By MRS. PATTIE L. COLLINS.
The sarcasm that “Good Americans expect to go to Paris when they die,”
has lost its force. They have a City Beautiful of their own which more
than justifies the enthusiasm of those who dwell within her gates.
There are no tall houses that shut out the blue sky and the sunshine,
no narrow, filthy streets swarming with the children of the vicious and
starving, but everywhere clean, broad highways, decent abodes, and the
priceless blessing of a pure atmosphere. The smoke of factories does
not drop its dusky mantle over the smiling river and the church spires
glancing heavenward. Not even does the sound of a great traffic intrude
into the peaceful repose of this ideal city. Art schools, musical
conservatories, libraries, and various institutions of learning offer
every inducement for liberal culture at rates so cheap that it may almost
be said to be “without money and without price.” Into this community one
can not come without feeling its broadening and elevating influence.
Prejudices are obliterated, gentle toleration is followed by wide
charity, sectionalism dies, and to thoroughly understand and appreciate
these things makes a residence under the shadow of the dome a blessed
realization. But I should go on endlessly if permitted to dwell upon this
home of my heart; the historic Potomac touching the hem of her garments,
and the wooded heights of Georgetown forming a Rembrandt-like background,
are accessories of a picture to which no words, unless “touched with
fire,” could do justice. I have often thought that not even Genoa the
Superb, with its palaces and rich cathedrals rising high and yet higher
above its gulf of sapphire, and finally encircled by its olive-crowned
hills, was more beautiful.
If, as has often been said, America has no distinctive style of
architecture, at least the anomalous constructions of the Capital are
harmonious, artistic, and imposing. The hoary cities of the Old World
can only vie with her in her bold and lusty youth. The Smithsonian, that
temple of knowledge, the Treasury, custodian of countless millions, those
twin sisters, the Patent and Postoffice Departments, and the peerless
Capitol itself are all monuments of national power in which we have a
legitimate pride.
Washington is scarcely less the shrine of the Republic than is Mecca
to the followers of the prophet. Its fifty millions seem to ebb and
flow, like the tide of the restless sea, through its grand avenues, its
parks, its public buildings, ceaselessly, from January to December.
Perhaps, among these casual sight-seers, no place is so much visited
as the Postoffice Department, in a general way, and, if I may use the
expression, the Dead-Letter Office, specifically, which is the very
_sanctum sanctorum_ of written communications. It is characteristic of
human nature to stand with mere vague wonderment before any question or
occurrence that appears distant and impersonal. But anything that comes
in the shape of an everyday occurrence, that touches intimately social
and domestic relations arouses at once an acute interest. The Pagan
element thus selfishly asserts itself in this ready subordination of the
great problem of humanity to personal considerations. This may account
for the eager delight and interest always displayed by the Dead-Letter
Office pilgrims. And, on the other hand, it may be observed that those
who, officially speaking, possess a proprietary interest in defunct
epistles are akin to the dealers in other wares—they like to vaunt their
merchandise!
The gleaming pile of white marble, chaste, symmetrical, inviting, might
be likened, after an exploration of its contents, to many another
sepulcher—but I forbear a premature expression of opinion, and beg to
invite you, my readers, through the front door, which, like the gates
of mercy, stands ever wide open, and allow you to receive your own
impressions.
Dry statistics, I have idly observed, are not usually relished by the
average knowledge-seeker, or shall I say even tolerated? But I shall
presume that all of mine will patiently grapple with my arithmetical
statements, which I promise shall not be complicated, and I also hope to
escape the incredulity which painfully embarrassed a modest gentleman
in this office, while making statements in regard to its workings to a
party of visitors. He said to these unbelievers, as they stood among
Uncle Sam’s mail bags, piled to the right and to the left of them,
watching the busy clerks assort their contents, that from twelve to
fifteen thousand letters were received upon every working day. This was
received with a depressing silence. Proceeding further, he added that
the mails were a means of transportation not only for letters, but for
clothes, books, jewelry, and almost every article of merchandise. At
this, a somewhat ironical smile was discernible. The gentleman was now
somewhat disconcerted, but determining to die by his colors nobly, he
seized upon an immense brogan lying upon an adjacent desk and exclaimed,
desperately: “This is a specimen—could not go forward to its destination
on account of being over weight—more than four pounds.” Here the auditors
smiled broadly (it was conjectured afterward that one of the ladies must
have been a Chicago belle and that, like Cinderella, she had lost her
slipper). “However,” continued the narrator, somewhat abashed, but not
wholly discomfited, “that is nothing compared to this,” showing an iron
hitching post! At this the supposed western belle sweetly and gravely
inquired, “Was the horse fastened to it, sir?”
