VOL. 43.
The Huntingdon Journal.
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[angs,'74-6moe
NEW
STOCK OF CLOTHING
S. WOLF'S.
S. WOLF has just received a large stock of
CLOT - BING, from the east, which he offers very
cheap to suit these panicky times. Below are a
few prices:
Men's good black suite - $l2 50
cassimere suits 850
diagonal (best) 14 00
Warranted all wool suits 10 00 up
Youth's black suits - 10 00 up
Cassimere suits 6 50
Diagonal (best) 11 50
toys' suits 4 50 up
Broirn and black overalls 50
Colored shirts 35 up
Fine white shirts 1 00 up
Good suspenders 18 up
Best paper collars per box 15
A large assortment of hats 75 up
Men's shoes 1 50 up
Large Assortment of TRUNKS, VALI
LISES and SATCHELS at
PANTO PRICES.
Trunks from $2 00 up
Umbrellas from GO up
Ties and Bows very low.
Cigars and Tobacco very cheap.
Be sure to call at S WOLF'S store No. 420 Penn
Street, southeast corner of the Diamond.
~epl'76) SAMUEL MARCH Agt.
Patents
obtained for Inventor*, in the United States, Cana
da, and Europe at rednced rtes. With our prin
cipa,/ office located in Washington, directly opposite
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w ho hure, therefore, to employ"associate attorneys.',
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who are interested in new inventions and Patents are
invited to send for a copy of our "Guide for obtain
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captains complete instructions how to obtain Pat•
el and other valuable matter. We refer to the
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late Chief Justice U. S. Court of Claims; to the
Officials of the U. S. Patent Office, and to Senators
and Members of Congress from every State.
Address: LOUIS - BAtiGER A CO., Solicitors
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Washington, D. C. [apr26 '7B-tf
MANHOOD :
suirt
HOW LOST, HOW RESTORED!
Just published, a new edition of DR. CULVERWELL'S
CELEBRATED ESSAY on the radicalcure (without med
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Incapacity, Impediments to marriage, etc.; also Consump
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sexual extravagance, Ac.
..t•Price, in a sealed envelope, only six cents.
The celebrated author, in this admirable Essay, clearly
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that the alarming consequences of self-abuse may he rad
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of cure at once simple, certain and effectual, by means
of which every sufferer, no matteryihat his condition may
be, may cure himself heitoly, privately and radically.
iks. This Lecture should be in the hands of every youth
and every man in the land.
Sent, under seal, in a plain envelope, to any address,
post-paid. on receipt of six cents, or two postage stamps!.
Address the Publishers,
THE CULVERWELL MEDICAL CO.,
41 Ann St ., AT. Y; Post Office Box., 4586.
July 19-9 mos.
CHILDREN TO INDENTURE.
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who will be Indentured to suitable parties upon
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or address, The Directors of the Poor of Hunting
don county, at Shirleysburg. Loct4, '7B-tf
FOR SALE.—Stock of first-class old
established Clothing Store. Store room fer
rent. Owner retiring from business
Sept 27-3m]
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A TTORNE YS-A T-LA TV,
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Air All kinds of legal business promptly at
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(TIC VitsCs' *tut.
What Shall I Do ?
BY ELLA WHEELER.
Whet shall I do when Fairy Spring uncovers
The storehouse of her treasures to our view?
When happy maids go walking with their lovers,
And all the world is green and g'ad anew,
What shall I do ?
0, my lost love, my love, what shall I do ?
When Summer time comeslaughing o'er the border,
Iler fair head circled by a cloud of blue,
And seacters blossoms in most sweet disorder,
Without your smile, so tender and so true,
What shall I do ?
0, my dead love, my love, what shall I do ?
When Autumn's purple robe trails o'er the meadow,
Or whin snows lie where late the roses grew,
And I can only find a phantom shadow
In all my eager seeking after you,
What shall I do ?
0, my one love, my love, what shall I do ?
When grief walks near, or when some joy bath
found me
(If joy could come to my tear-blinded view,)
With all the world about me and around me,
Bow can I live the years and not have you?
What shall I do ?
0, my dead love, my lore, what shall I do ?
*torp-Eriter.
Behind the Scenes
I feel as though it would eas3 my mind
to make a confession of all the circum
stances which have led to my lying here.
"Here is the Westminister hospital, and
I am lying on one of the narrow beds in
the ancient ward, crushed, maimed. trip
pled for life, even if I recover, which is
doubtful.
I can hear the distant muffled roar of
traffic in the busy world outside—that
world which now seems so shadowy and
far off, though it was once so near. Every
now and then comes the solemn sound of
the great bell, booming out another hour,
full of pain and suffering. Around me I
see only beds, tenanted by white, wan
faces, and nurses in plain print dresses and
white aprons, walking up and down the
ward.
