Superstition.

Superstition rarely stands in the way of the extension of postal accommodation or convenience; but a case of the kind occurred some time ago in the west of Ireland. Application was made for the erection of a wall letter-box, and authority had been granted for setting it up; but when arrangements came to be made for providing for the collection of letters, no one could be found to undertake the duty, in consequence of a general belief among the poorer people in the neighbourhood that, at that particular spot, "a ghost went out nightly on parade." The ghost was stated to be a large white turkey without a head.

Curious Names.

Everything that departs from the usual mode or fashion of things is regarded as curious, and the term may be applied also to the incidence of names and professions, either in regard to their relative fitness of relationship, or to an opposite quality. As the sight of two or three individuals with wooden legs walking in company would be sure to claim our attention, if it did not excite our mirth, so the coming together of persons having similar names under the same roof by mere chance, would not fail to attract notice, and be thought a peculiar circumstance. Of the first class the following cases may be noted,—namely, that at Torquay, Devonshire, there used to be a butcher called Bovine; in the east of London there is a James Bull, a cow-keeper; and at Birnam, Perthshire, a gardener and strawberry-grower called John Rake. There is further, we are informed, at Cork a person carrying on the pawnbroking business whose name is Uncle, than which there could be nothing more appropriate. Of the second class the following is an instance, persons of the names given having been employed together in a single office of the General Post-office some years ago:—

Letter-box, St Martin's-le-Grand.

So much has it become the custom in these later times for the Post-office to afford facilities to the public in whatever will tend to increase the business of the Department, that in all large towns pillar-boxes or branch offices are dotted about everywhere at short distances, thus altering the conditions which formerly obtained, when the chief office was the great central point where correspondence had to be deposited for despatch. London is no exception to this general plan of accommodation, and there may be some lingering regrets that the stirring scenes which used to attend the closing of the letter-box at St Martin's-le-Grand (when the great hall led right through the building) no longer exist, at least as things worthy of note. Lewins, who wrote the History of the Post-office (Her Majesty's Mails), thus describes what nightly took place at the closing of the box at six o'clock:—

"The newspaper window, ever yawning for more, is presently surrounded and besieged by an array of boys of all ages and costumes, together with children of a larger growth, who are all alike pushing, heaving, and surging in one great mass. The window, with tremendous gape, is assaulted with showers of papers, which fly thicker and faster than the driven snow. Now it is, that small boys of eleven and twelve years of age, panting Sinbad-like under the weight of huge bundles of newspapers, manage somehow to dart about and make rapid sorties into other ranks of boys, utterly disregarding the cries of the official policemen, who vainly endeavour to reduce the tumult into something like Post-office order. If the lads cannot quietly and easily disembogue, they will whizz their missiles of intelligence over other people's heads, now and then sweeping off hats and caps with the force of shot. The gathering every moment increases in number, and intensifies in purpose; arms, legs, sacks, baskets, heads, bundles, and woollen comforters—for who ever saw a veritable newspaper boy without that appendage?—seem to be getting into a state of confusion and disagreeable communism, and yet 'the cry is still, they come.' Heaps of papers of widely opposed political views are thrown in together—no longer placed carefully in the openings; they are now sent in in sackfuls and basketfuls, while over the heads of the surging crowd were flying back the empty sacks, thrown out of the office by the porters inside. Semi-official legends, with a very strong smack of probability about them, tell of sundry boys being thrown in, seized, emptied, and thrown out again void. As six o'clock approaches still nearer and nearer, the turmoil increases more perceptibly, for the intelligent British public is fully alive to the awful truth that the Post-office officials never allow a minute of grace, and that 'Newspaper Fair' must be over when the last stroke of six is heard. One—in rush files of laggard boys, who have purposely loitered in the hope of a little pleasurable excitement; two—and grown men hurry in with the last sacks; three—the struggle resembles nothing so much as a pantomimic mÊlÉe; four—a babel of tongues vociferating desperately; five—final and furious showers of papers, sacks, and bags; and six—when all the windows fall like so many swords of Damocles, and the slits close with such a sudden and simultaneous snap, that we naturally suppose it to be a part of the Post-office operations that attempts should be made to guillotine a score of hands; and then all is over, so far as the outsiders are concerned."

