CENTENNIAL EXPOSITION
The United States, now in the midst of prosperity concluded to hold one of the most notable fairs any land has ever enjoyed. The first one was held in commemoration of the one hundredth birthday of our nation, and was projected on broad lines, and carried out in the same manner. It was opened May 10, 1876, and continued 159 days. It was a general invitation to all the world to bring their productions to our shores for admiration and instruction, and caused a unity and sympathy between the severed parts of our country such as no other event could have succeeded in doing. People flocked to Philadelphia from every land, and the North and South met in a friendly rivalry as to which section should be most fully represented. Over 61,000 visitors attended each day of the Fair, and at the close of the Fair the receipts were, in admissions, concessions and royalties, in round numbers, $4,307,749.75.
It had been the desire of many patriotic people for ten years to make a showing of our resources, and to invite, as it were, the whole world to see us at home. The hope had never met with favor, but by repeated representations as to the importance of the idea, the people of the United States were at last aroused, and worked so faithfully and rapidly to carry it out, as to surprise the world.
President Grant, on behalf of the United States, asked the nations to take part in our rejoicing, and they responded promptly, by sending commissioners to attend to the details. Congress appropriated large sums, and all the States entered into the undertaking with hearty good-will.
City governments and private individuals also contributed freely. A site was chosen, Fairmount Park, Philadelphia, one of the most charming locations which could have been found. Five large buildings were constructed, covering an area of twenty acres.
Each State erected a building, as did many foreign nations, within which to exhibit the products and manufactures of that particular State.
The exposition was opened by President Grant, with Dom Pedro, Emperor of Brazil, and his empress, by his side. Theodore Thomas' orchestra furnished the music, playing eighteen airs at the opening, the last of which, Hail Columbia, met with tumultuous applause. A cantata came next, a prayer by Bishop Simpson, and a hymn followed written by Whittier, the Quaker poet. General Hawley presented the buildings and their contents to the President, who accepted them in a few words, announcing that the exhibition was open. The two ponderous Corliss engines which were to put the whole machinery going, were set in motion by the President and the Emperor.
The exhibition was formally closed November 10, 1876, after a season of unexampled prosperity, in the simplest manner. Addresses were made by General Hawley and several others, the entire audience sang "America," and President Grant declared the International Exhibition closed. But it had taught foreign powers a lesson of respect for our republic, and caused wider intercourse between the Old World and the New.
EDISON, THE GENIUS OF THE AGE
To-day the old system of illumination is giving way to the splendors of electric glow. With man's progress came the much needed question of artificial light.
Electric lights not only adorn the streets of our cities, but grace our parlors, furnishing a stronger, a cleaner and more healthful light than any other known. To Thomas A. Edison, who was born in Milan, Ohio, in 1847, belongs the glory of bringing electricity for lighting purposes to a successful basis.
Other scientists before him had experimented, but to Edison remained the work of removing the final difficulties. Electricity is to-day furnishing the motive power for street cars, railroads, engines, etc., and it is predicted that before the dawn of a new century more wonderful still will be the achievements of this untutored and remarkable man.
With no less possibilities in scientific research comes the Kinetoscope, his latest invention, which by a thousand instantaneous pictures one is enabled to see the lifelike motions of "a child at play," "a distant battle," or the varied scenes of a "County Fair."
CHICAGO FIRE
The terror which fire excites exceeds all other causes for fear. It is a subtle power that the average person cannot cope with. Its exhibitions are so terrible, so changeable, and so unmanageable, that it temporarily unnerves or unbalances the calmest brain. Great conflagrations have raged in many lands, and in all ages, doing exceeding great damage, but it is yet to be recorded that a fire ever swept over so wide a territory, and swallowed up so large an amount of wealth and products, sacrificing so much life as did the great Chicago Fire.
The history of the prominent events of the times would be incomplete were not the attention of the boys and girls of to-day directed to an occurrence so startling as to arouse the sympathies of the entire world.
The fire started on the night of October 8, 1871. The previous summer had been especially dry and hot, and was prolific of fires, many cities and towns having suffered in this respect, and the lumber districts of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, and the forests of New York State, having been visited by the destroying element. Many causes have been assigned for this fire, but its origin will probably remain forever unknown. It burned with unabated fierceness for two days, and three-fourths of the city were literally reduced to ashes.