There is nothing to take my thoughts
off myself, when I am sufficiently out of
pain to think at all. So I will tell you
how I came to be here. Alas! through
my own fault.
In the early part of the winter I. was
engaged as principal dancer at the Drury
Lane theatre. They were giving a series
of English operas, with ballets afterward;
and when these performances were over a
grand Christmas pantoniine was forthcom
ing.
Dancing had been my profession for
some years. I was very happy in it. I
bad good looks. I was successful and popu
lar; but I delighted chiefly in the ease and
cotufbrt which my employment enabled me
to bestow on my father, who lived with
me, and was my constant care.
He idolized me, and I loved no one as I
loved him, though I had many admirers
at that time. No one took a greater pride
in me than he did, and bis praiae was
sweeter to me than the combined applause
of manager, company and audience.
The Christmas pantomime came on, and
a leading role was assigned to me in the
first part as well as in the ballet. I could
sing well and act also. I was clever on
the stage, though I say so myself.
For some time after Christmas we drew
crowded audiences at the Drury Lane, but
in February I began to notice that the
house was a little thinner than usual, and
I asked the manager the reason.
"Oh," he said, "the people have gone
to Convent Garden to see the new dancer,
Marie G-oubaud, I suppose. They say she
is very beautiful."
The instant those words were pronounced
the demon of jealousy entered my soul. I
had often before heard of the talent and
beauty of this woman, but had paid little
attention to the reports about her, feeling
secure in my own stronghold. But now, I
listened with painful eagerness to every
thing that was said about her. With bit
ter reflections I beheld my audiences di
minish night after night, and read in the
papers glowing accounts of her perform
ances and personal appearance.
When the pantowine season was over,
I was engaged at one of the smaller theatres
for an Easter extravaganza whictf was in
preparation. What was my misery on dis
covering that the manager, shortly after I
had joined the company, had affected terms
with Marie Goubaud, and that sh,e w,ts
cowing to our theatre in tints for the re
hearsals of the Easter piece.
_ _ _ . _
I was furious. I looked over the articles
of my agreement; but there was nothing
in them against another actress being en
gaged, as no part had yet been given to
I could not complain, and yet I felt in
clined to throw over the manager and
every one else, and quit the whole concern,
regardless of the damages I should have to
me pay. However, just then my poor father
fell ill, and this rendered my leaving the
theatre out of the question. I was obliged
to smother my rage.
Marie Goubaud came, and I was intro
duced to her. She was certainly lovely.
Dark, with brilliant eyes, white teeth, and
clear, olive complexion. Her faceistas full
of vivacity, and her manner attractive in
the extreme. I felt that she surpassed
me, and that my power henceforth was
gone. I felt all this, and was half mad
dened by it, though-I smiled, and fairly
kissed my beautiful rival.
• It took only one evening to proclaim her
superiority to me. Every person in the
audience was ready to worship her, and I
was forgotten, or at best my appearance on
the stage was the signal but for a few faint
claps, not worth the name of applause.
The Easter extravaganza was a marvelous
success, and it was all ascribed to Marie
Goubaud.
co
•a'
"0
1.4
0
One nieht I was sitting up beside my
father, who was still very ill. I was in a
frightful state of despondency at my sub
ordinate position as second favorite. It
was after eleven o'clock, and the theatre
was closed, but even at that late hour I had
a visitor.
It was a young man who wrote fur the
stage, and sometimes consulted me with
regard to theatrical affairs. Ile came to
tell me that he had just completed a new
burlesque which he had written expressly
for me. lle read me sonic of the dialogue.
It was very good indeed. The part he
destined me for was witty, sprightly, and
exceedingly taking. I secretly determined
to act it at any cost, and win back the
favor of the public.
Between this young author and myself
there had sprung up a sort of liking, and I
do not doubt that if matters had been left
to grow we should have married ; but such
happiness was not to be my fate. I ex
pressed great delight at the part my friend
had written fur me, and he went away well
pleased.
The next night I saw him at our theatre.
His eyes were riveted on Marie Goubaud.
Y.
HUNTINGDON, PA,, FIB:
I trembled. ant my jealousy fl►med oui
anew. I went home after the perfermance!
He followed me, came into my little sitting
room, and sat down, and hesitated. I savd .
at a glance it was as 1 feared Ile wanted
my rival to take the part he had written
for me. However. I laughed and talked
as if I suspected nothing. I rehearsed a
few lines which I had already learned, and
sang the principal song. and thus hoped to
persuade him to let me keep the part; bulgy
I could not move him The memory of
Marie's bright eyes and vivacious presence
was too strong. Presently he said :
"Jennie, I must succeed in life. I want ?
reputation as a writer, and I want money;
and if heaven has bestowed on me any drat,
matic skill, it would be wrong for me not
to employ all the means in any power to'
make success certain."
