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2 FOOGHKEEPSir^ SEMI-WEEKLY EACJuB. Mi»RCH 27, 1889.. ©ttj; CxrttMlJtttJcrra. WAYS AFIBRSOON. TILLES AND ALONG THE SP A N ISH M AIN. TO KEEP COOL. B y B e v e r ly Crump. [Copyrighted 1889 by the A u thor.l tradition treaty for the surrender of political offenders the irritation will con tinue. L A N D S W H B i l E IT IS A L - island now, of whom two are said to be millionaires, that years ago made a busi ness of buccaneering. When it became dangerous to seize and rob a merchan' ^ A C E U I8E AM ONG TH E AN- ship, they changed their system ofopr^j.. ation, and turned wreckers. Decoy I p were placed upon the numerous i? ,{an(Js and reefs in bad weather, and ’ ^ h o w t o o e t ITS C I G A R - M A K E R S — THE SPONGE FISH- g^ter by the extension of ERiES—THE REAL CUBA DIFFERS FROM light-housB system, Eud busiuess of THE CUBA OF THE IMAGINATION— THE w r e c k i n g iS HO lODgCr .H B WO- MEN NOT PARTICULARLY HANDSOME— gd in tO b e S t r i p p e d of theh [ i m b o f a n d THE CH IEF EN D OF MAN IN HAVANA IS^ i r o n . Sponge fishin'g is carried on to a con siderable exte’At, but the reefs have been inhabitant with the .1 of the temperate zorie, familiar turn to their homes to bathe and eat wood-cuts of the old geographies, | their breakfast, which is the heartiest iba in his mind’s eye as a grove of meal of the day. Then they take a loni stripped so industriously in times past long(nger that the business no lo pays the profits it did. There ought to be some sort Gi a law to protect the sponge fish- IiAVANA, Cuba, March 1. eries, as the oyster beds are protected along the North Atlantic coast. The There is no more dehg t w r gp^j^gg cultivated and its quality journey, and neae more interesting, improved, but cannot learn anything either in the Old World or in this, than has ever been done in this direction, i, cruise upon our tropic seas. Taking Sponges come from Florida, Nassau, the railway from any direction to Tampa, the Bahamas, Cuba, and the Grecian one can cate, a comfortable and fleet little st€>amer there, and in a few gponge at seven-and-a-half cents a pound hours be beyond the reach of cold and to the Mediterranean cup sponge at $75 storms, in the eternal noonday of the a pound. The latter, however, are gen- West Indies. From Havana, after a week ^ally sold by rize, and not by weight .,Y XU . ^ . -.n 1 1 i. They are used by a surgeon m dressing •or ten days m the Cuban capital, let the rounds, administering chloroform, and tourist find the perfection of sea travel in in like delicate operations. The common cruise eastward to St. Thomas, then grass, or yellow sponges are worth from southward around the Lesser Antilles to sixty-five cents a pound, the r TT 1 j sheep wool sponge, such as are used for Trinidad, on the coast of Venezuela, and carriages, bring two dollars a thence along the Spanish Main. At St. pound, and bath sponges run up to five Thomas, at LaGuayra, at Savanilla, or dollars a pound. The supply is much t a at Carthagena, one may#fihd a steamer for than the demand, which keeps_ the price New York, or he may go as far as Aspin- up. Formerly dredging machines were Tvall and from there homeward by the used, which tore up everything, big and Pacific mail boats, or across the Gulf to little, but they are now prohibited and New Orleans. sponges are now obtained only by color- The time required for the journey I ed divers who go down with knives, and have pointed out would be from forty to are trained to remain under water for an ■sixty days for the entire distance, includ- incredible time. As they cut the growth ing a week in Havana, a week at loose it rises to the top of the water. Caracas, the capital of Venezuela, and process of hooking. sponges is quite in- visiting all the other ports while the teresting, but can be used only in shal- steamers are loading or unloading, which low water. Knives, in the shape of sick- usually gives time enough to see what les are attached to long poles, and in there is of interest. The cost of the trip order to see the bottom clearly, peculiar vzould be comparatively less than a simi- telescopes are used, made ^ of an old tub lar time spent in traveling on land, for with a plate of glass set in the bottom, there would be few hotel bills, only oc- The fishing is done in twenty or twenty casionally the hire of a carriage, and the five feet of water, and when the tub is •excursion tickets are sold at low fares, moved along the bottom it enables the The trip may be shortened to forty days fishermen to see the sponges beneath it by returning to New York from La- with great clearness. The pole is then Guayra, to thirty days by returning from lowered, and the sponges torn away with St. Thomas by the steamers of the Bra- the knife. Sponges are very offensive in ailian mail line. Five days in each week smell when taken from the water, owing will be spent at sea, land will seldom be to the decayed vegetable matter ini their out of vision, all sorts of places will be pores, but are cured by being buried in visited and some most curious sights may the dry sand and afterward exposed to fee seen. The traveler will find a choice the sun in large cages of wire. ^ of most excellent ships, constructed for At opposite sides of the island are tropic travel and calm seas, will be great lortifications—Forts Taylor and troubled with no gales, no heavy swells, J efferson, which cost the United States no cold, no storms and little seasickness, millions of dollars, but are abandoned He will see all the principal ports of the now, and have not been occupied since West Indies and the north shore of South the last yellow fever epidemic, six sum- America, and will find plenty of rest, mers ago. Bach place is in charge of a pleasure and novelty. single sergeant of artillery, who acts as You take the steamer at Tampa, a little care-taker and constitutes _ commanding town surrounded by orange groves and officer and garrison all in himself. There strawberry feeds, the southernmost point is an immense amount of old iron and of the Florida railway system, and spend bronze, in the shape of cannon, lying a day at Key West, that curious around, but one cannot imagine what use little camel-shaped rock which rises it could be put to here or elsewhere, ex- from the ocean among the Flof— cept to illustrate the condition of peace in ida reefs. People generally suppose that which the American people find them- Key West bears about the same relation selves when they wake up in the morn- to Florida that Long Island! does to New ing. York, or Martha’s Vineyard to Massachu- At Key West summer is perpetual, and setts, and that the neighbors on the reef at noonday every soul is asleep.. The -can talk across the channel while they eocoamit trees nod drowsily and the great are hanging out their clothes; but it isn’t banana leaves droop under the heavy air. so. The Key is as much a “foreign part” The flushed sun gilds the smooth trunks to all appearances, as Cuba or New Zea- of the palms, the hum of the insects is sees O' coco? trees, a field of sugar cane, a jp of half-naked negroes in Panama .cs each with a hoe in his hand, and a ^ matched cabin in the center. The back ground oi the picture is a lurid sky with a cyclone gathering in the hazy distance; trailing vines, monstrous masses of vege tation, vast spreads of foliage, hanging moss, dark, murky rivers, brilliant birds, chattering monkeys, and a few alligators. You learn from some source or other, poetry perhaps, that the air is laden with the odor of spices, and that, passing ships scent its pungency far out at sea^ That is the Cuba of the imagination; full of fair women, bananas, and sensuous luxury. The actual Cuba is far different. There is no everlasting greenness and perpetual shade, but tue greater part of the island is a bald and naked ridge of sand; for out of the botanical gardens, and aiwaj?s excepting the palms, there isn’t a tree in all Cuba big enough to make a saw-log that would pass inspec tioD in Maine or Minnesota. The fields o f sugar cane are dry and dusty; the orange groves are usually full of tobacco plants; the trailing vines are in inacces sible swamps with the murky rivers and alligators, and the most beautiful birds to be seen about Havana are the vultures, which do their share in keeping the city clean. There are parks in Havana, and the people use thebi at night to sit in and chatter. They contain statues of Co lumbus, Cervantes, and some of the Charleses and Philipses of Spam, but are the dreariest and dustiest attempts at pleasure grounds that were ever seen. There are no notices to keep off the grass, and none are needed ; for where the turf should be it is as barren as a sea beach, and 100 yards would measure the shadows cast by all the shade trees in this .Queen ol‘ the Tropics. The whole year is summer time,and the soil isricher than that of any region on the globe. The greater portion of the lives of the people must be passed out of doors, but the only pleasure they find in their parks is in the evening after gaslight. The Spaniard hates trees, and after an indiseriminate slaughter of them in all the lands he has ever 'occupied they decline to grow- for him. There are few trees in the streets, and in none of the cemeteries is there the slightest glimpse of either flowers or foliage. The graves of the dead are like the houses of the living, glaring white, and their only dec orations are wreaths and crosses made of shells and beans. But everybody enjoys himself in Ha vana. For dolcefar niente it is the great est place in the world.' Laziness is not only respectable, but it is a matter of education. The girls are taught nothing but embroidery and graceful repose. The chief end of man is to keep cool, and\ the first thought of him who builds a house or store, makes a suit of clothes or a pair ot shoes, cooks a meal, rbws a boat, drives a wagon, or, in short, does anything whatever, is to keep out of the heat. Any Yankee could come down here and show these people how to ac complish the desired end at half the trouble they take, but they would never' be taught. They have everything as their forefathers in the south of Spain had it, and have made no changes for three hundred years. All their ice is made by Yankees from Cleveland, Ohio, and it costs them two cents a pound. They adopt it from necessity, and gmmble because it melts so fast. The streets are so ^narrow that carriages cannot pass, but have to go up one and down another. The shops and stores are roofed in with great sheets of canvas, which exclude the breezes -when they shat out the sunshine, so that the streets are like ovens, and the only cool ness can be found within the damp, stone walls. The hotels, public buildings and private houses are built around courts in which the rays of the sun are never allow ed to enter, and the walls and pavements land, with only a flag and a fortress as hushed, and the c i^r maker, who sings links connecting the mother country at his work while tne morning mist lies' with this posthumous child. The nearest upon the land, seeks the shelter of low- point to Key West in Florida is over browed roofs, smokes bis cigarette, sips ninety miles, while the nearest town is his coffee and lies down to a siesta. Tbe Tampa, distant twenty hours by sea. people share their slumber between the Y gu can run across to Havana, however, day and the night. They work in the any day by a sail boat, and the result is early morning and the evening hours, that the' island we own is an asylum for give their nights to pleasure and the noon- Cuban politicians. On this barren, scorch- day to rest. ing Teet\ for it is nothing more, simply a As one approaches Cuba from either few square miles of coral, there is a com- side, the island appears to look up out of pact town of comfortless houses, shelter- the sea like an enormous rock, lising in ing from fifteen to twenty thousand peo- barren terraces until the landscape cul- ple, less than half of them citizens of the minates in a mountain range that is wild, Ilnited States, and the remainder Cubans, desolate and uninhabitable. It looks mostly political refugees or fugitives from more like a part of Greenland than the justice. “Pearl of the Tropics.” Cuba is bigger The business of the islanders is mostly than Maine or Virginia; 760 miles long, cigar making, there being seven thous- and quite 100 broad in some places. More and Cubans engaged in this industry than half of it is barren and not suscep- alone. Not a leaf of tobacco is grown tible of cultivation, as much a desert as there, and little else except a banyan tree Arizona, but between the mountains and that is pointed out to the tourist as a on the slopes to the seas lies the valleys great curiosity, and it really is one, for which have produced more of value for no other, I believe, can be found in North their acreage than any soil ip the world. America. The cutting from which this But so little is made of this richness, that one grew was brought, it is said, from ©ne wonders at the neglect of the people. India by some skipper a hundred years There is no plan or design about any- or more ago. All the tobacco is brought thing, and everything is only half done, across from Cuba and the cigars manu- The bay ot Havana is reckoned by the factured at the Key ought to be as good geographies among the finest in the as those of Havana, but for some mys- world. It is in the shape of a man’s hand, terious reasomthey are not. The sea air is the opening into the sea corresponding supposed to spoil the flavor of the leaf. to the wrist, and the fingers being repre- ,In keeping with the prevailing lack of sen ted by bays or inlets stretching in all enterprise, the accommodations for the directions. But in this magnificent haven entertainment of travelers are very there is not now, and never has been, meager, but one only cares to take a car- pier or quay or dock or any place for a riage and drive around for a few hours, vessel to land. All the loading and un- Despite the loathsomeness of the place, loading of passengers, freight or cattle is and the entire absence of any system of done by means of small lighters which sewerage, the health of the people is ex- are rowed back and forth between the cellent, and althougb there is usually a vessel and the land, yellow fever scare ^ every summer, the Morro Castle commands the entrance plague is never so severe as at the other to the harbor, by which no vessel is al- gulf ports lowed to pass without a licensed pilot The Captain-General of Cuba would from the city, and as all pilots shut up sleep easier if Key West should sink into shop at sunset, vessels cannot enter the the sea. Spain does not want our little harbor after that hour, no matter what island, but it would be a great relief if the weather may be outside. Morro Cas- this refuge for disaffected politicians and tie carries one of the four light houses on - embryo filibusters could in some way be a coast more than 1,800 miles long, and extinguished. The colonies ©f revolution- surrounded by dangerous reefs, and yet ists are a perpetual menace to the Spanish Spain pays $24,000,000 a year to main- authority at Havana, and most of the- tain an army in Cuba This sum is wrung savings of the Key West cigar makers from the people to pay their oppressors, are devoted to the cause of Cuban inde- One usually has a meUtal photograph, pendence, being collected regularly on more or less vivid, of places he hasi never every pay day by the “walking dele- seen, an image stored in some corner of gates.” The United States- officials are his imagination, formed of