Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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HEB ANSWER ST "BABOON." "* Twain?" Tis as you will, dear. And as we must; Baying, "God's will be done"? God's ways are just. But tis you sa,y "Twain," dear, See, 'tis not I; Ever 111 think of you E'er 'tis "Good-by." Bome eouIs are ever one, Thev seem to part; Unfold the roses "Mine"? You have a heart. 'Tis no ideal one, But It is true, And all its warm throbbing a, Dear, are for you. But it dare not yet claim Love it returnsThen, dear, try understand This heart that yeercs. Mabiox, n. C. ABrideforanHonr. A Tlrilj Story of tie Joinstown Disaster. i BY DAVID LOWRT. CHAPTER TIthe rescue. It wa? net weakness, although -Somen had battled fifteen or twenty minutes in the flood, saving lives, and was almost exhausted, nor any dread that made him weep; he cried like a child because he was powerless to help the hundreds of human beings threatened with the most horrible of deaths.,. __ "He was QlstraugTit with horror one moment. It was only when he looked down fend saw that he was clasping and unclasping his hands purposely that he realized his condition. "Axe we all going mad?" he asked a man near him. The man shivered, and turned his head aside. "Can nothing be done? is there no one wuu oau uy w oavo duiuo VI *uvoo ^wvpie? Is there no way to get at them? Those people on shore there, there! see the people in the boats. Why in the name of heaven do they not go to their aid?" Then one man, a big, mnscnlar man iFhose coat, ve6t and shirt was off, 6lowlv .replied, "If we save ourselves we may thank God!" I Now for the first time Somers suddenly Realized that half the men and women . around him had lost the greater part of Iheir clothing, and some were almost ( Jiaked. He looked wonderingly at him|elf. ft There was not a vestige of clothing upon him. I ? Half the people in the water were denuded by the force of the current and , Violent contact with floating debris. Somers looked closely at the people in J the attic. There was not a face there he knew. Where were all the people who were i around him half an hour ago? j ^.s Somers asked "himself this question, a woman pointed to a log that was borne swiftly past, across which an old man was lying. Half of his body wa6 ; out of water, his armB wore extended, lying helplessly on the log, and his head . *a11 41*/% Trnfar'c enrfflAA T-Tic 1 IVSO OUU XC11 WU IUC uatu a nuiAMw. hair was white; his eyes were closed, . seemingly in death. Half a dozen uttered 1 iiisrtame.* Evidently he was well known. Then another old man came in view, holding tvo children- Beside him was a j woman, who was straining to her breast ] a babe. The people in the attic murmured the names of these as they were whirled on to death. Next came?Som- j ers started?it was his intimate friend, the groomsman. He saw Somers, waved j a hand wildly, and disappeared, sinking J in the flood as a gieat tree rolled past. ] He was borne under by some of its j branches doubtless. , Here and there a man, boy, or woman could be seen in a flat or skiff. Some of these, crazed by fear or tha loss of their i family, were unable to control the frail craft, and, indeed, it would have re-; f quired a brave heart, a cool head, and a j tirm and steady hand and eye to render ( eervice in the straits to which they were . reduced. Nearer the mountain 6ideB people ( in boats were extending helping hands, i But out in the middle of the roaring , waters human aid availed nothing. Hundreds were ushered into eternity knowing, seeing the fate that awaited them. J At that instant Somers felt a tremor. The house a score of people were huddled in in fancied security began to rock. It moved. A mighty raft"of debris was pressing against it. , "We are going." , "We shall all be burned like the others," a woman moaned. "Here is one who will not," said the big , muscular man beside Somers. He sprang , Into the flood as he spoke, resolved to drown rather than be burned. He swam , boldly for a few feet, a great log struck , him, and he too disappeared from view. "Here is another," 6aid a tall man whose coat was buttoned tightly. A pistol rang in the air and he fell on the Somers felt the instinct of self-preser- j ration as strong at that moment as he had ever experienced it. He leaped into j the water and seized a large beam that j promised Telief temporarily, at least., while the house he left was swept sud- , tienly and with irresistible force down the stream, where the surging waters la- ! inorselessly ground it to pieces, and all Who relied upon it for 6afetv. 1 - a- -l ?: -P aZ 1 oomeooaj was buouiuiy iruQiicunv sear at band. Somers thought he heard his name. He looked toward the shore, - There was a man beckoning to him. The! , man stood np in a flat. He had a large piece of brpken board which he used as a paddlcT" There was not much current there. w "Jump, Mars' Somers! Jump into de water, fo* de Lawd's sake jump, an' I'll reach yo*. Dat timber'U carry you 'way. Jump!" Somers realized this much himself. But there was so much between him aud tne man m toe nat mat tne case eeemet hopeless. Finally he left the beam, and i once more -was swimming?battling for life. A piece of scantling -whirling in the -water struck him on the side. He i eank, lose, struck out again manfully-- j then felt his strength leaving him. Human endurance could stand no more ?the limit -was reached; throwing up ?iis ; hands, he sank once more. He rosa acain, and a powerful hand grasped his | wrist. I "I've got hold ?got a good grip, Mara i Somers. Easy now, hinny?don't you : fuss none!" i Then Somers felt himself pulled slowly into the flat, where he fell powerless to titter his thanks to hiB savior. I "Doan* yo' know me, Mars Somer6V Vait; when we git ashore yo'll come to Jo'6elf. I'm Si ?Si Harkess?Squire ep6on's man." Somers looked at him helplessly. Whon lie recovered his breath, he sat up. S!''s Strong hands soon put the end of the flfit gainst a house has covercd with water. "Dar'; jump in dar'?dere's a shed roof tack dar. You kin steo .right jpff.'n d? toot to de groun*. Defe's %l?ole lot cr people dar; mos' likely dey'll know you." " "Where is the Squire?and Mrs. Jep on?" "Doan' ask me?I did see de Squire out'n de water? den he got in agio. I doan' know?none of us knows what we <3oin' now?can't think ?head's juoj' bnrstin*?no time to cry, even.-Tee glad I saw yon, Mars Somerf. Ib?is?why i don't yon git in dar?" ^ And then Si, whose wifi reminded him t it was best not to speak of the bride at that time, suddenly put a hand cp. " 1 here were tears there now. He, too, I stepped out of the flat. He had helped < scores of DeoDle. bnt ha had D?iform*d ( the last act of kindness th?t was In his power. Xo man could guide a craft a i moment longer in those waters. When Somers sprarig from the roof oi f the shed on the sloping mountain-side to e the ground he saw numbers of people hurrying hither and thither. All were so busy helping each other, carrying children and helping tl.e wounded and aged up the mountain-side that no one noticed ' him Meanwhile SI Harkess puUod hi? coat off and handed it to him, saying, "Yo put dat on, Mars Somers; 't will do some good till yo' fin' clothes bomewhar. An' it may keep yo from catchia* death. Dat's it. Button it. Darl Now you're fixed till you get among men folks, an " "Where i-?did you see Mr. or Mrs. Broadhurst, S",n "Mr. BroailLiurtit, he's all right, I reckon. Mrs. Broadhurst an' de preacher, dey's both up on de hill somewheree. Bes' move along " "Are all the others gone?" "Doan', for Gawd's sake, speak no mo', Mar.? Somers? I can't slap' it." Xhen~Sf Harkess broke ddwn completely and sobbed like a child, whilo Somers 6tood looking at him with dry eyes. ' "Doan* look at me, Mars Somere; 1 can't bear it. Your eyes ecoxch me. Go 'long quick; get among men folks. Dar, now J "We can't do no good huyer. Move Vinnnv j Then Somers felt himself urged along hy Si, who held his arm tightly. As h? hurried on, Si muttered: "Wus'n drownin'! wus'n burnin'l Look* like's he gwine clean crazy!" CHAPTER TIL ON THE MOUNTAIN SIDE. Somers submitted to the negro without speaking. He was plunged in thought. After all, was it worth while to live? It were best to die. Why did he not die with his wife? "Mister Jenold, dis is Mars Somero." Somers looked up to meet the look of a middlo-nged man he remembered having met somewhera. Mr. Jcrrold's eyes were inflamed with weeping; his face wai grimy. He caBt a penetrating glance upon Somers, and the words that were shaped in his mind were unuttered. Instead, he took Somers by the hand, saying: "Come this way, and we will try to get some clothes for you. There's everything going to waste: it will keep you from taking cold." JDirectly Mr. Jerrold stood with Somers in a group of men, several of whom were wearing shawls and women's clotbes, freshly donned, evidently. SomerB woa handed .a pair of cast-off tjousere or overallle and a flannel shirt. He put q these on mechanically; meanwhile Mr. g Jerrold observed him intently. "louought to have something on your a Land." 1 Somers looked at his right hand. There r was & deep cut in it, and the blood was flowing freely. Until now he had not ? noticed it. p "And your Jbead?that is an ugly gash." ? Somers put his hand to hiB head, ? There wa? a great lump on the eide of his f head; blood trickled from it. d "It does not matter," he said. Mr. Jerrold called another man to him. b "Heavena! Somers! Are you hurt g much?" v It was Enoeh Bioaahurst spoke. Som;rs shook his head. b "Come?this way," said Broadhurst. t; 'I can't give you much time?I must help $ the Fordyces over there. Here!" He j( seized a common waterp^il that wa3 u placed under a rude bench that had been lifted out of the wnter, and set on the d mountain side. There was a small li sarthen pitcher on the bench. tl "Swallow that," said Broadhurst, hand- d ing him the pitcher he dipped into the pail. There was a gill of whisky in the t< pitcher. Somers did not know what the ^ pitcher contained until it was at his n inouth. Then he had gulped so muoh of b it down that it burned his throat. "Harkess?and you, Jerrold?keep an a ;ye on him until I return." s men uroadnur6t nastenea aown to a ti louse in which several people were moving about, -while others on the mountain c: side placed boards up to the windows for a :he occupants of the house to escape, h rhis was the work Enoch Broadhurst assisted in. When the last member of the b family .was gotten out?not without con- I: riderable peril to those who aided them? t] Broadhurst returned to .Terrold and Som;rs. if It was plain that Mr. Jerrold and Droadhurst were concerned about Som- E' >rs, who looked out on the waste of waters 1: low like a man in a dream. A woman, & listraught with grief, passed them at ;kat moment, bearing the dead body of a f' ihild in her arms. Behind