Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

The fourth planet in distance from the sun, and, next to Venus, the one that comes nearest to the earth, has also to the latter some points of resemblance. Not that it is like it in size; for in fact, it is not more than about one-eighth as large; nor yet in the length of its year, which is nearly twice as long as one of our years (about 687 of our days). But it has about its equatorial regions, light and dark portions, which are generally admitted to be continents and oceans, whose distribution appears very much like that of the land and water on the earth’s surface. About the poles also appear during the planet’s winter brilliant white portions, which disappear during its summer. This is probably occasioned by the fall of snow in winter, and its melting in the spring and summer. Again, its time of revolution on its axis, which has been quite satisfactorily determined, and, indeed, much more accurately than that of any other planet, is shown to be 24 hours, 37 minutes, 23 seconds very nearly, making its days and nights very much like our own. Its seasons also resemble ours somewhat, though longer and subject to greater extremes of heat and cold. The inclination of the equator of Mars to the plane of its orbit is about 27°, or 3½° more than that of the earth; and its year being nearly twice as long and its orbit more eccentric, make the seasons in its northern hemisphere about as follows: Spring 191⅓ days, summer 181 days, autumn 149⅓, and winter 147 days (of the planet). When nearest to us, its apparent diameter is about seven times as great as when farthest away. These distances are in round numbers 35 and 247 millions of miles respectively. It appears brightest to us of course, when in opposition, that is, when we are between it and the sun, its distance from the earth at these periods varying from 35 to 62 millions of miles, making it seem four times as bright at the former as at the latter distance. On account of the inclination of the equator to the orbit, we can see 27° beyond the north pole at conjunction, and 27° beyond its south pole at opposition; hence astronomers are much better acquainted with its southern than with its northern regions. It is believed that Mars has not only land, water and snow, but also clouds and mists. The land is generally reddish when the planet’s atmosphere is clear; this is owing to the absorption of the atmosphere, as is the color of the setting sun with us. The water appears of a greenish tinge. Of this planet we have to report for this month, that it is decreasing in interest. Its diameter diminishes from 7.8″ to 6.6″. On the 2d it sets at 1:34 a. m.; on the 16th, at 12:55 a. m.; and on the 31st, at 12:13 a. m. On the 2d, at 9:01 a. m., it is 7° 9′ north of the moon; on the 5th, at midnight, 90° east of the sun; on the 30th, at 3:20 p. m., is again in conjunction with and 5° 50′ north of moon; and on the 31st, at 11:00 a. m., is 58′ north of _Alpha Leonis_.

JUPITER,

“The greatest of the planets,” retains his position as an evening star, setting at the following times: On the 2d, at 12:34 a. m.; on the 15th, at 11:45 p. m.; on the 30th, at 10:54 p. m. His motion during the month is direct, and amounts to 4° 39′ 34″. His diameter diminishes 2.4″, being 34.4″ on the 1st, and 32″ on the 31st. He is in conjunction twice with the moon; on the 1st, at 12:21 a. m., when he is 5° 58′, and on the 28th, at 3:42 p. m., when he is 5° 49′ to the north of our satellite.

SATURN

Makes this month a direct motion of four degrees and two seconds of arc, a greater advance than he has made for several months. He rises after daylight and sets on the 1st at 9:06 p. m., on the 15th at 8:19 p. m., and on the 30th at 7:29 p. m.

URANUS

Has a mean distance from the sun of 1770 millions of miles, and makes one revolution in 84.02 years. To find it readily it is necessary to know its right ascension and declination, which for the 1st, 15th and 30th are in order as follows: Right ascension 11h. 40m. 35.92s., declination, 2° 57′ 8.4″ north; right ascension, 11h. 39m. 36s., declination, 3° 3′ 1.5″ north; right ascension, 11h. 39m. 11.54s., declination, 3° 4′ 58.3″ north. Will be evening star throughout the month, setting as follows: On the 2d, at 3:09 a. m.; on the 16th, at 2:13 a. m.; and on the 31st, at 1:14 a. m. Its motion will be retrograde, amounting to 24′ 7.2″. Diameter on 1st, 3.8″, and on the 31st, 3.6″. On the 5th at 10:33 a. m., 3° 29′ north of moon; and on 31st, at 9:00 a. m., stationary.