To be exact, the precise number of letters at the Dead-Letter Office
during the fiscal year which ended July 1st, 1883, was 4,379,198.
The official report furnishes the following information: “Of these
3,346,357 were advertised and unclaimed at the offices to which they were
addressed; 78,865 were returned from hotels, because the departed guests
failed to leave a new address; 175,710 were insufficiently prepaid; 1,345
contained articles forbidden to be transported by the mails; 280,137 were
erroneously or illegibly addressed, while 11,979 bore no superscription
whatever. Of the domestic letters opened, 15,301 contained money
amounting to $32,647.23; 18,905 contained drafts, checks, money orders,
etc., to the value of $1,381,994.47; 66,137 enclosed postage stamps;
40,125, receipts, paid notes, and canceled obligations of all kinds, and
35,160, photographs.”
Compare this statement with the record of the office during Franklin’s
administration; one small, time-stained volume contains the history
of every valuable letter received, duly inscribed in the crabbed
hieroglyphics of the period. The contrast between the forlorn,
dilapidated, provincial little city of Alexandria, beloved of the Father
of his Country, to the Washington of to-day is not more forcible. Now
nearly one hundred employes are needed to perform the duties of the
office. A vast apartment, surrounded by a broad gallery, and seven
smaller rooms, beside the space allotted for storage in the basement, are
the quarters at present occupied by this division of the public service.
Everything is so systematized that an immediate answer can be returned to
the thousands of inquiries received during a year in reference to letters
or packages that have miscarried and been finally sent to the Dead-Letter
Office.
A large proportion of the money is restored to the senders, and the
balance is deposited in the Treasury to the credit of the Postoffice
Department. But despite every precaution, parcels of all descriptions
accumulate so rapidly that it has been found necessary to dispose of them
at public auction as often as once in two years.
The Museum contains a curious collection of articles which have not
been offered for sale. They are arranged upon shelves covered with
dark crimson cloth, and protected by glass cases. It is certainly a
heterogeneous assortment. A miniature mountain of minerals, many-colored
and gleaming, open bolls of cotton, a box filled with small gold
nuggets, and specimens of valuable woods are silent but eloquent
witnesses of our immense natural resources and still undeveloped wealth.
A bottle of imported cologne, carefully wrapped in herbs, probably just
as it was captured from a would-be smuggler, lies here, forever free from
both Custom House officer or dishonest speculator. A necklace wrought of
fish scales, so delicate that it seems as if it must have been designed
for a fairy princess, shows daintily against its dark background just
beneath the oddest, quaintest baby monkey that ever was seen, carved
from a peach stone! There are Indian pipes and tomahawks, a birch-bark
canoe and moccasins, and lava from the Modoc beds, darkly suggestive of
savage malice and treachery. A box heaped with the cocoons of the silk
worm keeps company with a bottle full of agates from the northern shores
of Lake Superior, reading cards for the blind, masses of wood fiber as
fine, white and strong as linen floss, birds’ eggs, Easter offerings,
and the rosaries of pious Sisters. The little folk who throng the Museum
pause in wondering delight before the array of dolls, pet “Jumbos” of
home manufacture, and even a greater wonder still, a bedstead, pillows,
covering, babies and all, made of sugar and chocolate!
Not even does this enumeration draw the line of limitation for the abuse
of our generous Uncle Sam. It is fortunate for his people that he is
patient under blows and as long-suffering as a camel, else an imperial
ukase would have probably long ere this interdicted even social and
business correspondence. In this he would have been quite justified,
since he can neither eat the cakes, raisins and fruits, use the tooth
brushes, nor take the medicine, with which his mails are burdened.
A pistol, half-cocked, and each chamber filled with a cartridge, was not
called for by the young lady to whom it was addressed, in a western city,
and it now reposes harmlessly beside a lock of hair and the autograph of
Charles Guiteau.
