MAIL-BOXES.

"COME Muse, let's sing of mail-boxes." And why not of mail-boxes? Yet some may be inclined to advocate the claims of the lamp-posts as superior. They may assert that the box is but a mere dependent; for though we find many lamp-posts without mail-boxes, we rarely, if ever, come upon a mail-box not connected with a lamp-post. But, mind you, when I say mail-boxes I do not mean the dainty, fragile articles often so misnamed; but the big, honest, ugly iron boxes that are painted green, and shaped like knapsacks; and that open their capacious chests, not to the minions of a single household, but to all the world. We take it that the post is a mere support, - "Ah yes!" they exclaim; "it is the post and not the box that has scores of times offered us a friendly support." - "What?" - "Why?" - But their blushes warrant us in not pressing the point. Having thus triumphantly put to flight all these mistaken individuals, we can again proceed, with the mail-box as our theme.

To me there is something infinitely touching in the idea of an entirely receptive existence, and such is that of the letter-box. In Phaedrus's fable every one is reported as carrying two wallets, - one at his back, filled with his own faults, the other in front, loaded with the faults of others. The letter-box - or, if you please, the lamp-post - wears its wallet but in front. Faults of its own it has none; but when does it fail to bear the burden of others' mistakes? And do not tell me it is but a senseless object. No, take my word, it broods over all these secrets that are trustfully committed to its keeping; it ponders anxiously over the remedy to be applied here, or the check there. It has a soul. It is not an it, but an It, with a big I. It feels, and feels deeply. Its interest is personal, too. Eagerly It scans the faces of those that approach, finding in all something to sympathize with, something to pity, something to love. Many a time It shudders over the fearful blunders which cause a life-time's regret that might be averted with but a single word from It. Often It sees two lives that might make one, gradually becoming estranged through trifling, thoughtless error. Then, indeed, It forces open its cold lips to shriek the needed warning. Alas! how vain such efforts are! Have you not, on some winter night, when you were rushing along through the driving snow, been startled by a low, mournful wail? Have you not felt inclined to stop and see what was the cause of it? Well might it be, indeed, could you but understand its meaning, for it is the wail of the letter-box, its agonizing moan of helplessness and impotence. But It is doomed to everlasting dumbness. Its secrets are by It unutterable. A Sphinx? No, a thousand times more than the Sphinx. For what to us is the enigma of the Sphinx, a riddle of the dead past, compared with the enigmas of our living world?

And is not this existence, so intimately acquainted with the bustling, every-day life, and yet virtually dead to it, - is not this existence a hard, a pitiful one? Certainly hard, and pitiful, too. Who knows but that It has aspirations for some active, ardent sphere? Who knows but that It bravely struggles against a feeling that will come up, of a lot that is unjust? Of an ugliness, - no, not an ugliness, - a homeliness that is unfair? And are there not vain yearnings, useless regrets? Who can say? But is there not a pathos in this being so willingly unselfish, so mutely self-sacrificing?