"Yes," I said, knowing what was to
follow.
"Marie Goubaud is very beautiful."
"Yes," I said again.
"And she is very popular."
I nodded. I could not speak. I felt
my hopes slipping away from me, and a
train of bitter thoughts rushed into my
very soul.
"Then," said he. frankly, "Jennie, do
300 think it possible that she might be a
trifle more lucky with that part in my
burlesque than you would be ?"
lie spoke so kindly that I could not
give vent to all the feelings which surged
within me. I could not forget that the
sacrifice on my part was for his benefit,
not altogether for Marie's.
So I attempted to be generous. I told
him, with all the calmness I could muster,
that Marie could have my part with pleas
tire, and I hoped she would do .it every
justice.
He seized my hand with grate ful warmth,
and I ran into my bed room, trembling,
pale as ashes, and filled with the most vio
lent rage and envy.
I could not sleep. A demon held um in
possession. I made an awful resolve, and
spurred on by jealousy, I never Inched
from it, but set about perfecting my plan
till it approached to an almost certain re
alizttion.
A week passed My friend's burlesque
was accepted by our manager, and the
company were set to work upon it. Of
eourse Marie Gouband had the leading
role, and I bad the second female part
The brilliant scenery was being painted,
and the whole available force was urged
and driven to complete the task.
. _
Meanwhile I was pleasant to everybody.
and smiled as much as I ever did. But
inwardly I was a tigress. I only' waited
my opportunity. Bitterly did I hate
Marie's lovely face, and I meant that an
apparent accident should destroy it.
As the scenery approached completion,
as one rehearsal after another took place,
I watched my chance. I beheld what I
hoped fur.
Directly over the centre of the stage
there was suspended a lime light, so placed
that it threw a glow over whatever was
placed beneail it.
In the third scene of tlie . first act, Marie
would have to take this position. The
material which burns in these lamps pro
duces a tierce flame, and it sticks to what
ever it touches, and is not easily extin
guished until it burns out.
It was plain what I intended to do.
The larirp must be made to fall on Marie
I don't know whether I was in my right
mind or not. My thoughts were clear,
although they were so frightfully directed.
I was always calm and cool ; I never raged
or excited myself
The night of the first performance of
the burlesque approached. Even then I
was easy in manner, and genial to all
around me. I myself ascended the com
plicated machinery of the scenes, and, with
a pocket knife, unscrewed the lamp from
its fastenings. A strong shake of the
woodwork from below would bring it down
in an instant.
An immense audience assembled. Pit,
dress circle, boxes and galleries were filled
to overflowing, and Marie was at her best.
Shall I ever forget the tremendous shout
which rose from those throats as she
bounded on the stage?
I thought they would never cease their
cheers and rounds of applause.
When I entered, which I did with all
the grace and ease of which I was capable,
there was a marked difference. Here and
there a patter of kid gloves, now and then
a murmur of welcome; but, alas ! no tri
umph was !here fir me, and my heart
swelled until I thought it would burst, and
it was torture to smile, as I must through
it all.
Oh, how bitter I was! How I hated
the audience, and more than hated Marie!
I looked quickly up at tile lamp, and
hid myself away in the shadow of the,
wings. The gay music mocked me, the
lively dancing and the merry laughter from
the front drove me wild. Twice Marie
ran beneath the lamp, and twice I raised
my clenched hands to strike the wocdw...rk,
but she bent too swiftly, and I waited.
The burlesque went on to the third scene.
The audience were wrought up to a high
pitch of excitement, and seemed ready to
rush upon the stage and bear off their fa
vorite in triumph.
The fatal moment. approached.
I grew cold from head to foot My lips
were parched and dry. Suddenly I seemed
to see a vision of Marie all in flautts, with
three or four awful bluish, burning patches
on her face—one on each cheek, the tuliJr
on.her forehead. I was horror struck.
In the midst of this vision the real Marie
came running on to the stage, brilliant and
laughing. She saw me standing at the
wing and smiled, showing her white row
of teeth. She looked away : she drew
nearer; she stood directly under the lamp
I savagely struck my hand upon the
side of the scene The terrible lamp flared
up and tottered, and I turned faint, and
almost fell to the ground.
Like a flash of lightning my vision came
back again. I sprang forward with a des
perate effort. From the corner of my eye
I caught a glimpse of the flaming shower,
and I rushed upon Marie and dragged her
away. . _ _
I was too late. A shriek of agony burst
from her lips, and a purplish flame ap
peared on her right temple near her eye.
