Not
this clergyman, you understand. The one before, Father Vivian. He's now
a bishop. Out somewhere in Africa. That's his photograph on the wall
over there. He sent us a picture-postcard the other day. Little black
woolly-headed baby with no clothes on! I haven't seen it myself, because
my eyes are bad; but they all laugh at it, and I dare say it's funny
enough. A nice man Father Vivian was. A genneman. He's a bishop now, but
he don't forget his old friends, do he?"
* * * * *
And as we listen to the blind man we wonder what his story is, and we
learn that he was born in Trinity Lane, Upper Thames Street, in the days
when poor people did live on that side of the water, and that he was
engaged at an early age in tide work. "Coal trade," he says, quietly.
"Seaham to London. The _Isabella_ brig. Four or five years I had of
that. Then I was off to Russia in the _Prince George_. Then I did the
trade between England and America. Then I was on a brig working the west
coast of Africa. After that I came home and married. My wife lived in
Fivefoot Lane. Her father was a carpenter. She was a good woman. She's
dead now. We buried a sight of little 'uns. I can't tell you how many.
There was a son, Harry: we buried him; a girl, 'Liza: we buried her; and
a boy, Frank: we buried him; but I can't tell you how many little 'uns.
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