The summon'd firemen woke at call

And hied them to their stations all.
Starting from short and broken snoose,
Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes ;
But first his worsted hosen plied,
Plush breeches next in crimson dyed,
His nether bulk embrac'd;
Then jacket thick, of red or blue,
Whose massy shoulder gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.

The engines thunder'd thro' the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet

"When lo! amid the wreck uprear'd Gradual a moving head appear'd,

And Eagle firemen knew 'Twas Joseph Muggins, name rever'd, The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in sign of woe, 'A Muggins to the rescue, ho!'

And pour'd the hissing tide: Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggl'd all in vain, For rallying but to fall again,

He tottor'd, sunk, and died!
Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succour one they lov'd so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire,
(His fireman's soul was all on fire)
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire

Serv'd but to share his grave!
Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,
Thro' fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
Where Muggins broke before.

[ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors]

But sulphury stench and boiling drench,
Destroying sight, o'erwhelm'd him quite;
He sunk to rise no more!

Still o'er his head, while Fate he brav'd,
His whizzing water-pipe he wav'd;

Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps!

You, Clutterbuck, come siir your stumps,

Why are you in such doleful dumps?

A fireman, and afraid of bumps!

'What are they fear'd on, fools? 'od rot 'em!' Were the last words of Higginbottom."

pp. 50-52.

The rebuilding is recorded in strains as characteristic, and as aptly applied :

Didst mark, how toil'd the busy train
From morn to eve, till Drury Lane
Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain?
Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,
And nimble workmen trod.

To realize hold Wyatt's plan
Rush'd many a howling Irishman,
Loud clatter'd many a porter can,
And many a ragamuffin clan,

With trowel and with hod."-pp. 52, 53. "The Beautiful Incendiary," by the Honourable W. Spencer, is also an imitation of great merit. The flashy, fashionable, artificial style of this writer, with his confident and extravagant compliments, can scarcely be said to be parodied in such lines as the following:

"Sobriety cease to be sober,

Cease labour to dig and to delve !
All hail to this tenth of October,

One thousand eight hundred and twelve!
Hah! whom do my peepers remark?
'Tis Hebe with Jupiter's jug!

Oh, no! 'tis the pride of the Park,
Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg!
But ah! why awaken the blaze

Those bright burning-glasses contain,
Whose lens, with concentrated rays,
Proved fatal to old Drury Lane!
'Twas all accidental, they cry:
Away with the flimsy humbug!
'Twas fir'd by a flash from the eye
Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg!

Along the pavement paced."-p. 48. The procession of the engines, with the badges of their different companies, and the horrible names of their leaders, is also admirable but we cannot make room for it. The account of the death of Muggins and Higginbottom, however, must find a place. These "Fire and Ale," by M. G. Lewis, is not are the two principal firemen who suffered on less fortunate; and exhibits not only a faiththis occasion; and the catastrophe is describ-ful copy of the spirited, loose, and flowing ed with a spirit, not unworthy of the name so versification of that singular author, but a very

just representation of that mixture of extravagance and jocularity which has impressed most of his writings with the character of a sort of farcical horror. For example:

The fire king one day rather amorous felt; He mounted his hot copper filly; His breeches and boots were of tin; and the belt Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt

With the heat of the copper colt's belly. Sure never was skin half so scalding as his!

When an infant, 'twas equally horrid, For the water when he was baptiz'd gave a fizz, And bubbl'd and simmer'd and started off, whizz! As soon as it sprinkl'd his forehead. Oh then there was glitter and fire in each eye, For two living coals were the symbols; His teeth were calcin'd, and his tongue was so dry It rattled against them as though you should try

To play the piano in thimbles."-pp. 68, 69. The drift of the story is, that this formidable personage falls in love with Miss Drury

the elder, who is consumed in his ardent embrace! when Mr. Whitbread, in the character of the Ale King, fairly bullies him from a similar attempt on her younger sister, who has just come out under his protection.

And again :

"Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise
Its elements primæval sought the skies,
There pendulous to wait the happy hour,
When new attractions should restore their power
Here embryo sounds in æther lie conceal'd
Like words in northern atmosphere congeal'd.
Here many an embryo laugh, and half encore,
Clings to the roof, or creeps along the floor.
By puffs concipient some in æther flit,
And soar in bravos from the thund'ring pit;
While some this mortal life abortive miss,
Crush'd by a groan, or murder'd by a hiss."-p. 87.

"The Theatre," by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author; and can ture of that style or manner-except in the hardly be said to be in any respect a caricaexcessive profusion of puns and verbal jingles -which, though undoubtedly to be ranked among his characteristics, are never so thicksown in his original works as in this admirable imitation. It does not aim, of course. at

We have next "Playhouse Musings," by Mr. Coleridge-a piece which is unquestion-any shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity ; but seems to us to be a singularly faithful ably Lakish-though we cannot say that we recognise in it any of the peculiar traits of copy of his passages of mere description. It that powerful and misdirected genius whose begins as follows:name it has borrowed. We rather think, however, that the tuneful Brotherhood will consider it as a respectable eclogue. This is the introduction :

[ocr errors]

My pensive Public! wherefore look you sad? I had a grandmother; she kept a donkey To carry to the mart her crockery ware, And when that donkey look'd me in the face, His face was sad! and you are sad, my Public! Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October Again assembles us in Drury Lane. Long wept my eye to see the timber planks That hid our ruins: many a day I cried Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it! Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve, As along Charles Street I prepar'd to walk, Just at the corner, by the pastry cook's, I heard a trowel tick against a brick! I look'd me up, and strait a parapet Uprose, at least seven inches o'er the planks. Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said, He of Blackfriars Road who hymn'd thy downfal In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied That flames like those from prostrate Solyma Would scorch the hand that ventur'd to rebuild thee, Has prov'd a lying prophet. From that hour, As leisure offer'd, close to Mr. Spring's Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders." pp. 73, 74.

