Should any of my children, or other persons, think it worth their time to read these journals, they must keep several facts in mind. First that the early part of them were written when I was young and in very many things inexperienced - consequently, were I writing the notes now, many pages would be replaced with something that age has better digested. Second, that the whole has been written on the “spur of the moment, “ without scarce a thought of the line to follow, or that they would be read by any one than myself. Not more than one page of the whole was written from copy. Lastly, that the dottings have been made under all sorts of circumstances, preparedness and temper - hence the want of interest to general readers by the bad composition, bad writing and mainly personal character of the journals. Had I had the “gift” of description and the disposition to write, I have seen enough in my day to have made these quite interesting.

Being seized with caccoethes scribendi [itch to write], I do so not for my own gratification as for my children, who, possibly when I have “crossed the flood,” may take some interest and pleasure in perusing these rough notes of my life - all written, as I now write, without any preparation excepting perhaps two or three pages out of over one hundred. If they do not interest them, I am sure that in one respect they will not be like their father, for I would take any amount of pains could I thereby procure a short history of my parents and their families. Such information as I am possessed of, with a sketch of my early life, follows.

My father's name was Robert Salter, son of his father I doubt not. The family were natives of Bandon, County Cork. My father was born in Nova Scotia. One of a numerous family, he was a farmer and country store keeper and arrived at the dignity of Coroner.

My mother - that dear good woman — was born at Yarm (a small inland town I believe) in Yorkshire, 17 March 1773, and came out when she was two months old with her parents.