bounds of propriety. Incongruity would read me out of meeting. To be reined in under a plain hat would be impossible. Besides, I doubt whether any one accustomed to the world's pleasures could be a Quaker. Who, once familiar with Shakespeare and the opera, could resist a favorite air on a hand organ, or pass, undisturbed, Hamlet!' in capital letters on a play bill? To be a Quaker, one must be a Quaker born. In spite of Sydney Smith, there is such a thing as a Quaker baby. In fact, I have seen the diminutive demurity, a stiff-plait in the bud. It had round blue eyes, and a face that expressed resignation in spite of the stomach-ache. It had no lace on its baby-cap, no embroidered nonsense on its petticoat. It had no beads, no ribbons, no rattle, no bells, no coral. Its plain garments were innocent of inserting and edging; its socks were not of the color of the world's people's baby. It was as punctiliously silent as a silent meeting, and sat up rigidly in its mother's lap, cutting its teeth without a gum-ring. It never cried, nor clapped its hands, and would not have said 'papa' if it had been tied to the stake. When it went to sleep it was hushed without a song, and they laid it in a drab-colored cradle without a rocker. Don't interrupt me, I have seen it, Mrs. Sparrowgrass! Something I have observed, too, remarkably, strikingly quakeristic. The young maidens and the young men never seem inclined to be fat. Such a thing as a maiden lady, nineteen years of age, with a pound of superfluous flesh, is not known among Friends. The young men sometimes grow outside the limits of a straight coat, and when they do, they quietly change into the habits of ordinary men. It seems as if they lose their hold when they get too round and too ripe, and just drop off. Remarkably quakeristic, too, is an exemption the Friends appear to enjoy from diseases and complaints peculiar to other people. Who ever saw a Quaker marked with the small-pox, or a Quaker with the face-ache? Who ever saw a cross-eyed Quaker, or a decided case of the mumps under a broad-brimmed hat? Nobody. Mrs. Sparrowgrass, don't interrupt me. Doubtless much of this is owing to their cleanliness, duplex cleanliness, purity of body and soul. I saw a face in the cars, not long since-a face that had calmly endured the storms of seventy

yearly meetings. It was a hot, dry day, the windows were all open; dust was pouring into the cars; eye-brows, eyelashes, ends of hair, mustaches, wigs, coat-collars, sleeves, waistcoats, and trowsers of the world's people, were touched with a fine tawny color. Their faces had a general appearance of humidity in streaks, now and then tatooed with a black cinder; but there, within a satin bonnet (Turk's satin), a bonnet made after the fashion of Professor Espy's patent ventilator, was a face of seventy years, calm as a summer morning, smooth as an infant's, without one speck or stain of dust, without one touch of perspiration, or exasperation, Mrs. S. No, nor was there, on the cross-pinned kerchief, nor in the elaborately plain dress, one atom of earthy contact; the very air did seem to respect that aged Quakeress. Mrs. Sparrowgrass, don't interrupt me. Did you ever, my dear, 'get the writings of John Woolman by heart, and love the early Quakers,' as beloved Charles Lamb recommends? No? Then let me advise you to read the book, and learn something of one who had felt the efficacy of that power, which, as he says, 'prepares the creature to stand like a trumpet, through which the Lord speaks to his people.' Here is a little story of his early childhood, which I want you to read to the children now and then.

"Once going to a neighbor's house, I saw, on the way, a Robin sitting on her nest, and, as I came near, she went off; but, having young ones, flew about, and, with many cries, expressed her concern for them. I stood and threw stones at her, till, one striking her, she fell down dead. At first, I was pleased with the exploit; but, after a few minutes, was seized with horror, as having, in a sportive way, killed an innocent creature while she was careful of her young. I beheld her lying dead, and thought those young ones, for which she was so careful, must now perish for the want of their dam to nourish them; and, after some painful considerations on the subject, I climbed up the tree, took all the young birds, and killed them, supposing that better than to leave them to pine away and die miserably; and believed, in this case, that scripture proverb was fulfilled, The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.' I then went on my errand; but, for some hours, could think of nothing else but the cruelties I

