The Georgia mirror. (Florence, Ga.) 1838-1839, June 30, 1838, Image 1
BY GARDNER & BARROW.
THU GEORGIA TIIKRO3S, I
Is published every Saturday, iu Florence,
? tew art county, Ga. at ITIIIEE DODLARS a
year, if paid in advance, or FOUR DOLLARS,
if not paid until the end of the year.
Advertisements will be conspicuously inserted
at Oue Dollar per square, (15 lines) the first, and
50 cents for each subsequent insertion. Nothing
under 15 lines will be considered less than a
square. A deduction will be made for yearly ad
ertisements.
All advertisements handed in for publication
without limitation, will be published till forbid,
and charged accordingly.
Sales of Land and Negroes by Executors, Ad
ministrators and Guardians, are required by law
to be advertised in a public Gazette, sixty davs
previous to the day of sale.
The sale of Personal property must be adver
tised in like manner forty days.
Notice to Debtors and Creditors of an estate
must be published forty days.
Notice that application will be made to the
Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land and Ne
groes, must be published weekly for four months.
05** All Letters on business must be i*os
paid to insure attention.
JOB PRINTING.
C CONNECTED with the office of the MIR-
J IvOR, is a splendid assortment of
And we are enabled to excute all kind of Job work,
in the neatest manner and at the shortest notice.
of every description will constantly be kept on
hand, such as
INDICTMENTS,
DECLARATIONS,
Sl T ISP(ENAS,
JURY SUMMONSES,
EXECUTIONS.
COST EXECUTIONS.
SHERIFF’S BILLS OF SALE,
do DEEDS,
L \ND DEEDS,
JUS. SUMMONSES,
do EXECUTIONS,
MORTGAGES,
LET. ADM INISTRATION,
do TESTAMENTARY,
do GUARDIANSHIP,
And a great many others for Justices of the
Peace, Administrators, Executors, &c.
TOWN COUNCII7~
(frdivnvces of the town of Florence, parsed by the
Board of Commissioners, June 18, 1838.
BE it Ordained, That no person or persons
shall bathe in the Chattahoochee river, with
in the incorporated limits of the town of Florence,
above‘Centre street—any person or persons so of
fending, shall be subject to a fine of One Dollar.
And it it further Ordained, That if any per
son or persons shall fire guns or pistols within the
corporate limits of the town of Florence, he or
they shall be subject to a fine of Two Dollars.
And be it further Ordained, That if any white
person or persons shall run horses, mares, geld
ings or mules, through the streets of Florence, he
or they shall be fined in the sum of One Dollar;
and if any slave or slaves shall violate this Ordin
ance, he or they shall receive twenty lashes on the
bare back. R. W. WILLIAMS, Intend’t.
Tho. Gardner, Sec .
June 18 13
CAUTION.
I FOR WARN all persons from trading for any
of the notes hereinafter described to wit:
the amount of S3OO in small notes payable to
Green B. Ball or bearer, and bearing date some
time in this instant; some of the above notes are
signed Jeremiah Cutts & William Johnson and
some signed William Johnson & Jeremiah Cutts;
and two notes given by myself to Harris Dennard.
amounting to $37 and bearing date some time about
the first of this instant; also one given to W. &
B. May for sl7 and some odd cents, bearing date
some time about the first of Febunry last, and
one for $5 bearing date in April or May last given
by myself and payable to James Johnson; and
many others in the same situation now not recol
lected,
All of said notes having been paid off and fully
settled by me, that they are all illegally detained
from my possession, and I am determined not to
Pay said notes the second time unless compelled
by law.
WILLIAM JOHNSON.
Lmnpkin Ga. June 7, 1838. 12 4t
STRAYED,
ySoSi From the subscriber in Lumpkin
fSr faiwlF* about the first of May last, a BAA
FILLY, between two and three
J&sdSLj** years old, she is supposed to be still
in the county, any information respecting hes will
will be thankfully received, or a liberal reward
will be given to any person who will deliver her to
me.
WILLARD BOYNTON.
Lumpkin, Ga. June 13, 1838 12 ts
OR STOLEN.
A bright BAY MARE, about
five feet six inches high, long tail,
Cnr has some white hairs about her
right hind foot, no other marks
The said Mare either Strayed or was
stolen from my house about the 20th of March.