On the evening of Saturday, the 7th, a fire had broken out in a portion of the West Division of the city, and consumed property to the value of a million of dollars. This was thought a terrible fire, and was heralded in all the Sabbath morning papers; thousands visited the spot on that day, and commented on and shuddered at the loss. Little did they apprehend that the same evening, Sunday, October 8, a fire would take place which would do the most deadly work, ruining business, licking up homes and property, destroying human life, and almost wiping out a whole city, whose prosperity and energy had become famous.
Nothing escaped. Private homes, public buildings, churches, banks, theaters, the postoffice, courthouse, newspaper edifices, hotels, all fell before it, and not until General Sheridan ordered the blowing up of buildings, was its progress stayed.
At half-past three in the morning, while a strong southwest wind was blowing, the anxious citizens were informed that the North Side was attacked by the fire fiend, and one of the first victims to its wrath was the engine house of the waterworks, thus cutting off the supply of water for use in fighting the flames, and driving the terrified people to despair. From here it leaped northward, taking in the elevators on the river banks, with their millions of bushels of grain, setting fire to vessels lying at anchor, then to the cemetery nearest the city, and to the beautiful park known as Lincoln, in short, to every conceivable object which could furnish food for the monster of destruction.
The tramp of hundreds of people fleeing from the fire, the shrieks of terror, the noise of the engines, the hoarse shouts and calls of those who searched in vain for their dear ones separated from them in the mad chase for life, the thunderous fall of stately structures, the roaring, crackling, howling flames, made a wild scene that Pandemonium was silence compared with. The fire burned the North Side until there was no trace of a building left standing save one, the residence of Mahlon D. Ogden, which stood in a large plat of ground, entirely detached. On the site of this house has since been erected a fine building of stone, devoted to a public library, and called the Newberry. The northern city limits and the lake were the only barriers to the further encroachments of the fire.
Blazing brands were seen sailing through the air, and, falling in some spot as yet untouched, they would kindle a new fire. The heat was intense, the very air one breathed almost scorched the throat. One vast sea of flame melted marble and stone till it crumbled and fell. But oh, blessed relief! The thousands who camped out on the prairie that night welcomed the torrents of rain that fell, even though it chilled them through. People went nearly mad with terror on that dreadful night. Robbers and thieves were busy plying their trade, taking everything they could carry away. Some of these perished with their ill-gotten gains. The lake was a welcome refuge, and hundreds waded out as far into its waters as they dared, to escape the heat that lay behind them. It was said that many were drowned through their temerity.
The 10th of October rose upon a waste, whose dwellers were clothed in the apathy of despair. For eight days after the fire, the city was without water, and the dread of a second outbreak hung like a pall over them. The city came under military rule, citizens patroled the streets, and every stranger was looked upon with suspicion, lest he be an incendiary. General Sheridan, by virtue of the fact that he was commander of the Military Division of the Missouri, took charge of the city, to protect it from the thieves and incendiaries who were at work. He ordered two companies of regulars from Omaha, three from Fort Leavenworth, and one from Fort Scott, here. General Halleck also furnished him with four companies from Kentucky.
A hundred men were put to work on the engines of the waterworks, and in a week the mains were filled by pumping water into them from the river. Some sickness resulted from drinking this water. But eight days' labor resulted in forcing water from the pure lake into the pipes, and once more Chicago could drink its fill. Meanwhile peddlers had dipped water from the lake and sold it from house to house at a shilling a pail. Mayor R. B. Mason, on the 10th, forbade any fires kindled for cooking, and "cold victuals," and in many cases no victuals at all, for a day or so, until the Relief Committee could distribute the stores pouring into the desolated city, were the order of the day.
And then the great heart of the world beat with noble generosity. From every city, and town, and village, and from foreign lands, the beneficent gifts flowed in, and food and clothing. From New York, Boston, Cincinnati, St. Louis, London, England, and all over the world, generous contributions of money were poured into Chicago, to feed the starving—not the "starving poor," but the starving people, for all were made beggars by the calamity. Banks were destroyed, local fire insurance companies were wiped out of existence, and for months our fair city was kept alive by the noble and unstinted liberality of the world.
The loss in property was over $290,000,000, at the lowest estimate. How many lives were laid down no statistics have ever been positively given, as there was such a large floating population, of whom no account could be made, but accepting the lowest computation, at least 250 people perished on that fearful night, and over 100,000 were left homeless, and without a shelter.
A writer, speaking of the great loss of the fire of 1871 says that $1,000,000 of property was consumed every five minutes, and 125 acres of buildings every hour.
