The result of a serious conversation between the authors of mybeing ended in the resolution that it was high time for me to beginthe world, and do something for myself. The only difficult problemleft for them to solve was, in what way I had better commence. Onewould have thought the world had nothing in its whole constructionbut futile beginnings and most unsatisfactory methods of doing forone’s self. Scheme after scheme was discussed and discarded;new plans were hot-beds for new doubts; and impossibilities seemedto overwhelm every succeeding though successless suggestion. At thecritical moment when it appeared perfectly clear to me either thatI was fit for nothing or nothing was fit for me, the authoritative“rat-tat” of the general postman closed the argument,and for a brief space distracted the intense contemplations of mybewildered parents.
“Good gracious!” “Well, I never!”“Who’d ha’ thought it?” and various otherdisjointed mutterings escaped my father, forming a sort of runningcommentary upon the document under his perusal. Having dulydevoured the contents, he spread the sheet of paper carefully out,re-wiped his spectacles, and again commenced the formerall-engrossing subject.
“Tom, my boy, you are all right, and this will do for you.Here’s a letter from your uncle Ticket.”
I nodded in silence.
“Yes, sir,” continued my father, with increasingemphasis and peculiar dignity, “Ticket—the greatTicket—the greatest”—
“Pawnbroker in London,” said I, finishing thesentence.
“Yes, sir, he is; and what of that?”
“Nothing further; I don’t much like the trade,but”—
“But he’s your uncle, sir. It’s a gloriousmoney-making business. He offers to take you as an apprentice.Nancy, my love, pack up this lad’s things, and start him offby the mail to-morrow. Go to bed, Tom.”
So the die was cast! The mail was punctual; and I was dulydelivered to Ticket—the great Ticket—my maternal, andeverybody else’s undefinable, uncle. Duly equipped in glazedcalico sleeves, and ditto apron, I took my place behind thecounter. But as it was discovered that I had a peculiarpenchant for giving ten shillings in exchange for giltsixpences, and encouraging all sorts of smashing by receivingcounterfeit crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, I received a box onthe ear, and a positive command to confine myself to the up-stairs,or “top-of-the-spout department” for the future. Heremy chief duties were to deposit such articles as progressed up thatwooden shaft in their respective places, and by the same meanstransmit the “redeemed” to the shop below. This was butdull work, and in the long dreary evenings, when partial darkness(for I was allowed no candle) seemed to invite sleep, I frequentlyfell into a foggy sort of mystified somnolency—the partialprostration of my corporeal powers being amply compensated by thevague wanderings of indistinct imagination.
In these dozing moods some of the parcels round me would appearnot only imbued with life, but, like the fabled animals ofÆsop, blessed with the gift of tongues. Others, thoughspeechless, would conjure up a vivid train of breathing tableaux,replete with their sad histories. That tiny relic, half the size ofthe small card it is pinned upon, swells like the imprisoned geniethe fisherman released from years of bondage, and the shadowyvapour takes once more a form. From the small circle of thatwedding ring, the tear-fraught widow and the pallid orphan, closelydogged by Famine and Disease, spring to my sight. That brillianttiara opens the vista of the rich saloon, and shows the humbledpride o