NEPTUNE,

The “Far-away,” remains close to the sun, as can be seen by comparing their times of rising and setting. The rising of Neptune occurs on the 1st, at 5:37 a. m.; on the 15th, at 4:43 a. m.; and on the 30th, at 3:47 a. m.; and the setting on the same dates in the same order at 7:31, 6:39 and 5:43 p. m.

THE AMUSEMENTS OF THE LONDON POOR.

By WALTER BESANT.

Everybody knows, in general terms, how the English working classes amuse themselves. Let us, however, set down the exact facts, so far as we can get at them, and consider them. First, it must be remembered that the workman of the present day possesses an accomplishment, or a weapon, which was denied to his fathers—_he can read_. That possession ought to open a boundless field; but it has not yet done so, for the simple reason that we have entirely forgotten to give the working man anything to read. This, if any, is a case in which the supply should have preceded and created the demand. Books are dear; beside, if a man wants to buy books, there is no one to guide him or tell him what he should get. Suppose, for instance, a studious workingman anxious to teach himself natural history, how is he to know the best, latest, and most trustworthy books? And so for every branch of learning. Secondly, there are no free libraries to speak of; I find in London one for Camden Town, one for Bethnal Green, one for South London, one for Notting Hill, one for Westminster, and one for the City; and this seems to exhaust the list. It would be interesting to know the daily average of evening visitors at these libraries. There are three millions of the working classes in London; there is, therefore, one free library for every half million, or, leaving out a whole three-fourths in order to allow for the children and the old people and those who are wanted at home, there is one library for every 125,000 people. The accommodation does not seem liberal, but one has as yet heard no complaints of overcrowding. It may be said, however, that the workman reads his paper regularly. That is quite true. The paper which he most loves is red hot on politics; and its readers are assumed to be politicians of the type which considers the millennium only delayed by the existence of the Church, the House of Lords, and a few other institutions. Yet our English workingman is not a firebrand, and though he listens to an immense quantity of fiery oratory, and reads endless fiery articles, he has the good sense to perceive that none of the destructive measures recommended by his friends are likely to improve his own wages or reduce the price of food. It is unfortunate that the favorite and popular papers, which might instruct the people in so many important matters—such as the growth, extent, and nature of the trades by which they live, the meaning of the word Constitution, the history of the British Empire, the rise and development of our liberties, and so forth—teach little or nothing on these or any other points.

If the workman does not read, however, he talks. At present he talks for the most part on the pavement and in public houses, but there is every indication that we shall see before long a rapid growth of workmen’s clubs—not the tea-and-coffee make-believes set up by the well meaning, but honest, independent clubs, in every respect such as those in Pall Mall, managed by the workmen themselves. Meantime, there is the public house for a club, and perhaps the workman spends, night after night, more than he should, upon beer. Let us remember, if he needs excuse, that his employers have found him no better place and no better amusement than to sit in a tavern, drink beer (generally in moderation), and talk and smoke tobacco.

Another magnificent gift he has obtained of late years—the excursion train and the cheap steamboat. For a small sum he can get far away from the close and smoky town, to the seaside perhaps, but certainly to the fields and country air; he can make of every fine Sunday in the summer a holiday indeed. Again, for those who can not afford the country excursion, there is now a park accessible from almost every quarter. And I seriously recommend to all those who are inclined to take a gloomy view concerning their fellow creatures, and the mischievous and dangerous tendencies of the lower classes, to pay a visit to Battersea Park on any Sunday evening in the summer.

