I was born on the 27th of November, 1809, in Newman Street, Oxford Road, the third child of my parents, whose eldest, Philip, named after my uncle, died in infancy.  The second, John Mitchell, lived to distinguish himself as a scholar, devoting his life to the study of his own language and the history of his country in their earliest period, and to the kindred subject of Northern Archaeology.

Of Newman Street I have nothing to say, but regret to have heard that before we left our residence there my father was convicted, during an absence of my mother’s from town, of having planted in my baby bosom the seeds of personal vanity, while indulging his own, by having an especially pretty and becoming lace cap at hand in the drawing-room, to be immediately substituted for some more homely daily adornment, when I was exhibited to his visitors.  In consequence, perhaps, of which, I am a disgracefully dress-loving old woman of near seventy, one of whose minor miseries is that she can no longer find any lace cap whatever that is either pretty or becoming to her gray head.  If my father had not been so foolish then, I should not be so foolish now—­perhaps.

The famous French actress, Mlle. Clairon, recalled, for the pleasure of some foreign royal personage passing through Paris, for one night to the stage, which she had left many years before, was extremely anxious to recover the pattern of a certain cap which she had worn in her young days in “La Coquette corrigee,” the part she was about to repeat.  The cap, as she wore it, had been a Parisian rage; she declared that half her success in the part had been the cap.  The milliner who had made it, and whose fortune it had made, had retired from business, grown old; luckily, however, she was not dead:  she was hunted up and adjured to reproduce, if possible, this marvel of her art, and came to her former patroness, bringing with her the identical head-gear.  Clairon seized upon it:  “Ah oui, c’est bien cela! c’est bien la le bonnet!” It was on her head in an instant, and she before the glass, in vain trying to reproduce with it the well-remembered effect.  She pished and pshawed, frowned and shrugged, pulled the pretty chiffon this way and that on her forehead; and while so doing, coming nearer and nearer to the terrible looking-glass, suddenly stopped, looked at herself for a moment in silence, and then, covering her aged and faded face with her hands, exclaimed, “Ah, c’est bien le bonnet! mais ce n’est plus la figure!”

Our next home, after Newman Street, was at a place called Westbourne Green, now absorbed into endless avenues of “palatial” residences, which scoff with regular-featured, lofty scorn at the rural simplicity implied by such a name.  The site of our dwelling was not far from the Paddington Canal, and was then so far out of town that our nearest neighbors, people of the name of Cockrell, were the owners of a charming residence, in the middle of park-like grounds,