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Immingled with the mighty dead! Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies! Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death; Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep, Disturb ye not the hero's sleep. You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two. CXCIII. To MR. JAMES JOHNSON.
CXCIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT Nohant, 6 September, 1871 Where are you, my dear old troubadour? I don't write to you, I am quite troubled in the depths of my soul. But that will pass, I hope; but I am ill with the illness of my nation and my race. I cannot isolate myself in my reason and in my own IRREPROACHABILITY. I feel the great bonds loosened and, as it were, broken.
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