It was the year 1812.

I had lived for ten years as a brother in my adopted brother's house, whither he had brought me on the day of my father's funeral; entreating that I should never leave it again.

For, as was shortly afterwards made clear, fate--say Providence--was now inevitably releasing him from a bond, from which, so long as my poor father lived, John would never have released himself.

It was discovered that the profits of the tanning trade had long been merely nominal--that of necessity, for the support of our two families, the tan-yard must be sold, and the business confined entirely to the flour-mill.
At this crisis, as if the change of all things broke her stout old heart, which never could bend to any new ways--Jael died.

We laid her at my father's and mother's feet--poor old Jael! and that grave-yard in St.Mary's Lane now covered over all who loved me, all who were of my youth day--my very own.
So thought I--or might have thought--but that John and Ursula then demanded with one voice, "Brother, come home." I resisted long: for it is one of my decided opinions that married people ought to have no one, be the tie ever so close and dear, living permanently with them, to break the sacred duality--no, let me say the unity of their home.
I wished to try and work for my living, if that were possible--if not, that out of the wreck of my father's trade might be found enough to keep me, in some poor way.