Then I was attacked myself The most
exquisite pain seemed to be raging in my
shoulders and cheeks, but I scarcely heeded
it. I saw the burning stuff fall upon the
floor. I beard the screams of the actors,
and cries of the audience. I instantly felt
that the theatre was in danger. I knew
every part of it and the whereabouts of
everything. I tore away and got a large
basket of sand. I was half blind. I dragged
it out and flung it upon the rising flames,
and with some handsful I brushed the
flaming lime from my own face and arms.
The scenery caught fire. I ran back for
the hose, which hung upon the wall, turned
on the tap, and flew out again upon the
stage, drenched with water, and struggling
DAY FEBRUARY 7, 1879.
with the writhing pipe. In five minutes all
was over, arid all was safe.
The actors stood around, stunned and
frightened. The spectators had rushed
upon the stage, and were pouring praises
and blessings upin we. I began to feel
my frightful burns, and swooned away.
It seemed a low , time—they told me it
was two weeks—before I came to my senses
again. I heard the great bell booming
out, and I found myself in this bed, in
Westminister hospital, where I had been
taken through the kindness of some friend
of the management who had witnessed the
accident.
Marie was sitting beside we. She had
been to see me every day since that ter,
rible night when I was carried here.
She looked more beautiful than ever.
She had a scar near one eye, but it only
lowered the lid a little, and rendered her
expression more piucquat and charming.
Inwardly I thanked heaven it was so. I
was frightfully disfigured myself:_ _
She evidently had not the least idea of
the wicked intention that had been in my
mind. She was all pity for my dread-in
juries, and gratitude for my having saved
her, as she said.
The first thin(' she told me was that she
was engaged to be in:irried to my friend,
the author
Ah ! I saw how it would he from the
first But I cannot complain; I deserve
all and more.
One day, before that great solemn bell
tolls out my last hour on earth—and it
will not be kng—l mean to tell Marie
everything, and I pray that she may not
turn from we in kathing and horror, but
that she way forgive me, as she hopes to
be forgiven when she dies.
acct jscdUann.
The Cure for Gossip.
Everybody must talk about something
'The poer fellow who was told not to talk
,for fear the people would find out that he
wlis a fool made nothing by the experi
nient. He was considered a foul because
he did not talk on some subject or other.
Everybody must have something to say, or
give up society. Of course, the topics of
conversation will relate to the subjects of
knowledge. Ira man is interested iu science
he will talk about science. If he is an
enthusiast in art, be will talk about art.
If he is familiar with literature, and is an
intelligent and persistent reader, he will
naturally bring forth literary topics in his
conversation. So with social and religious
questions. '.Out of the abundance of the
heart' the mouth speaketh." That of which
the mind is full, that with which it is fur
nished, will come out in expression.
The very simple reason why the world
is full of g ossip is, that those who indulge
in it have nothine ' else iu them. They
must interest themselves in something.
They know nothing but what they learn
frcitu day to day in intercourse with and
observation of their neighbors What
these neighbors do, what they say, what
happens to them in their social and busi
ness affairs, what they wear—these become
the questions of supreme interest. The
personal and social lite around them—this
is the book under constant perusal, and out
of this conies that pestiferous conversation
which we call gossip. The world is full
of it, and in a million houses, all over the
country, nothing is talked of but the per
sonal affairs of their neighbors.
What is the cure for gossip? Simply
culture. There is a good deal of gossip
that has no malignity in it. Good natured
people talk about their neighbors because,
and only because, they have nothing else
to talk about.
Gossip is always a personal confession
either of walitJe or imbecility, and the
young should not only shun it, but by the
most thorough culture relieve themselves
from all temptation to indulge in it. It
is low, frivolous, and too often a dirty
Iceisiness. There are country neighbor
hoods id which it rages like a pest.—
Churches are split in pieces by it. Neigh
hors make enemies by it for life. In many
persons it degenerates into a chronic dis
ease which is prictically incurable. Let
the young cur • i , while they way.
Is it Kind ?
There is n .thing to be said in justifica
t► 'el of the .tdious habit of teasing. Some
le pie earr) it to an exce,s which renders
them nuisauc,i to be avoided. if a girl
is shy and awkward, the teaser seizes on
every :pporiunity.to pu,t her in difficult
artd prominent positions ; and enjoys noth
lug so much as the poor victim's uncoil
trollable confusion and distress. lie laughs
at her blushes, sneers at her tears, thinks
Lucinda a little fool to be so perturbed
about nothing, and he may add to this a
half kind of otition that it will du her good
to accustom her to things which are now
S 3 painful; but he would scarcely contend
that this teasing was only for the philan
thropic end of doing the fluttered, fright
ened girl a service by "breaking her in,"
as shying fillies are broken in by taking
them up to the shining pool of water by
the wayside—by making them feel and
smell the long, dark log lying in the
shadow. and thus proving by their skittish
senses that these things were harmless and
would not hurt. them. He teases because
he thioks it fine fun to see her poignant
distress for so small a matter; much as
Lueiuda herself would probably tease her
own dog Tiny by pretending to throw the
stone while all the time holding it in her
hand; or Trust and the lump of sugar on
the quivering little black nose; or as she
might tease baby brother by making be
lieve to hide from him outside the door,
till brought back by a piercing yell, for
which she would call him a little goose,
and kissed him till he laughed again. For
the habit is almost universal, beginning in
early childhood, when older children tease
all the little fellows who cannot defend
themselves.
