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  THE DISASTER WHICH ECLIPSED
  HISTORY


  THE
  JOHNSTOWN
  FLOOD


  ILLUSTRATED


  PUBLISHED BY
  RICHARD K. FOX,
  FRANKLIN SQ., NEW YORK.

  PRICE,      10 CENTS.

  Copyrighted 1889, by Richard K. Fox.




  PARIS UNVEILED

  --OR--

  An Expose of Vice AND Crime

  --IN THE--

  GAY FRENCH CAPITAL.


  Depicting in a truly graphic manner the
  doings and sayings of the liveliest
  people on the face of the earth
  in the liveliest capital in
  the world.

  Handsomely and profusely illustrated with
  innumerable Engravings.

  Translated from the French Expressly for
  Richard K. Fox

  PRICE BY MAIL, 25 CENTS.


  RICHARD K. FOX, Publisher,
  Franklin Square, New York




HORROR!

THE JOHNSTOWN DISASTER WHICH ECLIPSED HISTORY.

A DEATH-DEALING DAM.

Hundreds upon Hundreds of People Swept Away by the Flood.


There is not one chance in a million that the Conemaugh river would
ever have been heard of in history had it not been for its action on
Friday evening, May 31.

The Conemaugh river is, or rather was, a simple little stream that
meandered through Northwestern Pennsylvania and made glad by its
peaceful murmurings those who dwelt by its bankside, or bore tokens of
affection in the way of pleasure-seeking picnickers, moonlight parties
or across-stream excursionists upon its placid bosom. It was one of
those inoffensive creeks, termed by courtesy a river, that the Hudson
river of the East, the Mississippi of the Middle or the Red river of
the West might call a stripling.

There are times when even the still, small voice arises in its might
and asserts its supremacy, and the wee small river of Conemaugh did
that self-same thing on Friday evening, May 31. All along the banks
of the listless, yet ever flowing, little alleged river the farmers
were preparing for their anticipated harvests; the fishermen of the
section--amateur fishermen indeed, for they were only equal to the
fish--small and incomplete as was the Conemaugh, such as you and I,
reader, who took pleasure in flinging their worm-crowded hooks into
the stomach of a log and then going home for more bait; bonny fairies,
brisk young tillers of the soil, toilers, and seeming-tired miners,
these and all other human concomitants that go to make up such a quiet,
thriving bailiwick dwelt in the locality.

And so went on the listless life of the denizens of the Conemaugh
Valley, nestling at the foot of the Allegheny range.

Snuggling in the cosiest nook, right where no prying reporter or
trout-fishing President ever bent his way was Johnstown. The word "was"
is used advisedly, Johnstown is no more. At four o'clock on the fateful
day all was serene. At six o'clock all was desolation and destruction.

[Illustration: THE OLD JOHNSTOWN.]

The "big dam" had broken and the little brooklet had burst its sides
for very glee at being dubbed a creek, and was making itself known in
history. The Brooklyn Theatre holocaust, with its dead three hundred,
paled into insignificance. The Mud Run and Reading disasters had to
take a back seat.

"Let me alone for horror," murmured the Conemaugh, "and I'll get there!"

It did get there.

Right above Johnstown on the self-same Conemaugh, or rather where
the North Fork glides into that erstwhile inoffensive stream, was a
reservoir.

The reservoir is on the site of the old lake, which was one of the
feeders of the Pennsylvania Canal. It is the property of a number
of wealthy gentlemen in Pittsburgh, who formed themselves into the
corporation, the title of which is the South Fork Fishing and Hunting
Club. This sheet of water was formerly known as Conemaugh Lake. It is
from two hundred to three hundred feet above the level of Johnstown,
being in the mountains. It is about three and one-half miles long and
from a mile to one and one-fourth miles in width, and in some places
it is 100 feet in depth. It holds more water than any other reservoir,
natural or