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Facing this, at the opposite end, hung another picture, disclosed in all its warm and brilliant colouring to the light of day, the picture of Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, who, in the time of Charles the Second had been a noted beauty of the 'merry monarch's' reign, and whose counterfeit presentment Mrs.
She was still breathing painfully from her exertions. The crowd gathered round. All but Smallbones, who never for a moment removed his eyes from Jim's face. It was a bitter moment for him. He felt he was about to be robbed of his prey, and he resented it with all that was mean in him. But Elia did not speak.
But at daybreak the cock imprisoned beneath the tub, the sole survivor of his race, according to natural custom announced the dawn, to the despair of Bajalardo and the terror of his attendant fiends, who in their precipitate flight dropped into the sea near the Punta Sant’ Elia the huge masses of stone they were then carrying; and these rocks are called by men I Galli in consequence to this day.
Peter glanced at the window. The sky outside was lightening. Suddenly he shivered. "You killed him. How? How?" His voice was tense and harsh, though he strove to soften it. But Elia had turned sullen. A fierce resentment held him silent, resentment and fear. And in that moment of waiting for his answer Peter heard again the movements of the cavalcade at the saloon.
The last Essays of Elia are published; friends visit him; and he occasionally visits them in London. He dines with Talfourd and Cary. The sparks which are brought out are as bright as ever, although the splendor is not so frequent. Apparently the bodily strength, never great, but sufficient to move him pleasantly throughout life, seemed to flag a little. Yet he walks as usual.
Will, I mean. Will's the cattle-thief. He found him in the midst of re-branding. And he came right in and told told Doc Crombie." In an instant Elia was sitting forward defending himself. "I didn't tell him who he was. Sure I didn't, 'cos you said I wouldn't get that gold if I did if I give him away. I didn't give him away, sure sure. I jest told Doc where he'd find the rustlers. That's all.
Instead of writing only two volumes of essays, Elia should have written a dozen. He had read, heard, thought, and seen enough to furnish matter for twice that number. He himself confesseth, in a letter written a year or two before his death, that he felt as if he had a thousand essays swelling within him. Oh that Elia, like Mr. Spectator, had printed himself out before he died!
The instances are many, in his own beautiful essays, where he literally collapses, literally sinks away from openings suddenly offering themselves to flights of pathos or solemnity in direct prosecution of his own theme. The least observing reader of Elia cannot have failed to notice that the most felicitous passages always accomplish their circuit in a few sentences.
I even think that sentimentally I am disposed to harmony. But organically I am incapable of a tune. I have been practising "God save the King" all my life; whistling and humming of it over to myself in solitary corners; and am not yet arrived, they tell me, within many quavers of it. Yet hath the loyalty of Elia never been impeached.
He was a beautiful old man, with a most courtly manner; and he seemed to think as I had helped him, I was entitled to know about the books. We walked along together, and he explained they were some he had found at a second-hand store. One of them was a first edition of the 'Essays of Elia' which he thought a tremendous bargain; and it was, I'm sure.
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