How to Discourage a Minister.
Go to church only occasionally, and
when you go, go late; take no part in the
singing, but keep up whispering. Find
out all the fault you can ; point out his
deficiencies before your children and others.
Don't aid his work, but despise his lack of
good sense. Tell tales to him about the
people and their criticisms of him. Tell
him how ouch his predecessors were
thought of. Keep away from week day
meetings. Get up gayeties, particularly
some entertainment near the communion
season. Require him to be present every
where. Keep back his salary. Keep
talking about general dissatisfaction.
Patient continuance in these practices
will surely drive away both the spirit and
minister of God.
SI.:W - 'CRIBE for the JOURNAL,
Potter's Primer.
A ,tancls for Ark, In which Moses did hide;
B is for Blackstone, whom Russia did ride,
C Copenhagen, that makes the mare go,
D is for Denmark, whose pie is all dough,
E is for Elector that couldn't be bought,
F is fur Florida, where he was sought.
G stands for Gramercy—magic address;
H is for Hewitt, who wouldn't confess.
I stands for Ithaca, now very mum;
J is for Jane, a poor girl, who was dumb.
K is a Key, a Warsaw to screen,
L is for Lima, (but not the big bean.)
M stands for Manton, who did some hard work,
N is for Nevy, copareeners' clerk.
O stands for Oregon's modest demand ;
P was the Peterslat , rg always on hand.
Q some queer correspondence denotes;
R is for Rochester—otherwise votes.
S stands for Syracuse ; hard to obtain,
T is the Tribune, with ways dark and vain.
U stands for Utica.; too long deferred;
✓ is Vienna, another good word.
W for Weed, and for Wooley, his churn ;
X is the X-amination to come.
Y is for young Colonel P. and his plot,
Z stands for Zero, the final upshot.
—N. Y. Tribune.
Diphtheria.
WHAT REGULATES ITS COMING AND GO•
ING AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY.
In spite of the careful study that has
been given to the disease, diphtheria must
still be classed as an unexplainable phys
ical disorder. For a long time it was
supposed to be of modern origin, but
medical historical research has shown that
there is good reason for thinking that it
prevailed with deadly effect in India as
long age, as 600 B. C., and that the fatal
epidemic called in the Talmud °askara,"
was essentially diphthertio in its char
aster. But from this time forward to the
seventeenth century there is no disease
described with which it can be compared.
At that time there were many deaths from
this cause ; but it appears to have made a
complete leap over the eighteenth century,
and not to have been taken into professional
account until about twenty years ago.—
Since that time, 1858, it has been inter
mittent in its severity, when any given lo
cality is considered, though it has never
disappeared, when this and other large
countries are taken into account What
regul.ites its coming acid its going is, how
ever, an unsolved mystery. Of the nature
of the disease itself the same uncertainty
exists, some ph!.sieians classing it with the
very common disorder known as croup,
while others, of secniiogly equal authority,
maintain that there is no connection be
tween the two. Indeed, almost as much
is learned by what it dues not do as by
what it does. In this way it has been
repeatedly shown that it is governed
by family or constitutional attraction.,
since, when one member of a family has
it, other members of the household are
much more liable to be attacked by it than
friends or nurses who are not related by
blood ties, even though the exposure in
the latter case should be greater than in
the former. It is, at least, satisfactory to
know that the number who recover is now
much larger than it once was, for in an
cient times it was styled an incurable com
plaint, while the present rate of mortality
float this canse is less than 40 per cent.
of those who suffer from it. The fact of
its complete absence through long terms
of years certainly indicates its possible
preventability, and in these days of en
lightened medical research it will be strange
if some way is not discoVered of stamping
it out as effectually as smell pox has been
eradicated.—N .1 Times
Time is Money.
One fine morning when Franklin was
busy preparing his newspaper for the press,
a lounger stepr d into the store and spent
an hour or more looking over the books,
etc., and finally taking one into his hand,
asked the shop boy the price.
"One dollar," was the answer.
"One dollar," said the lounger, "can't
you take less than that ?"