her noma a j) little gin, and next the girl walked a man ? carrying a lame boy. The boy was deFormed, but his expression was angelic, t] Ihe father was crying. The boy was o trying to comfort his father. t "Let me down now, papa," he said o when they came opposite Somers. "I n ivant to rest I am tired?and you can J rest too." n jme man laiu mm uown genuy on itie tl ground. Then Somers 6aw that the boy's irm hung limp. He tried to fpeak to his i father once, twice?a gurgling Bound b issued fom his throat, then a torrent of 6 blood ficwcj forth. There was a 6i?gl$ ? ;asp, then tne uoV Ia$ motionless. His h life went out in that ga6p. d The father clinched his hands and turned his eyes heaven-ward with a fright- p< ful imprecation. Somers knelt besido bi the boy, placed a hand on his heart and p stroked his beautiful head. Ihen a gush n of tears blinded him. He felt for the w moment as though his hand rested on her w bead. He lifted the dead boy; the father made tl ao sign, and Somers, who, ten minutes qi before was so weak that he staggered, now felt strong enough to bear the boy furthei I up the mountain side. e1 When Enoch Broadhurst sought, him, g ho found him striving to comfort the dis- t< tracted mother. 3Ir. Jerrold was compelled to turn aside. b "You have lost some one, too," said Somers to Jeriold. ii "God help ub all?yea. Th? apple oi ny eye?my only solace in the world h&b b'. ;one. My daughter and her babe?the >abe that was my pride. Swept away v )efore I could reach them?and me look- ii ngon." C Somers reached out a hand. Jerrold v :lasped it convulsively, and they wept to- c jether. Enoch EroadhurRt called to Jerrold A oudlv at that moment, waving a hand to r i point below him. Jerrold walked to- i a sard him, and Somers, after casting an- 2 jther look back at the group on the rock ireund the dead boy, followed Jerrold. Mr. Broadhurst was bending over the body of a man. He bad turned the face F of the dead man npward. When Jerrold approached, Broadhurst straightened him. c ?elf and waited for Jerrold to speak. Si 6 HaikeKB forward at tha soma tim* "Poor Mr. itutledge.'" exclaimed Jer- y rold. i "Yes," said HarkeBS with a shudder, "dat'8 Mars llutledge. He done killed, t See he head." 1 "I do not find any papers about him? nothing so far by which to identify him," s said Enoch Broadhurst. ? "Dat's Mars Katledge, Mnrs Broadhus* 0 ?taint no one else," said Si Harkess. "I thought so, but it is possible to 1 make a mistake." i "I know it ii Mr. Rutledge," said Jerrold. "See, there is the broken tooth j oo h>v * noticad-" _ - . ?- c *I did not observe that," -said Broidinrst; "I am almost sure it w Rutledge. rhat was why 1 called yon. "We must iave the body removed speedily. H-e was bending over the body again. What is this?" he exclaimed. "There ias been murder here." He bared the lead man's breast, and they beheld n >ullet-hole. "I cannot understand this -I feat there has been foul play. Thia nust be looked into." "Do you thiflk he would shoot himself?" "Somers asked. He was alert igain; the fever had lei't his eyes. His tctions, words and looks were those of a ational man. "Why do you ask that?" "Because I 6aw a man shoot himself a ittle while ago. He was resolved he ihouldraot be burned to deaths" . ? "That is utterly unlike Rutledge. He ;vould have died at the stake if it was jecessary. How do you feel now?" He ooked narrowly at Somers. "Very tired?but I can help some yet." ""Well, in that case, there ie plenty for is all to do who are alive. There are jeople down there who do not know what hey are doing. Unless they are ta'ked :o. compelled to leave the water's edge, Ley will be drowned, and God knows jnough have been lost." It was nightfall before Somers and his oinpauion ceased their work. Then the eaction was so great that he was over:ome with sleep live minutes after he sat lown on the mountain side. Jerrold sat near him, but there was no sleep for 1'om Jerrold that nifiht. Mere were thousands'of others on th? nonntain side that night who did not ileep?thousands who, like Tom Jerrold, nourned their dead?many who were, like rom Jerrold, the sole survivors of fami-' ioc flint tcata flflstroverl bv the South Pork Bam. CHAPTER vm. WAS IT PKCVIDESCE? Tidings of the overwhelming calamity raTeJed fast. The telegraph wires flashed t half way across the continent that Light. Tko first to receive the news were tha lewsgatherers in Pittsburgh. The :alamitv grew in volume there until the vriterson -the press, the printers, an-J jreesmen were wearied, fagged out, pre)arin.g the details for their readers. The bulletins startled the workers who )aeeed tie newspaper ^offices. By the ime the business world had its eyes >pen, thcosands were looking on thi Allegheny, Which was running bank full. Evidences of ruin were abundant at dawn. !t was not until the morning was well ndanced, however, that the surface of the iver became thickly covered with all oanner of debris. Then the houses, >arns, shops, and lumber?all the floatng niatter swept away by the flood beow the bridge at Johnstown?was borne last the city at the head of the Ohio. The tidings of Has disaster were borne ip the Allegheny Valley again by the rainmen, by the morning newspapers, iy hundreds of workingmen. Uy tha ime the debris hod reached from ahore o shore, hundreds ?f eyes in every town ind Hamiei m tne Aiiegneny vauey were canning the waters. There were courageoas men ready and nxious to