Though the tradition referred to of boys being thrown into the letter-box may not have a very sure foundation in fact, it is the case at any rate that a live dog was posted at Lombard Street, and falling into the bag attached to the letter-box, it was not discovered till the contents of the bag were emptied out on a table in the General Post-office.

Curious Explanations.

In the considerable army of servants who carry on the work of the Post-office, embracing all grades from the Postmaster-General to the rural postman, are to be found individuals of every temperament, character of mind, and disposition—the candid, the simple, the astute, the wary; and the peculiarities of the individuals assert themselves in their official dealings as surely as they would do in the ordinary connections of life.

The following "explanations" furnished by postmasters who had failed to send up their accounts at the proper time, will illustrate the procedure of the candid or simple when in trouble, who seem quite unnecessarily to give every detail of their shortcomings, instead of doing, as most men would do in the circumstances—make a general excuse:—

"My daily accounts would have reached you in time; but on Saturday morning, whilst purchasing American cheeses and sampling them, I tasted some of them, which brought on a bilious complaint, so that I was obliged to suspend work on Monday. Being now somewhat better, I trust all will go on right."

"I regret the daily accounts should have been delayed so long; but having some friends to see me, the accounts were forgotten."

"The Postmistress of ——, Cambridge, is very sorry that she has not sent her accounts before this; she will be sure to do so to-morrow. The delay is on account of her having three little motherless grandchildren staying with her for a few days."

The following will bear company with the three foregoing specimens. It is a pathetic appeal from a letter-receiver, who, mistaking the purpose for which a certain credit of official money was allowed him, spent it, and was unexpectedly called upon to account for the balance due by him to the head office:—

"Mr ——, Superintendent of the Money-order Department, called upon me yesterday, and dispelled a very mistaken notion of mine—viz., that as I had given a guarantee of £200, I was perfectly 'justifiable' in making use of a portion of the money received for my own business. I am now very sorry indeed that the idea had gained such an ascendancy over me as it had done. The letter I received from you a few days ago aroused me from that delusive lethargy into which I was sinking; and if you would have the kindness to compare the amount now with what it was then, you will perceive that an effort has been made to retrieve my folly.

"My object in writing this to you is an earnest appeal not to degrade me in the position I have struggled so hard to maintain through such distress as we have had, by suspending the business of the office. I beg and earnestly entreat of you to give me time to recover myself; and I assure you that under such a stimulation a vigorous effort will be made to place myself in that honourable position which it has been my desire to hold. Therefore, hoping that you will take a favourable view of the case, I subscribe myself, your contrite and obedient servant."

Prisoners of War.

The following incident, though not directly bearing upon Post-office matters, has a relation to letters. It forms the subject of a pathetic story, and brings into contrast the possible isolation of poor fellows who may be taken in war, with the rapid and constant intercourse kept up between the peoples of enlightened countries during times of peace by the intermediary of the Post-office. The facts are here quoted from a notice of the circumstance published in a local newspaper:—

"The extensive works for the manufacture of paper belonging to Alex. Cowan & Sons, at Valleyfield, near Edinburgh, were in 1811, owing to the dulness of trade, sold to Government, and converted into a prison for the French soldiers and sailors, of whom over 6000 were kept from 1811 to 1814, when peace was happily established between Britain and France. During these three years 309 died, whose remains rest in a quiet spot near the mills. Of these, a list of the names, ages, and place of capture is preserved by Messrs Cowan. The mills were reacquired from Government about 1818, and are carried on as among the largest paper-mills of Britain by the same firm. In some repairs lately carried out at these works (1881) an old floor was lifted, and underneath was found a letter written by a prisoner, but which he was never able to despatch. A copy of this letter is annexed, as possibly some of the writer's relatives may see it and be interested by a perusal."

The French is not very good; but here it is:—

"Prison, Valleyfiel,
16 Mars, annÉe 1812.

