In these dozing moods some of the parcels round me would appear not only imbued with life, but, like the fabled animals of AEsop, blessed with the gift of tongues.  Others, though speechless, would conjure up a vivid train of breathing tableaux, replete with their sad histories.  That tiny relic, half the size of the small card it is pinned upon, swells like the imprisoned genie the fisherman released from years of bondage, and the shadowy vapour takes once more a form.  From the small circle of that wedding ring, the tear-fraught widow and the pallid orphan, closely dogged by Famine and Disease, spring to my sight.  That brilliant tiara opens the vista of the rich saloon, and shows the humbled pride of the titled hostess, lying excuses for her absent gems.  The flash contents of that bright yellow handkerchief shade forth the felon’s bar; the daring burglar eyeing with confidence the counsel learned in the law’s defects, fee’d by its produce to defend its quondam owner.  The effigies of Pride, Extravagance, honest Distress, and reckless Plunder, all by turns usurp the scene.  In my last waking sleep, just as I had composed myself in delicious indolence, a parcel fell with more than ordinary force on one beneath.  These were two of my talking friends.  I stirred not, but sat silently to listen to their curious conversation, which I now proceed to give verbatim.

Parcel fallen upon.—­“What the d—­l are you?”

Parcel that fell.—­“That’s my business.”

“Is it?  I rather think its mine, though.  Why don’t you look where you’re going?”

“How can I see through three brown papers and a rusty black silk handkerchief?”

“Ain’t there a hole in any of ’em?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity; but when you’ve been here as long as I have, the moths will help you a bit.”

“Will they?”

“Certainly.”

“I hope not.”

“Hope if you like; but you’ll find I’m right.”

“I trust I didn’t hurt you much.”

“Not very.  Bless you, I’m pretty well used to ill-treatment now.  You’ve only rubbed the pile of my collar the wrong way, just as that awkward black rascal would brush me.”

“Bless me!  I think I know your voice.”

“Somehow, I think I know yours.”

“You ain’t Colonel Tomkins, are you?”

“No.”

“Nor Count Castor?”

“No.”

“Then I’m in error.”

“No you’re not.  I was the Colonel once; then I became the Count by way of loan; and then I came here—­as he said by mistake.”

“Why, my dear fellow, I’m delighted to speak to you.  How did you wear?”

“So-so.”

“When I first saw you, I thought you the handsomest Petersham in town.  Your velvet collar, cuffs, and side-pockets, were superb; and when you were the Colonel, upon my life you were the sweetest cut thing about the waist and tails I ever walked with.”