had committed, and was much troubled. Thus He, whose tender mercies are above all his works, hath placed a principle in the human mind, which incites to exercise goodness toward every living creature; and this being singly attended to, people become tender-hearted and sympathizing; but being frequently and totally rejected, the mind becomes shut up in a contrary disposition.' Don't interrupt me, my dear. And Thomas Lurting, too; his adventures are well worth reading to the children. A Quaker sailor, the mate of a Quaker ship, manned with a Quaker crew, every one of which had a straight collar to his pea-jacket, and a tarpaulin, with at least three feet diameter of brim. Thomas Lurting, whose ship was captured by Algerine pirates after a hard chase, and who welcomed them on board as if they had been brothers. Then, when the Quaker vessel and the Algerine were separated by a storm, how friendly those saltwater non-resistants were to their captors on board; with what alacrity did they go aloft to take in sail, or to shake out a reef, until those heathen pirates left the handling of the ship entirely to their broad-brimmed brethren, and went to sleep in the cabin; and then, what did the Quakers do but first shut the cabin doors, and fasten them so that the Turks could not get out again? And then, fearless of danger, they steered for the Barbary coast, and made those fierce, mustached pirates get into a small boat (they had been forever locked up else), and rowed them to the shore; and when the Turks found themselves in a small boat with but a small crew of broad-brims, and gave signs of mutiny, what did the brave Thomas Lurting? Lay violent hands on them. Draw a cutlass, or cock a pistol? No, he merely struck the leader a pretty heavy blow with a boat-hook, telling him to sit still and be quiet,' as he says himself, thinking it was better to stun a man than to kill him.' And so he got the pirates on shore, and in their own country. Brave Thomas Lurting! True? Of course, it is true.

"The most singular spectacle I ever witnessed was the burial-service over a Quaker, in a Catholic cathedral. He had formerly been the rigidest of his sect-a man who had believed the mitre and crozier to be little better than the horns and tail of the evil one-a man who had looked upon church music and

polygamy with equal abhorrence, and who would rather have been burnt himself than burn a Roman candle on the anniversary of the national jubilee. Yet by one of those inexplicable inconsistencies, peculiar to mere men, but rare among Quakers, he had seceded from the faith of his fathers, and become one of the most zealous of papists. The grand altar was radiant with wax tapers; the priests on either side, in glittering dresses, were chanting responses; the censor boys, in red and white garments, swung the smoke of myrrh and frankincense into the air, and as the fragrant mist rolled up and bung in rosy clouds under the lofty, stained-glass windows, the great organ panted forth the requiem. Marvelously contrasted with this pomp and display appeared the crowd of broad-brims and stiff-plaits, the friends and relatives of the deceased. Never, perhaps, had such an audience been gathered in such a place in the world before. The scene, to the priests themselves, must have been novel and striking. Instead of the usual display of reverence, instead of the customary show of bare heads and bended knees, every Quaker stood stoutly on his legs, with his broadbrimmed hat clinging to his head as strongly as his faith to his heart. Disciplined as they had been in many a silent meeting, during the entire mass not one of the broad-brims moved an inch until the service was over. Then the coffin was opened, and solemnly, silently, decorously, the brethren and sisters moved towards it to look, for the last time, upon the face of the seceder. Then silently, solemnly, decorously, they moved from the Popish temple. 'I saw,' said one of the sisters, that he (meaning the departed ex-Quaker) had on worked slippers with silver soles, what does thee think that was for?" The person spoken to wore a hat with a goodly brim. Without moving his head, he rolled around, sideways, two Quakeristic eyes, large blue eyes, with little inky dots of pupils, like small black islands in oceans of buttermilk, and said, awfully-'I suppose they was to walk through Purgatory with.'”

"I do not believe it," said Mrs. Sparrowgrass. "Nevertheless, my dear, it is true," I replied; "true, every word of it. You have not seen all the world yet, my dear; it is a very large placea very large place, indeed, Mrs. Sparrowgrass."

As

S a post establishment, the office in St. Martin's-le-Grand, London, is the first in the world. The Postmaster General and his staff are at the head of an army of over 20,000 persons; and such is the concentration of business, that in this office is performed about onefourth of all the postal business of the kingdom. The number of letters passing through it in a year is eight times as great as the number passing through New York, and nearly as great as the entire number in the United States. The number of letters received for delivery in London, in the year 1854, was 103,377,728, and the number sent out, 97,645,106. This gives a total of over 200,000,000 letters in a single year.

To an outside spectator, there is little to be seen except a plain, substantial stone building, some 400 feet by 130, supported by Ionic pillars, and having a large hall for the accommodation of the public. But during a late visit to London, we were permitted, by the courtesy of Mr. Rowland Hill, to see all the arrangements, and inspect the machinery by which this immense establishment is kept in motion. In the "Inland Office," where the mails are made up for the country, there is a comparative lull in the middle of the day, the letters and papers coming in so slowly that but few clerks and sorters are on duty. There are employed, in London, 3,035 persons in the mail service. Of these, 498 are letter-receivers-keepers of the small sub-offices-located in all parts of the metropolis for the convenience of mailing letters. There are, in London, 1385 letter carriers, and there are rooms in the post-office building for many of these carriers to sort and arrange their letters. Then there are 1152 other persons employed in the London post office; but of these, 160 money-order clerks have quarters in another building. There

