STATESMEN AT HOME.
RESIDENCES OF FOUR WELL KNOWN
CONGRESSMEN DESCRIBED.
Bfpreoeiitatl?e McComas Has uu Old
Fashioned Dwelling Place at Ifagers
town, Md. —The Homes of Messrs. Wil
son, Banks and Breckinridge.
[Copyright by American Press Association.]
In the hiai I of the quiet old city of
Hagerstown, Md., one of the earliest
settlements in the country, is the unpre
tentious dwelling of Representative
Louis Emory McComas. It is a plain,
old fashioned brick structure, with
CONGRESSMAN M'COMAS' HOUSE,
square,wide doorways and windows and
a long extension in the rear. It and the
house next to it, which is occupied by
Mr. McComas' brothfcr-in-luw, are the
only ones in the center of the town
which stand in ample grounds of their
own. A latticed porch over the entrance
to the drawing room on the side of the
house leads into the grass plot and
flower garden which adorn the sides and
rear of the old home. The main entrance
from the street is through a wide, old
fashioned hall, wainscoted in (lark oak,
and at the head of the stairs leading to
the upper part of the house is one of the
first clocks ever made in this country.
It has told the time of day for six gen
erations of Mrs. McComas' family, and
is now performing the same duty for the
seventh. Tho house was built over
seventy years ago, and stands on the
main street,, which used to be also the
mast fashionable part of Hagerstown.
It is comfortably furnished inside, and
1 used to be the residence of tne Beattys,
a well known family in that section of
Maryland.
The handsome home of Congressman
William L. Wilson, LL. D., is situated
m a small hill just outside of the city of
lharlestov.ni, W. Va. It is built of
rame on a so no foundation, and stands
ha pretty little yard some three acres
1 extent. The original building was a
'ain two story frame house wich an L
.tachment, but a few years ago Mr.
Hlson connected the two by erecting
ie handsome tower which forms the
Qitral and most conspicuous part o'
l(i residence. Front this tower can bs
f L
RERESENTATIVE WILSON'S HOME.
seen astreteh of picturesque country
which e claims surpasses any similar
scenerym the ('OllllllOlll. There is the
fertile vlley of Virginia, with its pros
perous frms and broad acres. 011 one
side arethe famous Blue Ridge moun
tains, an. on the other the North moun
tain, whih is the first outlying spur of
the Allegenv range. Harper's Ferry
lies in a alley, but the position of the
historic Uvn can bo defined, and the
Shenandom river traced from its conflu
ence at tbt point with the Potomac.
Nothing i; wanting to make the view
from Mr. Vilson's tower beautiful in
the extremi
The gronds surrounding the house
are filled wi.h trees, shrubs and flowers.
The drawiig room on one side of the
entrance ail the dining hall on the
other both oen on the front porch. Mr.
Wilson's litary is in the rear, and is
stocked with the finest and largest pri
vate collect id of books to lie found in
West Virgiiia. When first built the
house was qate a distance from the city,
but it is now.vithin the corporate limits,
and is surrouided by other fine homes.
Gen. Natluniel P. Banks lives at
Waltham, if ass., and liis lionse is
one of tbo most interesting resi
dences in tint thriving town. He
has been a ftctory hand, a newspaper
editor, a Jiwyer, and speaker of
the Massaclusetts Legislature; he re
ceived the p-esidential nomination at
the hands of ,he North American con
vention in lew York in 1856; he has
been a major jeneral of volunteers, gov
ernor of his intive state, speaker of the
national houseof representatives, United
States marshal and is now a member of
congress agair. Through all his varied
career he has occupied the plain, old
fashioned hom* which is pictured hero,
and which he lives because it has been
the birthplace cf his children.
THE RESIDENCE OF OEN. BANKS.
It is a square, two-story frame house,
over one hnndned years old, and was one
of the first residonc"! to be erected In
Waltham. The only decoration on its
exterior is a Corinthian portico over Ifce
entrance, overgrown with vines. Noth
ing would induce him to change the ex
terior appearance of the main building
daring his own and Mrs. Bunk's lifotime,
but he has built an extensive library in
the rear in the yneen Anne style of archi
tecture, which forms a handsome addi
tion to the house. The old coach road
from Piston to Wooster runs in front of
the dwelling, and a mile further down
forms the principal street of Waltham.
