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Updated: June 1, 2025
I was compelled to admit that I knew only one, a Liverpool clergyman named Postance, my acquaintance with him being of the slightest. "Ah," said my friend, "if you know the Reverend Henry Postance, you have possibly heard him speak of his son Alfred?"
I replied that I knew Alfred Postance better than I knew his father, and that I had, as a matter of fact, travelled to Malta with him shortly before his death, which took place in that island. "Then," pursued my interlocutor, "since you knew Alfred Postance, you might like to read a little sketch of his life that has been written by a friend. I think I could procure the loan of a copy for you."
I thanked the gentleman for his offer, but explained that it was not necessary that I should avail myself of it, as Mr. Postance senior had already sent me a copy of the work in question. The old gentleman's eyes glistened when I said this, and with an air of some pride he said: "Since you have read that little book, you will, I am sure, be interested to know that it was I who published it."
The double coincidence was certainly rather startling, and it was increased when I found that I and this second stranger had on the same day visited the grave of Alfred Postance at Valetta for the same purpose to pluck a spray of flowers to send to his father in Liverpool. Yes, the world is small! The Beginning of Mr.
"Well, I am rather interested," I replied, "because it was I who wrote it." This was the story which I chanced to tell on the deck of the steamboat to my unknown fellow-traveller. I had no sooner finished it than he said, "Then you are Mr. Wemyss Reid. Your account of Alfred Postance was the last thing I read before leaving my home in Malta."
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