From some of our distant Territories there are specimens of pottery which
archæologists seem inclined to accept as evidences of a pre-historic
civilization.
Quite apart, ensconced in an aristocratic quarter, are various articles
of jewelry, rings, watches, etc., and a costly crucifix of silver and
carnelian, in a glass-covered case, which was found in the postoffice at
Savannah, Ga., at the close of the war. But perhaps the saddest memento
to be seen here is a funeral wreath, woven after the homely fashion
of the German and French peasantry, of black and white beads and the
sunny hair of childhood commingled, whilst an inscription in the center
commemorates the death of “Ernest and Dorcas,” who have died within a few
days of each other.
However, it is only a step from the pathos of this mute appeal to one’s
sympathies to the grotesque and ridiculous.
Of course the Museum would not be complete if it did not contain sundry
sets of false teeth. Well, one day a gentleman and his wife stood before
these in rapt contemplation. She winked, and stepped upon his toes, and
nudged him sharply—and all in a quiet and conjugal manner—but to no
purpose; his confidential communications, made in a stage whisper, could
not be cut short. “That _is_ my set of teeth that I lost; I would know
them anywhere, same as I would know you, or my hat. I don’t want ’em now,
because I’ve got some more, and I don’t know how they got here, but I
would swear to my teeth.”
Chief among these curiosities may be mentioned the snakes. Now, these
snakes constitute a regular “big bonanza.” Letters, garments, live bees,
embroideries and etchings lose their interest in the presence of the
bottled serpents. A Brewers’ Convention was once held in this city,
and during its progress a Teutonic delegation gazed in open-mouthed
astonishment at their snakeships upon learning that they had arrived at
the Dead-Letter Office alive; and small wonder, for they are thirteen
in number, and range from the inoffensive looking junior members of the
family to ancient and loathsome monsters.
“Vat you say, dey come here ’live? how den you kill dem?”
“Why, they were carried to the Medical Museum and chloroformed, then
dropped into alcohol, which killed them, just as readily as it does men.”
The brewers turned from the snakes to the _raconteur_, and the least
taciturn thus commented:
“Mine friend, dis is von temperance speech. You didn’t look stout; come
down to our place and ve vill give you more beer den you can drink.”
Before leaving the Museum I must not neglect to mention the rare coins.
They represent the currency of almost every nationality, and many of
them are as valuable as they are curious. They have come from Sumatra,
Persia, China, and all over the civilized world. But the most remarkable,
and therefore the most precious of the entire collection is a Roman coin
bearing an inscription which declares it to have been in existence nearly
four hundred years before the Christian Era.
From the Foreign Branch of this office during the last year, 400,898
dead letters were returned unopened to their respective countries of
origin. This special work is presided over by a lady who is a remarkable
linguist, and the possessor of many other scholarly accomplishments which
peculiarly fit her for the position. Her skill in translating foreign
addresses, deciphering illegible superscriptions and supplying their
deficiencies is truly phenomenal.
Scarcely less interesting is the work of handling misdirected domestic
letters, also for the purpose of sending them forward unopened to their
proper destination. Of the 100,000 thus sent out last year, more than
ninety per cent. were delivered. These letters, it must be understood,
are _live_ letters, sent here directly from the mailing office, on
account of this deficiency or illegibility. An accurate and comprehensive
knowledge of geography and other general information are requisite for
the duties of this desk, as well as a sufficient knowledge of modern
languages to interpret the combinations of bad Italian, French and German
with worse English. For instance, an undomesticated Gaul will address a
letter to “Ste Traile,” or “St. Treasure,” Ill., instead of Centralia;
a Scandinavian writes Phœnix, “Sjfonix,” and a German with perfect
independence of American dictionaries spells Eagle Lake “Igel Lacht.”
Then again, Senatobia figures as “St. Toby;” Kankakee, as “Quinkequet
City,” and Bridgetown, N. J., as “Bruchstein, Geargei.” This epistolary
“Comedy of Errors” certainly leads one through perplexing labyrinths; as
when a letter intended for Mr. George D. Townsend, of Kilby St., Boston,
is addressed to Rilby St., Washington, D. C., or one intended for Hans
Jenssen, in far away Norway, stops short in direction at Novgerod or
Stavenger. If, as is frequently the case, the address consists merely of
a hotel, college, asylum, reform school, factory, or newspaper office,
street and number, without city or state, the clue is generally followed
successfully. Whatever may be involved in this work, whether cold
reasoning, analytical study, or felicitous intuition, it is accomplished
with satisfactory results, therefore it matters little to what it is
attributed.