About twenty acres of fine lawns sur
round the house, and in the rear is the
tennis court used by the younger mem
bers of tho family. Inside, the rooms
are large and high, and all connect with
one another. Tho room to the right of
the porch, which is now used as the din
ing room, was the scene of the first
Methodist prayer meeting ever held in
Waltham, when there were no churches,
and the house belonged to the Gale fam
ily, who built it. Every room has in it a
fine, old fashioned, oaken fireplace, with
high, wooden mantels all carved and
fluted by hand. It is a fine old place,
and Gen. Banks in his declining years
would consider it a desecration to make
new fangled alterations about it, or to
bring within its vonerablo portals any
of the modern furnishing gewgaws. -
Mr. William Cabell Preston Breckin
ridge, the silver haired, silver tongued
congressman from Kentucky, has no
fixed place of residence. He used to
own a pretty home in Lexington, Ky.,
but on going to Washington he sold it,
and has since been living just as his
fancy and that of his charming wife
dictates. One year he occupies fur
nished rooms in some private establish
ment, another he tries hotel life. Just
at present he is housekeeping on Grant
WHERE MR. BREGKI N RI DOE LIVES,
terrace, a few blocks east of the Capitol.
His home is one of a row of buildings
all exactly alike. It stands back some
thirty feet from the street on a small
terrace, and is built of brick with brown
stoue trimmings on a white stone base
ment. The entrance is reached by a
flight of stone steps, lighted on either
side by a handsome bronze lamp. The
drawing room on the left of the hall is
ornamented with a wide bay window.
The "camp furniture" of the house, as
Mr. Breckinridge calls it on account of
his frequent movings, is of the most ele
gant description and is arranged with
great taste.
Mr. Breckinridge's home life is very
simple. His particular chum is his little
13-year-old daughter, who sticks to him
like a chestnut burr. The greatest frolic
of the year to the pair is on New Year's
day, when they both go visiting to
gether. Miss Breckinridge wears a cos
tume of pure white, and her face is one
broad smile of childish delight as she
swings on to her father's hand. They
first pay their respects to the president.
Then they go to the few houses where
Mr. Breckinridge calls. The little maid
gets her pockets full of candies, is petted
by all the men and kissed by all the
ladies. Her mother remonstrates at this
unique performance, but Mr. Breckin
ridge declares he will have his way
about this, as he has t> give it up in
everything else. HENRY E. ELAND.
A Crematory Trn.
FOB ASHES OF THE DEAD.
That cremation has not lost its hold
upon the minds of certain classes of
people is amply shown by the fact that
leading jewelers throughout the world
find it profitable to employ some of their
best artists in the manufacture of dainty
receptacles for the ashes of the departed.
The illustration given herewith is of a
crematory urn recently finished a:ad ex
hibited in London. The bowl is made
of the finest crystal glass, mounted in
beautifully decorated silver. A crest
tops the urn, on which there are also
shown Masonic emblems and two shields
for inscriptions. A depository of this
sort is valued at $3,000,
Very Slow Consumption.
Dr. Mortimer Slocum, who died at
San Antonio, Tex., recently, had a
rather novel experience once. He was
supposed to be hopelessly ill of consump
tion, and a life insurance company with
which ho hi! a policy of $30,000 paid
him so,ooo for a release. He removed
from his then home at Chicago to Texas,
grew well and wealthy and lived for
twenty-five years.
P THE WORLD'B WAY.
j Tho work) 1B OOM And scornful,
A.ml though heartless it 1B gtkf,
And merit nturvoa while knavery
ITpholds it* sovereign away.
Tlic sac: -ni things are mocked at
And iiiibstlof today
Ta prevalent. We igh alaa!
"\s !it- the wise world's way.
Vl* • rl •' forgot that misery
t* :i.f no far away,
To-* "now wrapped in darkness Ilea,
\ live but for today.
As: ' in* v ho borrows trouble
X. .11 soon be old and gray;
B 'ni;,, enjoy life while you can,
Thiri is the gay world's way.
