“I suppose it’s one o’clock as usual, Mr. Lovell, at the Red Lion?” My uncle laughs as he moves to the gate. “I tell you what it is, Mr. Fitchew, you’re a precious rascal; that’s what you are.” At one o’clock an immense dinner is provided at the Red Lion, and thither the debtors come, no matter what may be the state of their accounts, and drink my uncle’s health. Such was Uncle Lovell. My father and mother often had supper with him and my aunt. After I was ten years old I was permitted to go. It was a solid, hot meal at nine o’clock. It was followed by pipes and brandy and water, never more than one glass; and when this was finished, at about half-past ten, there was the walk home across the silent bridge, with a glimpse downward of the dark river slowly flowing through the stone arches. I now come to my father. My object is not to write his life. I have not sufficient materials, nor would it be worth recording at any length, but I should like to preserve the memory of a few facts which are significant of him, and may explain his influence upon me. He was born in 1807, and was eight years old when his father died: his mother died seven years earlier. He had a cruel step-mother, who gave to her own child everything she had to give. He was educated at the Grammar School, but the teaching there, as I have said, was very poor. The step-mother used to send messages to the head master begging him soundly to thrash her step-son, for he was sure to deserve it, and school thrashing in those days was no joke. She also compelled my father to clean boots, knives and forks, and do other dirty work.