The San Francisco call. [volume], December 08, 1895, Page 15, Image 15

About The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913

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"KARAMOJAHS," OR THE BIG
BOOK-MEN OF THE GALLINAS
BY BRANSOOMBB A.SKEI_iEJY.
Seldom as we hear now of "the school- |
roaster abroad,' 1 among the tribes of inter
tropical Africa such functionaries under J
the name of "Karamojahs" are not only '
numerous, but they enjoy very high ana
distinguished rank. The doctrine that j
knowledge i? power prevails in these re- (
gions as well as elsewhere. Here, how- j
ever, the Koran— regarded as a treasury of !
knowledge in itseif— enables the student to j
take his own degrees. Public opinion |
grants him his diploma, and as a Kara- I
mojah he is something more than the j
schoolmaster, he is a book man, a pro- j
fessor of everything; and as old age is
everywhere held in veneration his progress i
in life, as well as his progress in knowl- j
edge, constitute the "sliding scale" by \
which he rises in knowledge to the higher !
rank of a tßig Book-man, whether profes- j
sionally or not. As more humble pre- j
ceptors, however, of reading and writing in j
the earlier stages of their career, the fra
ternity of Karamojahs devote much time
to copying particular passages from the i
"Sacred Book, ' and they are celebrated for I
the neatness of their writing and the taste
of their initial capitals, which are fre- 1
quentlv illuminated with gaudy colors.es- t
pecially blues and reds. Shorter extracts |
also are in constant demand to be sewn in |
leather cases and worn as charms, or
amulets about the person. Hence
the fraternity of the "Garangays,''
or leather-workers, acquire distinction
also; and hence, again, distinction settles
upon another numerous class, who, as wan
dering religious merchants, well stocked
with amulets und gree-grees, and cunning
in making them — simulate sanctity as a
charm in itself, and drive a charming
trade in working upon the fears and cre
dulity of their numerous victims. The
"wet season" is famous for its natural and
artificial products; the "dry" for its crops,
traveling and traffic ; and where hospital
ity is proverbial and strangers always wel
come, the best entertainment and pro
found respect everwhere await a Kara
mojah who has taken his degrees.
The following story is no imaginary fic
tion, but a narrative of an actual fact':
"The Gallinas" is a part of the wer-tern \
coast, as well known to the heathenish
superstition of its inhabitants as for its
palm oil or its speckled poultry. Hither
our hero has worked his way as an itin
erant priest, doctor, lawyer, trader or
huckster, taking everybody into his- con
fidence and cajoling everybody in turn.
It is now the turn of the chier, by whom
he is honorably entertained, and who is a
fair type of those petty rulers in the coast
districts who exercise a kind of patriarchal
authority over a few families and personal
slaves, and whose traditional predilections i
reflect rather the tone and character of
European intercourse than the less
sophistical habits and aspirations of the
people and chiefs of the interior. They
have high notions of ''white man> savey"
and white man's linsro. They love to in
dulge in that mental "blindman's buff,"
in which they grope for puncheons of rum,
hogsheads of tobacco and runaway slave?,
and they occasionally rejoice in a super
annuated naval uniform coat or cocked
hat conferred upon them in a "spree," as
the ceremony of a diplomatic mission from
the court of St. James with the brevet
rank of "King" and the honorary sobriquet ;
of "Snowball" or "Bottlenose."
In a personal sense Obesity is the
prominent characteristic of our host.
Slimness that of his guest. On this score
a capita] O may represent the one and a
capital i the other, with the advantage,
too, of being converted into numerals; as
.:■ : Number One! On tne score
of diesm^nd address the contest is not less
striking^
A shnplfe, loose, rusty, blue cotton robe,
a red .woolen cap upon his orbicular head,
and a gree-gree necklace of alligator's
teeth complete the outward and visible
attire of the chief; who prefers ease to dig
nity. Not so his distinguished guest, who
with a blue robe also, ana a black skullcap,
charms dangling from It is neck and af
fixed to his wrists and ankles— tall, long
limbed and long visaged, a high forehead,
.■ling cheekbones, thin, aqniline
a most insinuating mouth and small,
piercing eyes — prefers dignity to ease.
Mystery i 3 the very soul of supersition,
and the BooK-man knows it. He is, by
turns, mysteriously reserved, and the
chief cogitates; mysteriously affable, and
the chief reciprocates; now troubled in
si int. as with an aching heart, and the
chief commiserates.
'Come, come; smoke pipe; try hlly
rum!" gays the old man, but he is wrapped
in ecstacy as be speaks — to himself — of
heaven and the fruition of his hopes when
he srets there ! The chief pricks his ears.
He descants on the temporal oenents
conferred by gree-grees, and the relative
virtues of the genuine and the spurious.
His remarks naturally tend to enhance
the value of the particular eree-gree he
has bestowed upon his "good friend as a
present, "make his heart lie down easy."
But he knows full well how rebellious the
human heart is; he knows how prone it
is to jump up and "'dance" till it is tired;
and he knows also that this is an inter
< alated period of the chief's existence.
The old man is about to think so himself—
• ..it his heart must get up and dance!
Ihe hearts of his people have ail been
reed, and are all dancing, while their
voices are singing the praises of the Big
Lo'ik-ruan!