Cold, cynical and careless,
We grow more so each day;
And kind attention to the poor
We have no time to pay.
O ye who do in kindness
Your duty day by day ,
Among the friendless, blessed your lot,
You are not of this world's way.
—Brooklyn Eagle.
FALSE DAWN.
No man will ever know the exact truth
of this story; though women may some
times whisper it to one another after a
dance, when they are putting up their
hair for the night and comparing lists
of victims. A man, of course, cannot
assist at these functions. So the tale
must be told from the outside—in the
dark—all wrong.
Never praise a sister to a sister in the
hope of your compliments reaching the
proper ears, and so preparing away for
you later on. Sisters are women first,
and sisters afterwards; and you will
find that yon do yourself harm.
Saumarez knew this when he made up
his mind to propose to the elder Miss
Copleigh. Saumarez was a strange man,
with few merits, so far as men could
see, though he was popular with women,
and carried enough conceit to stock a
viceroy's council and leave a little over
for the commander-in-chief's staff. He
was a civilian. Very many women took
an interest in Saumarez, perhaps, be
cause his nyumer to them was offensive.
If you hit a pony over the nose at the
outset of your acquaintance he may not
love you, but he will take a deep interest
in your movements ever afterwards.
The elder Miss Copleigh was nice, plump,
winning and pretty. The younger was
not so pretty, and, from men disregard
ing the hint set forth abovfe, her style
was repellant and unattractive. Both
girls had, practically, the same figure,
and there was a strong likeness between
them in look and voice; though no one
could doubt for an instant which was
the nicer of the two.
Saumarez made up his mind, as soon as
they came into the jstntion from Dehar, to
marry the elder one. At least, we all
made sure that he would, which comes
to the same thing. She was two-and
twenty and he was 33, with pay and al
lowances of nearly 1,400 rupees a month.
So the match, as we arranged it, was in
every way a good one. Saumarez was
his name anil summary wr his nature,
as a man once said. Having drafted his
resolution, he formed a select committee
of one to sit upon it, and resolved to take
his time. In onr unpleasant slang, the
Copleigh girls "hunted in couples." That
is to say, you could do nothing with one
without the other. They wore loving
sisters, but their mutual affection was
sometimes inconvenient. Saumarez held
the balance hair true between them, and
none but himself could have said to which
side his heart inclined, though every one
guessed. He rode with them a good deal
and danced with them, but he never suc
ceeded in detaching them from each other
for any length of time.
Women said that the two girls kept
together through deep mistrust, each
fearing that the other would steal a
march on her. But that has nothing to
do with a man. Saumarez was silent
for good or bad, and as business-likely
attentive as he could be, having due re
gard to his work and his polo. Beyond
doubt both girls were fond of him.
As the hot weather drew nearer and
Saumarez made no sign women said
that you could see their trouble in the
eyes of the girls—-that they were looking
strained, anxious and irritable. Men
are quite blind in ihese matters unless
they have more of the woman titan the
man in their composition, in which case
it does not matter what they say or
think. I maintain it was the hot April
days that took the color out of the
Copleigh girls' cheeks. They should
have been sent to the Hills early. No
one—man or woman—feels an angel
when the hot weather is approaching.
The younger sister grew more cynical—
not to say acid —in her ways; and the
winningness of the elder wore thin.
There was more effort in it.
Now the station wherein all these
things happened was, though not a little
one, off the line of rail, and suffered
through want of attention. There were
no gardens, or bunds, or amusements
worth speaking of, and it was nearly a
day's journey to come into Lahore for a
dance. People were grateful for small
things to interest them.
About the beginning of May, and just
before the final exoaus of Hill goers,
when the weather was very hot and
there were not more than twenty people
in the station, Saumarez gave a moon
light riding picnic at an old tomb, 6ix
taiiles away, near the bed of the river.
It was a "Noah's ark" picnic; and there
was to be the usual arrangement of
Quarter mile intervals between each
couple, on account of the dust. Six
couples came altogether, including cha
perones. Moonlight picnics are useful
just at the very end of the season, before
all the girls go away to the Hills. They
lead to understandings, and should be
encouraged by chaperones; especially
those whose girls look sweetest in riding
habits. I knew a case once. But that
is another story. That picnic was called
the "Great Pop Picnic," becauso every
one knew Saumarez would propose then
to the eldest Miss Copleigh; and, besides
his affair, there was another which
might possibly come to happiness. The
social atmosphero was heavily charged
and wanted clearing.
