John, his father’s youngest son, was born at Nyon, on September 12th, 1729. His birthplace was a fine old mansion, that had withstood the storms of centuries, and, like many of the ancient houses in Switzerland, was entered by a spiral stone staircase, which opened into a spacious hall. “The house where I was born,” said Fletcher, “has one of the finest prospects in the world. We have a shady wood, near the lake, where I can ride in the cool all the day, and enjoy the singing of a multitude of birds.” From one of the windows of Fletcher’s ancestral home, there was a magnificent view of hill and dale, vineyards and pastures, stretching right away to the distant Jura mountains. At a few paces from the château, there was a terrace overlooking Lake Leman, with its clear blue waters and its gracefully-curved and richly-wooded bays. On the right hand, at a distance of fifteen miles, was Geneva, the cradle of the Reformation; on the left, Lausanne and the celebrated castle of Chillon. High up in the heavens were Alpine peaks, embosoming scenes the most beautiful; and, not far away, was Mont Blanc, robed in perpetual and unsullied snow. Not much is known of the early life of Fletcher. A few anecdotes concerning him have been preserved by his biographers, and these shall be given in as brief a form as possible. Wesley relates that Fletcher, “in his early childhood, had much of the fear of God, and great tenderness of conscience.” One day, when he was about seven years of age, his nurse, who had occasion to reprove him, said, “You are a naughty boy. Do you not know that the devil is to take away all naughty children?” The maid’s remark troubled him. He fell upon his knees and began to pray, and did not cease till he believed God had forgiven him. His filial obedience was exemplary, but, on one occasion, he, undesignedly, offended his mother, whom he dearly loved. The good lady was speaking in too warm a manner to one of the family. Young Fletcher turned a reproving eye upon her. She was much displeased with what she conceived to be unfilial forwardness, and punished him. With a look of tender affection, he meekly replied, “When I am smitten on one cheek, and especially by a hand I love so well, I am taught to turn the other also.” The mother’s indignation was instantly turned into admiration of her boy.[3] Footnote 3: Gilpin’s “Account of Fletcher.” While yet a youth, he had several near escapes from an untimely death. Once, when walking upon a high wall enclosing his father’s garden, his foot slipped, and he must have been killed had he not fallen into “a large quantity of fresh-made mortar.”