THE TELEPHONE AND PHONOGRAPH
No invention of modern times equals in interest the Telephone. It has remained for an American to solve the problem of communication between persons at a distance from each other. Scientists, by means of electricity and sound, have devised an apparatus for transmitting the voice to a distance of hundreds of miles. To Alexander Graham Bell, of Massachusetts, and to Elisha P. Gray, of Chicago, is due the honor of originating this wonderful invention.
Closely following the telephone is the Phonograph, an invention based on the same principle of science, but brought about by different means. The phonograph is made to talk and sing, thus enabling one to read by the ear instead of the eye.
THE JOHNSTOWN FLOOD
Fly for your lives! The dam is going!" Such was the warning the inhabitants of the towns received from the lips of a man who rode madly through the valley, warning every one he saw, on that sad afternoon of May 31, 1889. It was five in the afternoon. The people were beginning to think of leaving their work and going to their peaceful homes, when this dread news broke upon their ears. They could not credit it, and as they heard the news, they looked doubtingly at each other. To most of them, it seemed impossible. The dam was away up in the mountains, on private grounds, and few had ever seen it or dreamed how vast it was. Besides, they reasoned, it had broken once or twice before, and no great harm was done. All these causes served to lull their fears. But even when they were warned, it was too late, so impetuous was its course. Nothing could have stayed the mad waters in their descent into the doomed valley.
The Johnstown flood followed a long rain storm in the Alleghanies—a storm of several days' duration. All the rivers running east were swollen, and the immense dam of the huge Conemaugh valley burst with a thunderous report. The reservoir was a large one, four miles long by one broad, and over seventy feet deep. This vast body of water swept a wave twenty feet high at the rate of twenty miles an hour, right down into the narrow and deep valley, where were eight villages boasting a population of 58,000. Johnstown, Pennsylvania, the largest of the towns in the valley, lay at the junction of Stony Creek and the Conemaugh river, and had extensive iron works, banks, and many business houses. This and all the villages were swept out of being in two hours, so rapid and vehement was the coming of the torrent. Thousands were drowned, and nearly two thousand people were burned to death by means of a mass of wreckage which was caught and held at a new bridge near the town. The houses were all made of wood, timber had floated down the current and stacked up, and hundreds of trees were piled up at this bridge for a space of sixty acres. It is presumed that some furnaces set fire to this mass, and the poor creatures whose helpless forms had been entangled in the débris, met an awful death by fire. There was no chance for escape; the raging torrent was ready to engulf them, while the fierce flames were eager to lap up all that the waters spared.
Railroad tracks were swept away, telegraph poles leveled, and though Philadelphia and other cities sent help and food at once, it was impossible to reach the helpless victims for forty-eight hours, and when at last soldiers and navvies on rescue trains reached the scene, there was nothing to be done but to feed the living and bury the dead.
Nearly 10,000 perished, and all who had escaped with their lives tried to succor the sufferers, save a few Hungarian Slavs and Italians, who plundered the dead, but who were shot at once as a reward for their greediness.
It is not possible to picture the condition of the Valley after the waters receded. In many places the whole town was swept as bare as though a gigantic broom had passed over it, nothing but sand and gravel being left. Where a house chanced to be left standing, it was filled with mud and slime to the third story, while trees, broken timbers and debris was piled up to the second story. Not a house was fit for occupancy. Dead bodies were found in cellars, and in some dwellings horses had been forced into the rooms by the rushing waters, and lay there putrefying. They all fared alike. A few citizens were held prisoners in their frame houses, and floated over two miles to a place of safety, but these fortunate ones were the exception.
Medicines, clothing, money and food were liberally poured into the unfortunate region. Men and women from all over the country offered their services to care for the living and the dead.
The dam whose bursting caused this awful loss of life was very carelessly constructed, and had no stone work in its makeup. Indeed, it might well be called a vast embankment of earth.
EARTHQUAKE AT CHARLESTON
Charleston, South Carolina, seems to have more than her share of misfortunes.
This thought occurred to me when the papers all over the country on the morning of September 1st, 1886, gave to the world an account of that dreaded convulsion known as an earthquake, which had taken place the night previous, just as the hour for retiring had come. The first intimation that the Signal Service Bureau at Washington city had of this catastrophe was only a surmise. They knew that something was wrong, for communication was not to be had. All the telegraph wires were suddenly cut off. Without a moment's warning the city had been shocked and rent to its very foundation. Hardly a building escaped injury and almost a third of the city was in half or total ruins. The whole Atlantic coast was more or less affected, and for leagues from the shore the ocean was thrown in a turmoil.