saccor victims of tho flood, i'hey eat in akiffe, looking out over tiw iver. Here and there, where large masses oi he wreck were collected into rafts, loatg mehed oat at groat risk to th? occupants; rho examined the debris, and patisted hemselves that no human being w^i astened between the interlaced frag, aents of timber and lumber. At Verona, seven miles from Pittsurgh, a large crowd of workingmen wera athered to"other, encouraging thosi rho had tkius to so oat.. One keen-eyed man, looking over th< road expanse of water, directed attenion to a cradle far out in the river. Intantly all eyes were fixed upon the ob. ect, aud tho occupant of a skill' urged t? lake his way to it. This man did no I require urging. Thi rift was very thick. It required no little :ibor and ingenuity to row a skiff across he current that was bearirg a mass 0/ ebris onward. The occupant of the skiff proved equal d the task he set himself. He madehia ray carefully to the cradle, which wai off almost abreast of the crowd assemled on the bank of the river. At this juncture speculation was rift mong the looJ.ers-on. What if there hould bo a child in the cradle, one ven<. ared to say. There was a movement among the rowd. One positive man reminded the ian who made the remark that that drift ad floated from fifty to seventy miles. Another equally positive said: "That tuff comen all the way from Johnstown, t aint likely that any one will come down tris far alive." "If there is anything in that cradle it 3 dead." "Why," said another, "think of the awal weathor. Do you think a child could ive through the night in that river?the ir would chill a stout man." The man who thought a child might be ound in the cradle meanwhile held big eace. The absurdity of the idea grew oe im, too, as he looked at the ruEhing ater. The man in the skiff was now very neai tie object of all this solicitude. Those n shore could see him moving through be drift with rare deliberation. They bserved him resting on his oars one linute as he looked over his shoulders, 'hen lie pushed forward, rowing rapidly ntil the boat touched the drift that buslined the cradle. "When the skiff seemed to be wedced nto the drift, the occupant stood up Tlift nonnln nn cborfi rnillfl UV4" WU*J. ee him bending over the cradle?could cq liim liftii* something, but whether etook it out of the cradle or from the ebrie beBiile it no one could be sure. Thej biheld him moving around in a eculiar manner. Tben he s*i down a?A egan to row shoreward. Kowitwmaaparent that there was something in or ear the cradle. The owner of the skiff as bringing the cradle to the 6hore ith him. "What is he doing? If there's anyling in the cradle, why don't he bring it shore and let the cradle go?" "If there waB a live baby in that cradle wouldn't give a pin for its chances. A Lick or log will hit it, and over it will o?mark my words. Jack Alward ought ) hive more sense." "Never you mind Jack; he knows what e is doing." "I'll bet he'll never bring that cradle Q." "You'll 6ee now. He has tied it to the kiff." The inteieBt in the cradle was now ery great. Some women who were standQg apart approached the man eagerly. )ne a6ked, "Can you see what Mr. Al?ard is doing??is there anything in the radle, do you think?" "I think," said one man, dryly, "Jack ilwardis hound to have that cradle after owing out there to see what was in it? 8 if anything living could be in it row. ib matter wfi?t mignftfave t>wn tli6r? ast night." i "i'ee,"" said another with a laugh,' Jack's going to save himself the ex-' ense of buying a cradle. "Look, look!" one of the women exlaimed. "I saw a baby'a hands in the ] tiff ? The men laughed scornfully. The roman persisted. "I know there's a baby n the skiff." "She is right." said a man. "I saw a aby's hand just now. See! There's wo hands." "Pooh! If there's anything in the kiff it's a dog. Jack is very fond of logs. You saw a dog's tail wagging, or , dog's ears." "I tell you it waB a baby's hands," said he other angrily. "I guess my eyesight's ;ood." By this time a great crowd had gathered t the river edge. Jack Alward'e errand rented all manner of speculation _ ] TBerfl were qnifSs ana jo*e? at tne expense of the man and woman who declared they beheld a baby's hands in the skiff. One solitary individual, standing apart, pulled a Bpy-glass out of his pocket and lookel Bteadily at the skiff which was forced down far below tho crowd now by the current, in epit of all that Jack Alward could do to effect a landing higher up. This man calmly passed his glass to another, and the second man who looked through the glass shouted that he beheld a babe's hands held up plainly. Then the crowd ran pell-mell down the river bank. Every man there -wanted to be first at the edge of the river when Jack Alward pulled his skiff to the -shore. Jack rowed deliberately to the shore; long before his skiff touched the shore his friends shouted to him: "What have you got there?" "Is it really a child?" Jack vouchsafed no reply. There was no need. Hundreds beheld a child's hands moving in the boat. Then a shout went up. Some one proposed a eheer for Jack Alward. It wee given with a wiri, and just then lie stepped ashore, carrying a babe in his arms. The crowd impeded his steps. Everybody wanted to see the babe that survived the awful flood. Women cried tears of joy. and laughed as they wiped their cheeks. "Let's carry it in its cradle, Jack," said a friend. "Tt'c minp. I found it. It's