Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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An Autumn Song. BY E. NOKMAN OUNKISON. Now gently fells the fading light, 41 The aatomn’s sunset veil, While dusky grows the wavering flight Of whip-poor-will and quail. The grain is bound, the nuts are brown On every wooded hill, The light is softened on the down, And silvered on the rilL The partridge drums; the plover’s call Salutes the sportsman’s ear, And just above the water-fall The fisher sets his weir. The reddened leaves with withered wings Sweep lightly to the sod, And autumn walks the land and sings, With rustling sandals shod. —Scri’mer's. 9 The Other Side. We go our ways in life too much alone ; We hold ourselves too far from all our kind; I %s^often we are deaf to sigh and mean, rToo often to the weak and helpless blind ; Too often, when distress and want abide, We turn and pass upon the other side. Je otherTfiTPAs trodden smooth, and worn By footsteps passing idly all the day ; Where lie the bruised ones who faint and mourn, Is seldom more than an untrodden way. Our selflsh hearts are for our feet the guide — They lead us all too oft upon the other side. It should be ours the oil and wine to pour * Into the bleeding wounds of stricken ones; To t&kft the smitten, the sick and sore, And beitr thwn where the stream of blessing runs ; Instead, we look al>ont - the way is wide, ^>nd so pass upon the other side. and brothers, gliding down the anity is calling each and all In tender accents ; born of griefs and tears ; I pray you listen to the thrilling call— You cannot, in your selfish pride, Guiltless pass u]H>u the other side. The Snow-Blossom. „ ^ . r '*‘S'§? ► i ■ / - A / i * < ■ r- is a flower tlint grows only ft the snows of the Alpine mouu- far . I^iyuow. only upon the white all over--stems, T^ves, ami blossoms—white as the snow itself; and to 'have gathered one is to have proved oneself a rare climber. There are very few of these blossoms to be found; and as they grow in the most dangerous places, as though they de sired to hide themselves from all, lady tourists, who find themselves amongst the Alps, grow enthusiastic in regard to this flower, and are wont to say that they would dare anything to get one; but when devoted husbands and well- paid guides have done their best for them, they still return to town without the blossom. No woman yet has ever picked one. “Not many men either,” says the landlady of the “ Golden Dove,” stand ing before her English guests, and chatting of the sun-flower; “few men. Now and tin n, one very much in love fiuds one for Ins sweetheart. It is as though he said; 4 1 have risked my life for you.’ A girl can never refuse so bravo a fellor. Ah, you would not be lieve it now, but my good man thought me worth winning with a suow-blossom. I wore it in my n.i r on our betrothal day.” “ Oh, Chailes,” whispei'Hl Lady Ida to her husband, as she cling? closer to his arm, “ how can a woman hi?r that the maiiWTre-t i ..oi..»ii ojy to pamper her pride ?” “ These Alpine hunters are real lovers,” says Lady Bertha, looking at the tall and elegant man beside her. “A girl could uot say 4 No, ’ as the landlady says, to one who has proved himself so much iu earnest. If I had a woer here, I should bid him bring me a snow-blos som if he would wiu me.” The man beside her, Sir Herbert Vane, was very ranch in love. Under such circumstances,both men and women lose their common sense. “Will you send me to bring you the snow-blossom ?” he whispered. She looked at him, and smiled. “They say it is at the risk of life,” she answered. “ Life is valueless unless one has that which makes it happy,” said he. She answered, “Bring me the snow- blossom.” Late that afternoon, old Pierre, young Pierre, and Jean, the guides, stood with Sir Herbert on the wildest and most pre cipitous of the mountain heights. They had reached a yawning chasm, and had come to a halt. | “Sir,” said old Pierre, “you are a good mountaineer, but you were not born to it. Up yonder, little Jean de clares, there is a suow-blossom. He alone of us four can take that leap in safety. Once, at his age, I could ; but not now. His brother, never ; you, im possible, although you have needed so little of our help. Jean will bring you the flower.” “I must pluck it with my own hands,” said Sir Herbert. “Then you will pay for it with your own life !” said the old man. The Englishman laughed. He drew an opera-glass from his pocket, aud look ed through it. “I see the flower, he said. The next instant, amidst the cries of the mountaineers, he had taken the leap. Contrary to their expectations, he did it in safety. They saw him stoop and pluck the flower, hold it aloft, take it between his teeth, aud turn toward them. Then their practised eyes saw that his foot slipped. He endeavored to regain his balance, but iu vain. In an instant more he hung over the edge of the preci pice, the stunted turfs of grass his only hold on life. There was no possibility of helping him. He was past aid. Cool ami brave to the last, he cautiously en deavored to brace himself against the roea. Perhaps if lie could not climb up ward, lie could clamber down. His foot rested at last on a projection. It was just in time. His fingers were giving way. “ H °l‘l <»>! Hold oiij sir!” cried the guide. “In a few minutes we can give \on a rope. lor the love of the saints, don't look down.” “ Ho holds the snow-blossom between his teeth yet, said young Jean, a lover himself, and well aware why this flower was so eagerly sought. 