are 253 in the general post office, and 739 clerks, stampers, sorters, and subsorters, engaged in the reception, delivery, and dispatch of the mails. The mails are so arranged that all letters leave London-no matter what direction they are going-at the same hours; at nine in the morning, and nine in the evening. Men on foot, on horseback, and in carts, are constantly engaged, during the day, in collecting letters from

the various sub-offices and receivinghouses in all parts of the "twelve-mile circle;" a circle having a radius of twelve miles. To induce publishers of newspapers to get their papers ready early in the day, the post-office sends the mail-carts, at certain hours, to the publishing houses, to transport all the papers, then ready, to the central office. This saves trouble both to the publishers and to the post office department, There being about 150,000 newspapers passing through the London post office daily, and these forming nearly fourfifths of the bulk of the mails, there is an immense labor in sorting and packing them. Unless some such plan were adopted, it would be almost impossible to get off all of the evening mail; for the bulk of the sorting, stamping, and dispatch of letters is done in the last two hours-from six to eight o'clock.

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A good joke is told of a porter employed to carry to the post-office several large bags of circulars, all of which he emptied on a table in the office. He then touched his cap respectfully, and said he should like to see "the gentleat the head." Supposing he had some special business with a high functionary of the department, he was conducted to the Secretary. Sir," says he, touching his cap again, "I've brought you down a large number of letters, and should like to drink your health." But the gentleman at the head” told him he should be very much obliged to him if he would never again bring him such a quantity; or, even if he would carry these away with him. The poor fellow left, thinking "the gentleman at the head" of Her Majesty's post office, very ungrateful for the "favor" of the letters.

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As the hour of 6 P. M. approaches, the number of persons to deposit letters begins to increase. Faster and faster gathers the crowd; and, instead of dropping their letters leisurely, they rush up to the box, and, with a nervous twitch, dash them in, and then stand back and give room for others. Many stay and look on, while the scene grows "fast and furious." About a quarter before six, men, bearing bags, come staggering in, and, by tapping at a wooden slide, a whole window is opened by a clerk, who receives the bag,

empties it, and throws it out. Boys with hands full of papers, a woman bearing a letter, and a penny to pay the postage, rough-looking mechanics, with brawny arms, and honest faces, come with letters, generally stamped, and, struggling through the crowd, they drop them through the slit in the window, prepared to receive them. In the inside there is also a busy scene, but no hurry nor confusion. At first there are separate letters dropping, one after another, then a handful; then thicker and faster they patter in as if the elements without were charged with letters, and they were, by a sudden tempest, showered into the post office. The hand of the clock keeps moving towards the figure, and the crowd without and the shower within increase. The clerk

at the open window is nearly inundated with parcels of letters and sacks of newspapers, and a fellow-clerk comes to his relief, and opens another window. It lacks but three minutes of six. Boys no longer walk up to the boxes to mail their papers, but stand back, and throw them at the open windows. Faster, faster, and faster they come-it lacks only a minute and a half-the crushing, furious crowd; men, women, and boys, many holding their arms aloft, with letter and penny tightly grasped, are trying to get to the place of delivery. A spectator would naturally suppose they were each striving to obstruct one another as much as possible. It lacks but thirty seconds, and still the crowd collects. A seedy-looking man, looking at the clock, very deliberately ties his two letters and newspaper together, with a piece of twine, and throws them directly at the clerk in the window. Amidst the rush of the crowd, comes a faint scream from some poor "squeezed" mortal who can't get her letter in; and now the hammer comes down, one, two, three-all the clerks at the window get ready-four, five, six, bang go the windows down, with one simultaneous slide. Several letters and one paper are caught in it; but they, like those outside, cannot go by this mail, because they are too late. There is a very good regulation, which enables the tardy public to get their letters off; but they have to pay a fine for their tardiness. One letter-box is left open, labeled "Late Letter-box." "All letters that are dropped in this box, before half past six, with the postage paid in full in stamps, and having

one additional stamp, will be sent by the mail now being made up." Then there are other boxes open, labeled “for letters not intended to go by this mail.”

Now let us present our pass at the back door, and see what is going on within. At a high desk, overlooking the scene, sits the Superintending President. The lower floor of the inland department is occupied by the sorters and stampers of letters; nearly 500 in number. Across the broad hall, where the public have been jostling and crowding in to get their letters mailed, is the London district office, and, to keep up a communication between this office and the inland department, there is a passage beneath the floor, a sort of "underground railroad," where baskets of letters and papers are sent back and forth, by steam. While this railway is constantly at work, the same engine operates a "draw," that sends all the newspapers from the lower floor to the second story of the inland department, where they are sorted and bagged separately from the letters. One of the superintending presidents, deputed to the office of showing us all the business that was going on, asked us to step with him on to the "draw," and up we went to the newspaper room. Here, many hundred bushels of papers were being rapidly diminished in numbers, by several score of sorters. A great many break open every day, and their wrappers come off, and there are several clerks who are engaged in tying them on. A good old pious lady, in Cheltenham, is waiting for her religious paper, and is horrified on the arrival of the mail, when she pulls off the well-known wrapper, and finds "Bell's Life in London," with all the "fights to come," the last set-to of Tom Spring and Ben Caunt, and the doings on the Turf," and how much "Lady Jane" was beaten by "Flying Childers." The "fast" man at Brighton looks for his "Bell's Life," and finds that it has very mysteriously been changed into a " Church and State Gazette." An old tory gets Reynold's newspaper, and a good churchman gets "that rascally Dispatch."