mine to keep!" "To be sure it is. But let us carry it up to your house in the cradle, Jack. Tnis is the 6econd Moses." "Yes, let us put Moses No. 2 back in the cradle, Jack." "Agreed!" said Jack. Then the cradle was plaoed on the ground, "Moses No. 2" -was placed in it again, and a a ?rry procession esoorted the babe to Jack A1 ward's door. In less than an hourevery man, "woman, and child in the town had the satisfaction of looking upon the babe that Jack Alward rescued from tbe river. CHAPTER IX. TOM PETEB8' HEIR. Somers slept soundly for hours. He drpiuiiftd. He thought ha was traveling in a 6trange country. Of all the people be encountered in his journeys not one knew him. He journeyed Dy water. The scenery was lovely, the air balmy; everywhere there was life and joy. It seemed a perpetual holiday. All the world was journeying. It seemed the most natural thing in the world of his dreams. He found himself unexpectedly in a vast building. It was like one of those huge hotels seen on the seashore. There was music everywhere. Young and old i? VYCJTO CUJVJAUQ kuu music, and looking on various games. There was a vast ball-room and in this the daacers -were without number. Somers danced too. He could see from -where he was dancing a vast sheet of water which until now escaped his attention. This water was placid as the bosom of a lake. Suddenly a scene of peril caused Somers to go to the balcony near at hand. He leaned out over it, and as he looked an awful sound filled the air. The people around him were wholly unaware of their peri], but it was plain to Somers that the great building would topple and plunge over a water fall greater than Niagara. Ho did not cry out; he gave no warning sound. He simply availed himself of the chance to leap out on the bosom of the lake, trusting to chance to enable him to escape the fate of those he left behind him. He leaped out of the house ?and awoke. The roar of the waterfall wns in bis ears. He 6at up. Tom Jerrold was walking back and forth on the mountain side clasping find unclasping his hands. Somers was on his feet presently. Seeing him up, Jerrold spoke to him: ""What is it, mm? Best lie down again. You can do no good. No one can help now." They were in a dent in the mountain side. Standing or lying there, it was impossible f(Jr any one to witness the horrors transpiring at tho railway bridge. Jerrold wns resolved that Somers should ^ot see them, lest he should conclude., u* so many others difl, tnHt an tney loved were imprisoned in the debris and slowly Lnrnine. "Where is Mr. Broadhurrt and Harkess?" "I'm hyur, Mars' Somers?right 'long side jon." "Lie down again," said Jerrold. "Why don't yon lie down?" "I did, but f conld not sleep." "Yon have exhausted yourself. Ton are hurt. You need rest. Lie down again. If yon are needed I will wake you." Thus counseled, Somers lay down ag?>n. " Where did this heavy coat come from? And this?what is it?" "it is a p:ece of tarpaulin. It will keep yon warm." [X? BE CONTINUED.] Neglcctcd Wild Xice. When Columbus discovered America the two most valuable and important cereals known to the Indians were corn and wild rice. Corn has been continually cultivated and greatly improved during three or four centuries, but our native rice has been so generally neglected that few persons seem to know t.lint snnh ii nr.iin firists. fnv.wincr nlono' ? 0 j 0- - a a the banks of thousands of streams, covering millions of acres, in swamps, bays and salt-water and fresh-water meadows, the food of myriads of wild duck6, geese and other graminivorons birds. The aborigines of North America .knew the value of and highly appreciated this grain, gathered it when ripe, and stored it in vast quantities for winter. As this species of rice, like its near relatives, the cultivated varieties, thrives best in low and submerged lands, the Indians could readily harvest the crop while paddling or pushing their canoes through the dense thickets of this grain-hearing grass, by merely bending the heads over their frail vessels, and either shaking or beating out the seeds. Many early voyagers and settlers in this country were highly pleased with this wild rice, and some of our earlier botanists gave rather extravagant accounts of its value. Elliott, in his Botany of South Carolina and Georgia, says that "this grass grows in great abundance near the mouths of our fresh water rivers. It constitutes a considerable portion of the fresh-water marshes, preferring those situations where tbe soil is overflowed one to two feet deep at high water." He adds that the leaves arc succulent and eaten with avidity by stock, but it does not appear to have been found of much importance for forage. There are really two species of this wild rice, one with a round grain, the other oblon/; the latter is most common, and extends much the farthest northward, in fact its original home appears to be around the great lakes of the Northwest, from whence it may have been disseminated by the prehistoric races of America or by the many streams flowing from these regions. Beedmen do not usually have a call for the seed, but a visit to almost any tide-water bay or marsh on the east shore of Pennsylvania or New Jersey during November would afford opportunity of gathering an almost unlimited rtnontifTT ftYstrlt. Trllmnt. WAX FIGURES. i I THE LIFE-LIKE REPRODUCTION ] OF PROMINENT PEOPLE. 