As regards the workingman’s theatrical tastes, they lean, so far as they go, to the melodrama; but as a matter of fact there are great masses of working people who never go to the theater at all. Music halls there are, certainly, and these provide shows more or less dramatic, and, though they are not so numerous as might have been expected, they form a considerable part of the amusements of the people; it is therefore a thousand pities that among the “topical” songs, the breakdowns, and the comic songs, room has never been found for part-songs or for music of a quiet and somewhat better kind. The proprietors doubtless know their audience, but wherever the Kyrle Society has given concerts to working people they have succeeded in interesting them by music and songs of a kind to which they are not accustomed in their music halls.

The theater, the music hall, the public house, the Sunday excursion, the parks—these seem almost to exhaust the list of amusement. There are also, however, the suburban gardens, such as North Woolwich and Rosherville, where there are entertainments of all kinds, and dancing; there are the tea-gardens all round London; there are such places of resort as Kew and Hampton Court, Bushey, Burnham Beeches, Epping, Hainault and Rye House. There are also the harmonic meetings, the free-and-easy evenings, and the friendly leads at the public houses.

As regards the women, I declare that I have never been able to find out anything at all concerning their amusements. Certainly one can see a few of them any Sunday walking about in the lanes and in the fields of northern London, with their lovers; in the evening they may also be observed having tea in the tea-gardens. These, however, are the better sort of girls; they are well dressed, and generally quiet in their behavior. The domestic servants, for the most part, spend their “evening out” in taking tea with other servants, whose evening is in. On the same principle, an actor, when he has a holiday, goes to another theater; and no doubt it must be interesting for a cook to observe the _differentiæ_, the finer shades of difference, in the conduct of a kitchen. When women are married and the cares of maternity set in, one does not see how they can get any holiday or recreation at all; but I believe a good deal is done for their amusement by the mothers’ meetings and other clerical agencies. There is, however, below the shopgirls, the dressmakers, the servants, and the working girls, whom the world, so to speak, knows, a very large class of women whom the world does not know, and is not anxious to know. They are the factory hands of London; you can see them, if you wish, trooping out of the factories and places where they work on any Saturday afternoon, and thus get them, so to speak, in the lump. Their amusement seems to consist of nothing but walking about the streets, two and three abreast, and they laugh and shout as they go so noisily that they must needs be extraordinarily happy. These girls are, I am told, for the most part so ignorant and helpless, that many of them do not know even how to use a needle; they can not read, or if they can, they never do; they carry the virtue of independence as far as they are able; and insist on living by themselves, two sharing a single room; nor will they brook the least interference with their freedom, even from those who try to help them. Who are their friends, what becomes of them in the end, why they all seem to be about eighteen years of age, at what period of life they begin to get tired of walking up and down the streets, who their sweethearts are, what are their thoughts, what are their hopes—these are questions which no man can answer, because no man could make them communicate their experiences and opinions. Perhaps only a Bible-woman or two knows the history, and could tell it, of the London factory girl. Their pay is said to be wretched, whatever work they do; their food, I am told, is insufficient for young and hearty girls, consisting generally of tea and bread or bread and butter for breakfast and supper, and for dinner a lump of fried fish and a piece of bread. What can be done? The proprietors of the factory will give no better wages, the girls can not combine, and there is no one to help them. One would not willingly add another to the “rights” of man or woman; but surely, if there is such a thing at all as a “right,” it is that a day’s labor shall earn enough to pay for sufficient food, for shelter, and for clothes. As for the amusements of these girls, it is a thing which may be considered when something has been done for their material condition. The possibility of amusement only begins when we have reached the level of the well-fed. Great Gaster will let no one enjoy play who is hungry. Would it be possible, one asks in curiosity, to stop the noisy and mirthless laughter of these girls with a hot supper of chops fresh from the grill? Would they, if they were first well fed, incline their hearts to rest, reflection, instruction, and a little music?

