As to poor Mr. Spencer Forde, he, too, is young; and you do wrong, O Yates! in giving him a part he will be unequal to till he grows big enough for a coat. A smaller part would, we doubt not, suit him excellently.
Lastly, give our best compliments to Mrs. Fosbroke, to the illustrious Mr. Freeborn, to Mr. John Saunders, and our especial commendations to thy scene-painter, thy upholsterer, and the gentleman lamp-lighter thou art so justly proud of; for each did his and her best to add a charm to “The Maid of Honour.”
* * * * *
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
FOR THE WEEK ENDING NOVEMBER 6, 1841.
* * * * *
A DAY-DREAM AT MY UNCLE’S.
The result of a serious conversation between the authors of my being ended in the resolution that it was high time for me to begin the world, and do something for myself. The only difficult problem left for them to solve was, in what way I had better commence. One would have thought the world had nothing in its whole construction but futile beginnings and most unsatisfactory methods of doing for one’s self. Scheme after scheme was discussed and discarded; new plans were hot-beds for new doubts; and impossibilities seemed to overwhelm every succeeding though successless suggestion. At the critical moment when it appeared perfectly clear to me either that I 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 my bewildered parents.
“Good gracious!” “Well, I never!” “Who’d ha’ thought it?” and various other disjointed mutterings escaped my father, forming a sort of running commentary upon the document under his perusal. Having duly devoured the contents, he spread the sheet of paper carefully out, re-wiped his spectacles, and again commenced the former all-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 increasing emphasis and peculiar dignity, “Ticket—the great Ticket—the greatest”—
“Pawnbroker in London,” said I, finishing the sentence.
“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 glorious money-making business. He offers to take you as an apprentice. Nancy, my love, pack up this lad’s things, and start him off by the mail to-morrow. Go to bed, Tom.”