We met at the parade ground at 10;
the night was fearfully hot. The horses
sweated even at walking pace, but any
thing was better than sitting still In our
own dark houses. When we moved off
nndor the full moon we were four
couples, one triplet, and Mr. Saumarej
rode with the Copleigh girls and I
loitered et the tail of the procession won
dering with whom Saumarez would ride
home. Every one was happy and con
tented, but wo all felt that things were
going to happen. We rode slowly, and
it was i '.i rly midnight before we reached
the old tomb, facing the ruined tank, in
the decayed gardens where we were go
ing to eat and drink. I was late in com
ing up. a.' 1. before I went into the
garden, I saw that the horizon to the
north carried a faint, dun colored feather.
But no one would have thanked me for
spoiling so \yell managed an entertain
ment as this picnic—and a dust storm
more or less, does no great harm.
We gathered by the tank. Some one
had brought out a banjo—which is a
most sentimental instrument—and three
or four of us sang. You must not laugh
at this. Our amusements in out-of-the
way stations are very few indeed. Then
we talked in groups or together, lying
under the trees, with the sun baked
roses dropping their petals on our feet,
until supper was ready. It was a beau
tiful supper, as cold and as iced as yon
could wish; and we stayed long over It.
I had felt that the air was growing
hotter and hotter; but nobody seemed to
notice it until the moon went out and a
burning hot wind began lashing the
orange trees with a sound like the noise
of the sea. Before we knew where we
were the dust storm was on us, and
everything was roaring, whirling dark
ness. The supper table was blown bodily
into the tank. We were afraid of stay
ing anywhere near the old tomb for fear
it might be blown down. So wo felt our
way to the orange trees where the horses
were picketed and waited for the storm
to blow over. Then the little light that
was left vanishod, and you could not see
your hand before your face.
The air was heavy with dust and sand
from the bed of the river, that filled
boots and pockets and drifted down necks
and coated eyebrows and mustaches. It
was one of the worst dust storms of the
year. We were all huddled together close
to the trembling horses, with the thunder
chattering overhead, and the lightning
spurting like water from a sluice, all
ways at once. There was no danger, of
course, unless the horses broke loose. I
was standing with my head downwind
and my hands over my mouth, hearing
the trees thrashing each other. I could
not see who was nest me till the flashes
came. Then I found that I was packed
near Saumarez and the oldest Miss Cop
leigh, with my own horse just in front of
me. I recognized the eldest Miss Cop
leigh, because she had a pagri round her
helmet, and the younger had not. All
the electricity in the air had gone into
my body and I was quivering and ting
ling from head to foot—exactly as a corn
shoots and tingles before rain. It was a
grand storm. The wind seemed to be
picking up the earth and pitching it to
leeward in great heaps; and the heat beat
up from the ground like the heat of the
day of judgment.
The storm lulled slightly after the
first half hour, and I heard a despairing
little voice close to my ear, saying to it
self, quietly and softly, as if some lost
soul were flying about with the wind:
"Oh, my God!" Then the younger Miss
Copleigh stumbled into my amis, saying:
"Where is my horse? Get my horse. I
want to go home. I want to go home.
Take me home."
I thought that the lightning and the
black darkness had frightened her; so 1
said there was no danger, but she must
wait till the storm blew over. She an
swered: "It is not that! It is not that!
I want to go home! Oh, take me away
from here!"
I said that she could not go till the
light came; but I felt her brush past me
and go away. It was too dark to see
where. Then the whole sky was split
open with one tremendous flash, as if
the end of the world were coming, and
all the women shrieked.
Almost directly after this I felt a
man's hand on my shoulder and heard
Saumarez bellowing in my ear. Through
the rattling of the trees and howling of
the wind I did not catch his words at
once, but at last I heard him say: "I've
proposed to the wrong one! What shall
I do?" Saumarez had no occasion to
make this confidence to mo. 1 was never
a friend of his, nor am I now; but I
fancy neither of us were ourselves just
then. He was shaking as he stood, with
excitement, and I was feeling queer all
over with the electricity. I could not
think of anything to say except: "More
fool you for proposing in a dnst storin."
