Ten Years Among the Mail Bags Part 48

"Optics sharp it needs, I ween, To see what is not to be seen."

CHAPTER x.x.x.

POETICAL AND HUMOROUS ADDRESSES UPON LETTERS.

The exterior, as well as the interior of a letter is sometimes made the vehicle of sentiment, affection, wit, fun, and the like, which, thus riding as outside pa.s.sengers, display their beauties to the gaze of those connected with post-offices. In such instances, it may be that the writer's ideas, gus.h.i.+ng from his pen, have overflowed their bounds, and spread themselves upon the usually dry surface of the epistle. It must be a pleasing relief to post-office clerks, wearied with the monotonous task of turning up innumerable names, to find the flowers of fancy and imagination supplanting the endless catalogue of Smiths and Browns which ordinarily meet their eyes. Below are a few specimens of these embellished addresses.

The first is probably from some home-sick miner. It was mailed at San Francisco, California. His wife and children have no doubt derived, long ere this, the pleasure which he antic.i.p.ated for them, in the perusal of the letter:--

Go, sheet, and carry all my heart; (I would that thou couldst carry me,) Freighted with love thou wilt depart Across the land, across the sea.

O'er thee will bend a loving face, To thee will listen little ears; Thou wilt be welcomed in _my place_, And thou wilt bring both smiles and tears.

Across the land, across the sea, Thy homeward course thou wilt pursue, I may not see them welcome thee, Yet know I well their hearts are true.

Then swiftly go, thou ocean steed; Roll on, ye rapid iron wheels, Bearing away, with careless speed, The message that my soul reveals.

The address followed, in plain prose.

Rail road, steamboats, horses, stages, All of you are paid your wages, All of you, for nothing better Than to take this little letter.

Should the doc.u.ment miscarry, Uncle Sam will see "old Harry!"

To prevent this dread collision, I present unto your vision State, county, and between, the town, Indiana, Nashville, Brown.

For Mrs. Jane Eliza Brent, This is enough,--now "let her went."

Here is a specimen in a less elevated strain:--

Robber, shouldst thou seize this letter, Break it not; there's nothing in't, Nought for which thou wouldst be better: Note of bank, or coin from mint.

There is nothing but affection, And perhaps a little news; When you've read this, on reflection, Take or leave it as you choose.

If you should conclude to leave it, I would like to have it go To Seth Jones, who will receive it In the town we call Glasgow, And the state of old Kentucky, (There's no rhyme for that but "lucky.")

The following seems to have been the superscription to a dun, written "more in sorrow than in anger."

A hard old hoss is Charley Cross, And I don't care who knows it; He's borrowed an X, and never expects I'll dun him, so he goes it.

He'll find he's mistaken, and won't save his bacon, Unless he sends me the tin: In the city of Penn, somewhere is his den; I can't tell what _state_ he is in.

Perhaps he's "slewed," or may be, pursued By some other man he owes, Whichever it is, when this meets his phiz, My account he had better close.

The street and number were subjoined; but it is to be feared that the "old hoss" proved hard-bitted, and would have nothing to do with "_checks_," except those in his favor.

Post master dear, I greatly fear That this letter never will go To him I write, Unless to your sight The name I plainly show.

'Tis Thomas Brown, The name of his town Is Hartford; the county the same, Land of steady habits, Famed for onions and rabbits, The place whence once I came.

This is apparently an outpouring of the sorrows of a victim to the Maine law, and was mailed in that state:--

Oh John O'Brien, half of you is better than the whole, For that would be a Demi-John, my sorrow to console.

Oh dear O'Brien, briny tears into my whiskers roll, To think that you live in New York, while here is not a soul To stand treat; or in other words, to "pa.s.s the flowing bowl."

All flesh is gra.s.s: all paper's rags, (So it is said by wicked wags.) But I would like to pa.s.s along Among th' epistolary throng, Till I reach the town of Kent Nor to a paper mill be sent, And come to an untimely end, Before I find my writer's friend; Whose name is Putnam, or Sam Put, In the old State Connecticut.

This is going to my tailor, A _trust_-worthy man is he; Like a clock, for ever _ticking_, He keeps his account with me.

To send my bill I here request him For the br--ches he has made: Thanks to good old uncle Samuel, He must send it on _pre-paid_.

(The address was in prose.)

When you C this letter, You'd better letter B.

For it is going over Unto Tom McG.

In the town of Dover, State of Tennessee.

Address on a Valentine:

Mr. Post Master, keep this well, for every line is going to tell how much I love my Bill Martell,

Syracuse, N. Y.

I want this letter to go right straight To Wilmington city in Delaware State, To Daniel B. Woodard, a cooper by trade; He can make as good barrels as ever were made.

Swiftly hasten, Postman's organ, Bear this onward to its fate, In New York to George C. Morgan; John Street, No. 78.

East 10th Street, City of New York, Two hundred fifty-three-- Is where of all this little work, This moment ought to be.