Though we have not the slightest evi
dence of it, not even a transient gleam of '
inward joyonsness reflected upon his im
passive countenance, it may be questioned
whether the heart of the great Book-man
itself is not at least indulging in an allegro
movement, if not a decided jig; and this
not so much in unison with the popular
inspiration or the vocal sounds as with
his' own mental enumeration of ail the
gree-grees he has already disposed of, while
he glances at the heaps of corn and rice he
has to carry away with him whatever else
may represent their convertible value.
X~o wonder that such a man should have
moments of abstraction; that his pagan
host should reverence such conclusive evi
dence of a great mind, or that such a mind,
such calm imperturbable gravity, such a
dignity, such a something which the chief
cannot yet quite comprehend, should in
spire ideas of super-superlative eminence.
It is that something which most puzzles
him. "What can it'be?" He has seen the
great rr.an draw a mysterious paper from
the folds of his robe, spread it before him
and port- over it with the deepest solici
tude and conceal it in haste when con
scious of being observed. The chiefs cu
riosity has however kept pace with his ap
parent caution and obtained a clance at it.
"It is very beautiful ; it must be a buj gree
gree!" But here he is wrong, and his
guest tells him so.
"It is wholly a private matter, my good
friend, and has nothing to do with this
world— nothing!"
And yet such is the Derverseness of hu
man natuie, this announcement only
makes the old man importunate to have at
least another look at it; he acknowl
edges to having seen "a lilly bit."
"You have!" exclaims his companion
with simulated surprise. "Do yon really
mean tiiat?"
"Yes, 1 replied the chief, "my eye catch
lilly bit: my heart hungry for Jilly more;
come, come, you let me see him, eh?
The other deliberates— that charming
mouth of his is practicing the spasmodic
wriggle of vexation— the chief isthc more
' . "You no call megoodfriepd, eh?
he asks persuasively.
Weil, well, I suppose I must tell you
what it is, but"— he pauses and looks
round suspiciously — "the truth is. al
though it cannot' possibly concern you
and I ought not to show it to anybody,
still, as a friend I so much esteem, I may
perhaps trust you— yes, I think I may.
Ihe cuief, exalted in his own opinion of
himself by such confidence, earnestly as
severates his observance of secrecy.
"You must know, then," continues the
Book-man, "that an ancestor of mine be
queathed me — and it is this that makes me
happy apart from what I can do to make
others happy. 1 have, indeed, little to dis
turb me here, and I have more than I need
herrafter."
The eyeballs of the old chief dilate and
his breath is checked by an acute throb at
his heart, as his companion now produces,
but without yet unfolding, the* precious
document.
"Well, then, resumes his guest with
preater solemnity, "this ancestor of mine
[he here taps upon the mysterious paper
with his forefinger to give emphasis to his
words] — this ancestor of mine, I say, was a
great man — a eood man, too — and" a groat
Book-man, and when he died he bequeathed
me
BBVSB LOTS IS HEAVEN!
And secured them to me by this book —
this bio book.'' The chief is paralyzed with
amazement. His eyes gloat upon the
folded paper, while a* convulsive action of
his throat checks for a while his utterance.
"And may 1 no see him?" he at length
exclaims.
His guest shows some reluctance — a
"KARAMOJAHS," OR THE BIG BOOK-MEN OF THE GALLINAS.
' struggle between bis scruples and biskind
| Jier ieelings; but he presently, with great
. care, unfolds and spreads before the won
: dering eyes of his credulous host the tan
-1 talizing title deed to heavenly property,
th.c surveyed plan of the domains (of
course on a greatly reduced scale, but
beautifully colored)," free from all "con
tingent remainders" or incumbrances
whatsoever.
With their foreheads now broucht nearly
• in contact they pore over the wonderful
book, and our hero proceeds to expatiate
on tLe transcendent sources of unalloyed
I happiness in store for him; to explain in
! glowing terms the merits of the several
' lots so clearly defined by settled bounda
| ries. He refers particularly to the center
of the middle lot as the location of bis
: mvn house:
"Fine house there, very fine; tine piazza: |
' fine hammock, too; close by that cotton ]
: tree — all them palms — and that fine river; |
plenty cold in that river."
"Ah !" exclaimed the chief.
"Plenty, plenty!" reiterates his ex
! positor; "no alligator there, no shark
' tbere."
He now enlarges on the exuberant fer
| tility of the lanti ; the never failing crop
! of rice and corn, and cassava and yams;
'. the perpetual serenity and purity of the
| atmosphere —
"Hab tobacco dere?" asks the old man;
! "rum, too?"
"F-i-n-« t-o-b-a-c-c-o ! fine, fine, very fine!
too much rum, too much!" is the ready
repjy.
. "So tornado therf," he continued. "No
saucy sea; no thunder, no lightning, no
thieve?, no quarrel, no fight, no slaves."
"What!" exclaims the chief, interrupt
; ing him again, "No slaves?"
"Slaves? No." he emphatically replies.
"No want slaves there; no worK there; no
i trouble there; no witches; no griffies; no
j 'punah' and 'red water' there- no wicked
| wangka there; Mumbo Jumbo no come
i there; no want fetish and gree-gree there ;
j all happy there. Nothing, nothing like
i what ur, have down here."