But I did not see how that would im
prove the mistake.
Thon he shouted: "Where's Edith—
Edith Copleigh?" Edith was the younger
sister. I answered out of my astonish
ment: "What do you want with her?"
Would you believe it, for the next two
minutes he and I were shouting at each
other like maniacs—he vowing that it
was the younger sister he had meant to
propose to all along, and 1 telling him
till my throat was hoarse that he must
have made a mistake! I can't account
for this except, again, by the fact that
we were neither of us ourselves. Every
thing seemed to me like a bad dream—
from the stamping of the horses in the
darkness to Saumarez telling me the
story of his loving Edith Copleigh since
the first. He was still clawing my
shoulder and begging tue to toll liim
where Edith Copleigh was, when an
other lull came and brought light with
it, and we saw the dust cloud forming
on the plain in front of us. So we knew
the worst was over.
The moon was low down, and there
was just the glimmer of the false dawn
that comes about an hour before the
real one. But the light was very faint,
and the dun cloud roared like a bull. I
wondered where Edith Copleigh had
gone, and as I was wondering I SAW three
things together: First, Maud Copleigh's
face como smiling out of the darkness
and move towards Saumaroz, who WHS
staniling by me. I heard the girl whis
per "George," and slide her arm into ths
arm that was not clawing my shoulder,
and I saw that look on her face which
only ©urnes once or twice in a lifetime—
when a woman is perfectly happy and
tho ni a is full of trumpets and gorgeous
colored fire and tho earth turns into
cloud because she loves and is loved. At
the same time 1 saw Baumarez's face as
he heard ?e.'l Copleigh's voice, and
fifty Jjjki away from the clump of
1 saw a brown Holland
habit gi.-: :• • upon a horse.
It mu.: • been my state of over ex
citement . made me so quick to med
dle with • .t! ilid not concern me. Sau
marez v.-: , , ring off to the habit; but
I pusln u hi.a back and said: "Stop hers
and explain. I'll fetch her back!" And
I ran out to get at my own horse. I had
a perfectly unnecessary notion that every
thing must be done decently and in order,
and thut Saumarez's first care was to
wipe the happy look out of Maud Cop
leigh's face. All tho time I was linking
up the curb chain I wondered how he
would do it.
I cantered after Edith Copleigh, think
ing to bring tier back slowly on some pre
tense or another. But she galloped away
as soon as she saw me, and I was forced
to ride after her in earnest. She called
back over her shoulder: "Go away! I'm
going home. Oh, go away!" two or three
times; but my business was to catch her
first and argue later. The ride j ust fitted
in with the rest of the evil dream. The
ground was very bad, and now and again
we rushed through the whirling, chok
ing "dust devils," in the skirts of the fly
ing storm. There was a burning hot
wind blowing that brought up a stench
of stale brick kilns with it; and through
the half light and through the dust dev
ils, across that desolate plain, flickered
the brown holland habit on the gray
horse. She headed for the station at
first. Then she wheeled round and Ret
off for the river through beds of burnt
down jungle grass, bad even to ride
pig over. In cold blood I should never
have dreamed of going over such a coun
try at night, but it seemed quite right
and natural with the lightning crackling
overhead, and a reek like the smell of
the Pit in my nostrils. I rode and shout
ed, and she bent forward and lashed her
horse, and the aftermath of the dust
storm came up and caught us both, and
drovo us downwind like pieces of paper.
1 don't know how far wo rode; but the
drumming of the horse hoofs and the
roar of the windand the race of the faint,
blood red moon through the yellow mist
seemed to have gone on for years and
years, and I was literally drenched with
sweat from my helmet to my gaiters
when the gray stumbled, recovered him
self and pulled up dead lame. My brute
was used up altogether. Edith Copleigh
was in a sad state, plastered with dust,
her heljiietoif, and crying bitterly. '-Why
cau't you let me alone?" she said. "I only
wanted to get away and go home. Oh,
please let mo go!"
