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service, the work of a monk, who is said to have spent thirty years on the performance. In another place, a repository of antiquities, we looked with interest on an old manuscript, framed and glazed, being an instrument to which William the Conqueror and several barons and great men had subscribed their mark, a cross, being unable to write. The document is considered genuine, and there is nothing in its appearance to excite a suspicion to the contrary.

The Palais de Justice, at Rouen, is a fine specimen of civil architecture of the olden time, and its hall is remark

ably handsome*.

We dined at five. The table d'hôte was in every respect superior to all that we had seen. Amongst the company was a party hastening to Geneva, to be present at the celebration of the third centenary of the Reformation, which was to take place on the following Sunday, August 23.

After dinner we walked up St. Catherine's Hil from which there is a beautiful view, comprising Rouen, the winding Seine, with its verdant islands and meadows, and a fine line of hills in the distance. The sun had set before we reached the top, and only a few of the more prominent objects could be distinguished amidst the dark extent of city beneath us. This we regretted, for we wished to carry away a general idea of its size and appearance. But we were in great measure repaid for this loss by the beautiful twilight scene to which the bright and silvery face of the meandering river lent a charming effect.

Returning to the town, we found it all in a bustle, as on the evening before; and to its shame be it published, that the theatre and gambling-houses were now open. As we passed along the quay towards our hotel, we saw through the open doors of the cafes that they were full of people playing at cards; and we found the place of promenade thronged. May such forgetfulness of God, and profanation of his Sabbath, never disgrace our native country, and ruin the souls of its people!

MONDAY, August 17.

THE steamer, La Normandie, was appointed to start at nine o'clock, but (after an early breakfast) we found a notice attached to her side, informing the passengers that the hour was altered to a quarter before eleven, a change which will presently appear to have been productive of the greatest inconvenience to all on board. We therefore branched off into a new quarter of Rouen; finding, however, nothing but a repetition of the curious houses and quaint devices of the other parts of the city which we had seen, we amused ourselves by surveying the shop-windows, and the commodities arranged to invite customers. A little before the appointed time, we returned to our vessel, and stepped on board, where we were met, as we suppose is usual in such cases all over the world, by a host of basket-women with fruits, sweetmeats, and cakes. There were also newsvenders, pressing upon the passengers their printed sheets, from amongst which we purchased for a sou (a halfpenny), a representation of Fieschi the assassin, of the destructive engine which he discharged, and of the house and window which were the scene of his diabolical attempt, together with an account of the whole affair.

La Normandie is a large and powerful steamer. There could scarcely be less than two hundred passengers on board, and we were assured that she would perform the passage to Havre in a shorter time than any other vessel, by several hours. The scenery of the river Seine is of one peculiar character, although sufficiently diversified to charm and interest those who can appreciate the beauties of Nature. Lofty hills, some green with velvet turf, others clothed with furze, brushwood, or timber, indented and broken by the sweetest dells that can be imagined; an occasional fragment of projecting rock; villages that at least seemed to repose in peace near the tranquil stream; the ruins of an ancient abbey, two or three large (for we must not say handsome) chateaux, and village spires just peeping out where we should have desired to see them; these, as we passed on, provided an unbroken succession of picturesque and delightful scenes. Perhaps the sweetest views of all were those on the right bank of the river, from Caudebec to the next village, two or three miles lower down. Caudebec itself is delightfully situated. The spire of its church is rich with most beautiful fretwork, and we are told that the rest of the building answers the expectations raised by this striking feature. It was not likely that we should be surrounded by so large a number of foreigners (for only

See Saturday Magazine, Vol. VI., p. 26.

four or five besides ourselves were English), without remarking any little peculiarities which might be so general as justly to be accounted characteristics. Similar observations may have been made by thousands of travellers, and noticed by hundreds; yet for all that, we shall introduce our remarks, presuming that some of our readers have never crossed the channel, nor yet seen France through the eyes of literary wanderers.

