Evening Star Newspaper, December 23, 1934, Page 69

SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C., DECEMBER 23, 1934. S = hat- Weird [ By Katharine A. Kellock ”l HERE isn't a householder In the coun- try who can hold a candle to Uncle Sam as a hoarder of curious relics, unappreciated documents and plain trash. He has everything that could be found in the most cluttered domes- tic attic ot cellar—and then some. The dress Aunt Lucy wore when she was married, Aunt Mattie's curling irons, the chest that belonged to grandma’s first husband, the dreadful piece of bric-a-brac grandpa bought at the Philadel- phia Centennial, the hat Uncle Willie used on his trip through Georgia, the postal cards some forgotten person once sent from Alaska—they are all there. Added to them are guns, flags, weird family portraits and 10 barrels of pickled seal shoulders. For years valuable historical documents and historical relics gathered dust among discarded desks and coal bill receipts. One of the most interesting letters George Washington ever wrote was found, some 40 years ago, in a loose packet tossed high above the cases in a Capitol file room. This letter, written to an old friend who had congratulated him on the surrender of Gen. Cornwallis—Washington described that as merely an “interesting event"—contains the American commander’s opinion of the signifi- cance of the surrender. NGLAND, he said, had been led to prolong the war by the half-heartedness with which the Colonies had carried it on ip the later years; that she had only temporarily given up her ate tempt to subdue them and would renew her ac- tivities as soon as she had a truce with her European enemies; that preparedness for fur= ther fighting on the part of the Colonies was the only thing that would convince her that they still intended to have independence. It was his belief, he wrote, that “the only cer= tain way (for them) to obtain peace is to be prepared for war"—a statement often quoted out of its context by advocates of mighty war machines. During the frequent departmental movings of late years a number of the more interesting relics and a few of the historical documents have come to light. Part have been loaned reluctantly to the Smithsonian Institution and the Library of Congress, a few have been put on display in departmental parlors for visitors to examine. A lot have been tucked away among odds and ends that no one knows what to do with. In its cellar the State Department, for ex- ample, has an elephant’s tusk, half a dozen rare swords and a rare volume, “Omnia Ab Initio Mundi” (“Everything About the Beginning of the World”), which has no possible connection with the department’s work. It thinks that some one some time must have presented it with the tusks and swords; it knows that the book, worth thousands, was bought 50 years ago for a few dollars by the department’s Rbrarian. It should be in the possession of the Library of Congress for use and display, since its clear, quaintly-illustrated pages are among the first printed with movable type. The old War Department is particularly rich fn odd relics. Its legal chief has a moldy old trunk among his files that holds the evidence used at the trial of the Lincoln conspirators, which the department conducted because the District of Columbia was under martial law at the time of the assassination. UMBLED in tcgether are the pistol with which Booth killed Lincoln, the bullet taken from the dead President’s head. the boot cut from Booth's broken leg during his flight, the tallow-covered compass he used in crossing the Potomac at night, the opera glass case Mrs. Lincoln dropped during the confusion in Ford's Theater and Booth’s pin-on tie, pocket diary and dagger. The knife, of cheap British make, was flour- CorLe cTiON of RELICS / Z: UncLe SaMms ATTIC Everything from the gun that killed Lincoln to a piece of Gen. Braddock'’s spine will come to kight if you have time to wade through the government’s odd keepsakes oo A keepsake of that famous 20-mile ride at the battle of Winchester—the stuffed hide of Reinzi, Gen. Phil Sheridan’s horse, now one of the older exhibits at the Smithsonian, ished by him when he jumped from Lincoln’s box to the stage. Engraved on it in ornamental frames are three inscriptions—"“America,” “Land of the Free and Home of the Brave” and “Liberty and Independance” (the last word mis- spelled). The diary, kept in neat penciled lines in the period between the crime and the actor's cap- ture, is chiefly of interest because of the un- conscious revelations it makes of the unbalanced young man’'s motives and character. Clearly, he had expected that his deed would make him a popular hero among his people. In the diary he names his kinship with Brutus and William Tell, whom he knew from the dramas of Shakespeare and Schiller, and he had staged his act in the theatrical manner that would show him, as he thought, in the best dramatic light. The popular resentment aroused everywhere by the assassination shocked and shook him. He wrote stubbornly toward the end, “I do not repent the blow struck,” then added, “I may before God, but not to man.” It was in this defiant spirit that he met his death. One of the strangest possessions of the War Department is mummified quintuplets. Born about 40 years ago in a country district of Kentucky, the five, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John and Paul, survived the primitive medical care of the time, and the constant stream of visitors that came to them, but 15 days. Their preserved bodies were shown about at fairs for some time and then offered to the President for display. President Theodore Roosevelt turned the matter over to the sur- If George Washington had been a hero of ancient Greece or Rome he doubtless would have looked geon general of the Army, who acquired the bodies for his museum for a small sum. Last Summer, when the Canadian quintup- lets were filling the headlines, the Chamber of Commerce of the town where the Kentucky mother now lives decided to raise the money to send her to view the Canadian babies, with a stop-over in