The poor old chief is nearly driven to
i ecstatic madness. One idea, now, alone,
i absorbs his mind. If he could only obtain
j one of those lots — only one! But the glow
of hope, which is acting as a powerful
I diaphoretic, is suddenly checked by the
| anguish inroad of despair, as he sees, with
i almost idiotic stupor, his companion again
■ folding the previous allotments, replacing
| them within his robe and coolly leaving
j his "good friend" to his meditation*.
The Karamojah now makes preparations
! for his departure, he has important mat
j ters to nttend to elsewhere, and he begs
I his dear friend to lend him a few slaves to
! carry his merchandise to Calabash Creek,
! where his canoe awaits him.
"Karamojah, do him friend lilly fabor,
I too?" asked the chief, with faltering voice.
"To be sure!" replies his companion;
"what will I not — that I can do to serve
| one Iso much esteem. I know what you
I wish for and you shall have it!" The
I countenance of "the chief brightens. "You
| want another gree-gree?"
"No, no — no want gree-gree," exclaims
\ the old man, very despondently. "Kara
mojan let him hab one lot in heaven — only
j one — or part of one, just for a bunyah (a
i present)."
No wonder the Book- man is astonished at
I such a request. He shows it; he delib-
I crates and then with profound gravity
j observes:
"Really, my friend, you make my heart
lie down with grief. I ought not to have
■ shown you that big book. I would gladly
; serve you in any way, but. it's very pro-
I yoking, you ask too much — too mucn.
But I shall pee you again soon and then — "
What a moment for the chief! The
| question which he cannot suppress at once
! hurries into utterance —
"Why, then you no sell me one lot — only
| one."'
"Well, perhaps I might do that, though
; I would rather give you one if I could, and
| as it is I cannot really take the full value
I from you."
"Tell me, tell me how much?" impa-
t iently cries the chief. The Book-man mcd
! itates and counts his lingers in debating
| the question with himself. "Let me see —
j yes— l think 1 might manage to do so" — he
! pauses — "the old man has been very kind,
' very"— he pauses again — the old man sighs.
"It v quite a sacrifice," he continues, "cer
tainly ; but— yes— l suppose I must."
"Well, my worthy friend, if I do let you
I have one lot, I ought not to have less than
\ ten good slaves 'the chief is staggered],
but, as I really feel in your debt and wish
1 to oblige you, I must say seven, though
'tis a great sacrifice, certainly."
"Seven good slaves is a great deal," says
the chief.
"Yes," rejoin? the Karamojah, "down
here, not up there— don't want uJaves
there."
"Are you quite sure of that? says the
old man doubtingly.
"Quite, quite sure," is the prompt reply.
"Well, well; yes, yes." vehemently ex
claims the chie£ "you ehall hab seben." .
THE HAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1895.
And they are duly selected and handed
over to the Biff BooK-man.
The old chief now looks for his title deed
and the conveyancer looks puzzled.
"I find on consideration, my friend, that
I am likely to make bad business of this;
very bad business. I no see clear road in
this matter before, but now I see it will
bring trouble, and—"
"Trouble!" exclaims the old man, "you
no tell me no trouble lib in heben?"
"That's quite true, my friend— we all
know that— but what I mean is, my an
cestor, who lives on the next big farm and
bequeathed those lots to me may not like
my disposing of any of them. I see I
have done wrong, very wrong, in showing
you my book, but my friendship got the bet
ter of my prudence^ 1 must not spoil this
book."
The old man is bewildered. Will he tret
back his seven slaves, or has the Kara
mojali bewitched them? This, for the
moment, is the leading idea in his mind,
but the faculty of speech seems to have
left him. Not so his companion, who,
now rising from his seat, continues, as he
takes deliberate steps backward and
forward :
"Of this I am quite certain: My great
ancestor would not like mv sending two
or thref- strangers to sit down alongside of
him. He dislikes strangers, and so do I;
so. my good friend—"
His" good friend simply waves his hand,
which indicates a desire to "cut the pal
aver"; despair has overtaken him; his
heart, "too much hungry for heaven,"
now. like the vulgar stomach, seems to
reject the food it coveted; his vis mentis,
sustaining a collapse, or crushed in some
dark corner within him, sends up a hollow
sepulchral sound, which, with a gasp,
escapes his lips in the following words:
"Why— you— call me— friend f"
"Well, and are you not my friend?"
asks the Book-man"; "and am I not your
friend?"
"Why— you— call me— stranger then?—
stranger no friend."
"I see, I see," observes the wily Book
man, "you mistake my meaning. You are
no stranger to me, but to mv ancestor you
are; still, as my friend, he will be rejoiced
to see you — quite delighted, I'm sure — but
he would not like one or two other stran
gers, nor would I ; and you. too, as a chtef,
would not like it — of course not. Don't
you see?"
No, the old man sees nothing; his eyes
are closed and his head, surcharged with
witchery, has fallen upon his chest, with
his*Jouble chin acting as a "buffer." The
Karamoiah is a little bit disturbed.
"Come, come," he expostulates, patting
| his "good friend" on the shoulder, "I
; make good sense of this. 1 make your
I heart get up! Come, hear what I say!"
j The chief's head gets up first; his eyes
| open, his mouth opens and his ears are no
j doubt open also, to receive as conductors
i to his heart the assuaging unction.
"You no see my big book?" asks the
! Big Book-man.
