UNIVERSITY COURIER.
3
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in a perfect conglomeration of every thing that belongs to a ship, I discovered a little model of a traction wheel, with the well remembered name of our late Professor, Frederic W. Bardwell.
There are very few who would not be intensely interested in a visit to the Dead Letter Office. Being acquainted with Mr. Dallas, the chief of this office, we had the benefit of his explanations through the building. Keep your seats, girls, don't be alarmed; I'm not going into a long-winded description of the D. L. O. But if you could only see the things that come into that office, it would be description enough. Corn-cobs, breast pins, wedding cake, rattlesnakes, centipedes, tarantulas, and I saw, yes I did! a pig's tail, done up in a little box sent to somebody. Mr. Dallas gave me a piece of wedding cake that had been sent to England and back. Would you believe it? There are seven thousand letters come to this office annually, without a sign of address or postage. It is said that men are the authors of such forgetfulness. And they call us forgetful. Well!
Would you like to go to the Treasury next? I believe that was my next trip. And I tell you, girls, I shall always look upon the few greenbacks that I may be allowed to handle, with a new interest, realizing now, to some extent, what must be done to make them. The performances and processes that are gone through to make a one dollar bill are too numerous to mention, but a visit to the Bureau of Printing and Engraving gives you a remote comprehension of the wonderful process. In the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, there are over four hundred women employed, without any reference to the men. I stood in a vault containing seventy-nine millions of dollars, and held in my hand a few millions for one rapturous minute. It was no use, girls—I couldn't do it. They would have caught me, sure. Of course I thought of the whole club at the time.
Then comes the Smithsonian Institute. My! but it makes my head swim to think of it. Such a crushing, overpowering mass of curiosities. Mark Twain's Egyptian mummy was there—yes, two of them, three thousand years old. I looked at them and I could not help echoing the demand of the Doctor for "a fresh corpse." They were fearful—black, and scaly, with the blackened, ragged something that used to be flesh, clinging to their hideous faces in a manner that would sicken the stoutest hearted G. E. B. that has yet existed. There were scalps there, too, among the Indian relics. Scalps from real heads, you know. Some were Indian hair, long, black, and straight; but there were others than these, and Oh, one was long, silky, wavy and golden. The thought of what might have been, nay, of what must have been, was indeed a sad one, and I hurried away, haunted by the picture that involuntarily arose at sight of that sad reminder.
Well, the Smithsonian is a grand institution, altogether. I am going there often if possible, and endeavor to reduce my mind to something more tangible than this wild, chaotic state in which this one visit has left it. I am dutifully and religiously taking you through all these public buildings, and have withheld to the last any mention of the social phases of my visit. These may prove more interesting to you, as they certainly have been somewhat more exciting, though I don't think any more entertaining.
Of all the fashionable follies ever invented by the brain of man or woman, I think calling, as it is carried on among the fashionable circles of Washington, is the most absurd. The polite thing is to return a call within a week. Now suppose you make fifty calls one week, they are all returned in a week, or two, anyway, and then you have them all to make again. People who don't care anything for each other, and who, after they have had their curiosity satisfied by one visit, don't care if they never see each other again, still keep up this farce of perpetual visiting until Lent begins, when that, with everything else, comes to a dead standstill, and the fashionable beauties (?) take to their beds to recuperate. We have made a great many calls—Senatorial, Members, citizens, and Cabinet—and we have received a great many. Of course, being novel, it is delightfully interesting for me, but I can readily
see what drudgery it would become after a season or two. Mrs. Thompson, wife of the Secretary of the Navy, told me that last season she made over sixteen hundred calls, and was three hundred and twenty-five behind at the close of the season, in spite of all she could do. We went one afternoon to Mrs. Hayes' reception. It was very much like the evening crush, the only new feature being that the conservatory is thrown open for the inspection of visitors.
Senator Ingalls' election created a good deal of enthusiasm here. We were all at this house very enthusiastic Ingalls men, and Mrs. Haskell, Mrs. Neill, Miss Neill, and myself, went to the Capitol the day Mr. I. was expected to arrive, and decorated his desk. It was covered with baskets and bouquets of the rarest flowers, and was as pretty as could be. Mr. Ingalls' reception, which the gentlemen of Kansas tendered him, was one of the pleasantest gatherings I have attended here. It was given at the National Hotel, and we danced all the evening and had a sumptuous repast to wind up with.
I danced my first German the other evening—the most delightful evening I have spent since I have been here. We danced till three o'clock, and I wasn't tired in the least. The German was at a private house. The brother of the young lady who gave the party is going, next month, on an expedition to the north pole. What do you suppose a man who can waltz in an absolutely divine manner wants to do with the north pole? He is a lieutenant in the Navy and is ever so nice. I am going with him Monday morning to a hop at the Barracks in the Navy yard. Think of that and weep! you girls who are just beginning the week in the old routine—school, housework, &c.—that I, Gertrude Bullene, am waltzing with the naval officers, to the sound of just as delightful music as ever beguiled the "light fantastic," at the witching hour of midnight. I never dreamed of going to parties on Monday morning when I lived in Lawrence and was young and innocent. Now, my dear girls, when I tell you that I have been ever so many times to the theatre you will know that I have been happy. I saw the grand Barrett in three plays, "Richelieu," "The Marble Heart," and "A New Play." I cried myself almost sick in "The Marble Heart"—the most pathetic thing I ever saw. One evening I saw the operatic farce of "Cinderella," and another evening "The Danites." Of course I needn't put on any airs in regard to the theatre, for hasn't Lawrence the great, the inimitable, the all-powerful Kendall? And six nights of the theatre—change of programme every night? I am afraid you will not appreciate my ecstacies over Lawrence Barrett.
Thursday night I went to a fancy dress party for children, given by Marini. It was the prettiest sight any one ever saw—these hundreds of lovely creatures, in all the airy and fantastic costumes brain could devise, and to see the little bits of tots dance as gracefully and perfectly as even our dansante Annie. At eleven o'clock the children resigned the floor to the adults, and we had a very nice dance.
Next Tuesday evening comes the crowning event of my visit. We are invited to a reception at the White House, by Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, to meet the Diplomatic Corps. A state dinner, you know—a grand affair. It is a purely invitation affair, and I am ever so glad that I shall have an opportunity to attend such a reception, and at one time meet all the foreign ministers and officers. I am to go with Senator Ingalls, who has kindly offered to relieve Mr. and Mrs. H. of their charge for that evening. I can scarcely wait for Tuesday evening to come, but of course I don't want to skip over Monday morning. As the time draws near for me to leave Washington, I scarcely dare think of it. I have had such a glorious time, and have been so happy that it seems as if I could never leave, but I expect to have a good time in New York, too.
Your loving friend,
GERTIE A. BULLENE.
Principal: Was it colder or warmer a hundred years ago than at present? Pupil (honestly): I really can not recollect, sir.