People fled from the tottering houses to the parks and public squares, where they erected tents and remained for weeks, afraid to return to their own homes. It was soon discovered that these shocks were only the dying away of great convulsions and that further alarm was unnecessary, so they returned home.
With true American energy the debris was in a few months cleared away, business was resumed and to-day were it not for a few cracks and fissures in buildings we would never know that anything had happened there to disturb their peace.
INDIAN WARS
DATING from the time of the discovery of our continent there have been disturbances between the whites and the Indians. The first Indian war was between the colonists and the natives, and dates back to 1622.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century the Sioux Indians held all the lands between the Mississippi and the Rocky Mountains, north of the 40th parallel of latitude. These lands were grassy, rolling prairies, with a plentiful supply of timber growing along the rivers and creeks which abounded. The government established reservations thirty-two years ago for the purpose of keeping those Indians who are hostile, separated from the peaceably disposed ones, who only went upon the hunt for game for food and sale. When buffalo and large game grew scarce, the United States furnished them with food and clothing, and placed the means within their power, to support themselves.
The Indian question is full of interest, and comes forward constantly to perplex our government, which regards them as its wards. Articles by the hundred have been written about the red man, his possibilities and capabilities set forth; plans have been proposed to subdue, or rather civilize him, and still the fact remains that the savage nature, save in exceptional instances, is as untamed as the first day he came upon the scene.
The first mail to California from the East was carried by the overland route, in stages, and lucky was the party that made the lonesome journey across the plains unmolested by the Indians, who swarmed about them and sent showers of arrows into the coach which was carrying its bag of mail and the trembling passengers. The stage was always guarded by United States soldiers, but in spite of this the half-naked savages would press closer and closer, hurling their sharp arrows with unerring aim, as the stage went plunging along, the horses half-mad with fear, but straining every nerve to outrun the screaming foe. The settlers of those early days were brave men and women, or they would not have risked falling into the hands of the roving bands who were always on the war-path on some pretext. Many a brave man has died defending the mail which the government intrusted to him.
While our land was torn with dissension, the Indians cunningly planned a general uprising. This was in 1862. The Indians in Minnesota and Dakota massacred the settlers everywhere, In Minnesota the Sioux attacked outlying towns, committing terrible atrocities. They pounced upon New Ulm, a small but thriving village, and killed 100 of its people.
They turned their attention to two other villages, but were driven away. Colonel Sibley was sent after them, and met several bodies of Indians, whom he defeated. They fear cannon greatly, and two were turned upon them, much to their terror.
The garrison at Fort Kearney was surprised by Indians December 21, 1866, and 100 soldiers were slaughtered.
The Indians have many peculiar customs. One of them is, their habit of daubing on the war paint and indulging in a war dance whenever they resolve to attack the whites.
Once seen they can never be forgotten, for their lithe forms, hideously painted faces, and demoniac yells would startle the bravest.
September of 1867 the Indians on the North Platte called a council to confer with General Sherman. They demanded that the building of several roads should be stopped, and particularly the work on the Southern Pacific, as it interfered with their hunting. The General would not accede to these demands, but promised that any loss they suffered should be made good to them.
September 18, 1868, the 'Indians attacked our troops at Republican River, and Lieutenant Beecher and several other officers were murdered. In 1871 the Apaches killed over 200 white settlers, not in battle, but skulking in ambush, and shooting them wherever they met them.
The whites met the Indians at Washita River, and defeated them, November 27, 1868.
Thus the continual outbreaks of the Indians, have been a source of trouble and anxiety to the government, which has sought to adjust the claims of the red men in a fair and just manner. That the latter have often been cheated and robbed by unscrupulous agents and traders, no one can deny, but the fact still remains that the Indian nature is peculiarly hard to subdue, and their natural instincts are cruel.
There are, fortunately, many bright examples among several tribes, of the beauty of civilization, and its beneficial influence upon them.
The Modoc massacre was a cruel return for intended kindness. This tribe had for its chief Captain Jack, a very intelligent man of fine abilities. Their removal to another reservation was violently resisted by them, and they retreated to the Lava Beds, where trouble was anticipated. At last a peace council was arranged for and although Colonel Meacham, the peace commissioner, urged the whites not to attend it, they paid no attention to his warning, but went. The Indians had concealed weapons, and they rose in a body, and attempted to massacre every white man present. General Canby and Dr. Thomas were killed, and Colonel Meacham received a dozen wounds, but survived them. Three months afterward the band surrendered, and Captain Jack and some of the other leaders were executed at Fort Klamath, Oregon, October 3.