"Yon have got to come back with me,
Miss Copleigh. Saumarez has something
to say to you."
It was a foolish way of putting it; hut I
hardly knew Miss Copleigh. and, though
I was playing Providence at the cost of
my home, I could not tell her in as many
words what Saumarez had told me. I
thought he could do that better himself.
All her pretense about being tired and
wanting to go home broke down, and she
rocked herself to and fro in the saddle as
she sobbed, and the hot wind blew her
black hair to leeward. lam not going to
repeat what she said, because she was
utterly unstrung.
This, if you please, was the cynical
Miss Copleigh. Here was I, almost an
utter stranger to her, trying to tell her
that Saumarez loved her and she was to
come back to hear him say so. I believe
I made myself understood, for she gath
ered the gray together and made him
hobble somehow, and we set off for the
tomb, while the storm went thundering
down to Umballa and a few big drops of
warm rain fell. I found out that she
had been standing close to Saumarez
when lie proposed her sister, and had
wanted to gfi home to cry Tn peace, as an
English girl should. She dabbed her
eyes with her pocket handkerchief as
we went along, and babbled to me out
of slioer lightness of heart and hysteria.
That was perfectly unnatural; and yet,
it seemed all right at the time and in the
place. All the world was only the two
Copleigh girls, Saumarez and I, ringed in
with the lightning and the dark; and the
guidance of this misguided world seemed
to lie in my hands.
When wo returned to the tomb in the
deep, dead stillness that followed the
storm, the dawn was just breaking and
nobody had gone away. They were
waiting for our return. Saumarez most
of all. His face was white and drawn.
As Miss Copleigh aud I limped up he
came forward to meet us, and, when he
helped her down from her saddle, he
kissed her before all the picnic. It
was like a scene in a theatre, and the
likeness was heightened by all the dust
white, ghostly looking men aud women
under the orange trees, clapping their
hands —as if they were watohiug a play
—at Saumarez's choice. I never knew
anything so nu-English in my life.
Lastly, Saumarez said we must all go
home or the station would come out to
look for us, and would I be good enough
to ride home with Maud Copleigh? Noth
ing would give me greater pleasure, I
said.
S, we formed up, nix couples in all,
and went back two by two; Sauraarez
walking at the side of Edith Copleigh,
who was riding his horse.
The ah' was cleared, and little by lit
tle, as the sun rose, I felt we were all
dropping back again into ordinary men
and women and that the "Great Pop
Picnic" was a thing altogether apart ana
out of the world—never to happen again.
It had gone with the dust storm and the
tingle in the hot air.
I felt tired and limp, and a good deal
ashamed of myself as I went in for a
bath and some sleep.
There is a woman's version of this
story, but it will never be written—un
less Maud Copleigh cares to try.—Rud
yard Kippling.
A I'rogldy Thin.
"Johnny, how many seasons are there?"
"Three: pepper, salt and de baseball
season."—Enoch.
RUSSIA'S OIL CENTER
A SECTION OF THE COUNTRY DE
VOTED TO NOTHING ELSE.
The Basin of the Caspian Sen Rent* on s
Subterranean Sea of Naphtha —Discov-
ery, Appearance and Largo Output of
the Beds —A Town of Fire.
Tiflis is midway on the railway that
cnts the Caucasus iu its whole width
and puts the two seas in communica
tion —the port of Batoum on the Black
sea with that of Bakou on the Caspian.
As we leave the capital in the latter di
rection the eye is at first ravished and
then desolated by the changing aspects
of the land. The track follows the Kour,
which rolls its broad sheet of water ma
jestically through wild forests and rich
tilled soil, while two chains of snowy
ridges stretch nway out of sight in the
distance—the Caucasus to the left, the
mountains of Armenia to the right.
