As bright Hyperion takes from the Creole maidens the _glowing_ tints for which England’s daughters are so famed, so he thinks it but fair to play many pranks with the complexions of the gentlemen who own his much-loved and frequented island as their home. Some he renders so pale and wan, that they appear like gliding spectres; others are as fiery red as the old English country market-women’s cloaks with which they enwrap themselves when Winter holds his despotic reign; while some, again, present the deeper tinge of a full-blown peony; when to these latter shades are added the silvery honours of old age, the _tout ensemble_ is most striking. The hours of business in Antigua are from about six in the morning to four in the afternoon; after that period, the lawyer leaves his musty books and all his _pros_ and _cons;_ the merchant quits his counting-house, his day-book, and his ledger; the dealer in fashions and furbelows shuts his varied store; even the professors of the lancet abandon, for a time, the _cure_ of the _incurables;_ and away they all hurry, on “pleasure bent,” to enjoy the exercise of riding, driving, or walking, until the day draws to a close, and their watches point the hour of dinner. Many circumstances, however, occur during these “business hours” which calls for the presence of the trader as well as the professional man. The packet from England is signalized, and away they scamper to the post-office, almost before the mails are landed, to the utter consternation of the poor post-master, and, with anxious eyes and clamorous tongues, crowd the office-door. At length, two or three burly sailors, followed by the commander of the packet, a lieutenant in the navy, are seen approaching the spot, bearing upon their broad-built shoulders the long-looked-for mail-bags, well secured in their leathern envelops. The pushing and jostling increases, as gig after gig dashes up and sets down its several passengers—horsemen curvet about, at which lank and miserable-looking dogs bark, servant-boys grin and chatter—and a group of little children, just dismissed from one of the free schools, stand gazing thereon, and wondering “war make dem buckra care so much ’bout letter?”