Part 9

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._

AGASSIZ.

LEAVES FROM OUR SCRAP BOOK.

By Prof. J. TINGLEY, Ph.D.

There are stories that should never be allowed to grow old. There are lives and characters whose memory should be forever kept green—whose light and fervor should glow in the minds of men as steadily as the unfading stars. While the Father of us all has given us but one perfect model, but one example of manhood without blemish, yet, all through the world’s history, remarkable types of men have been developed, so distinct, so worthy, so far removed from the average plane of humanity as to command the attention, the respect, and even the reverence of the thoughtful of all time. They are constant reminders of the heights of power and dignity to which the immortal soul may aspire. Familiarity with the events of their lives—with the loftiness of their purposes—with the warmth and passion of their thoughts—with the achievements of their energy and wisdom—lifts us all up, inspires us with eager desire to be like them in our devotion to truth and noble effort. No one will deny to Louis Agassiz a prominent place among these immortals—these “names that were not born to die.” So recently a living force among us, the echoes of eulogy still linger with us. With many a reader of THE CHAUTAUQUAN his name is doubtless a household word. Not for these, but for the younger class of readers, we gather from our scrap book something about the eminent naturalist, which they may not have met with elsewhere—something perhaps that may awaken the desire to know more of him. It is to be regretted that we have not yet a complete biography of so remarkable a man. At the time of his death it was supposed that the most competent hand for such a work would give it to the world at an early day—but it has not yet appeared.

Short biographical sketches containing the leading events of his life, and giving an account of the results of his labor and studies may be found in the principal cyclopædias, and in many of the periodicals issued soon after his death. But there are volumes of incident and characteristic utterances which are scattered here and there—familiar only to such friends and admirers as cherish every line and word that has been written concerning him. Some of these we find in our scrap book.

AGASSIZ, THE TEACHER.

A prominent trait in the character of Agassiz was his dislike of ostentation. This is eminently illustrated in his virtual rejection of all titles. He possessed all the honors that Universities and learned societies could bestow, but made no use of them. On the title page of his great works we find only “Louis Agassiz.” There was, however, one title in which he did take pride—the only one he ever assumed. In his last will he described himself as “Louis Agassiz, teacher.” An intimate personal friend alluding to this, says that “he gloried in the title of schoolmaster, preferring it to that of professor.” He deemed the profession of teacher “the noblest of all professions, but included in that category all good and great minds engaged in disseminating knowledge or in increasing it.”

The desire to know something of his methods and ideas of teaching, is often expressed. His methods were simple, but radically different from prevailing methods. He despised recitations by rote from text-books—allowed the use of books only for reference, and urged the selection of such as were authoritative and the work of original investigators. In teaching Natural History his leading purpose was to stimulate and secure independent observation. A fine illustration of this was given anonymously by one of his pupils, who subsequently became a successful entomologist, in _Every Saturday_, in 1874, which we venture to quote entire, as affording perhaps the best conception of his method:

“It was more than fifteen years ago that I entered the laboratory of Professor Agassiz and told him I had enrolled my name in the scientific school as a student of natural history. He asked me a few questions about my object in coming, my antecedents generally, the mode in which I afterward proposed to use the knowledge I might acquire, and finally, whether I wished to study any special branch. To the latter I replied that while I wished to be well grounded in all departments of zoölogy, I purposed to devote myself specially to insects.

“‘When do you wish to begin?’ he asked.

“‘Now,’ I replied.

“This seemed to please him, and with an energetic ‘Very well,’ he reached from a shelf a huge jar of specimens in yellow alcohol. ‘Take this fish,’ said he, ‘and look at it; we call it a Hæmulon; by and by I will ask what you have seen.’

“With that he left me, but in a moment he returned with explicit instructions as to the care of the object intrusted to me. ‘No man is fit to be a naturalist,’ said he, ‘who does not know how to take care of specimens.’

“I was to keep the fish before me in a tin tray, and occasionally moisten the surface with alcohol from the jar, always taking care to replace the stopper tightly. Those were not the days of ground glass stoppers and elegantly shaped exhibition jars; all the old students will recall the huge, neckless glass bottles with their leaky, wax-besmeared corks, half eaten by insects and begrimed with cellar dust. Entomology was a cleaner science than ichthyology, but the example of the Professor, who had unhesitatingly plunged to the bottom of the jar to produce the fish, was infectious, and though this alcohol had ‘a very ancient and fish-like smell,’ I really dared not show any aversion within these sacred precincts, for gazing at a fish did not commend itself to an ardent entomologist. My friends at home, too, were annoyed when they discovered that no amount of eau de cologne would drown the perfume which haunted me like a shadow. In ten minutes I had seen all that could be seen in that fish, and started in search of the Professor, who had, however, left the museum; and when I returned, after lingering over some of the odd animals stored in the upper department, my specimen was dry all over. I dashed the fluid over the fish as if to resuscitate the beast from a fainting fit, and looked with anxiety for a return of the normal sloppy appearance. This little excitement over, nothing was to be done but return to a steadfast gaze at my mute companion. Half an hour passed—an hour—another hour; the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over and around; looked it in the face—ghastly; from behind, beneath, above, sideways, at three-quarters view—just as ghastly. I was in despair; at an early hour I concluded that lunch was necessary; so, with infinite relief, the fish was carefully replaced in the jar, and for an hour I was free.

“On my return, I learned that Professor Agassiz had been at the museum, but had gone and would not return for several hours. My fellow-students were too busy to be disturbed by continued conversation. Slowly I drew forth that hideous fish, and with a feeling of desperation again looked at it. I might not use a magnifying glass; instruments of all kinds were interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish; it seemed a most limited field. I pushed my finger down its throat to feel how sharp the teeth were. I began to count the scales in the different rows until I was convinced that that was nonsense. At last a happy thought struck me—I would draw the fish—and now with surprise I began to discover new features in the creature. Just then the Professor returned. ‘That is right,’ said he; ‘a pencil is one of the best of eyes. I am glad to notice, too, that you keep your specimen wet and your bottle corked.’

“With these encouraging words, he added: ‘Well, what is it like?’