Any information will be thankfully received or
Ten Dollars Reward will be given for her delivery
to me, near Roanoke, Stewart County Ga.
T. 11. CORBETT.
Florence, June 16,1833 L3
nim
THE MARRIED MAN'S FARE.
A PARODY ON THE “BACHELOR'S PARE.”
Happy and free are a Married Man’s reveries,
Cheerily, merrily passes his life,
ile Knows uot the Bachelor’s revelries, dcvilres,
Carressed by, and blessed by his Children and
Wife,
From lassitude free too, sweet home still to flee to,
A pet on his keee too, his kindness to share,
A fires de so cheery, the smiles of his deary—
O this, boys! this is the Married Man’s Fare!
Wife kind as an angel, seeks things never range
ill,
Busy promoting his comfort around;
Dispelling dejection, with smiles of affection,
. Sympathizing, advising, when fortune has
frown’d
Old ones relating droll tales, never sating,—
Little ones prating, all strangers to care;
Some romping, some jumping, some puucliing,
some munching,
Economy dealing the Married'Man's Fare.
Thus is each jolly day one lively holiday ;
Not so the Bachelor, lonely, depressed;
No gentle one-near him, to home to endear him,
In sorrow to cheer him, no friend if no guest.
No children to climb up—’twould fill all my
rhyme up,
And take too much time up to tell liis despair:
Cross housekeeper meeting him, cheating, him,
beating him—
Bills pouring, maids scouring, devouring his
Fare.
He has no one to put on—a sleeve or neck but
ton—
Shirts mangled to rags! drawers stringless at
knee^
The cook, to his grief, too, spoils pudding and
bee too,
With overdone, underdone,—undone is he!
No son still a treasure, in business or leisure ;
No daughter, with pleasure new joys to pre
pare ;
But old maids and cousins, kind souls, i - ush in
dozens,
Relieving him soon of his Bachelor’s Fare.
11c calls children apes, Sir (the fox and the grapes,
Sir,)
And fain would he wed, when his locks are like
snow;
But widows throw scorn, out and tell him he's
worn out,
And maiden’s deriding, cry, ‘No, my love, No !’
Old age comes with sorrow, with wrinkle, with
furrow;
No hope in to-morrow, —none sympathy,
spares;
And then unfit to rise up, he looks to the skies,
up—
None close his old eyes up—he dies—and who
cares!
How to Have Hoses at- Christmas.-- Select
from your rose-tree such buds as are to bloom,
tie a piece of thread around the stalk of each. \ou
must take care not to touch the bud with your
hand, or even the stalk any more than you can
avoid. Cut it carefully troni the tree with the
stalk two or three inches in length. Melt some
sealing wax and quickly apply it to the end of the
stalk. The wax should only be so warm as to be
ductile. Form a piece of paper into a cone like
shape wherein place [the roses; screw it up
carefully, so as to exclude the air from it; do so
by each; then put them all into a box and the
box into a drawer, all of which is intended to keep
them from the air. On Christmas day, or any
other day in the winter, take them out and cut
ofi'the ends of the stalks, place them in a flower
pot, with lukewarm water. In two or three hours
they will bloom as in summer, retaining all their
grateful fragrance.
lloic to remove a potato from the throat of « choah
ing cou\ Fasten the head of the animal, stand-
firmly to a post. Let a strong man w ith his
hand completely stop the windpipe by his grasp
just above the potato, and keep a firm hold for
a minute ortwo, until the animal gives an involun
tary spring forward. Should the first experiment
not succeed, let mere be made. Reason-—The
wind, obstructed in its passage through the wind
pipe, expands or largely opens the other pipe be
low the potato, and when the animal makes a viol
ent effort, the potato goes downward. This is a
fact worth knowing to farmers, and, upon inquiry,
I find that a few do know it. I had a fatting cow
thus choking with a potato. After trying in vain
several methods commonly known, 1 sent fora
butcher to kill the cow at once. He came ; but
instead of killing, in a few moments relieved the
creature in the manner I have described ; and
informed me that in the same way he had saved
a number of cattle before.-- Yankee Far.