"I see him— l see him go»d," responds
the chief.
"Very well, then. You no see them
three lots one side my big lot— them three
lots, all the same, t'other side?— all seven
i lots make one very big farm. You no see,
I s'pose I sell you one small lot, I spoil book,
i and spoil farm, too? And s'Dose I sell
I t'other two lots to make good book and
i good farm, I make three small farms^ and
have one or two strangers alongside of
me? My ancestor make them seven lots
one farm, he don't like small farms, and,
I tell you again, he don't like the stran
gers! He would like you as my friend no
doubt. You no see I speak true", eh ? Ino
pull you to this palaver, my friend— you
pull yourself?"
The mental vision of the old man is new
susceptible of this new light, and hope,
not quite extinct, in making a rallying
effort to revive, prompts him to exclaim
as his "friend" seems about to depart:
"Yes, yes; I see, I see; stop lilly while,
j stop!" He pauses to take breath, and the
I Karamojah pauses to tell him he must be
I off. " S'pose," he continues, "I buy two
I lots, eh! that no small farm."
"Very true," says the Karamojah, "yes,
I that would make a very good farm — fit for
j a chief; but there would stiil remain one
small lot, and I must have one stranger,
i Unless, indeed, I only sold two instead of
three. I might do that; but no, my good
friend; no, no; I see, I see — "
"Yes, yes! come, come! now good
friend, now!"' exclaims the old man im
ploringly. "You let me hab t'oder lot,
eh ! — come, come!"
"Well, really, you quite embarrass me.
1 shall not reach Calabash Creek before
sunset. I suppose I must oblige you; but
', 1 am making a great sacrifice. Let me
i see— ten and ten are twenty, and seven
and seven are fourteen. I shall lose six
yes, actually six. I must not do that; I
must split the difference. You must give
me ten slaves for this second lot, and I
•hall then be loser of three."
"Ten," exclaims the chief, "ten. Oh!
no, no; seben, seben. Say seben, same as
t'oder lot?"
But the Karamojah is obdurate. Ten
more slaves arc now added to the others
and the whole seventeen are loaded with
his traps, to proceed with him to Calabash
Creek. They are jubilant. They do not
know which to admire most, poor, simple
minded people, the magnificence of the
chief in giving his guest seventeen slaves
for bunyah, or the extraordinary merits of
j the Karamojah who could deserve so
I much at his hands. They carelessly say
farewell to their old master and are gone.
"And now, my friend," says the Kara
mojah, "I hope I have made you happy ;
your heart now lie down easy; trouble no
more come, eh ?' '
"No," replies the old man, "no care for
trouble now — when you gib me book — no
trouble up derc."
"Well, then, come!" respond* his com
panion, drawing the precious "book"
again from under his robe, and spreading it
carefully before the eager eyes of his "good
| friend." "You see my house live in this
middle lot, and I shall sit down dere. Now
tell me which two of them other lots
you like?" And while he speaks he
draws from a sheath suspended from his
waist a sharp-pointed knife, or dagger, for
the purpose of severing the lots selected.
The chief scrutinizes the six lots with the
deepest interest, speculating, no doubt, on
the local advantages of those he may
decide upon; but the more he speculates
the more is he puzzled. The "convey
ancer," too, seems puzzled.
"Very odd," he exclaims; "this bad
business ; you no see I can't pull them two
lots?" Poor old man. a dizziness hascome
over his brain. There is something wrong,
he knows, he cannot imagine what.
"Come, come, my friend," continues the
Book-man ; "no go tie your face that
fashion ; let us try make some sense of j
this; Ino see this before; there is gree
gree in this book, you no see, eh?
"Come, come, my good friend," again
expostulates the merciless Book-man — "I
no like spoil your Heart, come let's try
make this palaver cool." The old man loous
up, but he speaks not. his eyes and ears
alone seek the cooling process of his skill
ful expositor, who now drags, rather than
leads, "the feeble mind of his patient over
the intricate boundaries of his seven celes
tial lots, of which we must here introduce
an outline, with the side lots numbered,
for the guidance of the reader.
"You no see," he continues, "if you pull
this lot (1) and this lot (2), I spoil book
down here and fnrm up there t You no see
that makes me two books, and I have no
road to this lot (3). You no see all the
same, 'spose you pull this lot (3), and that
lot (2), I spoil book down here and farm up
there, for this lot(l), and have no road
from my t'other farm? You no see that, j
eh? Very well— you no see all the same:
t'other side (4, 5, 6), them three lois all the
same— that not true, eh ?"
The old man groans, but answers noth
ing; the other proceeds: "Look t'other
way, my good friend; s'pose you null this
lot (1) and that lot (4) and t'other side,
then you have no road to catch both farms —
all the same, s'pose you pull this lot (2)
and that lot (G), and s'pose you pull this
lot (2) and that lot (s)— ah! ah!" He here
startles the old man with an exclamation
of surprise — "Here's (jree-yree! you no see,
eh? You no see? S'pose you pull them
two lots and 5), you make seven books, all
bad books, down here, and seven bad farms
up there! It can't be, my friend; it can't
be — I must not spoil this book — this Big
gree-gree book ! Ino see that before."