We were highly entertained, then, at observing with what utter indifference the most lovely scenes were passed by persons who, as we learned from their conversation, had never travelled by the Seine before; while the most minute and trifling incidents, as to which we were altogether unconcerned, excited the most lively interest amongst them. We thought that the operations of animate nature, however insignificant, appeared charming to this vivacious people; while inanimate nature might be adorned in her fairest apparel, without awaking in their minds one pleasurable thought, or extorting even the most meagre tribute of admiration. If a little boat passed near us, all rushed to the side, as if they had never seen a boat before. If, perchance, a brood of ducks, crossing the river, were overtaken by the surge which curled off from our great ship, who shali describe the animation exhibited on all sides,-the anxious watching, the action, the exclamations? Or again, when a shoal of diminutive fish appeared to be sporting in the water, on this bright Summer's day, rising for air, and making thousands of little circles on the smooth surface of the stream, wonderful was e excitement occasioned by that spectacle, and nothing could be heard but "poisson! poisson !" (fish! fish!) reiterated by a hundred voices. Once or twice we were nearly on our beam-ends, when a boat came from the shore to leave with us a new passenger, or a parcel, or a market-basket, which might contain a few pounds of butter. A chateau and its contiguous pleasuregrounds which we passed, drew forth the same characteristic exhibition. It was a very large, heavy, ugly building, but certainly claimed our attention, as being a specimen of the old French country mansion; adjoining, was an enclosure, exceeding an acre, as we judged, in extent, in which trees were planted at regular intervals, so as to form a succession of forty or fifty narrow avenues, well trimmed with the shears; and we overheard some of the company describing that similar rows of verdant cloisters ran at right angles with those which presented themselves to us.

Our previous remarks will have prepared the reader to learn, that this grove, cut out with shears, was the subject of universal conversation, inquiry, and delight,-while the surrounding country and its beauty was not favoured with a word or a look. The most provoking thing of all was, that two or three old ladies, desirous of committing the offence of killing time,-time which we were passing so pleasantly in watching for the new features of the prospect, contrived to effect their purpose by playing cards. In short, it is highly problematical whether Dr. Syntax could have found one congenial spirit between the bow and the stern of the gallant Normandie. But if there was no search for the picturesque, there was a marked and most successful search for entertainment of a different kind. In several distinct places appropriated for refreshment, party succeeded party in regaling on chickens and ham, ragouts, cutlets, and fish, and drinking wine or brandy and water, from the moment that we got on board till we landed.

After passing Caudebec, this noble river becomes very much wider, and is probably nearly three miles across at Quillebœuf. The latter is a little town built upon a point of land, where the sea (for it is no less, although eighteen miles above Havre,) is occasionally very rough. All appearances, however, seemed to promise us a fair passage; but we were not to reach Havre that night, for about a mile beyond Quilleboeuf our course became evidently a subject of anxiety to the captain, and ten minutes after, the Normandie was aground. Fortunately the fore-part of the vessel still floated and drifted round, upon which the paddles, which had been stopped, were again set in motion; to our satisfaction we found that the Normandie was making way, but our destination now was not Havre, but Quillebœuf, and we were assured that a day and a half must elapse before the tide would serve for the passage of so large a steamer. Our pleasure was somewhat marred by this unexpected adventure, as it put us to much inconvenience; but when the difficulties were surmounted, it became a subject of entertaining recollection, and helped, if not to point a moral, yet to adorn our tale.

With little hope of passing a comfortable night, we

landed at Quillebœuf, and commenced a search for lodgings; but we were two of about two hundred, all needing a hospitable reception, while the little miserable inns of the town could scarcely make up a dozen beds, for which, moreover, they made most exorbitant demands, candidly acknowledging that our misfortune was their gain. After much inquiry to no purpose, we obtained permission from a poor peasant, whose room was very clean, to lie down in our cloaks on her chairs, when we were led to the house of an old pilot, who was willing to make arrangements for our reception, by resigning to us a bed usually occupied by one of his family, and spreading a mattress on the floor of an adjoining closet, receiving for the same as a consideration nearly double what we paid at Rouen or Caen. Thus we were settled for the night; but how were we to reach our journey's end? We had the choice of three modes of proceeding, to take a little open boat to Havre, or to travel twelve miles in a cart to Pont au de Mer, where we were assured that we should find carriages to Honfleur, or to walk that distance. We adopted the former course, and agreed to be in readiness at six o'clock next morning, weather permitting.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 18.