The cheap excursions, the school feasts, the concerts given for the people, the increased brightness of religious services, the bank holidays, the Saturday half holidays, all point to the gradual recognition of the great natural law that men and women, as well as boys and girls, must have play. At the present moment we have just arrived at the stage of acknowledging this law; the next step will be that of respecting it, and preparing to obey it; just now we are willing and anxious that all should play; and it grieves us to see that in their leisure hours the people do not play because they do not know how.

Compare, for instance, the young workman with the young gentleman—the public schoolman, one of the kind who makes his life as “all round” as he can, and learns and practices whatever his hand findeth to do. Or, if you please, compare him with one of the better sort of young city clerks; or, again, compare him with one of the lads who belong to the classes now held in the building of the old Polytechnic; or with the lads who are found every evening at the classes of the Birkbeck. First of all, the young workman can not play any game at all; neither cricket, football, tennis, racquets, fives, or any of the other games which the young fellows in the class above him love so passionately; there are, in fact, no places for him where these games can be played; for though the boys may play cricket in Victoria Park, I do not understand that the carpenters, shoemakers, or painters have got clubs and play there too. There is no gymnasium for them, and so they never know the use of their limbs; they can not row, though they have a splendid river to row upon; they can not box, fence, wrestle, play single-stick, or shoot with the rifle; they do not, as a rule, join the volunteer corps; they do not run, leap, or practice athletics of any kind; they can not swim; they can not sing in parts, unless, which is naturally rare, they belong to a church choir; they can not play any kind of instrument—to be sure the public school boy is generally groveling in the same shameful ignorance of music. They never read. Think what it must be to be shut out entirely from the world of history, philosophy, poetry, fiction, essays and travels! Yet our working classes are thus practically excluded. Partly they have done this for themselves, because they have never felt the desire to read books; partly, as I said above, we have done it for them, because we have never taken any steps to create the demand. Now as regards these arts and accomplishments, the public schoolman and the better class city clerk have the chance of learning some of them, at least, and of practicing them both before and after they have left school. What a poor creature would that young man seem who could do none of these things! Yet the workingman has no chance of learning any. There are no teachers for him; the schools for the small arts, the accomplishments, and the graces of life are not open to him. In other words, the public schoolman has gone through a mill of discipline out of school as well as in. Law reigns in his sports as in his studies. Whether he sits over his books or plays in the fields, he learns to be obedient to law, order, and rule; he obeys, and expects to be obeyed; it is not himself whom he must study to please; it is the whole body of his fellows. And this discipline of self, much more useful than the discipline of books, the young workman knows not. Worse than this, and worst of all, not only is he unable to do any of these things, but he is even ignorant of their uses and their pleasures, and has no desire to learn any of them, and does not suspect at all that the possession of these accomplishments would multiply the joys of life. He is content to go on without them. Now contentment is the most mischievous of all the virtues; if anything is to be done, any improvement is to be effected, the wickedness of discontent must first be introduced.

Let us, if you please, brighten this gloomy picture by recognizing the existence of the artisan who pursues knowledge for its own sake. There are many of this kind. You may come across some of them botanizing, collecting insects, moths and butterflies in the fields on Sundays; others you will find reading works on astronomy, geometry, physics, or electricity; they have not gone through the early training, and so they often make blunders; but yet they are real students. One of them I knew once who had taught himself Hebrew; another, who read so much about coöperation, that he lifted himself clean out of the coöperative ranks, and is now a master; another, and yet another and another, who read perpetually, and meditate upon, books of political and social economy; and there are thousands whose lives are made dignified for them, and sacred, by the continual meditation on religious things. Let us make every kind of allowance for these students of the working class; and let us not forget, as well, the occasional appearance of those heaven-born artists who are fain to play music or die, and presently get into orchestras of one kind or another, and so leave the ranks of daily labor and join the great clan or caste of musicians, who are a race or family apart, and carry on their mystery from father to son.

