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Updated: June 7, 2025
Occasionally the dying is so handled that, though somewhat prolonged, such a vigorous phrase ought not to be applied to it. For instance, one may refer to In the Hospital, once presented at the Court, where Mr Beveridge, in an admirable performance, gave a very tactful, restrained exhibition of approaching death and actual decease.
“The deuce, they will!” replied Mr Beveridge, cordially; “and it’s rather hard to forget ’em, eh?” “Hindeed it is, sir.” “I remembered this afternoon, but I should like you as a good chap to forget. You won’t mention my moment of weakness, Moggridge?” “No, sir,” said Moggridge, stoutly. “I suppose I hought to report what I sees, but I won’t this time.”
I have always admired Senator Beveridge. He is an exceptionally engaging speaker, a brilliant man, and so talented that one cannot help being attracted to him. I had heard of him years before he entered the Senate.
Sherlock preached at the Temple, Tillotson at Lincoln's Inn, Wake and Jeremy Collier at Gray's Inn, Burnet at the Rolls, Stillingfleet at Saint Paul's Cathedral, Patrick at Saint Paul's in Covent Garden, Fowler at Saint Giles's, Cripplegate, Sharp at Saint Giles's in the Fields, Tenison at Saint Martin's, Sprat at Saint Margaret's, Beveridge at Saint Peter's in Cornhill.
We might all of us well pray to be "remembered" in that kingdom to which these Blessings give the law. Appropriate Collects are interwoven, some of them so beautiful as to be well worth preserving. But the most interesting precedent of all remains still to be studied. The most eminent Anglican divines of the day, including Tillotson, Stillingfleet, Patrick, and Beveridge, were among the members.
Six weeks afterwards, as the old Noord Brabant lay groaning over on her beam ends, thrashing her canvas to ribbons in a fierce night squall off Beveridge Reef, Tom Masters, hurrying on deck to help the hands shorten sail, was knocked overboard by the parting of the spanker-boom guy, and disappeared without a cry, into the seething boil to leeward.
He laughed a little conventional laugh, and gazed at the gloves. “You are coming, of course?” said Escott. “If you can lend me a pair of these. Can you spare one?” “Help yourself,” replied the doctor. Mr Beveridge selected a pair with the care of a man who is particular in such matters, put them in his pocket, thanked the doctor, and went out. “Hope he doesn’t play the fool,” thought Escott.
When he arrived at the house his first inquiries were for his tutor in the art of vine-cutting, and he was rather surprised to hear that he had not yet returned, for he only imagined himself the victim of a peculiarly ill-timed practical joke. Men with lanterns were sent out to search the park; and still there was no sign of Mr Beveridge.
The High Churchmen no longer had Lake and Kettlewell, but Bull and Beveridge, Sharp, and Ken, and Nelson were still living, and held in high honour. This latter party had been rent asunder by the nonjuring schism.
In silence and with a suspicious solemnity Moggridge handed him the handkerchief, and they turned back for the house. “Now for a balloon,” Mr Beveridge reflected. Certainly it was cold. The frost nipped sharp that night, and next morning there were ice gardens on the windows, and the park lay white all through the winter sunshine.
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