know them no more.

To explain all, I must go back to a time long before the morning
when my father astonished us all by exclaiming, 'Poor old James
Winslow! So Chantry House is came to us after all!' Previous to
that event I do not think we were aware of the existence of that
place, far less of its being a possible inheritance, for my parents
would never have permitted themselves or their family to be
unsettled by the notion of doubtful contingencies.

My father, John Edward Winslow, was a barrister, and held an
appointment in the Admiralty Office, which employed him for many
hours of the day at Somerset House. My mother, whose maiden name
was Mary Griffith, belonged to a naval family. Her father had been
lost in a West Indian hurricane at sea, and her uncle, Admiral Sir
John Griffith, was the hero of the family, having been at Trafalgar
and distinguished himself in cutting out expeditions. My eldest
brother bore his name. The second was named after the Duke of
Clarence, with whom my mother had once danced at a ball on board
ship at Portsmouth, and who had been rather fond of my uncle.
Indeed, I believe my father's appointment had been obtained through
his interest, just about the time of Clarence's birth.

We three boys had come so fast upon each other's heels in the
Novembers of 1809, 10, and 11, that any two of us used to look like
twins. There is still extant a feeble water-coloured drawing of the
trio, in nankeen frocks, and long white trowsers, with bare necks
and arms, the latter twined together, and with the free hands,
Griffith holding a bat, Clarence a trap, and I a ball. I remember
the emulation we felt at Griffith's privilege of eldest in holding