"Mon cher Perre et ma cher MÈre,—D'aprÈs plusieur lettre que je vous ecrives, Étant en Angleterre, sans en avoir pu en recevoir aucune rÉponse. Je ne sais À quoi attribuer cette interuption, et depuis on va arrivez en Ecosse, je me suis toujours empressez pour vous donner de mes nouvelles, et qui a ÉtÉ bien impossible, À moins jusqu'À presens, d'en recevoir. Je dÉsirai ardement d'en recevoir des votres, ainsi mon cherre pÈre et ma cherre mÈre, je vous prie trÊes umblement de prendre des procotions pour me donnÉ de vos nouvelle, est des changement du pays, est dans ce qui est Égale À mon Égard, de la famille, seullement pour À l'Égard de ma santÉ, elle a toujours ettÉ bonne depuis mon de part. Je dÉsire que la prÉsente vous soient pareille, ainsi que mes frerre et seurre, paran, et ami, rien autre chose que je puis vous marquÉ pour le ——. Je soussignez Jean FranÇois Noel de Sariget, la Commune de Saint Leonard, Canton de Fraize, arrondissement de Saint Dies, Departemeant Voges. Monsieur Perigord Lafeste, Banquier À Paris, dans la Rue de Mont No. 9. Je soussignez Jean Nicolas Demange de Saint Leonard, Canton de Franche."

A handsome monument was erected in 1830 over the last resting-place of the poor prisoners who died during their period of captivity, and it bears the following inscription:—

"PrÈs de ce lieu rÉposent les cendres de 309 prisonniers de guerre morts dans ce voisinage entre le 21 Mars 1811 et le 26 Juillet 1814.
NÉs pour bÉnir les voeux de vieillissantes mÈres,
Par le sort appelÉs
A devenir amants aimÉs, epoux, et pÈres,
Ils sont morts exilÉs!
"Plusieurs habitans de cette Paroisse aimant À croire que tous les hommes sont frÈres, firent Élever ce monument l'an 1830."

Explosion in a Pillar-box.

A singular accident, though one not altogether unique in its character, befell one of the pillar letter-boxes in Montrose some years ago. A street had been opened up for the purpose of effecting repairs on the gas-pipes, and while the examination and repairs were in progress, some gas, escaping from the pipes, found its way into the letter-box. The night watchman, intending to light his pipe, struck a match on the box close to the aperture, when a violent explosion immediately followed, blowing out the door, and otherwise doing damage; but, luckily, neither the watchman nor the letters sustained any injury.

A Mother's Love.

The affection of mothers for their children has been a theme of tenderest writing in all ages; and innumerable effusions of this nature, more or less intense, are daily carried by the Post-office. The following is a case in point, the writing being observed on the back of a Christmas card.

"My dear Child,—Accept this little gift as a token of true friendship, from
Your mother."

The card was found in the Dead-letter office!

The Mulready Envelope.

The failure of the Mulready envelope to establish itself in public favour is surely a monument to the caprice of the national taste, if it be not an evidence of how readily the tide of thoughtless opposition may set in to reject that which is new or unusual, without serious grounds for dislike. A facsimile of the design is here given, the envelopes for sale being printed in two colours—black and blue.

The Mulready Envelope.

The Mulready Envelope.

It was introduced to the notice of the public at the time of the establishment of the penny postage, being intended to supply a desideratum in this respect, that the cover should serve the combined purposes of an envelope and a postage-stamp, the envelopes being good for a postage of one penny or twopence, according as they were printed in black or blue.

Mulready, a member of the Royal Academy, was the artist, and the design had the approval of the Royal Academicians, so that it did not go forth without substantial recommendations. If the subjects be examined, it will be found that they are accurately drawn, ingeniously worked together, and apposite in their references to the beneficent work of the Post-office Department. Britannia sending forth her messengers to every quarter of the globe, ships upon the sea with sails unfurled ready to obey her instant behests, the reindeer as the emblem of speed in the regions of snow, intercourse with the nations of the East and of the West, and the blessings of cheap postage in its social aspects, are all suitably depicted. Yet the whole thing fell flat; the envelope drew down upon itself scorn and ridicule, and it had to be quickly withdrawn. In the end, it was necessary to provide special machinery to destroy the immense quantities of the envelope which had been prepared for issue.