But, as regards any place or institution where the people may learn or practice or be taught the beauty and desirability of any of the commoner amusements, arts, and accomplishments, there is not one, anywhere in London. The Bethnal Green Museum certainly proposed unto itself, at first, to “do something,” in a vague and uncertain way, for the people. Nobody dared to say that it would be first of all necessary to make the people discontented, because this would have been considered as flying in the face of Providence; and there was, beside, a sort of nebulous hope, not strong enough for a theory, that by dint of long gazing upon vases and tapestry everybody would in time acquire a true feeling for art, and begin to crave for culture. Many very beautiful things have, from time to time, been sent there—pictures, collections, priceless vases; and I am sure that those visitors who brought with them the sense of beauty and feeling for artistic work which comes of culture, have carried away memories and lessons which will last them for a lifetime. On the other hand, to those who visit the Museum chiefly in order to see the people, it has long been painfully evident that the folk who do not bring that sense with them go away carrying nothing of it home with them. Nothing at all. Those glass cases, those pictures, those big jugs, say no more to the crowd than a cuneiform or a Hittite inscription. They have now, or had quite recently, on exhibition, a collection of turnips and carrots beautifully modeled in wax; it is perhaps hoped that the contemplation of these precious but homely things may carry the people a step farther in the direction of culture than pictures could effect. In fact, the Bethnal Green Museum does no more to educate the people than the British Museum. It is to them simply a collection of curious things which is sometimes changed. It is cold and dumb. It is merely an unintelligent branch of a department; and it will remain so, because whatever the collection may be, a museum can teach nothing, unless there is some one to expound the meaning of the things. Is it possible that, by any persuasion, attraction, or teaching, the working-men of this country can be induced to aim at those organized, highly skilled, and disciplined forms of recreation which make up the better pleasure of life? Will they consent, without hope of gain, to give the labor, patience and practice required of every man who would become master of any art or accomplishment, or even any game? There are men, one is happy to find, who think that it is not only possible, but even easy, to effect this, and the thing is about to be transferred from the region of theory to that of practice, by the creation of the People’s Palace.

Let me say a few words as to what this palace may and may not do. In the first place it can do nothing, absolutely nothing to relieve the great fringe of starvation and misery which lies all about London, but more especially at the East-end. People who are out of work and starving do not want amusement, not even of the highest kind; still less do they want university extension. Therefore, as regards the palace, let us forget for awhile the miserable condition of the very poor who live in East London; we are concerned only with the well fed, those who are in steady work, the respectable artisans and _petits commis_, the artists in the hundred little industries which are carried on in the East-end; those, in fact, who have already acquired some power of enjoyment because they are separated by a sensible distance from their hand-to-mouth brothers and sisters, and are pretty certain to-day that they will have enough to eat to-morrow. It is for these, and such as these, that the palace will be established. It is to contain: (1) class rooms, where all kinds of study can be carried on; (2) concert rooms; (3) conversation rooms; (4) a gymnasium; (5) a library; and lastly, a winter garden. In other words, it is to be an institution which will recognize the fact that for some of those who have to work all day at, perhaps, uncongenial and tedious labor, the best form of recreation may be study and intellectual effort; while for others, that is to say for the great majority—music, reading, tobacco, and rest will be desired. Let us be under no illusions as to the supposed thirst for knowledge. Those who desire to learn are even in youth always a minority. How many men do we know, among our own friends, who have ever set themselves to learn anything since they left school? It is a great mistake to suppose that the working man, any more than the merchant man, or the clerk man, or the tradesman, is ardently desirous of learning. But there will always be a few; and especially there are the young who would fain, if they could, make a ladder of learning, and so, as has ever been the goodly and godly custom in this realm of England, mount unto higher things. The palace of the people would be incomplete indeed if it gave no assistance to ambitious youths. Next to the classes in literature and science come those in music and painting. There is no reason whatever why the palace should not include an academy of music, an academy of arts, and an academy of acting; in a few months after its establishment it should have its own choir, its own orchestra, its own concerts, its own opera, with a company formed of its own _alumni_. And in a year or two it should have its own exhibition of paintings, drawings, and sculpture. As regards the simpler amusements, there must be rooms where the men can smoke, and others where the girls and women can work, read, and talk; there must be a debating society for questions, social and political, but especially the former.

