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ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. “His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. There were game watermen and game lightermen, heavy horsemen and light horsemen, scuffle-hunters, and long-apron men, lumpers, journeymen coopers, mud-larks, badgers, and ratcatchers—a race of dangerous vermin recently, in a great measure, extirpated by the vigilance of the Thames Police, but at this period flourishing in vast numbers. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too. He lives near the Black Lion. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 28-09-2024 14:18:34