Washing- ton to view the mummies of her own. The surgeon general’s mu- seum, by the way, is one of the best of its kind in the world. During the Civii War the Army’s chief medical offi- cer saw the need for further- ing the study of the damage done to human bones and or- dered his field officers to send him amputated arms, legs and what-not, preserved in alcohol. From this beginning the collection expanded to cover the whole field of medicine and surgery. It even in- cludes a collection of mon- sters — two-headed babies, Siamese-twin pigs, and the like. Inevitably it acquired stray odds and ends, such as a part of the spinal column of Gen. Braddock, George Washing- ton’s chief in the days of the French and Indian Wars. During later Indian wars some soldier decided that he could scalp as well as the Indians and sent in, not the custom- ary locks, but the whole heads of Comanche hair. The files of the War De- partment are an unexplored mine of historical and human interest material. In Decem- ber, 1928, a correspondent of the United States Army Recruiting News unearthed an Army order put out at Fort Riley, Kans., on October 25, 1842. It read in part: “General Orders Number 2. “]. Members of this command will, when shooting at buffaloes on the parade ground, be careful not to fire in the direction of the com- manding officer’s quarters. “2, The troop officer having the best-trained remount for this year will be awarded one bar- rel of rye whisky. “3. Student officers will discontinue the prac- tice of roping and riding buffaloes. “4, Attention of all officers is called to par. 107, AR., in which it provides under uniform regulations that all officers will wear beards.” Men were men in those days, and soldiering was soldiering. The Smithsonian Institution sometimes has trouble classifying things sent to it. By itself stands the stuffed hide of Reinzi, the mettle- some horse that bore Gen. Philip Sheridan on his famous Winchester ride in October of 1864. The beast lived until 1878, when admirers had its skin stuffed and forwarded to Washington as an historic record. TODAY, unfortunately, Gen. Sheridan's horse does not seem to be the invaluable memento that it appeared to be at the height of the post- Civil War enthusiasm. In another generation it may seem an even odder kind of souvenir for s great scientific museum to preserve than it does now. Another. exhibit that has three or four kinds something like this. Anyway, shis is the famous Greenough statue of the country’s father, executed early in the 19th century and now discreetly tucked away behind some printing presses in the Smithsonian Institution. of interest is one of the first photographic pase oramas ever made. It shows San Francisco Bay crowded with lifeless ships that had been deserted by their crews and officers in their haste to join the gold rush, There was & time when the Capitol was crammed with curious mementoes and keep= sakes, when the congressional page boys, sky= larking in their free time, could find old guns, Civil War uniforms and discarded suit cases of the bygone great hidden in garrets and store rooms. Modern housekeeping has cleared out most of the stuff, but the permanent halls and walls still contain discreet memorials to human foibles. One of them is tied up with the Greenough statue of Washington in a Roman toga, whicll outraged the proprieties of its time and which just recently was tucked away behind some printing presses in the Smithsonian Institution, In the first half of the nineteenth century America had few competent artists, particularly in the fields of sculpture and murals. Thus many foreigners had to be hired to work on the Zapitol and its decorations. Local artists raised a great cry over this- and so. when Congress voted money for a standing figure of Washing= ton for the Capitol rotunda, friends pulled down the job for young Horatio Greenough, who was studying in Rome. After endless difficulties the statue arrived in Washington and the front doors and part of the masonry of the front of the Capitol were re- moved to admit it. When it was unboxed ¥ was found, to the horror of the Congressmen, that the artist had made & sitting figure with half-bared breast. There was a great dither raised. After wrathy debates the statue was removed to the plaza; later is was discarded completely. The expense—counting the artist's fee, oost of transportation, and all—ran to $35.000. Meanwhile, one of the foreign artists had been watching the proceedings. When the anti- foreign propaganda had begun, he had cannily slipped out and taken out his first citizenship papers. By the time the first American produc$ of the campaign had been kicked out in disgusé he was a full-fledged citizen. He was finishing a great picture for the walls of the new House wing at the time and he signed it with a trie umphant flourish that stands today—“C. Brue midi, Citizen of the United States.” OME of Uncle Sam’s relics play sad tricks on their original owners. At one time it was decided to immortalize the succeeding mistresses of the White House by having them donate some elegant costume they had worn in that place to the Smithsonian. These dresses are put on rough statues of the owners and displayed together. Gentle Mrs. Coolidge had the misfortune to play her hour at one of the most freakish periods in the history of costume, when women, fat and thin, were considering discarding skirts completely. Those they still wore were brief as ruffles, without their grace. Mrs. Coolidge, & conservative soul, wore frocks considered um- fashionably long at the time; today the rose velvet dress she gave to the museum has a come ical look among those of her staid sisters. Any one given a free hand to rummage in Uncle Sam’s attics and cellars could unearth many more oddities, serious and gay. Most of them are hidden through ignorance, only & few deliberately. Among that few is an article whose disputed existence has been the subject of wild family brawls. There are still people who would fight duels to back their contention that Jefferson Davis escaped in a cloak and not in & woman's dress,