WE rejoiced at beholding a smooth sea and a clear sky, and soon learned with increased pleasure that the wind and tide were favourable. At six we sailed, having for our sea-store a loaf of bread. We had every prospect of a fair passage, enjoyed the coast-scenery very much, and having accomplished our little voyage most pleasantly and propitiously, landed at HAVRE DE GRACE, at ten o'clock. Havre is a large and flourishing town and seaport, carrying, on an extensive trade, especially with America. All is bustle and activity; many English people are resident here, there are English hotels, and tickets are often to be seen in the shop-windows, announcing that our language is spoken within. We have been a little disappointed at finding ourselves in a hotel in which all is professedly in the English style and no French people appeared at the table-d-hôte. The novelty of French dinners has presented to us hitherto an agreeable variety, and we have been much entertained by the manners, taste, and (if it were not rude, we should be inclined to add,) the great appetites of our continental neighbours The

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THIS was the only day that we turned to small account, but it was intensely hot, we had seen enough of Havre, and knew of no neighbouring place which was worthy of a visit at the expense of being broiled. We dined early. At five o'clock we embarked in the Southampton steamer, the Camilla, and in a few minutes were under weigh; and as we watched the receding cliffs, which boldly guard that part of the French coast, our thoughts ran hastily through the various scenes of our little tour, and brought back an assurance that our excursion had afforded us much pleasure and mental refreshment, and we hope, some little advantage Soon we had nothing to gaze upon but the brilliantly ill ninated sky, the mighty waters, and our own frail ba.k. We slept on deck.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 20.

ALTHOUGH we fear that our notes have not been so interesting to our readers as we could wish, we trust they will be sufficiently concerned for us, to learn with pleasure that we had a prosperous passage. In a little more than nine hours, the silvery cliffs of the Isle of Wight came in view; we reached our destination in perfect health and safety, and greatly as we had enjoyed our pleasurable rambles abroad, were glad to find ourselves once more on the happy threshold of HOME.

The following measurements will enable the reader to judge of the dimensions of the Cathedrals and Churches of Normandy, mentioned in the preceding Journal, as compared with Westminster Abbey:

Westminster Abbey Bayeux....

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Breadth. Length. Height of Nave & Aisles. Vaulting. Eng Feet, Eug. Feet. Eng. Feet. 489 ......101 70...... 76

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Buttresses

Caen-St. Stephen...
Rouen-Cathedral

St. Ouen

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320 ......

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LONDON Published by JOHN W. PARKER, WEST STRAND; and sold by all Booksellers.

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UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE COMMITTEE OF GENERAL LITERATURE AND EDUCATION APPOINTED BY THE SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE.

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SCENERY OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS.-GOVATT'S

LEAP.

UNDER the general title of SKETCHES of NEW SOUTH WALES, a series of papers will be given in this Magazine, descriptive of the scenery and natural productions of that remarkable country, and also of the singular manners and customs of the natives. These papers, and the drawings (made on the spot,) by which they will be accompanied, are furnished by one of the officers employed on the Government survey of the gigantic regions of the BLUE MOUNTAINS. During this survey, one of the earliest of the new discoveries was a cataract, called, after its discoverer, GOVATT'S LEAP, with a description of which we shall commence the present papers.

Govatt's Leap is situated at one of the sources of the Grose River; it is distant rather more than two miles from the main western road which leads from Sydney across these mountains into the rich Bathurst country, and is nearly sixty-five miles westward of Sydney. Two small swamps commencing near Black-heath, (a dreary spot which the road crosses,) afford two streams a continual supply of water; and these, after their junction, rush rapidly over the VOL. VIII.

cliffs into the chasm, and fall into the deep abyss. Although the quantity of water is by no means considerable, (the breadth of the course which it has worn, not exceeding twenty feet,) yet the entire fall, which is estimated at full twelve hundred feet, gives this cascade a grandeur worthy of notice.

