stiff work in the writing way. But these are only the _letters_.
If you include somewhere about four hundred and twenty million
post-cards, newspapers, book-packets, and circulars, you have a sum
total of fourteen hundred and seventy-seven million odd passing through
our hands. Put that down in figures, sir, w'en you git home--
1,477,000,000--an p'r'aps it'll open your eyes a bit. If you want 'em
opened still wider, just try to find out how long it would take you to
count that sum, at the rate of sixty to the minute, beginning one, two,
three, and so on, workin' eight hours a day without takin' time for
meals, but givin' you off sixty-five days each year for Sundays and
holidays to recruit your wasted energies."

"How long _would_ it take?" asked Aspel, with an amused but interested
look.

"W'y, sir, it would take you just a little over one hundred and seventy
years. The calculation ain't difficult; you can try it for yourself if
you don't believe it.--Good-night, sir," added the red-coated official,
with a pleasant nod, as he turned and entered the great building, where
a huge proportion of this amazing work was being at that moment actively
manipulated.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

DOWNWARD--DEEPER AND DEEPER.

As the great bell of St. Paul's struck the half-hour, George Aspel was
reminded of the main object of his visit to that part of the City.
Descending to the street, and pondering in silent wonder on the vast
literary correspondence of the kingdom, he strode rapidly onward, his
long legs enabling him to pass ahead of the stream of life that flowed
with him, and causing him to jostle not a few members of the stream that
opposed him.

"Hallo, sir!" "Look out!" "Mind your eye, stoopid!" "Now, then, you
lamp-post, w'ere are you a-goin' to?" "Wot asylum 'ave _you_ escaped
from?" were among the mildest remarks with which he was greeted.

But Aspel heeded them not. The vendors of penny marvels failed to
attract him. Even the print-shop windows had lost their influence for a
time; and as for monkeys, barrel-organs, and trained birds, they were as
the dust under his feet, although at other times they formed a perpetual
feast to his unsophisticated soul. "Letters, letters, letters!"

He could think of nothing else. "Fourteen hundred and seventy-seven
millions of letters, etcetera, through the Post-Office in one year!"
kept ringing through his brain; only varied in its monotony by "that
gives thirty-two letter