Oh, what a _hurly burly_ it is! what a noise and discord! what a pushing, and scrambling, and puffing, and panting! At length, the door is opened, and the postmaster announces, in not very dulcet tones, “the letters will not be out for two hours,” and closes the portal again. A look of dismay and vexation overspreads the countenance of all. The first turns to his neighbour, and he, in _his turn_, looks to the one behind him; one mutters, “How provoking!” and another says, “I hate to be served so!” while one of the applicants, a melancholy-looking man, observes, in an important voice, “The letters _must be sorted_, you know.” As no good can be effected by waiting, they finally disperse, and endeavour to while away the time until, the two hours having elapsed, they again besiege the office. A well-applied rap summons the postmaster. “Are the letters out?”—“No, they will not be out for another hour!” Time, however, brings many things to pass, and the letters are at length sorted. Happy now does that individual feel himself whose name begins with an “A”—for they always conduct this business alphabetically. A silence ensues, the letters are distributed, and, too anxious to know their contents, their several receivers open them upon the spot. Various is the intelligence received, as seal after seal is broken—manifold the subjects discussed. Some talk of failures of mercantile houses, others of legacies received or in prospect; some descant upon politics, and others upon the price of sugars; while another group peruse the London newspapers, inspect carefully the list of births, deaths, marriages, and _bankruptcies_, look to see what the Queen and the court are doing, and then go forth to publish the “varied accidents by flood and field.”