The perpendicular height of the cliff, or wall of rock over which the stream first pours itself, is at least two hundred feet, and then, falling, in a succession of broken cataracts, into misty hollows, it forms, at the depth of a thousand feet lower, the bed of the River Grose. The chasm, or aperture of the mountain which apparently yawns for the small stream, is like an amphitheatre of about a hundred yards in breadth, and the water gliding into it seems again transformed into its parent vapour, for not long after its fall, it assumes a misty appearance, and a moment's gaze into the dark void is sufficient to appal the stoutest heart. When, however, fear is overcome by curiosity, and the brink of the precipice is approached, wonder is increased at every step, by the dreadfully abrupt and perpendicular sides, the frightful depth of the gulf, the whispering echo of the place, and the deep hollow-sounding dash of the water.

From a projecting rock near the waterfall, the 247

all the connecting ridges, and that region of the mountains, is certainly very extraordinary. Indeed, as far to the north as the eye can see from the ridge along which the road runs, it is, with the above exceptions, one vast, wild, abrupt, deserted, barren country, intersected by impassable ravines and gullies even to the Colo and Capertu Rivers, about thirty miles distant. Some of the ridges are, in places, so actually bare, so completely deprived of the earthy substance with which they might have been once covered, that nothing but the naked rock is seen, which no tempest has hitherto been able to destroy. In general, however, the ranges are covered with short timber and scrub, which appear always green. They are jumbled together in many forms and directions, sometimes in chains, lying parallel to each other, but of no great extent. The summits of all are very narrow, and of various shapes, and the distances between each range short, consequently the ravines are much confined and deep. It will remain for ever, as it is now, a desolate and uninhabited region, where even the animals indigenous to that part of the globe are seldom seen, where nature itself has been rendered defective, and useless both to man and beast, and where the observer would exclaim and feel, that He who made these mountains alone can declare their use.

distant mountains and ravines, (be.ore concealed | the barrenness and excessive sterility which pervades from view by the thick brushwood, present a scene truly magnificent, of which the annexed engraving is a pretty correct, though very diminutive representation. The chasm expanding at this spot, exposes to view the course of the gully or ravine, which continues in a north-easterly direction for the distance of twelve miles, along the whole of which distance on both sides, small cascades and tributary streams pour in their waters. Mount Hay, about six miles distant, is seen frowning with its rugged masses of rock; and the tremendous precipices and gigantic walls which overhang, and confine the channel of this inaccessible river, impress the spectator with ideas of solemnity, and seem to mock the minuteness of human magnificence. At the distance of four miles from the cataract, this stream is joined by another from a north-west direction, which flows through a ravine, of equal magnitude and romantic splendour. The river then winds round the basement of the precipices, and divides by a frightful chasm, (of not more than a mile in breadth,) Mount Hay, from Mount George, and Mount Jomak, which last are both situated on the north side of the ravine. The Grose River, continuing in nearly an easterly direction for about fifteen miles from these mountains, falls into the Nepean, and then takes the name of the Hawkesbury, a noble river, which, after winding by a very tortuous course, through rich flats, and a very diversified scenery, for nearly two hundred miles, discharges itself into the sea at Broken Bay, thirty miles north of Port Jackson.

The principal mountains north of the western road, which rise conspicuous above the level of the surrounding ridges, are Mount Hay, Mount George, and Mount Jomak; and these three are distinctly seen from beyond Sydney, a distance of sixty miles, ape pearing of a beautiful blue colour. The first, whose western aspect is shown in the sketch, is of a conical shape, and is a station in the trigonometrical survey of the colony. Its summit has been cleared, with the exception of one or two trees left in the centre of the knoll, for distinguishing it at a distance, and this is the case with several other mountains in the colony. To a person travelling on the road, this mount appears so conspicuous in many places, that one would imagine it required no exertion to arrive at it; but there are many intervening gullies and ravines, impassable to the most enterprising man even on foot, and the only way by which he can approach it, is by following a connecting ridge which shoots from the road about three miles westward of an inn called the Weather-boarded hut.

