My father’s occupation was that of _valet de chambre_ to Lord William Fitzroy, son of the Duke of Grafton. My recollections concerning him are few and indistinct, as he died while I was yet scarcely three years old. One little incident alone reminds me of wearing a mourning dress as a memento of sorrow for his death. Returning from the parish church in Walthamstow, I observed the larger boys amusing themselves by swinging across the rails of the fences; endeavoring to join in their amusement, my hands slipped, and falling into a muddy ditch, I nearly finished my course, ere it was well begun, by a violent death. A benevolent stranger, however, rescued me, and once safe, my grief for the sad condition of my little black frock was excessive and inconsolable. A trifling cause for sorrow, to be sure, yet men and women often grieve for causes equally contemptible. Although my personal remembrances of my father’s death are so indistinct, yet the frequent mention made of him by my mother, has left the pleasing impression on my mind that he died a Christian. “I have thought of my numerous sins, but God has forgiven them all. Be not troubled, for the Lord will provide for you and your children. You need not fear to leave me, for I am not alone; God is with me, though you are out of the room,” were among his dying expressions; when, after fourteen months endurance of the pains which accompany a slow consumption, he approached “that bourne from which no traveller returns.” I expect to find my honored father in heaven. Wanstead, in Essex, about seven miles from the great metropolis of England, was the town, and 1798 the year, of my birth. Were it necessary to designate the place more particularly, it might be said that the part of Wanstead where I first struggled into being, was called Nightingale Place; a most musical name, conferred in honor of the nightingales which abounded in the vicinity.