Soon we leave the river, which goes
to join the Arajces toward the south;
the plain gets broader and barer; tall "
cages built of planks perched on four tree
trunks rise in the midst of the rice fields
like watch towers. The inhabitants of the
villages, who are all Tartars in this
region, take refuge at night in these
aerial nests; the marshy laud is so un
healthy that it is dangerous to sleep
there. In spite of these precautions the
peasants whom we see are devoured by
fever; their emaciated visages remind us
of those of the inhabitants of the Roman
campagna. After leaving Hadji-Caboul,
the station in Moorish style where a new
lino branches off—"the Teheran line," I
am told by the engineers who are build
ing it, and who hope to carry it into the
very heart of Persia—we enter an Afri
can landscape, sad and luminous.
REMARKABLE SCENERY.
The mountain chains become lower;
they are now simply cliffs of gilded sand
stone festooning against a crude blue
sky. At their feet the desert, a sandy
expanse, covered here and there with a
rose carjiet of flowering tamarisks. Herds
of camels browse on these shrubs under
the guard of a half naked shepherd, mo
tionless as a bronze statue. The fan
tastic silhouettes of these animals are in
creased in size and changed in form by
the effect of the mirage, which displays
before our eyes in the ardent haze of the
horizon lakes and forests. From time
to time we meet a petroleum train, com
posed of cistern trucks in the form of
cylinders, surmounted by a funnel with
a short, thick neck.
When you see them approaching from
a distance you might mistake them for
a procession of mastodons, vying in
sliapelessness with the trains of camels
which they pass. The sun burns in space.
Yonder a green baud glitters beneath its
rays; it is the Caspian. We turn around
a hill and behold! on this western shore,
in this primitive landscape, which seems
like a corner of Arabia Petroea, a mon
strous city rises before our eyes. Is it
once more the effect of mirage, this
town of diabolical aspect, enveloped in
a cloud of smoke traversed by running
tongues of flame, as it were Sodom for
tified by the demons in its girdle of cast
iron towers?
I can find but one word to depict ex
actly the first impression that it gives:
It is a town of gasometers. There are
no houses—the houses are relegated
further away on the right, in the old
Persian city—nothing but iron cylinders
aud pipes and chimneys, scattered in
disorder from the hills down to the
beach. This is doubtless the fearful
model of what manufacturing towns
will all be in the Twentieth century.
Meanwhile, for the moment, this one is
unique in the world; it is Bakou—the
"town of fire," as the natives call it; the
petroleum town, where everything is de
voted and subordinated to the worship
of the local god.
OIL IN KEMOTE AGES.
The bed of the Caspian sea rests upon
a second subterranean sea, which spreads
Its floods of naphtha under the whole
basin. On the eastern shore the build
ing of the Samareand railway led to the
discovery of immense beds of mineral
oil. On the western shore, from the
most remote ages, the magi used to adore
the fire springing from the earth at the
very spot where its last worshipers pros
trate themselves at the present day. But
after having long adored it impious men
began to make profit by it commercially.
In the Thirteenth century the famous
traveler, Marco Polo, mentions "on the
northern side a great spring whence
flows a liquid like oil." It is no good for
eating, but is useful for burning and all
other purposes; and so the neighboring
nations come to get their provision of it
and fill many vessels without the ever
flowing spring appearing to be dimin
ished in any manner. The real practical
working of these oil springs dates back
only a dozen years.
At the present day it yields 2,000,000
kilogrammes of kerosene per annum,
and disputes the markets of Europe
against the products of Kentucky and
Pennsylvania. The yield might be in
creased tenfold, for the existing wells
give on an average 40,000 kilogrammes a
day, and in order to find new ones it suf
fices to bore the ground, so saturated is
the whole soil with petroleum. C. Mar
vin, "The Petroleum Industry in South
em Russia," compares the Aspheron pen
insula to a sponge plunged in mineral
oil. The soil is continually vomiting
forth the liquid lava that torments its
entrails, either in the form of mud vol
canoes or of natural springs. These
springs overflow in streams so abundant
that it is hopeless to store their contents
for want of reservoirs; often they catch
fire and burn for weeks; the ui'\ impreg
nated with naphtha vapors, is then aglow
all round Bakou.—Harper's.
Aft or the Iluin.
Clara—l have just had a delightful
walk. How deliriously fresh and pure
and clear the landscape looks this even
ing!
Flora—Ya-as. I just read in the pa
pers that some detectives are scouring
this part of tne cbufih^f. —Pittsburg Bul
letin,