Mount George (which is called by some the "Camel's Back," from its double figure,) is situated about three miles and a quarter north-west of Mount Hay, and presents on its west side tremendous walls of rock, more than four hundred feet perpendicular. Mount Jomak lies about four miles immediately north of Mount Hay. It is of a more flat and tabular shape, and possesses a peculiar richness of vegetation, which may with correctness be termed "tropical." It produces trees of considerable magnitude, whose highest branches are frequently interwoven with hanging vines, which again descend, and dangle like ropes almost to the ground. The tall cabbage-tree, (a sure indication of rich soil,) the fern, with a great variety of shrubs, and luxuriant creepers, abound upon it, and lately, its eastern side has been cleared and cultivated, and a large house and buildings have been erected. The summits of these three mountains possess what may be called a primitive soil, and are clothed with grass, which circumstance, considering

Nor is the scenery on the south side of this great western road of a dissimilar character; perhaps, it is even more abrupt and romantic. Another cataract, situated about a mile and a half south of the Weatherboarded Inn (before mentioned), and which is visited by almost every traveller that crosses these mountains, is also worthy of notice. The stream, which issues from a larger swamp, crosses the road near the inn, and, winding in a tolerably level course for rather more than a mile, pours into an abyss so deep, that no bottom can be seen.

Upon coming to the edge of the precipice, nothing can sufficiently represent the tremendous magnificence of this scene. The gulf is of a greater breadth, and more extensive than that of the Grose River, amidst the still, dim mist of which, at a distance of five miles from the cataract, in a southerly direction, stands an isolated mountain, barren,-unapproachable,-whose sides are formed of these huge perpendicular precipices, which sometimes appear (according to the position of the sun) glittering with various colours,—a splendid object in the dreadful void, or shaded in solitary and awful gloom. Beyond, at a distance of ten miles to the south, flows Cox's river, a considerable stream, about sixty yards wide, whose waters, after running through the most inaccessible and highest part of the Blue Mountains, join the Nepean River about ten miles above, that is, south of Èmu Plains. The cliffs on the other side of this river, and the more distant, but equally precipitous masses of rock which overhang the valley of Burragorang-the blue-and-white pointed peaks and bluff heads of the distant mountain-summits, as they appear from near this cataract, form altogether a scene peculiarly magnificent.

The height of the mountains above the level of the sea, in this part, is estimated at two thousand seven hundred feet, and their summits in the neighbourhood of this cataract being flat and tabular, it appears to the observer as if the earth, from the force of waters, or some violent convulsion, had all around subsided, or been washed away, leaving immense hollows and gulfs, and exposing to view, to the depth of two thousand feet, the very ribs, if we may so speak, of the mountains. Great astonish

ment is here excited, at the length of time which elapses, when a huge block of rock is rolled headlong over, before you hear it strike, and the rebounding echoes thundering from rock to rock, redouble the surprise.

The traveller may have also experienced great curiosity by observing a stone, when thrown from these heights as far as human strength will permit, how it will appear, after it has gone its distance, to return towards him; and, although leaning over to watch its fall, it will seem to vanish directly under his feet.

Numbers of tributary streams and cascades, as into the gullies of the Grose River, glide into this gulf, supplied by swamps all along the ridge on which the road runs. These swamps, which are covered with a green and hardy sort of grass, act as reservoirs containing the water. Some of them extend for three or four miles, when the streams issuing from them fall in a succession of cascades, into deep and narrow ravines, through whose rocky channels they are conveyed to the bed of the rivers.

For many years, the settlers westward of these mountains laboured under considerable difficulty and inconvenience, for want of a good carriage-road across them.

The long and steep ascent of Lapstone Hill, which rises abruptly from the flats of Emu Plains, from whence the Blue Mountains first commence, and which is distant, west from Sydney, thirty-seven miles, and the dangerous and precipitous descent of the road at Mount York, distant about seventy miles west from Sydney, were two of the difficulties and chief obstacles, not easily to be got over.

