In this venerable mansion there was one chamber whose dismal and
singular constructure left no doubt of its having been a part of the
original monastery. It was supported by the mouldering arches of the
cloisters, dark, Gothic, and opening on the minster sanctuary, not only
by casement windows that shed a dim midday gloom, but by a narrow
winding staircase, at the foot of which an iron-spiked door led to the
long gloomy path of cloistered solitude. This place remained in the
situation in which I describe it in the year 1776, and probably may, in
a more ruined state, continue so to this hour.

In this awe-inspiring habitation, which I shall henceforth denominate
the Minster House, during a tempestuous night, on the 27th of November,
1758, I first opened my eyes to this world of duplicity and sorrow. I
have often heard my mother say that a mare stormy hour she never
remembered. The wind whistled round the dark pinnacles of the minster
tower, and the rain beat in torrents against the casements of her
chamber. Through life the tempest has followed my footsteps, and I have
in vain looked for a short interval of repose from the perseverance
of sorrow.

In the male line I am descended from a respectable family in Ireland,
the original name of which was MacDermott. From an Irish estate, my
great-grandfather changed it to that of Darby. My father, who was born
in America, was a man of strong mind, high spirit, and great personal
intrepidity. Many anecdotes, well authenticated, and which, being
irrefragable, are recorded as just tributes to his fame and memory,
shall, in the course of these memoirs, confirm this assertion.

My mother was the grandchild of Catherine Seys, one of the daughters and