Unhappily, in one of her maudlin fits, Mrs. Stubbs took a particular fancy to my mother; and one day, in the absence of the 'ninth,' beckoned my unsuspecting parent into her sittingroom,--and after gratuitously imparting to her the hum-drum history of her domestic squabbles, invited her to take a 'drop o' summat'--to keep up her I sperrits.' Alas! this was the first step--and she went on, and on, and on, until that which at first she loathed became no longer disagreeable, and by degrees grew into a craving that was irresistible;--and, at last, she regularly hob-and-nobb'd' with the disconsolate rib of Stubbs, and shared alike in all her troubles and her liquor. Fain would I draw a veil over this frailty of my unfortunate parent; but, being conscious that veracity is the very soul and essence of history, I feel myself imperatively called upon neither to disguise nor to cancel the truth. My father remonstrated in vain-the passion had already taken too deep a hold; and one day he was suddenly summoned from his work with the startling information, that 'Mother Mullins'--(so the kind neighbour phrased it) was sitting on the step of a public house, in the suburbs, completely 'tosticated.' He rushed out, and found the tale too true. A bricklayer in the neighbourhood proposed the loan of his barrow, for the poor senseless creature could not walk a step. Placing her in the one-wheel-carriage, he made the best of his way home, amid the jeers of the multitude. Moorfields was then only partially covered with houses; and as he passed a deep hollow, on the side of which was placed a notice, intimating that “RUBBISH MAY BE SHOT HERE!” his eyes caught the words, and in the bitterness of his heart he exclaimed-- “I wou'dn't like to shoot her exactly; but I've a blessed mind to turn her out!” CHAPTER IV.--A Situation. “I say, Jim, what birds are we most like now?” “Why swallows, to be sure,” In the vicinity of our alley were numerous horse-rides, and my chief delight was being entrusted with a horse, and galloping up and down the straw-littered avenue.--I was about twelve years of age, and what was termed a sharp lad, and I soon became a great favourite with the ostlers, who admired the aptness with which I acquired the language of the stables. There were many stock-brokers who put up at the ride; among others was Mr. Timmis--familiarly called long Jim Timmis. He was a bold, dashing, good-humoured, vulgar man, who was quite at home with the ostlers, generally conversing with them in their favourite lingo. I had frequent opportunities of shewing him civilities, handing him his whip, and holding his stirrup, etc. One day he came to the ride in a most amiable and condescending humour, and for the first time deigned to address me--“Whose kid are you?” demanded he. “Father's, sir,” I replied. “Do you know your father, then?” “Yes, sir.” “A wise child this;” and he winked at the ostler, who, of course, laughed incontinently.