Terian Legation.— The lion. Memuean Hunt,
Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary
of the Republic of Texas took his departure from
Washington on 23d May, leaving F- Catlett,
Esq. Charge de Affaires. —Gen. Hunt, during his
residence in this c“ity, won the regard and tespect
of men in private and public stations, by the urba
nity of his manners as a gentleman—and the dig
nity and propriety of his deportment as a Minister.
He deserves well of his country;-for while he
pressed the object of his mission with a zeal
commensurate with its importance, he has not
compromised the dignity ot his Government, or
the chivalry of its-people, by the least appearance
of entreaty or unseemly importunity. In every
respect—in his private fond public relations, he
has conducted himself much to his own credit,
and »he honor of his country. He leaves this
community with the esteem and respect of all.
We understand that, previous to his departure,
a special invitation was given to him, by the dis
titiguised men in Congress of all political parties,
to u flipper with them, which was accepted.
’ Chronicle,
FLORENCE, GA. SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1838
jets aaatawamoiraA
From the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE BACHELOR’S DEATH-BED.
Mr. Ethclwaite sick ! exclaimed I, hastily leav
ing my bed. What is the matter ? I saw him this
afternoon, and he seemed unusually well.
“I don t know,” said the little bov, “but mam
my lieered him groauin’, and did’ntlike to go and
see, ’cause he always looks so cross a: her; so
she sent me down to call you.”
Poor man! poor man! filled my sighscontinu
ally, until 1 had completed my preparations for
braviug the inclemency of the weather. But let
me not torget my readers are unacquainted with the
individual so abruptly introduced to their notice.
On a fine morning in the month of IVLy, a mes
sage came to one of our church elders that a
stranger wished to see him.
“Indeed!” said the good man, putting ou his
best coat in some little contusion ; fora stranger
was a rare phenomenon in our village, and those
who did visit us were of a class seldom disposed
to trouble the elders,—except, indeed, tcgull their
simplicity with some proverbial “notions.”
But the trepidation of the kind elder had no
effect on his politeness. Down he wept, to meet
the unexpected visitant, with as much gravity as
if he had in mind the apostolic injunction, “let
your deacons be grave,” yet as cordially as if he
felt liimsell equally enjoined to be “given to hos
pitality.”
Ihe stranger exhibited, in manners and dress,
the model ot a finished gentleman. He was, per
haps, fifty years old, apd dressed in black, with
extreme neatness. A pair of gold spectacles did
not obscure the expression of his calm blue eye,
and his gold-headed cane was grasped by a hand
of most aristocratic proportions. Bowing to the
elder’s complimentary welcome, he observed, “In
passing your little village yesterday 1 was so much
pleased with its neatness and quiet, as to be temp
ted to stop and examine it closely. The result is,
1 have been taken with the idea of terminating in
it the span of my existence. Will you be kind
enough to inform me if there are any vacant pews
iu your church?”
“\V e have several,” replied the pious elder,
almost revering the devotion that made God’s
worship the first care of its possesor—“we have
several, but they are in a lonely, unfrequented
P*“* tlio fKnrrh. r- JLigrAiiahle to
you. But my own is too large for my family, and
I need not speak of the pleasure it w ill afford me
to have you aid us in filling it. The insignificance
of the offer emboldens me to make it, and my
gratification will be so great as to make your ac
ceptance of it a personal favor.”
“Pardon me,” said the stranger, his eyes glis
tening as if the voice of sympathy was an unwon
ted sound; “I appreciate y our kindness, but if
the pews you speak of are lonely, they will present
fewer objects to withdraw us from our motives of
entering them. Even the house of God is not
sacred from the world, and if I have not begun to
justify, I have ceased to condemn their weakness,
who attempt to exclude it from their heaits, by
secluding from it their senses.
The good elder said not .mother word, but, ta
king his hat, they quietly walked towards the
church; one, with his eyes lifted in praise to heaven
that he had at last found an Ararat for the ark of
his wanderings, and the other, with his bent to the
ground in humility, to think how far his concep
tions of devotion and charity were surpassed by
those of his companion. Nothing occurred to
disturb their meditations, until the rusty key gra
ted in the lock of the old church door, when they
passed down the aisle, to examine the pews. J ust
as the stranger had selected one for his use, he
happened to cast his eyes back towards the pulpit,
and was startled to observe beside it a marble slab,
sacred to the memory of Dorcas Lindsay—who
had been, indeed, a Dorcas to our village. With
out stopping to read the catalogue of her virtues,
he rushed out, leaving the worthy elder, who had
not observed the cause, almost petrified with as
tonishment.
