than John Warder I know not, nor did ever know. What he meant by his
weaknesses I cannot tell, and as to the meaning of one phrase, which he
does not here explain, these pages shall perhaps discover.

Not long after our entrance at the academy, my father charged me one
morning with a note to my aunt, Gainor Wynne, which I was to deliver when
the morning session was over. As this would make me late, in case her
absence delayed a reply, I was to remain and eat my midday meal. My father
was loath always to call upon his sister. She had early returned to the
creed of her ancestors, and sat on Sundays in a great square pew at Christ
Church, to listen to the Rev. Robert Jennings. Hither, in September of
1763, my aunt took me, to my father's indignation, to hear the great Mr.
Whitefield preach.

Neither Aunt Gainor's creed, dress, house, nor society pleased her brother.
She had early made clear, in her decisive way, that I was to be her heir,
and she was, I may add, a woman of large estate. I was allowed to visit her
as I pleased. Indeed, I did so often. I liked no one better, always
excepting my mother. Why, with my father's knowledge of her views, I was
thus left free I cannot say. He was the last of men to sacrifice his
beliefs to motives of gain.

When I knocked at the door of her house on Arch street, opposite the
Friends' Meeting-house, a black boy, dressed as a page, let me in. He was
clad in gray armozine, a sort of corded stuff, with red buttons, and he
wore a red turban. As my aunt was gone to drive, on a visit to that Madam
Penn who was once Miss Allen, I was in no hurry, and was glad to look about
me. The parlour, a great room with three windows on the street, afforded a
strange contrast to my sober home. There were Smyrna rugs on a polished
floor, a thing almost unheard of. Indeed, people came to see them. The