The old man groans again ; hi.s seventeen
slaves are by this time at Calabash Creek,
and he, poor mortal, as far from heaven as
ever. Still, stricken by despair as he i«,
with all hope of relief fled, he lias a friend
and counselor by his side — priest, doctor
and lawyer in one— -to wean him back to
reason; to solace him under his afflic
tion; to revive his crushed spirit and
again to cheer his heart. He has
"discovered" a new road; solved the
mystery of the "big gree-grce," and is now
enabled without further difficulty to make
good title, good conveyance and "good
roads" io all the farms without "spoiling
book!" Nothing more easy now he sees it!
though he must make a further sacrifice to
serve his "dear friend" and secure him,
too — as a neighbor hereafter.
His dear friend is, or course, rejoiced to
hear it, though not quite prepared to be
lieve it. His mouth is wide open to re
ceive the spoon-meat of convalescence, and
the Karamojah feeds him with the solu
tion. He must let him have three com
plete side lots! This will exclude
strangers and place his ancestor,
his ''worthy friend'. 1 and himself in
a beautiful gradation of rank as con
tiguous neighbors. "Don't you see,
my kind friend, how comfortable that will
be for us all, eh? I think I now make you
happy. Them three lots make fine farm ;
lit for a chief; your heart now lie down
easy, and to show you how anxious I am to
serve you as a friend I must give you
three slaves for buii'inh! '
"Ah that true, that true?" exclaims the
chief, "and give book, too?"
"Of course, my friend, and give book,
too— book for three lots!" What a thrill
of delight now sparkles in the eyes of the
old man. He sees three of his slaves com
ing back from Calabash Creek— that is, in
his mind's eye. Another such exaltation
or two from grief to ecstacy would assur
edly kill him. "And." continues the Kar
amojan, "I shall only take for this lot the
same as for the first lot— -seven '."
Trembling, confused with fragments of
hope and joy, fear and doubt, disapooint
inent and expectation, his head swims with
giddiness and he holds it with his two
hands spread abroad, his elbows on hl3
knees, as if it were a tottering wall that
needed shoring.
"1 — I— no hab — no hab— seven — no hab —
few— more slaves!"
"Well, well, my good friend," argues the
Book-man, "and why should you have?
What do you want with slaves if you have
this boot"? You cannot live long; why
should you with three lots in heaven! I
shall sell all my slaves when I
am as old as you, as my great
ancestor did, and don't you see!
if you go first, you can sit down comforta
bly, in my great house, if you like, and
look after my farm, as well as your own,
till I come!" His reasoning is encourag
ing and conclusive. It has served to tickle
the old chief, into a more complacent
mood. The big book is again before him,
the knife is again produced, the three lots,
severed from the rest, are duly "conveyed"
to the purchaser, and within a quarter of
an hour the Big Book-man, attended by
seven slaves, is making the best of his way
after the seventeen that have preceded
him to Calabash Creek.
A CHILD TRAVELER.
Half Around tho World Alone and Only
Ktght Years Old.
On the steamer Dora, that recently en
tered San Francisco Bay on its return from
Alaska, was one wee passenger who has
quite a history for a small girl.
Her father, Richard Beasley, was ship's
clerk on the warship Pinta, and some years
ago sailed from New York to Alaska. He
left his wife and child behind, expecting
to send for them. After tie had been none
some time Mrs. Beasley died, leaving
Jennie, then a baby of 4 years, alone.
This wee mite was tapged, put on a train
an,d started for Yiikatu, Alaska, where
her father had taken charge of a trading
store. She arrived safely, and for four
years was the only white child in the vil
latre, but was perfectly happy with her
native playmates.
Her father has now decided to send her
CO Brisbane, Australia, to live with an
uncle and go to school, as the missions in
Alaska are not very advanced, and this
child, not yet 9 years old, has started on
her long journey. If she reaches her des
tination in safety she will be the greatest
traveled person of her age now living,
having journeyed half around the world
in a westerly direction and one-third of
the way around in a southerly course.
She is not a bit afraid of anything and
thoroughly enjoys life, taking all the good
that comes her way.
HAYWARD'S BRAVE RESCUE.
Though Pulled Under by a Drowning
B-iy He Swain Under Water.
In St. Peter's Church schoolhouse, in
Brorkvill*, Canada, near Thousand Islands,
Paul de Witt Hayward, an eight-year-old
Chicago hoy, was publicly presented re
cently with the bronze medal of the Royal
Humane Society for saving human life at
the risk of his own.
Brockville stands on a bluff overlooking
the St. Lawrence River at a point where
there is considerable bathing, though the
river is two miles wide and 100 feet deep.
Last September a 14-year-old boy named
John Howard Curran, unknown to Paul,
went into this place to swim, got beyond
his depth and was drowning.
He was seen by little Paul de Witt Hay
ward, who was much smaller as well as
younger, but who at once swam out to
rescue him. Trie Curran boy at once
grappled Paul and dragged him under,
but even under the water Paul swam with
him to shallow water and brought him
out. When brought ashore the Curran
boy was unconscious and blood was flow
ing from his nose, and for two weeks after
ward he was confined to his bed. Paul
was unhurt.— From the Chicago Tribune.
In Great Britain and Ireland from every
quarter fox hunters are raising their voices
in a pitiful protest against barbed-wire
fences.
AT THE NATIONAL CAPITAL
Description of Secretary Carlisle's
Lovely Home and Its
Inmates.