accumulated, kept on the alert for violations » oft. treaty I knowledge and the remembrance of nap and return to business about 4 o’clock in the afternoon. All the stores are j kept open in the evening, when the | ^ ^ greater part of the retail business is done. I All Havana is out at night in the parks and cafes, or promenading in the streets, which swarm with people of all colors and ages. Military bands play in the open air, the soda water and ice cream ' ^ booths are thronged with merry crowds, j and the parents of families sit in .the parks . with their broods around them. As men, [ f women, and children smoke,the air is laden ' with tobacco fumes, and the conversation^ sounds like magpies chattering. Soldiers! f in straw hats and uniforms, that look as : y U if they were made out of bed-ticking, ^ hustle the priests in black shovel hats, j and policemen with lanterns hung on bang long poles, who look as if they were out t to spear eels, stand on the street corners., The gayety is kept up until long after k midnight, when the Cuban retires to his couch or goes to the gamins table. HOW HARRI&AM WRITES PS. AYS EDWARD HARRIGAN’S VIEWS ON PLAY WRITING— HOW HE CONSTRUCTS HIS PIC TURES OP NEW YORK LIFE— HIS OPINION OP DRAMATIC REALISM— STAGE DIRECTION AND ITS IMPORTANCE— HOW HE L o d l s FOR CHARACTER IN REAL LIFE AND FINDS IT. % Copyright 1889 “by the Author. 5 slimy with dampness that has oozed out for years. All the carriages are open victorias, and all the boats in the harbor are roofed over with hoops reaching from gunwale to gunwale and covered with canvas. There is not a chimney nor a cooking stove in Havana; not a carpeted room nor a feather pillow, and very few win dows have glass in them, but are pro tected by iron gratings and heavy, solid, wooden blinds. The sidewalks are nar row ledges of stone, upon which two peo ple cannot go abreast or pass each other, and as most of the burdens are carried up on the backs of men, one constantly finds himself hustled into the middle of the street by a cargadore with a pannier of ill-smelling stuff upon his back, or a fat black woman who\comes bearing down upon him with a basket four feet wide up on her head. The streets are dirty and filled with refuse. You only wonder that cholera and yellow fever are mot always epidemic, and see how it was that the cities of the ancient world gradually buried themselves in their own filth and compelled modern antiquarians to dig down through layers of refuse to find them. Baths are numerous and so low- priced as to be within the reach of all, but there is no such thing as surf bathing in the sea. There are bath-houses in the still water, inclosed by fences to keej) the sharks out. The. Cuban beds are racks of iron, with out springs, covered with a framework of iron pipes, over which thick m'-squito netting is stretched. The mattresses are hard and thin, and the pillows are thin ner and harder still. But nobody grumbles at the mosquito netting. It is as essential to comfort and life as something to eat. The Cuban mosquito is gifted witti powerful fangs, and well educated to tbeir use. When in the stillness of the night you hear the hum of the gathering hosts, you are con tented with the hardness of the mattress, for you know they cannot bite through from the bottom. Everybody wears as little clothing as possible, and the lower classes have but slight regard for the proprieties. The women cotamqnly 'wear a calico wrapper and a pair of slippers upon their stock ingless feet,' the laboring men,wear noth ing but a broad sombrero and a pair of trousers, and the little children usually go entirely naked. It is the practice of the business men to get up early in the morning, take a cup o f coffee and a roll, and go to their I am often asked by friends and visitors to my dressing room as to how I write my plays, but the question as to how I act the parts I play in them is seldom put. Acting, I presume, is supxmsed, like Dog berry’s reading and writing, “to come by nature,” but to the popular mind there is a touch ot the mysterious and extraordi nary about an actor who actually writes his own plays. It is a fact, ‘ however, of which I am well assured that unless I had been able to act and portray charac ter on the stage I should never have been able to write a play which would have lasted above one night and a matinee. Since I became a public performer, and from the days antedating the birth of the Mulligan series, I have always been my own play wright, beginning at first with the simple and often plotter’s character sketches of but a few minutes duration, some of which I have in later years elab orated into successful plays and ending with such pieces as “Waddy Googan,” in which nearly a hundred people are em ployed. The foundation of all of them has been a study of character, and it is from this point of view that I have al ways approached play-writing. My meth ods are simple. I start witli an idea of a central character. This is always taken from life, and for the last twenty years I have gone about with eyes and ears ever on the alert to catch any kind of a new character which may subsequently be elaborated into a creation. Imagination may play some part, but the basis