1 Processes and Details of an Art That Has Reached a High Stage of , Nicety?Obstacles Overcome by the "Cirier." Few pcopie -who look at ft waxwork group of artistic make have any idea of the manifold operations which have led iin +r\ ife nr\millotion Until n fr>W TPftrs ?- J the wax figures and groups exhibited in this country were most crude and unfinished. The light demand for them, except in cheap amusement halls, was reasonable for the poor quality of work, and there was no incentive given to clever wax artists abroad to show us just what could be done in the way of mechanical reproduction of life. In Barnum's old-time museum, which stood on the present site of the Herald building, a few stiff and staring examples of the wax maker's art were A HEAD MODEL READT FOR THE TV A X . supplemented by two or three figures so realistic as to suggest to the intelligent observer that there were possibilities in wax figures previously unknown in America. The wax work of to day have reached probably the highest degreee of excellence. The well-executed figure has all the grace that a living figure could show if posed in as immovable a style as the other. They all look stiff to the eye which lingers on them tor any length of time, because they are absolutely motionless. A single glance at a good figure will find in it not only a good pose, but what the artist calls action, but when the eye gets more accustomed to the work its immovability soon suggests a stiffness that is really not evident. Some years ago several expert wax [ figure makers, Frenchmen for the most part, were brought to this country. The ] leading man in an establishment of this kind is the sculptor. To secure good results it is necessary tnat tne scuipior sliould be highly capable. At the present i time Mr. Feinberg is at the head of a corps of assistants in a suite of rooms i which are filled with lifelike figures in all degrees of preparation. When a single figure ot a group is needed the sculptor gets together his pictorial matter, if the order is for something historical, and with the aid of this material he makes a careful drawing, showing the figures properly draped, and in addition, all the accessories that would go in to the completed work. This sketch being approved, a small model in basrelief is made of the whole design, and this miniature design being approved, or altered until satisfactory to the committee the actual work is begun. As the average wax fixure is the reproduction of some man or w jman of note in past or present the greatest skill on the part of the sculptor is necessary to produce a likenes. Very often there is nothing but a portrait to work from, and that is not always in the exact shape or position that the group calls for. There have been many instances, how- < ever, where living celebrities have con- : sented to pose for the sculptor, and thus i made a strong work possible. Mr. Con stant Thys, a skilful "cirier," as the 1 French terra it; a word -which fully translated means 4iwaxer," told the writer that the difficulties experienced in portraiture were the most exhausting part of of the work. When the sculptor has secured all the material possible he begins to shape a head in clay. If the design calls for an exposure of the body below the neck, as < in the case of a savage, the shoulders are ] reproduced in clay as well as the head. , If tne face is a bearded one the beard is | modelled in form, and naturally to se- cure a likeness the hair of the head is j also formed. . When the head is finished in clay it is f approved either as regards its propor- ^ tions or its likeness to the original, aud when so approved it is ready for the mold- , er to handle. j The next operation is an important t oue, as it means to a certain extent, the s destroyal of the likeness obtained by j long and patient work. This operation < -- *1? ?nil /%1qw Tt*Vnr?Vi is me cuiiing nwuj vx an kuv v???j represents the hair and beard of the } original. This mutilation is necessary, 'j because the hair and beard are to be ? made eventually of the real article. i The head of clay, when stripped, is 1 now oiled and then covered by Mr. Berti, j the sculptor's assistant, with a coating of 1 plaster of Paris about three or four inches ? thick. In ten minutes this coating is s partially hardened and the work of cut- 1 ting the mold into pieces is begun. A c sharp knife will cut through this dough- ^ like substance, now too soft to chip and i too hard to run. * 1 "When the mold is cut in five or six s pieces the lowest end, at the base of the 1 neck, is cut away in the centre, leaving t an opening about five inches in diameter, 1 if the head is life size. On one of ' the i cut sides of each piece the artist makes i two or three holes at intervals of three ] inches. On the piece which fits against j it he places little dabs of soft plaster. The holes are now oiled and the whole 1 mold is put together again. The soft ] plaster dabs are now allowed to harden in the oiled holes, and when the mold I is taken apart again it is provided with | little "locks," which prevent the pieces from supping apart at. ?u niujipunuut moment. While these operations on the hand are under way the bodies which are to com- ] plete the figures are being made in a \ somewhat different manner. As explained j above only those portions of the upper < part of the body as are to be exposed , are maae m ciay. l ne nanus, arms ana i extremities are made in most cases from living models. When a group has been