MRS. CARLISLE AS HOUSEKEEPER
The New and Fashionable Habitations
of Senator Hill and
Others.
-WASHINGTON, D. C, Dec. 2.— While
Rcretary Olney is at the head of the Cab
inet, Secretary Carlisle has probably been
longer in high official life than any other
well-known man at the capital. His home
is a quiet one on X street, and in the im
mediate vicinity are the residences of the
Attorney-General, Senator Gorman, Sen
ator Hoar and other prominent men. The
house is a plain, red brick, but the vines
have made a pretty covering all over the
front. Within the parlor is furnished with
exquisite taste and is full of handsome
pictures, dainty tables covered with deli
cate ornaments, while the polished floor is
bright with rich rugs. At the back is the
snug little dining-room, where the mahog
any is loaded with shining glass and
gleaming silver. The whole house is a
model of neatness and the care that its
mistress exercises is so constant that
everything runs in apple-pie order with
out a bit of friction.
Mrs. Carlisle is nothing of a "new
woman" in her views, but she is a woman
of great force of character and lives up
well to her opinions. She is liberal in her
ideas, but does not approve of the adop
tion by women of the branches which have
before been monopolized by men. It is
Home of John G. Carlisle.
said that she is a recent convert to the
bicycle craze and spends much of her time
spinning over our smooth streets. Her
married son, William, lives in Chicago,
and the only grandson in the family is bis
boy, young "John G," who is the pet of
his namesake, for the Secretary is wrapped
up in the little fellow, who is about 8.
Senator Hill of New York has taken a
big, red brick house on Jackson square,
and is to move in on the 12th of this
month, his servants being its only occu
pants at present. The house was leased
by Senator Dolph' during his term which
expired last winter. It is just diagonally
across from the White Honse, faces a
pretty park, and all about are homes of
wealthy people. Brice's house is on the
next square, and so is the yellow home of
the Secretary of War. The front of the
mansion is plain and not attractive, but it
is furnished in exquisite taste. First there
is a large parlor, which has in each corner
opposite the door a beautiful bookcase of
richly carved wood, and the mantel is
wrought in the same artistic style. Pic
tures and antique chairs and curios from
Pompeii make attractive ornaments, and
the wnole apartment has an air of ease and
luxury.
The adjoining chamber is the back par
lor. The walls are in pale blue, the chairs,
which are richly carved, are in that tint,
and even the drapery on the mantel is of
the same shade. A beautiful cabinet of
precious wood is in one corner and before
the fireplace is a dainty screen or tapestry,
the design being that of a Nuraidiau horse
man spearing a lion.
Back of the second parlor is the dining
room, which is all in a dark tone. About
Master John G. Carlisle.
a cozy, round table are grouped chairs of
massive make upholstered in brown
leather. Some bright pictures on the walla
make a dash of color in the room. Above
on the next floor is the library, an im
mense apartment, in the center of which
is a square, carved table littered with
books and a droplight.
There are about twenty rooms in the
house, and as there wiH*be only the Sen
ator, his private secretary and servants,
the most of the mansion will be unoccu
pied. The house is owned by the Rath
bone family, Colonel Ilathbone being the
gentleman who was with Lincoln on the
night that he was shot at the theater.
Just before leaving for their summer
outing, the Olneys purchased a new home,
having previously occupied that of Sena
tor Edmunds, a house which is now occu
pied by Mrs. General Grant. It was May
when the family moved to what was then
known as the Bellamy Storer house, as the
member from Cincinnati had lived there
during the last session of Congress. The
home^of Secretary Olney is in the center of
the most fashionable part of the city, in a
neighborhood which is full of the resi
denceslof famous people and the mansions
of foreign Ministers. Just opposite is the
pretty, red brick home of Mrs. Sheridan,
widow of General Phil Sheridan, and with
in a few blocks are the houses of Thomas
Nelson Page, the author, Hegenrnuller,
the Minister from Austria, and a dozen
other celebrities.
The Olney home is an odd-looking one,
but most attractive because it is not the
conventional square brick. It stands on a
corner and is narrow in front, while run
ning back for some distance on the side
street. The entrance is low. being of the
English basement kind, and the first or
ground floor is occupied by a pretty little
queerly shaped hall "and a broad stairway
that leads to the parlors above. The first
parlor is one of the most artistic apart
ments in town, not from the elegance of its
furniture, but from the taste displayed on
every hand. There is nothing luxurious
in its appointments, but its tone is one of
Home of Mrs. James G. Blame.
chaste simplicity. The room is rather
long, and one end is almost entirely taken
up with a huge bay-window, whose dainty
white curtains soften the light that
warms up brightly the pink sofa run
ning around the curve. Several bookcases
of white wood are about the rooms and
rilled with choice novels, while the creamy
walls are brightened with pretty picturi-s,
and about on shining tables are number
less little dainty ornaments and vases full
of blooming flowers. The general air is
one of light and coolness, combined with a
cultivated and exquisite taste. Across from
this parlor is another small room, whose
polished floor is covered with handsome
rugs and whose furnishings are mostly of
antiques beautifully carved. There is an
other apartment, then one comes to a huge
square chamber, with a very high ceiling,
what must have once been used as a ball
room, but which is now furnished in pretty
chairs, sofas full of colored pillows, tables
full of books and silver writing material,
pictures and other ornaments. This apart
ment is large enough to entertain the whole
diplomatic corps.
