Of my father's family, beyond my grandfather, I know nothing. His
forefathers had lived in Bedfordshire beyond memory, and sleep
indistinguishable, I am told, in Wilstead churchyard. He was
Radical, and almost Republican. With two of his neighbours he
refused to illuminate for our victories over the French, and he had
his windows smashed by a Tory mob. One night he and a friend were
riding home on horseback, and at the entrance of the town they came
upon somebody lying in the road, who had been thrown from his horse
and was unconscious. My grandfather galloped forwards for a doctor,
and went back at once before the doctor could start. On his way,
and probably riding hard, he also was thrown and was killed. He was
found by those who had followed him, and in the darkness and
confusion they did not recognize him. They picked him up, thinking
he was the man for whom they had been sent. When they reached the
Swan Inn they found out their mistake, and returned to the other
man. He recovered.

I had only one set of relations in Bedford, my aunt, who was my
father's sister, her husband, Samuel Lovell, and their children, my
cousins. My uncle was a maltster and coal merchant. Although he
was slender and graceful when he was young, he was portly when I
first knew him. He always wore, even in his counting-house and on
his wharf, a spotless shirt--seven a week--elaborately frilled in
front. He was clean-shaven, and his face was refined and gentle.
To me he was kindness itself. He was in the habit of driving two or
three times a year to villages and solitary farm-houses to collect
his debts, and, to my great delight, he used to take me with him.
We were out all day. His creditors were by no means punctual: they
reckoned on him with assurance. This is what generally happened.