As for the teaching of the classes, we must look for voluntary work rather than to a great endowment. The history of the college in Great Ormand Street shows how much may be done by unpaid labor, and I do not think it too much to expect that the palace of the people may be started by unpaid teachers in every branch of science and art; moreover, as regards science, history and language, the University Extension Society will probably find the staff. There must be, however, volunteers, women as well as men, to teach singing, music, sewing, speaking, drawing, painting, carving, modeling, and many other things. This kind of help should only be wanted at the outset, because before long, all the art departments ought to be conducted by ex-students who have become in their turn teachers; they should be paid, but not on the West-end scale, from fees—so that the schools may support themselves. Let us not _give_ more than is necessary; for every class and every course there should be some kind of fee, though a liberal system of small scholarships should encourage the students, and there should be the power of remitting fees in certain cases. As for the difficulty of starting the classes, I think that the assistance of board schoolmasters, foremen of works, Sunday-schools, the political clubs and debating societies should be invited; and that beside small scholarships, substantial prizes of musical and mathematical instruments, books, artists’ materials, and so forth, should be offered, with the glory of public exhibition and public performances. After the first year there should be nothing exhibited in the palace except work done in the classes, and no performances of music or of plays should be given but by the students themselves.

There has been going on in Philadelphia for the last two years an experiment, conducted by Mr. Charles Leland, whose sagacious and active mind is as pleased to be engaged upon things practical as upon the construction of humorous poems. He has founded, and now conducts personally, an academy for the teaching of the minor arts; he gets shop girls, work girls, factory girls, boys and young men of all classes together, and he teaches them how to make things, pretty things, artistic things. “Nothing,” he writes to me, “can describe the joy which fills a poor girl’s mind when she finds that she, too, possesses and can exercise a real accomplishment.” He takes them as ignorant, perhaps—but I have no means of comparing—as the London factory girl, the girl of freedom, the girl with the fringe—and he shows them how to do crewel work, fret work, brass work; how to carve in wood; how to design; how to draw—he maintains that it is possible to teach nearly every one to draw; how to make and ornament leather work, boxes, rolls, and all kinds of pretty things in leather. What has been done in Philadelphia amounts, in fact, to this: That one man who loves his brother man is bringing purpose, brightness and hope into thousands of lives previously made dismal by hard and monotonous work; he has put new and higher thoughts into their heads; he has introduced the discipline of methodical training; he has awakened in them the sense of beauty. Such a man is nothing less than a benefactor to humanity. Let us follow his example in the palace of the people.

I must go on, though there is so much to be said. I see before us, in the immediate future, a vast university, whose home is in Mile End Road; but it has affiliated colleges in all the suburbs, so that even poor, dismal, uncared-for Hoxton shall no longer be neglected; the graduates of this university are the men and women whose lives, now unlovely and dismal, shall be made beautiful for them by their studies, and their heavy eyes uplifted to meet the sunlight; the subjects of examination shall be, first, the arts of every kind; so that unless a man have neither eyes to see nor hand to work with, he may here find something or other which he may learn to do; and next, the games, sports, and amusements with which we cheat the weariness of leisure and court the joy of exercising brain and wit and strength. From the crowded classrooms I hear already the busy hum of those who learn and those who teach. Outside, in the street, are those—a vast multitude, to be sure—who are too lazy and too sluggish of brain to learn anything; but these, too, will flock into the palace presently to sit, talk, and argue in the smoking rooms; to read in the library; to see the students’ pictures upon the walls; to listen to the students’ orchestra, discoursing such music as they have never dreamed of before; to look on while Her Majesty’s Servants of the People’s Palace perform a play, and to hear the bright-eyed girls sing madrigals.—_The Contemporary Review._

THE DEAD-LETTER OFFICE.

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._

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.