Of "Architectural Atoms," translated by Dr. Busby, we can say very little more than that they appear to us to be far more capable of combining into good poetry than the few lines we were able to read of the learned Doctor's genuine address in the newspapers. They might pass, indeed, for a very tolerable imitation of Darwin;-as for instance :"I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb Encounter'd casual horse hair, casual lime; How rafters borne through wond'ring clouds elate, Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate! Clasp'd solid beams, in chance-directed fury, And gave to birth our renovated Drury." pp. 82, 83.

"Tis sweet to view from half-past five to six,
Our long wax candles, with short cotton wicks,
Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art,
Start into light, and make the lighter start!
To see red Phoebus through the gallery pane
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane,
While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit,
And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.

[ocr errors]

"At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please; But when the multitude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can. Now the full benches, to late comers, doom No room for standing, miscall'd standing room. Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks. And bawling Pit full,' gives the check he takes." pp. 116, 117.

[ocr errors]

The tuning of the orchestra is given with the same spirit and fidelity; but we rather choose to insert the following descent of a playbill from the upper boxes:

"Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, hats off,'
And aw'd consumption checks his chided cough,
Some giggling daughter of the queen of love
Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above;
Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,
Soars, ducks, and dives in air, the printed scrap:
But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,
Till sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,
And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;
It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;
Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strikes,
And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes."

p. 118.

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;
Boys who long linger at the gallery door,
With pence twice five,-they want but twopence
Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, [more,
And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs.
Critics we boast who ne'er their malice baulk,
But talk their minds,-we wish they'd mind their
Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live, [talk!
Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;
And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait.'

pp. 118, 119. We shall conclude with the episode on the loss and recovery of Pat Jennings' hat-which, if Mr. Crabbe had thought at all of describing, we are persuaded he would have described precisely as follows:

[mine.

"Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat; Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn'd the one to settle in the two. How shall he act? Pay at the gallery door Two shillings for what cost when new but four? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, take my handkerchief. Thank you, cries Pat, but one won't make a line; Take mine, cried Wilson, and cried Stokes take A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies; Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue Starr'd, strip'd, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue. Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. George Greene below, with palpitating hand, Loops the last kerchief to the beaver's band: Upsoars the prize; the youth with joy unfeign'd, Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat." The Ghost of Samuel Johnson is not very good as a whole: though some passages are singularly happy. The measure and solemnity of his sentences, in all the limited variety of their structure, is imitated with skill;-but the diction is caricatured in a vulgar and unpleasing degree. To make Johnson call a door "a ligneous barricado," and its knocker and bell its "frappant and tintinabulant appendages," is neither just nor humorous; and we are surprised that a writer who has given such extraordinary proofs of his talent for finer ridicule and fairer imitation, should have stooped to a vein of pleasantry so low, and so long ago exhausted; especially as, in other passages of the same piece, he has shown how well qualified he was both to catch and to render the true characteristics of his original. The beginning, for example, we think excellent:

"That which was organised by the moral ability of one, has heen executed by the physical effort of many; and DRURY LANE T'HEATRE is now com. plete. Of that part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined to glow beneath the brush of the varnisher, or vibrate to the hammer of the carpenter, little is thought by the public, and little need be said by the committee. Truth, however, is not to be sacrificed for the accommodation of either; and he who should pronounce that our edifice has received its final embellishment, would be disseminating falsehood without incurring favour, and risking the disgrace of detection without participating the advantage of success.

"Let it not, however, be conjectured, that because we are unassuming, we are imbecile; that forbearance is any indication of despondency, or humility of demerit. He that is the most assured of success will make the fewest appeals to favour; aud where nothing is claimed that is undue, nothing that is due will be withheld. A swelling opening is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion. Parturient mountains have ere now produced muscipular abortions; and the auditor who com pares incipient grandeur with final vulgarity, is reminded of the pious hawkers of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her streets, exclaiming, In the name of the prophet-figs!"-pp. 54, 55. It ends with a solemn eulogium on Mr. Whitbread, which is thus wound up :

[ocr errors]

"To his never-slumbering talents you are indebted for whatever pleasure this haunt of the Muses is calculated to afford. If, in defiance of chaotic malevolence, the destroyer of the temple of Diana yet survives in the name of Herostratus, surely we may confidently predict, that the rebuilder of the temple of Apollo will stand recorded to distant posterity, in that of-SAMUEL WHITBREAD." pp. 59, 60.

Our readers will now have a pretty good idea of the contents of this amusing little volume. We have no conjectures to offer as to its anonymous author. He who is such a master of disguises, may easily be supposed to have been successful in concealing himself;-and with the power of assuming so many styles, is not likely to be detected by his own. We should guess, however, that he had not written a great deal in his own character-that his natural style was neither very lofty nor very grave-and that he rather indulges a partiality for puns and verbal pleasantries. We marvel why he has shut out Campbell and Rogers from his theatre of living poets;-and confidently expect to have our curiosity in this and in all other particulars very speedily gratified, when the applause of the country shall induce him to take off his mask.

(December, 1828.)

Euvres Inédites de Madame la Baronne de Staël, publiées par son Fils; précédées d'une Notice sur le Caractère et les Ecrits de M. de Staël. Par Madame NECKER SAUSSURE. Trois tomes. 8vo. London, Treuttel and Wurtz: 1820.

We are very much indebted to Madame Necker Saussure for this copious, elegant, and affectionate account of her friend and cousin.

93

It is, to be sure, rather in the nature of a Panegyric than of an impartial biography-and, with the sagacity, morality, and skill in com

3M 2

« PreviousContinue »