Even the little bovs snatched up their marbles
and ran to hide themselves, as he brushed down
the street, striking the ground violently with his
cane, and muttering, “Now may God forgive
these worse than heathen, who defy him in his
own temple with a graven image, and beside the
elevated stand of his ministering servant, record
the qualities of a human idol; that the virtues of
the one, as recorded on the dead marble, mny bo
set over against the perfections of the other as
proclaimed by his living oracle—and that idol a
woman! The world has long ago sickened me
with its man-worship—but jwmflw-worship !—I
had thought that left for the fools of France.”
Reader, our devout, godly stranger w as not only
a misogynist, but a monomaniac.
I had been at the hotel, visiting a patient, and
was leaving it, when he entered. There was that
in his quivering lip, slightly frothed, and his hur
ried toue as he demanded his horse of the land
lord, that not only excited my curiosity, but
awakened my sympathy. 1 paused at the door,
in anxiety to see more of one whose agitation was
so unwonted. Scarcely had I been there a mo
ment, when he came out and stood on the sidewalk
before me. Never had 1 seen our village look so
lovely. The long row of china-trees on either
side glowed with an unwonted freshness. The
balmy breath of spring was laden with their per
fume, and groups of children were sporting under
their shade, like cherubs in the garden of inno
cence. The scene went to the singular being be
fore me, and when he turned to countermand his
order, it was w ith the same bland expression in
which he was first introduced to the reader.—
Since the harp of the shepherd-king w as removed
to heaven, man has found no music like the laugh
of childhood, to calm the whirlwinds of the soul.
Its silvery echoes break upon us amid the clouds
of life, and we almost fancy a voice above us, say
ing, “Come up hither.” its world is, indeed, a
world above our own. Like the topmost of Baby
lon’s hanging gardens, it is canopied by heaven’s
serenest blue. The dew falls upon it in all its
freshness, The bright sunbeams dance on its
foliage, and ytay upon the brows of its sjlph-lifc?
i inhabitants lighting them to enjoyment, us to
toil. Never is man so happy as when he can
leave the world below him, join their innocent re
vels, and fancy himself a denizen of their world
in miniature. 1 lie most hardened must melt, —
the most profligate must be abashed,-—the proud
est must be brought low, in the presence of those,
ol whom, “such is the kingdom of heaven.”
It is needless to recount how my acquaintance
began with this singular individual; how it was
ripened into friendship, or from friendship into the
most deep-rooted affection. It is not difficult for
sympathy to gain the attention of its object under
auy circumstances, and especially of one so alive
to its yearnings as he of whom we are speaking.
It was not immediately that 1 ascertained either
the existeuee or extent of his malady, but our
subsequent intercourse displayed it to me in all
its features. I might win a smile by depicting the
ludicrous extremes to which it often carried him;
but to this day his memory rests upon me like a
pall, and laughter at liis expense would sound like
the laughter of demons.
A year had rolled by, during which my atten
tions to our unfortunate invalid had been most as
siduous. 1 had seized every pretext of giving
him such medicines as would have a sympathetic
influence on his mind, and easily persuaded him to
regulars course of diet nr.d exercise. Hitherto lhad
forborne any allusion to the topic of his aversion,
and been very careful to avoid, in his presence,
the mention of even the feminine pronoun.- But
by this time 1 felt warranted to experiment on the
success of my measures.
Some kind ladies to whom I had mentioned the
fact of his derangement, were in the habit of send
ing him, in my name, occasional presents of
fruit. On the day after liis reception, in this way,
of a fine saucer of strawberries, w hile he was ex
pressing his sense of my kindness, I casually pro
posed a walk to the garden whence 1 had obtained
them. He immediately assented, and the follow
ing afternoon was fixed upon for our walk.
This garden was delightfully situated in our
suburbs, and belonged to the miller of our village.
His wife, in their respective concessions of
“suum cuique," had received it as her special
cl. rge, and made its beauties her special boast.