No, indeed, one dollar is the price."
Another hour had nearly passed when
the lounger said :
"Is Mr. Franklin at home ?"
"Yes, he is in the printing office."
"I want to see him," the lounger said.
The shop boy immediately informed
Mr. Franklin that a gentleman was in the
store, waiting to see him. Franklin was
soon behind the counter, when the loung
er, with book in hand. addressed him thus:
"Mr. Franklin, what is the least you
can take for that took ?"
One dollar an a quarter," Why, your
young man asked me only a dollar."
"True " said Franklin, "and I could
hav,, better taken a dollar then, than to
hsvn been taken out of the office "
The lounger seemed surprised, and
wishing to end the. parley of his own ma
king said :
-Come, Mr. Franklin, tell me the low
est you can take for it ?"
"A dollar arid a half."
"A dollar and a half ?" Why, you of
fered it yourstlf for a dollar and a quar
ter.
"Yes," said Franklin, "and I had better
have taken that price then, than a dollar
and a half uow."
The lounger paid down the price, and
went about his business —if he had any—
and Franklin returned to the printing.
office.
Country Negro Versus Tow ,Nlegro.
An eternal warfare, sass the Atlanta Con
stitution, seems to rage between the coun
try negro and the town darkey This was
illustrated at the passenger depot yester
day. A colored youth from Pike county
approached a town negro, and the follow
ing conversation ensued :
•'Whar bouts is de ticket offis ?"
"Right dar 'fo' yo' eyes."
"Fo' whose eyes ?"
"Yone."
"Is you de ticket offis ?"
"Look yer, nigger, don't you gimme
none yo' slack."
"I'm a mighty slack man, ole man, when
I gits stirred up."
'An' you'll git stirred up of you stan'
roun' yer longer me."
"Pat's de kinder ex'cise w'at I'm a pin
in' fer "
And with that they clinched and had a
right lively tussle. They were separated,
however, before a policeman came along,
and the Pike county darkey found the
ticket office. The town negro, it may be
well to mention, was badly used up.
WE read of a newly married couple out
West who. having so many friends that
they couldn't make their wedding cake go
round,ehad their cake photographed be
fore they started f u. Europe and sent copies
of it to their friends.
IF "every man is the architect of his
own fortune," the most of them had better
abandon arAitecture and go to sawing
wood.
The Rothschilds.
A SKETCH OF THE CELEBRATED HOUSE,
A short time after the battle of Jena, in
which Napoleon broke down the armed op•
position of Prussia, William I, elector of
Hesse Cassell, flying through Frankfort,
summoned to an audience a prominent
banker of the city
"I am one of those," he said, "who
trusted to the faith of that faithless per
jurer and enemy of his race, Napoleon
Bonaparte. He promised to preserve my
territory from violation and to treat me as
a . natural prince He has forced me to
fly from my own domain, has already seiz
ed it, is to obliterate it and make it a part
of the kingdom of 'Westphalia. I have
with me about five million dollars. Take
them ! Keep them in security until my
rights are restored and recognized. How
much interest will you allow me ?"
"In the disturbances of the time," re
plied Mayor von Rothschild," I can prom
ise nothing.. It must be very low rate, if
any. You will have to trust me to pay
what I can, when I am able to afford it."
"Very well," replied the elector, "my
chieftpurpose is to secure them. From
what I learn of you I cannot do better
than to trust you. I must bill you adieu."
Rothschild departed, received the elec
tor's treasure on deposit, was able to loan
it and reloan it to some advantage, but paid
no interest on it for eight years, after
which he paid two per cent. for nine years,
and returned it to the elector's son in 1823.
such, at least according to the legend,
is the origin of that wonderful house of
Rothschild, whose existence and operation
are surrounded with something of the mys
teries and dazzling spectacular display
found chiefly in fairy romances and "Ara
bian Nights" tales.
During all the troubles of Europe in
the early part• of the century Rothschild
remained undisturbed. He negotiated two
loans of $4,000,000 each for Denmark,
which, contemptible now, were enormous
then. A large wholesale "Yankee notions"
or dry goods house might surpass them to
day. Mayor hothschild had the faculty
of turning all chances to good account.
Just before his death, in 1812, he call
ed togetbcr his six sons—Nathan, Solo
mon, Auselute, Karl, Mayer and J.,n)e4,
and said to them—
I want you to pron.ise tne on yours
1-
tmn oaths always to ruthliu united ill car
rying on the operations of our house."
They swori! is he asked.; but after his
deAth separatel nr rather they dividtd
Europe between ibrut. They establ:shed
their houses at Paris, London. Frank f , rt.