There are a few things (but not many) over which these “experts” become
slightly discouraged, as for instance an address like this:
“Please forward to the physician who was looking for a housekeeper in St.
Louis, last week; is a widower with two children; don’t know his name.”
Other specimens of wit and indefiniteness are not wanting, as in the
following:
“Bummer’s letter, shove it ahead;
Dead broke, and nary a red.
Postmaster, put this letter through,
And when I get paid I’ll pay you.”
Another:
“To George W. Knowles this letter is sent,
To the town of Brighton, where the other one went;
No matter who wrote it, a friend or a foe,
To the State of New York, I hope it will go.”
A sordid young man writes from Albia, Iowa, to Sydney, Australia, upon
a postal card addressed, “To any good-looking girl, who is worth, say
£10,000, rank immaterial.” Upon the reverse side are set forth the
particulars of his intentions after this wise:
“DEAR MISS:—Well, I have found you at last, thanks to the good
postmaster, whose super excellent judgment, I am happy to assure
you, is in perfect accord with my own. Now then, the object of
dropping you this postal is to open a correspondence with you.
Intentions, matrimonial. Satisfaction guaranteed. Write at once,
enclosing stamp for photo.
“Yours, presumably,
“JOHN LOOPER.”
Sometime since several letters were received among the “misdirected,”
addressed to Zachary, Marshall Co., Ala. As no trace of such office
could be found, a circular of inquiry was sent to the postmaster at
Dodsonville, the county seat of Marshall, requesting him, if there was
such village, hamlet or settlement in his county, to ascertain its
location and inform the Department. His response was both prompt and
lucid, as a literal transcription will readily show:
“Sirs i would say in answer to this letter that the settlement
of Zachary is about five miles a little w of S in the Tennassee
River valley Between Dodsonville and Henreyville the people of
that Settlement is furnished with or get ther mail at Dodsonville
and Swaringin Zachary has not been known as an office since the
war it would furnish more people with mail to move Dry cove back
3 miles to where it was first established when thos Mitchell was
P M and discontinued the rout from Dodsonville to Cottenville and
run it down the valley to Henreyville and reastablish Zachary but
you can use your own pleasure about that
“yours truly
“J D Gross P M”
I have never ascertained whether the Department adopted Mr. Gross’s
suggestions. Gratuitous and intelligent information like this was
certainly entitled to respectful, if not favorable, consideration.
In the same category with this brilliant ornament of the postal service
might be placed the Londoner who addressed the Postmaster General for
information concerning his brother “Charles Egar Quinton, who had sailed
for America about nine years previously, with the intention of keeping a
public house, or an hotel, and had never been heard of since.” Even the
“experts” hung their heads in confusion as they pondered the whereabouts
of Mr. Quinton, confessing themselves vanquished, unless, indeed, the
Department would grant them six months’ leave, “a roving commission” and
expenses paid, in which case they would pledge themselves to return the
long-lost Charles, dead or alive, to his sorrowing relatives.
To these children of the government any ordinary work, such as
calculating an eclipse, taking an astronomical observation, tunneling the
Channel, or drawing up a Lasker resolution, would have been an easy and
delightful task, and promptly executed, but this search for an unknown
quantity still hidden among or long since eliminated from fifty millions
was a task too herculean for contemplation.
* * * * *
I do not, for my own part, like the notion of keeping books cribbed and
coffined under glass. They are like friends; if they can not be used
freely, they are worth little. The dust will come, and finger-marks will
come. Well, let them—if only the finger-mark has given a thought-mark to
match it. I can not say but a little disarray of home-books is a good
sign of familiarity, and that sort of acquaintance which makes them
worshipful friends. Nay, I go farther than this, and would not give
a shuttle cock for a home-book which I might not annotate. No matter
what wealth is there already, our own little half-pence may be more
relished by home eyes, than the pile of gold which retains its unbroken
formality.—_From “Bound Together,” by Ik Marvel._