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Updated: June 28, 2025
All were favourable except Berridge, who, although "the most dubious man in the world about his own judgment," yet wrote, "Will not Jesus choose, and teach, and send forth His ministering servants now, as He did the disciples aforetime; and glean them up when, and where, and how He pleaseth? The world says no, because they are strangers to a Divine commission and a Divine teaching.
I remember that I thanked "whatever gods there be," that one could live so richly in the enjoyment of these things. Farmer Bates met me at Great Hittenden Station. His was the only available horse and cart at Pym, for the Berridges were in a very small way, and it is doubtful if they could have made both ends meet if Mrs. Berridge had not done so well by letting her two spare rooms.
HE thought he had already, poor John Berridge, tasted in their fulness the sweets of success; but nothing yet had been more charming to him than when the young Lord, as he irresistibly and, for greater certitude, quite correctly figured him, fairly sought out, in Paris, the new literary star that had begun to hang, with a fresh red light, over the vast, even though rather confused, Anglo-Saxon horizon; positively approaching that celebrity with a shy and artless appeal.
Berridge would have given six months' "royalties" for even an hour of his looser dormant consciousness since one was oneself, after all, no worm, but an heir of all the ages too and yet without being able to supply chapter and verse for the felt, the huge difference.
His last words were, 'Here goes an unprofitable servant' words which are no doubt true in the mouths of the best of men; but if any man might have boasted that he had done profitable service in his Master's cause, that man would have been William Grimshaw. Both were energetic country parsons, and both itinerated; but Berridge went over a wider field than Grimshaw.
Sought and achieved consistency was but an angular, a secondary motion; compared with the air of complete freedom it might have an effect of deformity. There was no placing this figure of radiant ease, for Berridge, in any relation that didn't appear not good enough that is among the relations that hadn't been too good for Berridge himself.
Berridge came to clear away my dinner I dined, without shame, at half-past twelve I detained her with conversation. Presently I asked about little Stott. "He's a queer one, that's what he is," said Mrs. Berridge. She was a neat, comely little woman, rather superior to her station, and it seemed to me, certainly superior to her clod of a husband. "A great reader, Farmer Bates tells me," I said.
The young Lord had reappeared within a minute on the threshold, that of the passage from the supper-room, lately crossed by the Princess herself, and Berridge felt him there, saw him there, wondered about him there, all, for the first minute, without so much as a straight look at him.
"You'll come home with me?" gasped John Berridge while the perspiration on his brow might have been the morning dew on a high lawn of Mount Ida. "No you had better come with me. That's what I mean; but I certainly will come to you with pleasure some time if you'll let me."
I seemed to have an impression that the child had some strange power of keeping people at a distance; or was I mixing up reality with some Scandinavian fairy tale? "Very likely, sir," Mrs. Berridge went on. "What upset Mrs. Stott was that her boy's never upset by anything he has a curious way of looking at you, sir, that makes you wish you wasn't there; but from what Mrs.
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