Vienna and Napb.s. Each one shared itt
the general operations of the house, but
had individual supervision over his partie
ular field. It was not a central bank with
different branches ; there were five differ.
ent houses, which if occasion requited act
ed as one
The Emperor of Austria enabled all of
them, as if they were all the eldest, which
is an Austrian custom. Their arms are
five golden arrow. By a remarkable
coincidence, an ancient writer predicted
that Charon, who, according tt, the old
myth, ferried people over the Sryx, or riv
er of death, and who gets his pay from the
passengers, would have a large income in
the year 1855, and in that year Nathan,
the eldest, and Solomon and Karl, all died.
Everybody expected as each one dropped
off to learn at least the secrets of that enor
in,,us banking house. But there was not
the smallest chance to look into their big
books. Another Rothschild stood ready
to take them from the dead man's hands
The firm is a dynasty. You can learn from
it only that it has a secret of making
money.
One of the great strokes of the Roths
child house was made when Nathan, the
London banker and an English citizen,
followed close in the rear of Napoleon
in 1815, as if he foresaw the fall of that
giant. The sun had not set on the battle
of Waterloo before the banker was well
on his way to London. He bought En
glish consols, at that time very low in
price. When London heard the great news,
consuls rose and Rothschild sold. This
transaction was entirely Rothschild-like.
In their transactions chance is eliminated
as much perhaps as it is possible in human
affairs. The conception of these grand
schemes is clear and simple, however vast.
But there is in them indications of genius
In most of these first great operations there
is the peculiarity of Christopher Columbus'
famous egg trick. Dollars, like soldiers,
need to be hurled en masse and at once
against a designated point. The Roths
childs in this respect, have been the
greatest captains of the century.
Capital has displaced men in the world
of industry. Formerly a man was a pro
ducer or a negotiator, a borrower or a
lender. Now, by the substitution of capi
tal, lie inay he all of these at the same
titne. In Belgium and Spain the Roths
childs arc pr-Aucers of c./al and quick
silver. IV virtue 4.4: the railroads they
own, they are also carriers; to day th,y
sill be the largest buyers, to morrow the
largest sellers, in Europa. Speculation is
the . tairy of the 19th century, and th. ,
Rotbschilds are its godsons. Life at the
preSent day has been almost tripled in in
tensity. A man who dies at 40 years of
age has certainly lived more than cente
narians of the 17th century.
Money no longer has a country. The
Rothschilds would lend it to Belgium and
to Holland when they were mutual ene
Lilies; to Austria and to Italy; to France
and to Germany; to Antonelli or Victor
Emanuel Though empires go. down
with a crash, the house of Rothschild re
mains unmoved. They furnish the money
to make war; they furnish it to make
peace. The conquer or owes them for his
guns; the conquered owes them for his
ransom.
Only once was there any disagreement
known to have arisen between them,—
When Naples ceased to be a capital the
Baron Adolphe de Rothschild removed his
banking house from the city and demanded
in cash—his share of the common funds—
sls,ooo,ooo But perhaps recollecting the
oath required by the founder of the house,
the affair was arranged and the different
Rothschild; in all times of confusion and
trouble have continued to utter the same
distinct watchword of business, even as at
night the clocks of large cities regulated
by one hand strike the hours at the same
moment.
When steam and electricity came into
use the former great stri'les of speculation
were no longer possible. But the Roths
childs anticipated these inventions. The
Baron James, at Paris, it is said, hastened
to seize and use these new levers, which
otherwise would have destroyed him. He
was the principal projector of the French
railways, and is said to have wept tears of
joy on sending the first telegram to San
Francisco. He had calculated the differ
ence of time between Paris and San Fran
cisco, and knew that the answer would
come during the day. He awaited it in
feverish silence. It came at the hour he
had calculated.
Tne. Rothschilds are for the niost part
J.ews. The tomb of the Paris family is
opposite that of Rachel in the cemetery of
Pere le Chaise. An "R" is sculptured in
relief of the white stone of the modest
chapel The enclosure in front is sown
with pebbles. Every Jew who visits a
grave leaves a stone
The project of buying Palestine and re•
instating the Jews has been attributed to
the Rothschilds, but as they have never
taken any steps towards it, it is probable
that they either never thought of it or
speedily abandoned it.
Four Years With Savages.
A T'XAS YOUTH'S ADVENTURIM
Yesterday morning a man about 21 years
of age called at the express office and sta
ted that he bad but recently escaped from
a four years' captivity among the Apache
and Cothouche Indians, and was on his
way to his home in Fannin county, Texas,
where he had parents living He was about
six feet in height, well proportioned, had
an intelligent countenance and easy, self
possersed manner, although for years un
der not the most refining influences. His
garb was unmistakably frontier in its char
acter.