To this good lady 1 bent my steps, with the in
formation of our intended visit. She expressed
her gratification in the most lady-like terms, both
on account of our proposed call, and that I had
thus see that none of the girls should inadvertent
ly intrude upon us. Thanking her for her kind
ness. and observing that her suggestion in regard
to the girls had anticipated my chief design in
waiting upon her, I withdrew, feeling in my breast
the alternations of hope and fear—
“ Like light and shade upon ti waving field,
Coursing each other, when the flying clouds.
Now hide, and now reveal the sun.”
At the appointed time we started on our proposed
walk. He was a most interesting companion, and
well versed in general literature. Our way was
so beguiled by bis fine fund of anecdote and ju
dicious remarks, that the beauties of the garden
broke upon us before we had imagined our walk
half completed. This, of all others, was the
very thing I most desired, and to prevent his mind
from being suddenly called off, 1 engaged him so
deeply in the discussion pending between us, that
we were delightfully seated in the shady arbor, be
fore lie seemed even to notice that we had entered
the garden. When he realized the little paradise
into which we had entered, and saw before us a
table on which were placed some delicious straw
berries, his admiration knew no bounds. While
he was expressing liis sense of the kindness dis
played by the owner of the garden, I interrupted
him by saying—Well, we shall make but a poor
return, unless we pay some attention to the straw -
berries her bounty has prepared for us. Afraid to
give him an opportunity of replying, or even speak
ing, I hastily handed him the sugar and cream,
which, to my infinite delight, he took without re
mark. It is as impossible for me to describe, as it is
to forget, the sensations of joy that almost con
vulsed me. when 1 observed that my allusion to
the sex of our hostess had fallen from me unno
ticed. Afraid lest my emotions should betray
themselves, I hastened back to the topic that hail
occupied us on our entrance, and found him as
ready to renew the discussion as myself.
It is unnecessary to tax the reader’s patience by
a detail of the daily visits we continued to make
to the same place. Suffice it to say, that I con
tinued to make casual mention of the sex, and
was daily more and more pointed in my allusions.
I could observe no change in him on these oc
casions ; he only seemed not to notice my remarks.
Yet it was a matter of delight to me that he would
at all suffer them to be made in his presence, since,
formerly, the least mention ofthe feminine gender
of a«y species whatever, would produce upon
him a sensible expression of disgust—an allusion
to a woman, had never failed to call forth a torrent
of invective.
I pursued my original plan with him for weeks.
Every opportunity of introducing the subject was
embraced, and with more and more satisfying re
sults. At length I ventured, occasionally, to
touch upon instances where women had proved
signal blessings to the world. He would listen to
me—andlthat was all.
One afternoon the miller himself made one of
our party in the little summer-house. Just as he
was becoming warmly engaged in conversation, a
servant came with a message requiring liis person
al attendance. He left us, expressing his sorrow
that he was called away so soon, and begging that
we would not let his departure effect our stay. —
Scarcely had he gone, when Mr. Ethelwaite re
marked, “How rarely do wa meet- with such un
affected urbanity in the lower walks of life.”
Ah, said I, he owes every thing to his wife. He
was once a degraded sot, but her affection and her
prayers won him back to the paths of duty. She
in turn owes every thing to one who has entailed
a debt of gratitude upon us all. I mean Dorcas
Lindsay, to whose worth the marble in our church
is a feeble tribute. I do not like the practice of
blazoning forth the virtues of the creature in the
tcmjdes of the Creator, but Miss Lindsay was of
Vol. I.— No. 14.
so pure and saintly a nature, that we could hardly
reckon the/atmosphere of earth her natural ele
ment.
Fearing that the culogium into which I had
been drawn would make him impatient, I changed
the tone of my discourse, by remarking—Her
manner of coming among us was rather myste
rious. We had long felt the want of a good fe
male teacher, and the trustees of our female ac
ademy advertised for the purpose of obtaining one.
Shortly after the publication of the advertisement,
a letter was received from a lady stating that she
had but lately arrived in this country from Lon
don. On her voyage she had suffered shipwreck,
and was now a stranger among strangers, and des
titute. She left England because she was friend
less, and it had been her design to engage i:i
teaching from choice, even if shipwreck had net
made her anxious to do so, from necessity. The
delicacy of language in which the note was couch
ed, and here and there a tear, which had b!
its pages, together with unfortunate cir*
stances of the writer, won ihc sympathy.
the trustees, and they sent for her immediai
It is thirty years since she can e amo: z ns. i
remember her first appearam e as s ,t w■ • r
terday. She had the brow of a <,
black eye, that might once have
flashing—but sorrow had softened ,
chain around her neck was attach. <1 ti a
ture almost concealed by her belt. This was ;ht
only earthly treasure the w aves had left her.
