Note 1 — Chapter I

My maxims are, and will always be, Truth and Common-sense; making, of course, an exception with regard to the Holy Scriptures. The origin of this fault may be traced to our children’s poet, Van Alphen,1 in his very first line, about “dear little babies.” What the deuce could make that old gentleman declare himself to be an adorer of my little sister Gertrude, who had weak eyes, or of my brother Gerard, who always played with his nose? and yet, he says, “that he sang those poems inspired by love.” I often thought when a child, “My dear fellow, I should like to meet you once, and if you refused me the marbles which I should ask you for, or the initials of my name in chocolate—my name is Batavus—then I should believe you to be a liar.” But I never saw Van Alphen; he was dead, I think, when he told us that my father was my best friend, and that my little dog was so grateful (we never kept any dogs, they are so very dirty); although I was much fonder of little Paul Winser, who lived near us in Batavier Street.