designed the ; different positions of the hands and arms are made from male and female models, 1 md .1 plaster cast is made from them in the same way as described above. In a ijreat many cases where certain poses are neodpd rnjsts are also made from the lower limbs. Even the trunk is sometimes reproduced in this -way. As none but the exposed portions of a fi,TOT.? are made of wax, on account of the great cost partly, the bodies are made of papier-mache. The molds for these portions of the figure are made in two pieces for each lower limb, upper limb, forearm, upper arm or trunk. These molds, when perfectly hard, arc ready for the mannikin maker. A woman does this work. The first operation is the fitting of pieces of cardboard in each half mold. To this is glued a layer of coarse baggiog and after that alternate layers of carboard and bagging until the structure is nearly a quarter of an inch thich. It is then coated on the inside with a thia layer of plaster. When all these parts are taken from the molds and put together the result is a very graceful reproduction of a nude human figure, minus the arms, head and nnooo +V? rxti />V? flrm 1Q X LA LAAKJ J u VCMUOj l/UUU^U KUV Miu* *very often made in this way. Numbers of these figures stand about in the mannikin room awaiting the time when the wax portions are to be attached and the whole figure made ready for exhibition. To insure that the final clothing of the mannikins shall hang properly the mannikins are invested with complete suits of knit underclothing. "We will now follow the head and the other portions of the figure which are to be finished in wax. These particular molds are now taken in charge by Mr. Thys and are carried down to the wax room. This room is a sort of hot box, the temperature being at 120 degrees at all times. The most delicate operation of all is now made. In a long, wooden tank at one end of the room the mold is placed in water. Connected with this bath is a steamDiDe. When the mold is ready tne steam Is turned on, and, the watei becoming heated, the mould i: soot ready for the box. The wax used for the figures is thi best obtainable quality of Americai bleached beeswax, which comes in thin disks. It is perfectly white whet bought, and in this state it is melted down until it has reached the consistency of oil. As it is not desirable to make the heads and hands of such pale material, the artist colors it to suit his needs. For a head and 'ice he mixe3 in the wax when melted certain quantities of dry colors. These colors are Prussian blue, crimson lake and silver white. When the wax is meant for heads reauirin? a more sombre tint or for the hands of males, some burnt umber is added. It is necessary to insure a good was mold to have an almost exact temperature in the wax and the heated pkstec mold. Experience has taught the artist) the proper time to take out his plaster, and when it is just hot enough it is oiled to prevent the wax from sticking and stood on its head on the stone floor. SOME LIFE SIZE MASIKIXS. A large funnel is now placed in the apeningat the neck and the wax is poured into the funnel, the lower end of which is as far down in the mold as it will go. When the amount of wax needed to fill the whole space has been poured in, the funnel is pulled out slowly and the wax is distributed gradually. If the wax is poured directly into the mold from the large tin vessel in which it is melted bulbles arc apt to form in places where ;hey may mar the surface of the head. After fifteen minutes' time has partially hardened the wax nearest the mold, the soft wax in the centre is poured back into the tin. In the fifteen minutes allowed for cooling, the wax left in the mold when the soft portion is poured out is about one-quarter of an inch in thickness, although it may vary i sixteenth in some places. Such varia;ion is not objected to, as it servc3 to jive transparency to the head. Very often when the mold is unmpped of the strong ropes which hold t together during the 'pouring, and ;aken apart, the wax is found to have ;tucic fast to some part of the plaster not ully oiled. This necessitates the >peratioo being done all over again. The day following the melting the lead is ready for its final shaping. Though it is now perfect as regards the general features, there are many roughlesses apparent, especially along the ines where the plaster mold had its oinings. These lines and any little umps that may have been caused by ijiall holes in the plaster are carefully haved down. The eyes of the waxen lead are simply rounded reproductions >f the human eyeball and the mouth is jenerally partially open, with no rnodelngs of the teetn. When the wax is as lard as it can be made by the atmosphere i crooked tool with a round end is leated and the eyes are burned out from he inside of the hollow head. The jack wall of the open mouth is similarly reated, and the head is now ready for :he accessories. The rims of the eye lave to be painted and other parts of face made deeper or lighter in color. One of the most artistic operations is the reproduction of the color of the buman lip. This effect is not made with paints,but is obtained by the skillful laying on of colored wax. A spatula, a small modeling tool, is heated in an alcohol flame and pressed into a cake of wax of the proper color. This while hot is distributed along the two lip9 thinly, and although it gets lighter in color when not it dries or