I believe
that I owe to it in a degree whatever nervousness and tendency to
"idealism" or romance and poetry has subsequently been developed in me.
Through all my childhood and youth its influence was terribly felt, nor
have I to this day recovered from it.

I should mention that my first nurse in life was an old Dutch woman named
Van der Poel. I had not been born many days before I and my cradle were
missing. There was a prompt outcry and search, and both were soon found
in the garret or loft of the house. There I lay sleeping, on my breast
an open Bible, with, I believe, a key and knife, at my head lighted
candles, money, and a plate of salt. Nurse Van der Poel explained that
it was done to secure my rising in life--by taking me up to the garret. I
have since learned from a witch that the same is still done in exactly
the same manner in Italy, and in Asia. She who does it must be, however,
a _strega_ or sorceress (my nurse was reputed to be one), and the child
thus initiated will become deep in darksome lore, an adept in _occulta_,
and a scholar. If I have not turned out to be all of this _in
majoribus_, it was not the fault of my nurse.

Next door to us lived a family in which were four daughters who grew up
to be famous belles. It is said that when the poet N. P. Willis visited
them, one of these young ladies, who was familiar with his works, was so
overcome that she fainted. Forty years after Willis distinctly recalled
the circumstance. Fainting was then fashionable.

Among the household friends of our family I can remember Mr. John
Vaughan, who had legends of Priestley, Berkeley, and Thomas Moore, and
who often dined with us on Sunday. I can also recall his personal
reminiscences of General Washington, Jefferson, and all the great men of
the previous generation. He was a gentle and beautiful old man, with
very courtly manners and snow-white hair, which he wore in a queue. He
gave away the whole of a large fortune to the poor. Also an old Mr.
Crozier, who had been in France through all the French Revolution, and
had known Robespierre, Marat, Fouquier Tinville, &c. I wish that I had
betimes noted down all the anecdotes I ever heard from them. There were
also two old ladies, own nieces of Benjamin Franklin, who for many years
continually took tea with us. One of them, Mrs. Kinsman, presented me
with the cotton quilt under which her uncle had died. Another lady, Miss
Louisa Nancrede, who had been