I had never been in the habit of looking at Mr.
Ethelwaite, when conversing with him in this
way, lest he might suspect some design; but a
deep groan hastily arrested me, and turning tow
ards him, I saw the very soul of agony depicted
on liis features. The veins of his forehead stood
out like cords, and were swelled almost to bursting.
His eyes seemed starting from’ their sockets—his
mouth was slightly open, as if to drink in every
word that fell from my lips.
Shocked beyond the power of speech, I took
his arm to lead him home.
Hastily repulsing my attempt, he gasped out
“Dorcas Ad Lindsay?—Go on.”
My dear sir, 1 have no more to say. She lived
among us like a saint, and died as she lived. Let
me lead you home, you arc unwell.
“The miniature?”
She carried it with her to her dying day, and by
her ow n request 1 had it buried with her in her
“Was it this?” grasping my arm, fixing his
hair in a particular w av thatdisplayed a large scar,
and glaring upon me with his eyes as if he would
pierce my very soul.
The miniature certainly had a scar upon the
head, but it was of quite a young man. Do let
me lead you home.
“Wasit this?” dashing his hand into his pock
et and out again, with a miniattire which he held
full before my eyes, his own glaring upon me, as
before.
What could I say ? The miniature in his hand
was fellow to the one I had buried with Dorcas
Lindsay.
He rightly interpreted my silence. Gradually
liis muscles relaxed, till he sunk upon his seat
with a deep groan. I took his arm, and led him
forth like a child to my own house. All that night,
all the next day, and all the night following, he
was in a raging fever. On the morning of the se
cond day he fell into a sleep so hushed, that my
wife, who was standing with me by his bedside,
gently felt his pulse. The touch aroused him;
and opening his eyes he grasped her hand, saying,
in a subdued voice, “Dorcas, have you come
back to me ?” His brain was still confused, but
his senses were gradually returning. When they
were more fully restored, he recognized me,
and spoke of the long, long dream he had had.
From this time he gradually recovered. I
would fain have prevailed with him to contiuuehis
abode at my house, but no; he had become at
tached to his little room, and expressed himseli
anxious to die there. Taking an affectionate
leave of my wife, and venting his gratitude to her
by a tear, he started, myself accompanying him,
for his solitary residence.
“You will show me her grave,” said, he, as he
pressed my hand, at parting. I bowed assent,
and the next day complied with his request. Al
ter this, I visited him daily for three days, and al
ways found him writing. It was on the night ol
the third day, that the little boy, came for me, as
above.
With a mind full of solicitude, T reached his
door. I could hear him pacing the room in vio
lent agitation, and venting, at intervals, groans
that came from his soul’s deepest chambers. I
rapped, but received no answer. I rapped again,
but still no answer was returned. I mentioned
my name; still lie continued walking to and fro.
1 repeated it, louder. The sound arrested him.
He suddenly unlocked the door, and then went
on pacing the room and groaning. I entered, and
what a sight met my vision! There w-as Mr.
Ethelwaite, his coat soiled and muddy, his fea
tures worked up to the highest pitch ol anguish,
and ever and anon, venting those unearthly groans
that even now chill my blood. He held two min
iatures, one in each hand, at which he alternately
gazed, after which he would groan out —“Too
true! too true!”
He took no notice of my entrance, nor of my
entreaties that he would he down. At length he
suddenly turned to me and said vehemently, “God
has sent you here. Too true! too true! This
night I entered her grave, and found the minia
ture that was to be, to'her, my type, during iny ab
sence. She was too happy as she gazed on r
the fiends of hell first envied, and then stole der
joy. Oh! —ray—Go—”
The rush of thought choked his utterance
would have fallen, but 1 caught and bore
the bed. His breath became harder and L ■
his groans less and less audible—u p
raising himself,he grasped my hand v ' \
effort—said faintly,—“You will --fi,
plained—in—that—l followed v.
the motion of his hand, as he pointed ,o ;
writing desk, and when I turned them c g
again, ho was dead,’ jj. j,.