Two years I remained with my grandfather, and from him,
I received the most affectionate and devoted attention.
My father at length opened a saloon, for the sale of
porter, and hired a black woman to do his work. He then
came for me. My grandfather entreated that I might be
allowed to remain. Well he knew that my father was not
the man to be entrusted with the care of a child--that
a Porter House was no place for me, for he was quite sure
that stronger liquors than porter were there drank and
sold. In fact, it was said, that my father was himself
a living evidence of this. But it is of a parent I am
speaking, and, whatever failings the world may have seen
in him, to me he was a kind and tender father. The years
I spent with him were the happiest of my life. On memory's
page they stand out in bold relief, strikingly contrasting
with the wretchedness of my after life. And though I
cannot forget that his own rash act brought this
wretchedness upon me, still, I believe his motives were
good. I know that he loved me, and every remembrance of
his kindness, and those few bright days of childhood, I
have carefully cherished as a sacred thing. He did not,
however, succeed in the business he had undertaken, but
lost his property and was at length compelled to give up
his saloon.

I was then placed in a Roman Catholic family, where he
often visited, and ever appeared to feel for me the most
devoted attachment. One day he came to see me in a state
of partial intoxication. I did not then know why his
face was so red, and his breath so offensive, but I now