hardens to just the desired tint. In heads where the design calls for uneven teeth the artist introduces ' --j -i small pieces 01 wax anu swages iucm iu juit the subject. Ordinarily the teeth used are the usual variety of false teeth procured from the dentist supply houses. Many of the male heads have to be represented as recently shaven, and the work necessary to give the life size face this effect is somethine enormous. With M J a -little sharp needle point the artist pnno* j tures the face in many thousand places*' .3 While the hcle9 are not as close togetfietj as the hairs in a man's beard are the head when finished has the proper appearance.! ' MANIKIN SECTIONS SHAPED IN MOLDS. After the tedious operation of puncturing is done black color is rubbed all over the cheeks and the chin, and then the surface ot the face is wiped off with a dry cloth. The paint that has gone Into the little holes in the face remains, and the effect, even when you stand close to the figure, is very fine. -j Putting in the eyelashes is a verydiflBl-i 'l cult and slow piece of work. The wax at the eyelid is very thin, as the edge haa v, j been trimmed to sharpen the lid and do away with any appearance of clumsiness, j ./ Along both lids little holes very close to; ./a another are punched, and every hair nasi to be carefully pushed in and poised so as to give the whole row a natural regu?' ^ larity. The eyes used in the figures are about the only things that have to be imported..1 " < It was found that the only eyes that ;J could be got here were the substitutes: for human ones that are occasionally j < used by oculists. As this sort proved- , i too expensive, an inferior but fully as useful eye was brought from abroad.; They are made to order and come in several sizes. Putting the hair in its place is one of the most interesting operations of tho clever French artists. The hair is procured in this country and is of all colors and degrees of fineness and coarseness- v ; imaginable. Tradition having credited . j some olden time ruler with a peculiar kind of hair, the right sort of thing, if not in stock, must be procured and imi- . ' tated. The "driers'" method of applying the( hair so that it will stay is to clutch w bunch of it in one hand and a small stick,, in the end of which are three and, some-' times four needled, in the other. The needles are pushed down into the war through the bunch of hair, and at each' insertion are sure to take some of the hair ends down with them. Sometimes whenthe loose bunch is pulled away two hairsstay and sometimes all four needles aref successful. With a large bunch of hair, and incessant puncturing it is only q matter of a few hours work to cover a. head with a closely fitted crop of hair. When this is done the wax head can be held up by its covering without any ' . ' -3 Ssalsl V? UUU^cr ui wuc uuii uuuiiiii^ uuu ^ Putting a sparse growth of hair on q head that is supposed to be on the verge of perfect baldness is a most delicate . ,! work. The hairs have to be put farther apart and the artist cannot work so fast. '-;j The short stubby beard, supposed to be the growth of about two weeks, is very difficult to reproduce. These short hairs have to ba put in one by one, as the eyelashes are, and there. is very little to show for a day's work. The eyebrows of , ?j most figures are thick, and therefore easy to handle?comparatively. The hands attached to wax figures ate. in some respects the most perfect and realistic features. They are really madefrom life. Another evidence of the care that artistic feeling prompts the clever "cirier" to take is the making of the fingernails of his figures. Thin sheets or strips of horn, very transparent and naillike are cut out to fit the large or small fingers. A small piece of the pink wax used to color the lips is put on each before it is affixed to the finger end. "When the nail is in place the hand looks as though it could move, so lifelike has it become. Most of the historical costumes which drape the groups are made by a little lady on the premises. They are beautiful in quality and workmanship, and are put together nearly as strongly as though they were to be worn about the streets or on the stage. All these artists are . advocates of thoroughness and they make their work fit for the closest inspection. It is the modern costume that generally fails to adapt itself to the wax figure, / ^ in spite of the fact that the manikins are so carefully made as to imitate nature in all its lines and poses. "Jet the fact re- * mains that a wax figure in an ordinarv suit of coat, vest and trousers presents a queerness of appearance that is inexcus FINISHING A HEAD. able when one knows how graceful a model is hidden beneath it. If some appliance could be inYented that would enable the wax man to vibrate enough to give the muscles of his limbs the appearance of working it is possible that thW stiff look would disappear.?New Tori Herald. No Place for His Spectacles. An Irish beggar woman was following a gentleman who had the misfortune to lose his nose, and kept exclaiming, 'Heaven preserve Tour Honor's eyesight." The gentleman was at last annoyed at her importunity, and said" "Why do you wish my eyesight to be preserved? Nothing ails my eyesight, , nor is likely to do." "No, Your Hon- ' or," said the Irish woman, "but it will - MI be a sad thing if it does, lor you win have nothing to rest your spectacles upon."?New York Star.