He gave his name as S. M. Wills, and
said that four years ago, when but 17 years
of age, hearing glowing accounts of fron
tier life, he became one of a party of buf
falo hunters on the Staked Plains. Game
was plenty, and they were making money
fast, slaughtering the bison for his hide.
This was in 1874, the season so many buf
falo were killed. Becoming more venture
some, the party penetrated to the heart of
the plains and in close proximity to the
Indians engaged in the same business. One
day, four of the party, a:nong whom was
young Wills, gave chase to a very fine
herd of buffalo, and followed them a long
distance, and many a fine bull fella victim
to their unerring rifles. On a sudden they
came upon a party of Apache Indians in
the same business, who, upon seeing their
natural foe, left the chase and attacked the
white /hen. Wi!ls was away from the oth
er Teen, and e.eeing them shot and scalped,
%err .alered it discretion, wiihnur resia
-11:•• youth saved him from imme
diate dearth and he was taken to camp,
ato- a yaw web was geld a' to hie tuture
eve. He being a doe looking bey, it was
eitivi to give him a chence far life by
alleiviug him the doubt,fal privilege of
running the gauntlet .
'The savages arrtyed themselves in two
long ices, tomahawks and clubs. Wills
was stripped of his clothing and, being pla
ced at the head of his almost certain ave
nue of death, started on his terrible race
for life. Each savag e , yelling at the top
of his voice, made aeadly pass with his
weapon as the poor boy fairly flew along
the blood thirsty pathway. The one whu
succeeded iu hitting the prisoner was to
have the disposition of his fate, which is
usually that of death by the most harible
slow torture that could be conceived in the
breast of the brutal American savage. On,
on sped the fated youth, and a hundred
deaths had already been passed, while the
end of the terrible line was fast ap
proaching, his strength failing and pace
slackening, a tomahawk buried itself in his
lee, and he fell a victim to savage barbarity.
' "Demoniacal yells filled the air as the
"noble red men . ' surrounded their fallen
prey, eager to finish their hellish work.
Fortunately the lucky captor conceived an
admiration for the brave white boy, and
resolved to spare his life, at the same time
claiming him as his special property. He
was attired in Indian garb, underwent the
ceremony of initiation as a "brave," war
paint was applied, and he was now "heap
big warrior." Although ostensibly one of
the tribe, nevertheless he was a prisoner,
and the strictest guard over his movements
was never withdrawn. He was privileged
to hunt and fight, but always acknowledg
ed ownership to the warrior who toma•
hawked him in his race fcr life. They
were always on the move, and they trav
eled hundreds of -miles dp and down the
plains and in the Rocky-mountains. The
Apaches and Comonches at this time were
at war, and his band meeting a party of
Comonches a battle ensued. He entered
fully into the fight with his Apache
"friends," and having his pony shoe was
captured by the Comonches.
Being already considered virtually an
Indian, he was spared the terrible exper
iences of his first capture, and was without
further ceremony admitted into the band
as a Comanche warrior, and soon he be
came a great favorite.
ftii,it.
He had now been among the Indians
over a year, and had been inured in the
hardships of Indian life. He was a band
of what is usually termed among frontiers
men "Dog Soldiers," being composed prin•
cipally of young wen who refuse to come
under restrietinn, and consequently are
outlaws before the law. and are on treated
by t. 11.3 military authoriti.s. t;onsequently
they must be constantly on the move, and
th- band with whom was the hero of thi3
sketch, in the three years that he was with
them, traveled from Texas to the British
Possessions. His varied experience—pri
vations and hardships—would fill a vol
ume, and are altogether too long to em
body here!
Last summer the band got back to the
Indian Territory and on the Texas border,
and the hope of seeing his home again
tock strong hold of his mind, and be de
termined -to make an effort to escape.
Were it not for again meeting father, moth
er, brothers and sisters, he would never
have entered civilization again, as be had
become perfectly contented with life among
the Indians, in fact rather preferred it.
Some time in August the band was on a
buffalo hunt in north western Texas, and,
becoming separated from them in pursuit
of a fine herd, he continued his way south,
riding until his horse fell under him dead.
He knew that if he rested the Indians,
discovering his absence, would probably
overtake him, and therefore he put as
great a distance as possible between him
self and pursuers in the early stage of the
pursuit which he knew would be sure to
follow and that his re capture would be
horribly fatal. His plans were laid, and
after the death of his horse he continued
his journey, living on prairie dogs and
such other small game as was procurable,
many times almost dying of thirst and
starvation. Finally, in the latter part of
August he reached Fort Griffin, the first
settlement he had been in fortour years.
Being entirely destitute he engaged as
teamster, and as such has since been em
ployed. A couple of days ago he arrived
at San Antonio, having earned sufficient
money to take him comfortable home —.
San Antonio Express.
NO, 6.