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Bethune, Burton, the comedian, and other well-known authors, actors, and divines. The black-letter Chaucer Speght's edition, folio, London, 1598, the identical copy spoken of by Elia in his letter to Ainsworth, the novelist was knocked down to Burton for twenty-five dollars.
I will, however, admit that the said Elia is the worst company in the world in bad company, if it be granted me that in good company he is nearly the best that can be. He is one of those of whom it may be said, Tell me your company, and I'll tell you your manners. He is the creature of sympathy, and makes good whatever opinion you seem to entertain of him. He cannot outgo the apprehensions of the circle; and invariably acts up or down to the point of refinement or vulgarity at which they pitch him. He appears to take a pleasure in exaggerating the prejudices of strangers against him; a pride in confirming the prepossessions of friends. In whatever scale of intellect he is placed, he is as lively or as stupid as the rest can be for their lives. If you think him odd and ridiculous, he becomes more and more so every minute,
This stern moralist so much enjoyed giving that he doubtless would have regretted the passing of laws prohibiting the beggar from plying his vocation in public. So too would the genial Elia, who obeyed his own precept of "give and ask no questions."
The Wordsworths and Coleridges who patronized him were too self-opiniated and individualistic to be able to enter into either tradition. Wordsworth is neither a Christian or a Pagan. He is a moral philosopher. Elia is an artist, who understands the importance of ritual in life but of naturalness in ritual. How difficult, whether as a thinker or a man, is it to be natural in one's loves and hates!
Chaucer and Spenser, though proud and happy in having had such an appreciating reader of there writings as Elia was, when denizen of this earth, would, methinks, have given him a warmer, heartier, gladder welcome to heaven, if he had done for them what he did for Hogarth and the old dramatists, pointed out to the would "with a finger of fire" the truth and beauty contained in their works.
"Where did you go, allow me to ask?" "In the streets." "Concise and clear." Raskolnikoff had replied sharply, in a broken voice, his face as pale as a handkerchief, and with his black swollen eyes averted from Elia Petrovitch's scrutinizing glance. "He can hardly stand on his legs. Do you want to ask anything more?" said Nicodemus Thomich. "Nothing," replied Elia Petrovitch.
The white one had his name on it. The knife had his initials branded on its handle. His last words to Eve had been a threat to kill her husband. And Elia had done this hideous thing. A weak, sickly boy. It was terrible, and he shuddered. What hatred he must have had for the dead man. He found himself almost sympathizing with the lad's feelings.
It is a metropolis of beggardom, a mendicant's Mecca, a citadel of Jules Richepin's cherished Gueux. Here, indeed, Elia need not have lamented over the decay of beggars, "the all sweeping besom of societarian reformation your only modern Alcides' club to rid time of its abuses is uplift with many-handed sway to extirpate the last fluttering tatters of the bugbear Mendicity.
She was tumbled early, by accident or providence, into a spacious closet of good old English reading, without much selection or prohibition, and browsed at will upon that fair and wholesome pasturage. Had I twenty girls they should be brought up exactly in this fashion. Essays of Elia I sing the love of brother and sister.
Nay, he learns lessons of humanity, even from the mild malice of Elia, and breathes a blessing on him and his household in their Bower of Rest. Coleridge was much pleased by this little reference to his friend. Hugh of Lincoln. Hugh was a small Lincoln boy who, tradition states, was tortured to death by the Jews. His dead body being touched by a blind woman, she received sight.
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