ot it must be real and actual. Even in real life we have to distinguish between a real and an assumed character, and if one is gifted with the slightest penetration the assumed character will always betray itself,—something’or another in the man’s speech, his mode of carrying himself, his conduct under certain circumstances will, to use a current phrase, “give him away,” and we know that he is shamming or attitudinizing. So it is on the stage— truth is satisfying to an andience, while its converse leaves them with an uneasy feeling of unreality, though they them selves may not be gifted with analytical perception enough to say what is wrong or lacking. To return to my work-shop. Having noted a character whjch seems to me to afford opportunities for treat ment I note down as fully as I can its salient characteristics and then let it rest, occasionally turning it over in my mfnd, and sometimes joining to it another char acter which seems to me to readily as similate. Thus when in Chicago some years ago I was walking along one rainy night on my way to the theater, when i came across an old man with a big tele scope standing at a street corner and patiently awaiting the arrival of custom ers who would pay him a dime for a peep through his spy-glass, there was some thing so comical to me in the idea of the old man trying to sell a peep at the moon on a pouring, wet night, when the sky was as black as ink. that I stopped and spoke to him. He was an amusing old fellow and, as I afterwards learned used with his modest earnings to specu late in wheat and had never been known to make a dollar by his bucket-shop trans actions. A long time afterwards this old telescope man, changed in outward ap pearance to the semblance of another old fellow whom I had come across here in NewYork, formed a central figure in one of my Mulligan plays. This I merely refer to as an example of what I may call composite character building. One shelf in my desk is devoted to hastily-scrawled notes and memoranda referring to, I may safely say, dozens of characters ^ which have appealed to me as possessing ele ments of usefulness for dramatic purposes. Some of them I may use, while others may never get beyond tjiis stage of an notation. Having then fixed my central character and having worked out to my own satis faction the salient points of this one figure, I begin slowly to build my play around him. The character suggests in cidents which may fitly develop him, and these incidents bring around the situa tions. It is at this stage that the major work of tbe play is done. It is a process of alternate building up and pulling -down. In the* rough everything is am plified and as much material as possible is put into the manuscript. This is the building up. Then when revision comes I cut and hack at it with ruthlessness. Does such a line seem familiar or “chest- nutty ?”—out it comes; does this dialogue hinder instead of advancing the story?— score it through; is there redundancy here ?—cut it down. And so it goes un til 1 have roughed the newly-quarried stone into the semblance of the. statue I a g PS 0 5 B1 O O KP^ 1 PQPP i Q If) (» H obligations, but as long as there is no ex- stories he has read. For example the stores or offices. At 11 o’clock they re- see in my mind’s eye. Now Hay it aside ............................................................................................. _ ................................. : , - ........................ for a while and perhaps take up some thing else and work at that for a space, to return to my roughed-out play later on. Coming to it then with requickened in terest I find there is plenty of filing away to be done and not a little to be added, and so I keep on at it until I am almost satisfied. Then comes a part of the work wbich is of importance, not secondary even to the writing of the play, namely, tbe putting of it on the stage with tbe consequent stage direction. In my opin ion the stage director has up to the present time been vastly under-valued in this country. On his shoulders rests much of the responsibility of success or failure,—he can make an ordinary play into a good one and preserve a bad one from instant condemnation. By a stage director I do not mean the typical stage manager who merely holds the book in his hand, sees that the actors speak the lines as they are written and follow out the directions on the margin as to entrances, crossings and exits. He is no more than a glorified prompter, though I fear he is much more frequently to be met with even in high places than the artist who is as dramatically sensitive as the author and as much of a creator as the actor.' Watch such a one at a re hearsal and you will see him brimful of nervous energy, suggesting a line here, the excision of a sentence there, the force »of which can be more pointedly conveyed by a bit of business; you will hear him advise, if necessary, the entire - suppres sion of an act and outlining a scene, which the author may write in, in place of it. Now he is marshalling his super numeraries and explaining to them tshat they must not move like a flock of sheep, but like intelligent beings^ eachanimated by slightly varying motions; again be has taken the