But let us descend the way we came up, going through the London post office, as the letters and papers do, by steam. At the back door, a little after six, several small red carts are driven up by men in red coats, and these are emptied of thousands of letters and

papers, from the various receiving houses. Each letter goes through from ten to fourteen processes, and the wonder is, how 500 men can take 200,000 letters, and "put them through" the various motions with so little confusion, and so few mistakes. From baskets, they are first emptied on a very large table, and here they are poured till the table is several feet thick with letters. Fifteen or twenty men with red coats are round this table, facing the letters. The letters are all "faced" one way, and with the superscriptions right side up. Large letters, and those that are unpaid, are thrown aside into a basket to be treated separately. As fast as they are faced, they are put into long grooves, similar to a printer's "galley," and men are constantly carrying these off to the stampers. The letters are next stamped. It is astonishing with what rapidity an experienced stamper will pass the letters under his stamp, and give each one a legible impression. The active stampers will stamp seven or eight thousand in an hour. They use 1ght wooden stamps, as they fatigue the hand less, and carry ink better than metal stamps. A good wooden stamp will take ink enough from the blackball, at one impression, to stamp legibly ten letters. Each stamper counts his letters, and at every hundred he strikes his stamp once on a sheet of paper before him. The cushion on which the stamping is done consists of several thicknesses of woolen cloth, covering the entire surface of the table. The stamp, which gives the month, day of the month, and year, is put on the back of the letter. There is, also, a private mark, composed of letters, or letters and figures, that is altered every day, and this stamp is registered in a book and kept, so that for years there are no two days that letters, mailed at the London office, bear the same stamp. This is of great utility in detecting attempts at fraud, as it is impossible for any person, out of the London post office, to know the exact stamp of the letters that were mailed at any particular day of any previous year, unless a letter could be found that was mailed in London on that day. This is almost a certain means of detecting a forged stamp, as letters, bearing mail-stamps and marks, are not unfrequently forged to get up fraudulent testimony in important trials. After being stamped and

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counted, the letters are passed to clerks, whose business it is to see if they have Queen's heads" (postage stamps) enough to pay the postage in full. By running them over, with surprising rapidity, they detect the light ones, weigh, and consign to their merited punishment a doubling of all unpaid letters-the delinquent missives. All that are found correct are sent to stamping tables, where the stamps are obliterated, the neat Queen's heads, in neat red and white, being changed, by one blow, to a mass of lamp-black, oil, and composition, in sable cross-bars, like the prison dress of a penitentiary convict.

The process or rather processes of sorting come next, and the "sub-sorters" receive the letters at long tables, which are divided into apartments, each labeled with an appropriate title, usually that of some railway. We could see "Great Western," "Eastern Counties," "Southeastern," "London and Northwestern," "London and Brighton," and the like. One apartment is marked "Scotch," another "Irish," one "Foreign," and one "Blind." The "blind" letters are taken to the Blind Man," the title of a clerk whose vision is so sharp that hieroglyphics, which would puzzle a Philadelphia lawyer, or a professor of the Black Art, are generally straightened out, and the exact meaning written legibly over or under the original superscription. The correspondent, who directed a letter to "Sromfredevi," was not supposed to know the exact name, style, and title of "Sir Humphrey Davy." The man that wrote "dandy" for Dundee, "Emboro" for Edinburgh," Dufferlin" for Dunfermline, was, probably, not exceedingly well versed in Scottish geography. It was supposed to be a fresh student of phonetics that addressed a letter to "jonsmeet ne Wcasal pin Tin” instead of John Smith, Newcastle-uponTyne. The letter that was addressed, "Cally Phorni Togow the Niggerauger Rought," was evidently penned by some one who had a brother in the mines. All these the "Blind Man" deciphers, or nearly all of them, for some directions are stone blind, and defy the powers of our hieroglyphic reader. Sometimes the "blind man" is seen eying a letter intensely, and humming an air, when suddenly, as if by inspiration, down comes his pen, and the full superscription is at once made plain. When "blind letters" are addressed to clergy