The Ist day of January will be the one
on which Mrs. Olney will enter on her new
duties, and her labors on the New Year
are by no means light. By half-past 10,
she must be dressed and at the White
House to assist Mrs. Cleveland in her re
ception, which lasts till after 12. She
must then hurry home and meet all of
the diplomats and their families, all of
whom are expected to be entertained at a
sumptuous breakfast. The diplomatic
corps is a large one, as there are a great
many attaches or secretaries, and Mrs.
Olney will rind her house, large as it is,
considerably crowded by the foreigners.
There will be the traditional foes to meet
on pleasant footings, and the Minister
fro-m China will hobnob with the gentle
man from Japan ; the representative from
France will talk to his German cousin, and
The Gorman Embassy, on Massachusetts
Avenue.
the Turk and the Englishman will take
sugar from the same bowl. The diplomats
will be arrayed, like Solomon, in all their
glory of foreign decorations, gold lace,
swords and court dresses, and the min
gling of the uniforms of gaudy colors w,ill
make a brilliant spectacle.
The family of the new German Embasa
dor, Baron vdn Theilman, are domiciled
in the legation on Highland Terrace and
there are two pretty children in the circle.
The Baron is a handsome man with a line
figure anJ an intellectual countenance and
speaks English fluently. His wife has
charming manners ami has arranged the
old house into a lovely home. The Min
ister from Chins, Mr. Yang Yu, is still ab
sent in France, and the Embassador from
Russia will be here within a few days. The
Minister from Austria has just settled
with his wife and two little girls into a
new brick on Rhode Island avenue and the
wife and daughters of the Embassador
from England are at home again after a
trip abroad during the summer.
Tom Rted is living at rooms in the
Sboreharu Hotel and his wife and daughter
are with him. Mrs. Reed is a small
woman, rather plump, but with a refined
face and a pleasant manner. She is very
quiet in her taste and dislikes to appear
in the papers, but is very proua of Ker
husband's fame. Young George B. Mc-
Clellan, son of the Union general of that
name, is now in the city, a member from
New York, and has a pretty home in a
fashionable part of town. He is a big,
athletic fellow and his wife is correspond
ingly frail and delicate. His mother is
now traveling m Europe. McClcllan has
no children.
The old Elaine mansion is now inhabited
by the family of the rich Mr. Westing
house of Pittsburg, who has rented the
place for the winter. The house is a mag
nificent one, and occupies the front of a
small square. It was built by Secretary
Blame, and was rented for some years by
the Misses Patton of California, but for the
last two years it has been the liomcof Mrs.
Blame. It will be one of the gayest houses
in town this season, lor the \Vestinghouses
are immensely rich and give gorgeous en
tertainments. Mrs. Westinghouse is a
handsome blonde and dresses in expensive
style. There is'one boy in the family, and
the husband gives his wife unlimited
means to gratify her tastes.
Senator Quay is back in town and his
big house, which was completed last win
ter, is being handsomely furnished. Quay
has three daughters, one of whom is but a
schoolgirl. Quay has been on a short trip
to Florida, as His health was much im
paired by the recent right in Pennsylvania.
Miss Jane Fuller, daughter of. the Chief
Justice, will make her debut at a tea given
by her mother on the 18th of this month.
Mrs. Fuller's health is very poor and she
has been for some time under the care of a
doctor. Mrs. Aubrey, one of the Justice's
married daughters, is living with her
father.
The French embassy has* just been
paintea a bright yellow and fitted newly
throughout. The Embassador and his
wife, who was a Miss Elverson of Phila
delphia, are back at the legation from
their country home, near the city.
Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett is not ex
pected back for some time, and it is prob
able that she may not come to America
this winter.
Dr. Guzman, the Minister whose post
has been abolished by his Government,
that of Nicaragua, expects to devote his
time in the future to the practice of law in
this city. His wife is an American.
LION HUNTING EXTKAOKDINARY.
A Gun Without a Stock Which Went Off
Semi- Occasionally.
Many stories about hunting the Cali
fornia lion have been published, but the
following vouched lor by a correspondent
of the Los Angeles Times, beats the
record, so far as the amount of danger
involved in the sport is concerned, for in
this case the hunter had to fear his weapon
quite as much a? his game.
The hero of this adventure is B. F. Kelso
of Juniper Flat. Juniper Flat is away
down in Riverside County, in a nest of
tangled, brush-covered hills, between Lake
View and San Jacinto. Kelso is a big,
burly, bearded man, with a good-humored
smile and an hbnest face. He makes his
living; by digging manzanita and srease
wood, which he hauls to Riverside and
sells for $7 a cord. One day last week he
had his load all ready to start on hi 3
weary drive across the plains, when the
family heard the dogs barking up on the
hill back of the house. Kelso went for hi 3
gun.
Now this gun of Kelso's is a fearful and
wonderful weapon. It had once been a
single- barreled shotgun — but it had the
misfortune, some time in the misty past,
to have the whole stock smashed off. The
hammer was left, it is true, but it wouldn't
stand cocked under any circumstances —
and everything abaft the hammer was
gone ! Some of my brave readers, who are
not afraid to pull a trigger, may think it
an undesirable job to hold up the hummer
of Keiso's gun with the thumb, stick the
whole thing out at a safe distance from the
face, shut one eye, take aim — make ready
— and let the hammer slip — bang !
