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 Phoenix, “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:

Another:

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:

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:

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.