assured the House that I should engross
the whole money of the kingdom, that I should weaken commerce by
tempting people to withdraw their money from trade, that I should
encourage fraud and gaming, and corrupt the morals of the nation.

Little recked I of all the stir and commotion my birth was causing, as,
nursed and cared for by my father, William Paterson, a Scotch merchant,
and his friend, Mr. Michael Godfrey, I gradually grew into strength. It
was not till long afterwards that I heard and understood the
circumstances of my birth, and how around me were centred the interests
of the kingdom.

When I was only twelve months old, those who were bound together to take
care of my interests separated my father from me, giving as an excuse
that he was of too speculative and adventurous a spirit to be entrusted
with my welfare.

Poor father! It has always seemed to me very sad that he who had worked
so long and so persistently for my success should have been condemned to
spend the last years of his life in solitude and neglect in Scotland,
while I, his child, was gradually becoming everything that his highest
ambition could have pictured; but so it was.

[Illustration: THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET. From "Punch."]

I have often wished that he had employed those last weary years of his
in writing a history of his life. I am sure it would have interested all
classes of readers, but I suppose he was too sad and out of heart. He
was forty-one years of age at the time of my birth, having been born in
Dumfries in 1658. He was one of those who may be said to live before
their time. He possessed great ability, knowledge, and experience, and
was a great traveller, yet, with all this, his life was a series of
disappointments and failures.

His great friend, Michael Godfrey, who had worked so faithfully by his
side, would, I am sure, never have forsaken him, but he was struck down
by a ball in the trenches of Namur, in 1695, while seeking the king in
my interests.

He was a great loss to me, although I was too young at the time to
estimate it fully. He has left behind him a quaint and graphic account
of my infancy, with which I shall hope to make you acquainted later on.

Should you feel any interest in him, look in St. Swithin's Church some
day when passing, and there you will find a monument to his memory,
which records that he "died a batchelour, much lamented by his friends,
relations, and acquaintances for his int