Many have been the attempts of different individuals to lay out new and better lines of road, and great has been the expense of government in improving and repairing the old. But these evils have now been remedied, and done away with by two new cuts, which avoid these hills altogether. The first ascent from Emu Plains commences at the distance of a mile or so south of the old road at Lapstone Hill, and, winding its way gradually up the side of a ravine, comes out and joins the old road at the Pilgrim Inn, a distance of nearly three miles. Thence the traveller may proceed along the ridge and road without difficulty, to within two miles of Mount York, the dangerous descent of which mountain is avoided by the new line of road, which inclines a little southward, and descends by a gentle slope along the low neck of Mount Vittoria. The impediment to the formation of the new line, in this spot, was a huge mass of iron and sandstone rock, of which the mountains on either side of the road are composed, and the difficulty of overcoming it may be conceived from the fact, that upwards of six hundred convicts, who worked in irons for punishment, were employed for two whole years in removing it.

After descending Mount Vittoria, the scenery becomes different, and the road continues through a grassy forest-country, in some places rather hilly, to Bathurst Plains.

It may probably strike the reader how mountains of such an incredible height as two thousand seven hundred feet, could produce such scenes of "tremendous magnificence;" but, herein lies the peculiarity of their feature, that the traveller, after ascending them from Emu Plains, nearly to the height mentioned, and, after having travelled twenty-five miles, along a tolerably level range, should look down, and see the mountain-streams pouring their water over precipices into gulfs and chasms within a few hundred feet of the level from which he has ascended.

W. R. G.

THE MONTH OF MAY.

It was of old a festive day,
That ushered in the birth of May.
Right early on the jocund morn,
When that delightful month was born,
Or ere the thrush's new-fledged brood
Came forth their caterpillar food
To pick upon the dewy lawn,
Scarce lighted by the flickering dawn;
Or ere from his low place of rest,
Hid in the sprouting corn-field's breast,
"The lark, the shepherd's clock," had sprung,
And bathed in light ethereal sung
Aloft his blithesome roundelay
Of greeting to the morning gray;
While yet the amorous nightingale
Told in still twilight's ear his tale
Of rapturous joy and love repaid,
Thick warbling through the woodland glade;
Regardless of the timely sleep,
The noble from the castled steep,
The burgher from the busy change,
From village, hamlet, lonely grange
The peasantry, a mingled throng,
Lasses and lads, and old and young,
Pour'd forth promiscuously to pay
Observance to the MERRY MAY:
With shout, and song, and winded horn,
Alert to wake the slumbering morn;
To rove the good greenwood, and bring
Away the spoil of early Spring,
With nosegays deck'd, with garlands crown'd,
And hang each smiling homestead round,
Window, and door, and porch with bowers
Of verdant boughs, and blooming flowers.
And then at home the joyous scene!
The MAYPOLE on the village green,
With ribbons, flag, and chaplets bound;
And pipe and tabor's mirthful sound;
And merry bells in concert ringing;
And merry voices blithely singing;
And merry footsteps featly glancing
With jingling bells; and morris-dancing,
'Mid clash of swords and KENDAL green,
About the season's maiden QUEEN,
In crown and flowery mantle drest,
Gave honour to the vernal feast.

Touch'd by the tint of mellowing years,
And view'd far off, the scene appears
One but of innocent delight.
And yet perchance a nearer sight,
As space diminish'd all reveals
Spots that a distant view conceals,
Might open to the thoughtful eye,
Enough to raise a serious sigh,
For much of inconsiderate glee,
Intemperate rout and revelry,
With lack of purity combined;
Enough to satisfy the mind,—
"Tis well that now has past away,
The observance of those rites of MAY.

But who what now remains would blame
Austerely of the MAY-DAY GAME?
And who so grave, as when he sees,
Returning from the woods and leas,
The lads' and lasses' village troops
With GARLANDED and RIBBON'D HOOPS,
All sparkling with the morning dew,
Pale primroses, and harebells blue,
Bright goldilocks, and pansies pied
And scented hawthorn's snow-white pride,
And all the garniture of Spring;
And hears them blithely carolling,
Memorials of the elder times,
Their rude traditionary rhimes,
Gathering of doles a little store
In pilgrimage from door to door
Yes, who so grave, so dull of heart
To bear to others' joys a part,
As from such pastime, void of guile
And harmless, to withhold a smile,
And tribute to the GARLAND gay,
Nor wish them all a merry MAY?
[Abridged from BISHOP MANT's British Months.]

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