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The room was very large, and high, and round it, half-way up the dull yellow walls, ran an old carved gallery, relic of the time when it had been the studio of a hare-brained painter, a friend of Hazlitt and Coleridge, a believer in poor young Keats while the rest of the world laughed at him in the very early days.
"I would like to talk to you now that it's over. I feel lost. Really." She returned his smile as one determined to be brave, though lost. The snow hid the buildings and left their window lights drifting. Faces passing smiled as if saying, "Hello, we're all together in the same snow with no secrets from each other.... All friends".... Hazlitt walked with the girl through the streets.
"I never thought I could be glad to see you. But I am." Hazlitt felt suddenly weak. Her face before him was something in a dream. It was turned away and he could watch her breathing. Bewilderedly he remembered a thousand Rachels, different from this one, who was glad he had come. But the beauty of her burned away uncomfortable memories. She was the Rachel of his loneliness.
He recalled ... they had met once in an office. A newspaperman editor or something. Probably looking for news. Hazlitt was glad he had been recognized. The man would think of him as he walked on in the snow of his victory in the courtroom and his future. That was part of life, to be thought of and envied by others. Beside him a newsboy raised a shout ... "Extra!
While Solomon was slowly progressing at the expense of the landlord and the eating-house keeper, Haydon spent his leisure in literary rather than artistic circles. At Leigh Hunt's he met, and became intimate with Charles Lamb, Keats, Hazlitt, and John Scott. In January 1813 he writes: 'Spent the evening with Leigh Hunt at West End. His society is always delightful.
Hazlitt thought that the soul of Rabelais had passed into Amory, while a more recent critic can see in his long-winded discussions naught but the "light-headed ramblings of delirium." If we try to read John Buncle consecutively, the result is boredom; but if we open the book at random, we are pretty sure to be interested and even sometimes agreeably entertained.
From behind a canvas wall over which the Cooper-Hewitt tubes rained a quivering blue glare came the words of the assistant director: "Now choke her, Hazlitt! Harder! Register despair, Miss Hardy. Try to scream and can't! That's good. Now, Walsh, jump in to the rescue. Slug him. Knock his bean off. 'S enough! Fall, Hazlitt. Now gather up Miss Hardy, Walsh.
Each has the same thing to say; the enormous difference lies in the manner in which each says it. The greatest effects recorded to have been produced by human language, have been produced by things which, in merely reading them, would not have appeared so very remarkable. Hazlitt tells us that nothing so lingered on his ear as a line from Home's Douglas, as spoken by young Betty:
On the R. wall are, 724, the well-known Rape of the Sabine Women; 740, a most perfect work of his maturity, Orpheus and Eurydice ; and 742, Apollo and Daphne, his last work, left unfinished. Such are some of the more striking manifestations of this remarkable genius who alone, says Hazlitt, has the right to be considered as the painter of classical antiquity.
Among the inhabitants and lodgers have been Shelley and Hazlitt, J. P. Kemble, Speaker Onslow, Pugin the elder, Charles Mathews the elder, and, in later years, Sir E. Burne-Jones. At the west end Great Russell Street runs into Tottenham Court Road, a portion of which lies in the parish of St. Giles.
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