It is amusing, however, to read the contemptuous and very funny criticisms which were showered upon the artist and Mr Rowland Hill by the newspapers of the day, in one of which the following remarks appear:—

"The envelopes and half-sheets have an engraved surface, extremely fantastic, and not less grotesque. In the centre, at the top, sits Britannia, throwing out her arms, as if in a tempest of fury, at four winged urchins, intended to represent postboys, letter-carriers, or Mercuries, but who, instead of making use of their wings and flying, appear in the act of striking out or swimming, which would have been natural enough if they had been furnished with fins instead of wings. On the right of Britannia there are a brace of elephants, all backed and ready to start, when some Hindoo, Chinese, Arabic, or Turkish merchants, standing quietly by, have closed their bargains and correspondence. The elephants are symbolic of the lightness and rapidity with which Mr Rowland Hill's penny postage is to be carried on, and perhaps, also, of the power requisite for transporting the £1500 a-year to his quarters, which is all he obtains for strutting about the Post-office with his hands in his pockets, and nothing to do, like a fish out of water. On the left of Britannia, who looks herself very much like a termagant, there is an agglomeration of native Indians, missionaries, Yankees, and casks of tobacco, with a sprinkling of foliage, and the rotten stem of a tree, not forgetting a little terrier dog inquisitively gliding between the legs of the mysterious conclave to see the row. Below, on the left, a couple of heads of the damsel tribe are curiously peering over a valentine just received (scene, Valentine's Day), whilst a little girl is pressing the elders for a sight of Cupid, and the heart transfixed with a score of arrows. On the right, again, stands a dutiful boy, reading to his anxious mamma an account of her husband's hapless shipwreck, who, with hands clasped, is blessing Rowland Hill for the cheap rate at which she gets the disastrous intelligence. With very great propriety the name of the artist is conspicuously placed in one corner, so that the public and posterity may know who is the worthy Oliver of the genius of a Rowland on this important occasion. As may well be imagined, it is no common man, for the mighty effort has taxed the powers of the Royal Academy itself, if the engraved announcement of W. Mulready, R.A., in the corner, may be credited. Considering the infinite drollery of the whole, the curious assortment of figures and faces; the harmonious mÉlange of elephants, mandarins' tails, Yankee beavers, naked Indians squatted with their hindquarters in front, Cherokee chiefs with feathered tufts shaking missionaries by the hand; casks of Virginia threatening the heads of young ladies devouring their love-letters; and the old woman in the corner, with hands uplifted, blessing Lord Lichfield and Sir Rowland for the saving grace of 11d. out of the shilling, and valuing her absent husband's calamity or death as nothing in comparison with such an economy,—altogether, it may be said that this is a wondrous combination of pictorial genius, after which Phiz and Cruikshank must hide their diminished heads, for they can hardly be deemed worthy now of the inferior grade of associates and aspirants for Academic honours."

All this is excessively funny, and enables us to smile; but if the grounds of condemnation were of no more solid kind, we might venture the suggestion that the envelopes had hardly a fair trial at the bar of serious public judgment.

Lines on the Penny Postage.

The following lines were popular about the year 1840, when Sir Rowland Hill introduced the uniform penny rate of postage. The scheme was not looked upon hopefully in all quarters, and some persons predicted an early failure for it, while others only saw in the new departure grounds for ridicule or jest. These lines, which are certainly amusing, are said to be the production of Mr James Beaton:—