place of one of the com pany and is speaking the lines with ap propriate action and emphasis. Each actor is oblivious to all but. his own part, he values the author as little as he does the stage-carpenter; while any idea of con sidering his part in relation to those of the other actors is as far removed from his thoughts as the relations of prime numbers. The stage-director, however, has to consider the play as a whole, to determine the relative values of char acters and situations, to quicken the action in some places and retard it in others, to invent by-play and business, and in fact to be the brains of the whole concern and translate as it were the author’s meaning through the medium of the living puppets In my own ease I am luq^ily able to be my own stage director, for it is on the stage itself that my plays are really worked into final shape. Many things look well on paper or sound all right within the walls of one’s study which as soon as they are spoken on the stage be tray at once their faultiness. Changing a line in a play is like knocking a brick out of a house. It may do no damage, but again it may necessitate the.pulling down and building up in other form of many others. It takes time and trouble again to accurately fit a part with its expon ent. John Smith may be a good actor and an honest fellow with a family i to support, but he may not be able to play the part I have assigned to him. Per sonal considerations cannot stand in the way, .John Smith must go and William Brown must be hired to fill his place. Perhaps William is not up to the mark and Jones does not quite fill the bill either, so I have to make a virtue out of a necessity and slightly shape the part to fit the man. This, however, is a course, the adoption of~ which I strenuously resist as long as pos sible, for it is only a very clever actor for whom it is artistically worth while to write a part. On the actual stage work of a play I consider too much time can not be spent. For myself I often work for eight or nine hours at a stretch with my nerves the whole time in a high state of tension, so that when I reach my home after such a spell of work I am only able fo throw myself on my bed and sleep un til the call of duty and next day’s re- henrsal wakes me up. From what I can gather the art of stage direction is better understood on the other side of the At lantic, in France, Germany and England, thau It is here. That we are daily grow-, ing more alive to its importance I am glad to say there is no doubt, but Sar- dous, tbe Irvings, Gilbert and others I could name seem to be a trifle ahead of U8 Still. It is interesting in connection with this to note that Augustin Daly and A. M. Palmer have reaped much of their well deserved success mainly on ac* caunt of tbeir consummate skill in tbe art of directing the stage. Finally I may briefly outline my vifevs as to the class of dramatic work my own audiences, for I can speak for no other, deihand. They want, in tbe first place, movement, and brisk movement at that. Their attention must not for an instant be allowed to flag; they are quicker with their eyes than with their ears, and the action therefore must be even more in sistent than the word, which it must amplify and give added point to. They like strong contrasts of color and of light and shade and too much time must not be wasted on over elaboration either of character or incident. They want to see the things they know about, and can therefore readily criticise, and of which they can appreciate the truth or false hood. Therefore I have to deal with every day life and treat it with literal realism which sometimes star ties even \myself in its boldness. Thus in my latest play I introduced a phase of life wbich I imagine has only been seen on the stage before in certain French farces of a far from moral nature. My treatment of the scene, however, was straightforward and free from consciousness ; and this, as I dared to hope it would, saved it, and I Jiave yet to hear the first unpleasant criti- These are. in brief, the conditions I have had in view since I began writing for the New \Tork stage, and such success as I have attained has been due mainly to nay consistent observance of and atten tion to these main points. I have gone to real life for my inspiration and have never failed to find there that which I sought Ss o | 0> o S . s a S i ' ^ o o QQ ^ S s - o i l ”.. o Og SJi o < UJL.O’SFMlKCl. HENEY EOTH WOULD CALIi YOUR ATTENTION TO' HIS STOCK OF le w Spring Goods -------- OF -------- Plain and Fancy Suitings, OFercoatiBgs and Trouserings OF THE LATEST DESIGNS. ALSO A C •MPLETE LINE^OF QBNTS^ ■ f URIISHING GOODS ! 352 MAIN ST. d&wlm—mhl6 eilGHMIE PATENT BOSOM SHIRTS — AT— J. J. B ahret ’ s , 262 M ain S i .. Men’s, Youths* and Boy&*| CLOTHING. FUBNISHim QOODSi. S H I R T S AND D R A W E R S . A LARGE AND COMPLETE STOCK AT BOTTOM PRICEd J. J. Bahret’s, 262 Main St. F iR A N O l A l L . McINTYREfe SEELEY’S Mortgages Assure to the Investor Safety, Promptness and Profit. We have on hand the folio-wing choice ILoans;^ $3000, on Farm worth $mo, $1600, » $700, 1600. “ « $800. “ “ $9j500, $5,000. $5 200. $2,300. $2,400. $3,000. 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