The history of any one post-office after the Revolution would be a history of all; and, as the writer is more familiar with that of Philadelphia, he is enabled to gather more materials for the miscellaneous portion of his work than if he had selected any other. The general business routine of one office differs very little from that of another: yet every office has its “unwritten history” and its own “romance and realities.” New York, with its vast commercial interests both at home and abroad, and justly termed the metropolis of America, could, from the archives of her post-office, give to the world incidents that perhaps would find no parallel in the annals of all the calendars that have registered events of a startling character since the creation of the world. A post-office, with its millions of letters, is an epitomized world. The letters represent the human race, and contain the written records of their vices and virtues; or it may be compared to a huge volume, and the letters passing to and fro, the indexes to its contents. Not that the secrets of a post-office become known to its officers by improper means, but by that process of secret modes of detection whose mysterious workings are unknown to those unconnected with the institution. Very little behind the great city we have named stands that of Philadelphia; and its post-office, like the tomb, has buried secrets which an “Old Mortality” alone has the power to bring forth. The task be ours to paint the mysteries of the postal tomb. _THE ROMANCE OF THE POST-OFFICE._ History and romance have, as it were, by mutual consent allied themselves together for the sole purpose of mystifying mankind. It is true the first cannot pervert a living fact, but it can materially affect the character of one long since passed away and mingled with the revolution of words, men, and nations. The latter is simply a colorist: the one maps, the other paints. And yet how often do we hear it said that truth is stranger than fiction! The romance of a post-office would be a far more truthful history of the human heart than any other work ever written upon the subject. The post-office is the pulsation of a nation, the beating of a million of hearts, and its records would be the world’s volume. “A mail-bag,” says a writer, “is an epitome of human life. All the elements which go to form the happiness or misery of individuals—the raw material, so to speak, of human hopes and fears—here exist in a chaotic state. These elements are imprisoned, like the winds in the fabled cave of Æolus, ‘biding their time’ to go forth and fulfil their office, whether it be to refresh and invigorate the drooping flower, or to bring destruction upon the proud and stately forest king.”[26]