44 Father, we must save that man.” Prepared to take the leap which would place him in a position whence a rope might be flung about the bravo English man, he stood poised upon the rock ; but at this instant the foothold to which Sir Herbert trusted gave way. His weight had forced the rock from its posi tion—it fell, and he fell with it. The g,tides uttered a yell, and stood staring down into the abyss. Far below they VOL. HI. NO. 147. OI.Il SKIUKN. VOI.. VII. NO. 3 50.} AIKEN, S. C., THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1877. $2.00 per Annum, in Advance. saw a dark figure lying across the jagged rocks. Aud as it lay, a stray sunbeam flashed out on something white. It was the snow-flower. “Wc must take the dead body back to the hotel, and tell the horrible story,” said the old man. “Ah, who would ba a guide to men who will not be guided !” Then no more was said. Scrambling, sliding, lowering themselves by means of the rope, father aud sons at last gain ed the spot to which Sir Herbert had fallen in an instant. Helpless ho lay across the rocks. White with agony, but not senseless. His eyes were wide open, and his lips, drawn back in pain, showed, still held between the broad, white teeth by its long stem, the snow-blossom which he had plucked at such fearful cost. The eyes turned towards Jean. Ho knew what the helpless hands would have done if they could, aud took the flower. “I have only a little while to speak,” gasped the writhing man. “Jean, take this to Lady Bertha. Tell her I picked it with my own hand, and—and that I have gone on. Pierre, you two must lake mo elsewhere—not back to the hotel. Tell none of them of my fate— swear—tell no one that I am wounded. I have a friend in Borgen ; he will see that you are well paid ; take me there.” “ But, monsieur, what shall I say— ] how explain ?” sobbed Jean. “ No explanation,” sobbed the wound ed man. “ Keep it from her. Give her the flower—and—my love.” And he fainted. It was not until the next morning that Jean, the guide, sti^d before Lady Bertha, with the suow-blossom iu his hand. Ho found his task very hard. “ Mademoiselle,” he said, “the gen tleman, Sir Herbert, has sent you this flower with his love. He bade mo de clare to you that he picked it himself. He did. I saw him, mademoiselle.” “ Why did he not bring it to me him self ?” thought Lady Bertha, taking the rare blossom in her hand. Aloud she said : 4 4 My thanks to Sir Herbert. But he has also returned ?” “No, mademoiselle.” “He is coming.” 44 1 think not, mademoiselle. He bade me say he had gone on.” “ Gone on ! You mistook.” Jean’s task grew harder yet. “ No, mademoiselle. He said he has gone on, with my father and brother Pierre. I think he is not coming back. ” Then he fairly turned and ran away. The Lady Bertha became red as a rose, then pale as the snow-flower that she held. 4 AATi, she wi/W.-Ooorl now !” she said io heTBsvc^q'ina was a pumshmenTTor" Lcr. She liitn permitted him to risk his life to win her lov^ and now he told her plainly that her love n ot worth the risk, though he was too bi*>w c to shrink danger. It was a repetition or old story of the lady who cast her glove iirw» the lion’s den, and bid her lover to bring it to her ; he brought it, but only to fling at her. So Sir Herbert had, as she believed, punished her. In bitter wrath, Lady Bertha flnng the snow- blossom upon the earth, and trampled on it. • Meanwhile, father and son, old Jean and young Pierre, boro the sad and nearly lifeless burden towards Borgen. A year had passed. Lord Charles and his bride had been traveling all this while; his sister with them. No news had reached them of Sir Herbert; no letter, no message. He was not in Eng land, or they should have heard. And Ada had whispered to her husband that she fancied Bertha somehow at the bot- : torn of his sudden departure, so that the ] other young mau found the matter easily ; explainable. “Bertha has refused him, silly girl,” i he said. “ She should have been proud of such a lover; that is the sort of girl ! who throws herself away at last upon a j rascal. I have no hope for her. ” And Bertha ! Ah, poor Lady B?rtha | was unutterably wretched. She had loved Sir Herbert, ami she hail lost him by her own silly act. She was humbled I by her own vanity. And now she knew i how dear this man had been to her, and ! how empty her life would be without him. They were in England again, and friends had Hocked about them. “ Welcome home,” cried one gentle man, shaking hands vigorously. “ Wel come home. I am glad to see you with whole bones, after so much mountain climbing. There have been accidents without number. One or two have been killed, and, of course, you kuow about ; poor Sir Herbert. He was with your party, wasn’t he?” “About Sir Herbert—” Each looked at the other. “We know nothing, except that he left us without any adieux,” said Lady Ida. “ Ah. it was after that, then ! Well, they brought him Home last week—a mere wreck. Spine injured, they say. Fell down one of the horrible precipices ; and you did not know ?” Lady Bertha wanted to hear no' more. She crept out of the room, aud found her way to her own, where she might in dulge her emotion without restraint. Those few words had told her the whole story. She knew why he had not re turned to the inn. She knew now the cost of the snow-blossom on which she had trampled. “Oh, Herbert, Herbert!” moaned the proudest lady in all England. 