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.