Not so with Kelso, however; he took
his fragmentary relic and strode away
through the brush to see what the dogs
were raising such a row about. He has
three dogs. One is a young, long-legged
hound; another is a middle-sized dog, and
the third is a little yapping fyste. They
sing tenor, alto and treble, and the way
they were making the rocks ring was a
caution.
The rocks on the top of this hill are huge
cubes and rectangular blocks as big as
houses fresh flung from the hand of God.
The dogs were barking about the crevices
of oneof these. Kelso climbed laboriously
to the top of it, so as to look down and
rind the wildcat or whatever it might be,
when, as he scaled the crest, a giant moun
tain lion made a rush past him, close
enough to touch, and stood glaring down
savagely at the yellow dogs, switching his
tail with an uneasy, nervous energy.
The lion made a spring down amone the
dogs, struck them off to right and left, and
went in great leaps down the steep moun
tain side that slopes toward San Jacinto.
The dogs pursued and after them flew the
excited Kelso. Down, down they went,
for a mile or more, through brush, over
rocks that would have cost the life of any
one but a mountainer.
At last the big cat, harassed and con
fused by the following dogs, took refuge
in his lair, a cave among the rocks some
distance above the Pico spring, and when
the man arrived the dogs were fiercely
barking into the mouth of the cavern and
the lion was at bay. Kelso pushed in
among the dogs, in the thick of the fray.
Suddenly the middle dog shot like an
arrow at the lion and seized him by the
throat. At a word from his master, the
hound rushed in and seized the great cat
by the jaw, and the fyste followed suit by
worrying his prey in the flanks.
The scene was indescribable. Fur and
blooa, yells, growls, howls, snarls, de
moniac cries and shrieks tilled the echoing
cavern. Kelso held up the hammer of his
ancient shooting iron and pointed the
muzzle in toward the fearful din; he crept
in till he was actually standing on the
lion's tail. As the great brute raised his
head above the struggling dogs the ham*
mer was released — for a wonder the car
tridge exploded, and the whole top of the;
lion's liead was blown to smithereens.
NEW FIELDS FOR LECTURERS.
Anstralia, New Zealand and South
Africa Offer Inducements.
New York Sun. ' ;
Mark Twain's success in Australia has
been much discussed by the horde of lec
turers and entertainers annually let loose
upon this country. Even the small cities
of the Union are less and less profitable
from season to season for the one-man en
tertainment, and those that once reaped
the rich harvest of this field are eagerly
seeking new territory. - :
fields have been opened within the
last few years in Australia, New Zealand
and latterly South Africa, but they have
usually offered large inducements to celeb
rities only, not to the ordinary . hack lec
turer. Archibald Forbes, who was not
especially successful in this country,
because he was not an orator, made a
snug little fortune from a tour in Austra
lia and the Cape. David Christie Murray
made little mark here, but was popular in
the Antipodes, and Frederick Villiers is
making the same round with like success.
Max O'Rell did extremely well both in
Australia and Cape Colony, and Stanley
made large sums in Australia and New
Zealand. Henry Gsorge, whose lecture
tour in Australia was a part of his propa
ganda of the sinerle tax, not only drew
large audiences in Australia and New Zea- '<
land, but was feted socially in many cities
and towns.
A curious feature of the lecture busi
ness in Australia is the fact that it is the
monopoly of a single Australian man
ager. Furthermore, he is luckier than
American managers, in that he is able to
engage his attractions without the large
guarantees that have made the lecture
business a ticklish enterprise in the
United States. Tne canny Australian
simply becomes the partner of .his lions.
Thus far the system has worked satisfac
torily all round.
» — « — •
Remarkably Old Animals.
The Greenland whale is said to some
times reach the almost impossible age of
400 years.
Two tortoises of the East Indian variety
in the Zoological Gardens in London are
known to be over 200 years old, and are
still in tne prime of life.
In a well-known museum in England is
a stuffed bird named "the old swan of
Dun," which died in 1823, at the ripe old
age of 200 years — a fact attested by authen
tic documents.
The king of beasts in his native wilda
often lives for 100 years. A lion in cap
tivity in the Tower of London lived there
seventy years, and his age was unknown
when he was captured.
Ajax, the Greek warrior, ie said to have
captured an elephant from an Indian
King. He had a brass plate, inscribed
with the story, fastened to the beast.
Three hundred and fifty years later the
elephant was again seen with the plate
still in its place.
Precocity.
''Miranda,' 1 said Mr. Proudpangh, "wa
must put some money by every month to
pay for the education of our boy."
"Yes, indeed," was the reply.
"I want him to have a chance to learn
things in a practical way, aa well as from
books."
"Do you, dear?"
"Of course. I mean that he shall travel,
so as to get a clear idea of what he reads
about; that he shall, by personal contact,
acquire knowledge that is too commonly
and confidently assumed to be communi
cated by mere theory."
"I understand, George. And lam sure
he will take kindly to that method of edu
cation. Look at the little dear this minute,
ir the coal scuttle studying mineralogy I l '
Washington Star.
No less than eight, persons have corn*
mitted suicide in an old Brooklyn builds
ing since 1856. The house has recently
been torn down.
15