of life; and if we use them wisely, our eyes will ever after be animated to see what poems, what romances, what sublime tragedies lie around us in the daily walk of life, 'written not with ink, but in fleshy tables of the heart.' The dullest street of the most prosaic town has matter in it for more smiles, more tears, more intense excitement, than ever were written in story or sung in poem; the reality is there, of which the romancer is the second-hand recorder."
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