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Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holborn.
He died at Wimpole, a seat of the Earl of Oxford, on the 18th of September, 1721, and was buried in Westminster; where on a monument, for which, as the "last piece of human vanity," he left five hundred pounds, is engraven this epitaph: Sui Temporis Historiam meditanti, Paulatim obrepens Febris Operi simul et Vitae filum abrupit, Sept. 18. An. Dom. 1721. AEtat. 57.
Harding feared there had been at least very flagrant indiscretion. The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He was doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs. Rushworth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother, that the worst consequences might be apprehended.
He had suffered, and he had learned to think: two advantages that he had never known before; and the self-reproach arising from the deplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself accessory by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made an impression on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want of sense or good companions, was durable in its happy effects.
You think these savages will think so too, and that I am the real thing?" "Oh, yes. Look at the Hakim." "Sha'n't! I've been looking till I feel ashamed of him." "Ashamed?" said the Sheikh. "Why?" "Dressed up like that! Him a first-class London surgeon and M.D., with Palladium Club and Wimpole Street on his card.
I have no news to send you. Lady Grey mentioned in this letter married the second Lord Hardwicke, who had no son. There is an interesting allusion to Wimpole and its associations in one of Lord Melbourne's published letters to Queen Victoria.
"Basil," said Lord Beaumont solemnly, "I have Wimpole here." "And who is Wimpole?" "Basil," cried the other, "you must have been in the country. You must have been in the antipodes. You must have been in the moon. Who is Wimpole? Who was Shakespeare?" "As to who Shakespeare was," answered my friend placidly, "my views go no further than thinking that he was not Bacon.
Part of me is worn out; but the poetical part that is, the love of poetry is growing in me as freshly and strongly as if it were watered every day. Did anybody ever love it and stop in the middle? I wonder if anybody ever did?... Believe me your affectionateE.B.B. To H.S. Boyd 50 Wimpole Street: December 29, 1841.
Lord and Lady Beaumont have just invited you and me to a grand dinner-party this very night, at which Mr Wimpole will be in all his glory. Well, there is nothing very extraordinary about that. The extraordinary thing is that we are not going." "Well, really," I said, "it is already six o'clock and I doubt if we could get home and dress.
Otherwise I might have American news for you, as I hear that a packet has come in. My brothers arrived in great spirits at Malta, after a three weeks' voyage from Gibraltar; and must now be in Egypt, I think and trust. May God bless you, my dear cousin. Most affectionately yours, E.B.B. To John Kenyan 50 Wimpole Street: November 5, 1844. Well, but am I really so bad?
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