Potter's Field, with criminals, suicides, and paupers,
or to take it by stage-coach to Alnwick, twenty
miles away, and leave it in the little Unitarian church-
yard where, after her strenuous life, Nicolas Stott
now lay in peace. She made the dreary journey
alone, with the dear burden across her lap.

In 1846, my parents went to London. There
they did not linger long, for the big, indifferent city
had nothing to offer them. They moved to New-
castle-on-Tyne, and here I was born, on the four-
teenth day of February, in 1847. Three boys and
two girls had preceded me in the family circle, and
when I was two years old my younger sister came.
We were little better off in Newcastle than in
London, and now my father began to dream the
great dream of those days. He would go to America.
Surely, he felt, in that land of infinite promise all
would be well with him and his. He waited for the
final payment of his debts and for my younger
sister's birth. Then he bade us good-by and sailed
away to make an American home for us; and in
the spring of 1851 my mother followed him with her
six children, starting from Liverpool in a sailing-
vessel, the John Jacob Westervelt.

I was then little more than four years old, and the
first vivid memory I have is that of being on ship-
board and having a mighty wave roll over me. I was
lying on what seemed to be an enormous red box