Something I want to write upon, to scare away each vapour—
The "Penny Postage" shall I try? Why, yes, I'll write on paper.
Thy great invention, Rowland Hill, each person loudly hails;
The females they are full of it, and so are all the mails.
This may be called the "Penny Age," and those who are not mulish,
Are daily growing "penny wise," though not, I hope, pound foolish.
We've penny blacking, penny plays, penny mags, for information,
And now a "Penny Post," which proves we've lots of penetration.
Their love-sick thoughts by this new act may Lucy, Jane, or Mary,
Array in airy-diction from Johnson's dictionary.
Each maid will for the postman watch the keyhole like a cat,
And spring towards the door whene'er there comes a big rat-tat.
And lots of paper will be used by every scribbling elf,
That each should be a paper manufacturer himself.
To serve all with ink enough they must have different plans;
They must start an "Ink walk" just like milk, and serve it round in cans.
The letters in St Valentine so vastly will amount,
Postmen may judge them by the lot, they won't have time to count;
They must bring round spades and measures, to poor love-sick souls
Deliver them by bushels, the same as they do coals.
As billet-doux will so augment, the mails will be too small,
So omnibuses they must use, or they can't carry all;
And ladies pleasure will evince, instead of any fuss,
To have their lovers' letters all delivered with a 'bus!
Mail-coachmen are improving much in knowledge of the head,
For like the letter which they take, they're themselves all over red.
Postmen are "men of letters" too; each one's a learned talker,
And 'cause he reads the diction'ry, the people call him "Walker."
Handwriting now of every sort the connoisseur may meet;
Though a running hand, I think, does most give postmen running feet.
They who can't write will make their mark when they a line are dropping,
And where orthography is lame, of course it will "come hopping."
Invention is progressing so, and soon it will be seen,
That conveyance will be quicker done than it has ever been;
A plan's in agitation—as nought can genius fetter—
To let us have the answer back, before they get the letter.

At the Stamp-counter.

A man who can stand at the stamp-counter and serve the public without fear and without reproach, must needs be possessed of a highly sweetened temper. What with the impatient demands of some, the unreasonable demurs of others, the tiresome iteration of questions propounded by the eccentric, and the attention required to be given to the Mrs Browns of society, not to mention the irritating remarks at times of the inconsiderate, the position behind the counter is one which calls for self-control and a large share of good-nature.

The sort of thing that has to be endured at the hands of

"Perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command,"

when she chooses to lay siege to the stamp-window, is thus described by an American writer, and the description is not to any great extent an exaggeration (if it be so at all) of experiences which are had in our own country in this particular direction:—

"Just about eleven o'clock yesterday forenoon there were thirteen men and one woman at the stamp-window of the Post-office. Most of the men had letters to post on the eastern trains. The woman had something tied up in a blue match-box. She got there first, and she held her position with her head in the window and both elbows on the shelf.

"'Is there such a place in this country as Cleveland?' she began.

"'Oh yes.'

"'Do you send mail there?'

"'Yes.'

"'Well, a woman living next door asked me to mail this box for her. I guess it's directed all right. She said it ought to go for a cent.'

"'Takes two cents,' said the clerk, after weighing it. 'If there is writing inside, it will be twelve cents.'

"'Mercy on me, but how you do charge!'

"Here the thirteen men began to push up and bustle around, and talk about the old match-box delaying two dozen business letters; but the woman had lots of time.

"'Then it will be two cents, eh?'

"'If there is no writing inside,' observed the clerk.

"'Well, there may be; I know she is a great hand to write. She's sending some flower-seed to her sister, and I suppose she has told her how to plant 'em ——'

"'Two threes,' called out one of the crowd, as he tried to get at the window.

"'Hurry up!' cried another.

"'There ought to be a separate window here for women,' growled a third.

"'Then it will take twelve cents?' she calmly queried, as she fumbled around for her purse.

"'Yes.'

"'Well, I'd better pay it, I guess.'

"From one pocket she took two coppers, from her reticule she took a three-cent piece, from her purse she fished out a nickel; and it was only after a hunt of eighty seconds that she got the twelve cents together. She then consumed four minutes in licking on the stamps, asking where to post the box, and wondering if there was really any writing inside.

"But woman proposes and man disposes. Twenty thousand dollars worth of business was being detained by a twelve-cent woman, and a tidal wave suddenly took her away from the window. In sixty seconds the thirteen men had been waited on and gone their ways, and the woman returned to the window, handed in the box, and said, 'Them stamps are licked on crooked; it won't make any difference, will it?'"