So the die was cast!  The mail was punctual; and I was duly delivered to Ticket—­the great Ticket—­my maternal, and everybody else’s undefinable, uncle.  Duly equipped in glazed calico sleeves, and ditto apron, I took my place behind the counter.  But as it was discovered that I had a peculiar penchant for giving ten shillings in exchange for gilt sixpences, and encouraging all sorts of smashing by receiving counterfeit crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, I received a box on the ear, and a positive command to confine myself to the up-stairs, or “top-of-the-spout department” for the future.  Here my chief duties were to deposit such articles as progressed up that wooden shaft in their respective places, and by the same means transmit the “redeemed” to the shop below.  This was but dull work, and in the long dreary evenings, when partial darkness (for I was allowed no candle) seemed to invite sleep, I frequently fell into a foggy sort of mystified somnolency—­the partial prostration of my corporeal powers being amply compensated by the vague wanderings of indistinct imagination.

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?”