44 Herbert, darling, will my whole life atone in any measure for what I have done? If it may, you shall have it.” Then, with trembling hands, she at tired herself for a drive, and ordered her carriage. She knew that Sir Her bert Vane would Vie found at his moth- ! er s residence, and she drove thither at ! once. 44 It is Herbert that I wish to see, not Lady Vane,’’she said to the servant, j who stared at her in astonishment. “Give him my card. I know he is an invalid ; but he will see me.” In ten minutes more the door of a darkened room was opened, and she crept in. A figure lay motionless on a couch, and two eager eyes looked toward her. “ Come closer,” said a faint voice ; “ I am unable to offer you a chair or even my hand. Perhaps you have heard that I have met with a bad accident?”’ Lady Bertha went closer, but she did not take a chair; she knelt beside the couch, and looked at the invalid as she had never looked before. “You brave, great-hearted mau,” she said, “you refrain from taunting me, from telling me that I bade you bring the snow-blossoms ! Oh, I know all. It was in plucking that that you fell. Tell me, do you hate me for it ?” He smiled tenderly. “Hate you !” he said. “ Bertha, let me keep one thought through the dull life that 1 must lead. If I had brought you the flower, would you have given me the right to say I loved you ?” The’proud head bent itself. The cheek laid against his own. “You plucked the snow-blossom for me,” she said. “I have brought you the mean and miserable reward—myself. Such as I am, take me. Let me be your faithful wife, and do all that a wife may do to alleviate your sufferings. I offer myself to you, and if you refuse me I shall deserve it. ” “ You know that I lie here like a help less log. You would sacrifice yourself to be nurse to one like me ! I love you, but I dare not ” But she sealed his lips with her first kiss. So the most romantic marriage of the year took place, before long, beside Sir Herbert’s couch, and the few guests gave tearful kisses to the wedded pair, and cried over their fate iu very earnest afterward. But from the hour when Bertha’s lips touched his, Sir Herbert seemed to grojv stronger ; and by slow degrees he recovered, not all his strength and beauty perhaps, but still so much that life is a blessing, and to his wife, at least, he seems the very handsomest of men. A Youthful Outcast. Last evening, says a recent issue of the Columbus (Ohio) Statesman, Offi cer Fortman brought in a prisoner at the Hammond street station house, and stood him up in front of the big desk, where so many drunks and criminals and social on toasts have stood to be searched and questioned, previous to being ushered into the long dismal cell-room at the rear. The prisoner was about as big as Slightly Mixed. The musical critic of one of the New York papers having been compelled to leave town suddenly on vho eve of » concert by the Philharmonic Society, a confere on the sporting department of the journal kindly volunteered to take his place for the evening. His work, whatever his shortcomings in an artistic sense, certainly lacked nothing in origi nality, and we commend his style to some of the Doncaster critics. Hear him : “ Time was called exactly at eight o’clock, and about fifty bugles, fifes and fiddles entered for the contest. The fiddles won the toss, and took the inside with the chandeliers right in their eyes. The umpire, with a small club, acted as starter. Just before the start he stood upon a cheese box, with a small luncu counter before him, and shook his stick at the entries to keep them down. The contestants first socked it to Landlich Hochzeit, by Goldsmark. Op. 26. They got off nearly even, one of the sorrel fiddles gently leading. The mau with the French horn tried to call them back, but they settled down to a sogging gait, with the big roan fiddle bringing up iu the rear. At the first quarter the little black whistle broke badly, and went into the air, but the fiddles left kept well to gether, aud struck up a rattling gait. At • the half-pole the man with the straight horn showed signs of fatigue. There was a bob-tailed flute which wrestled sadly with the sorrel bugle at the half mile, but he was wind-broken and wheezed. The galoot with the big fat bugle kept calling 4 whoa ’ all the time, but he seemed to keep up with the rest until the eud of the race. They all came under the string in good order, but the judge ou the cheese box, seemed to re serve bis opiniou. He seemed tired, aud the contestants went out to find their bottle holders, aud get ready for the Beethoven handicap. It was a nice ex hibition, but a little tiresome to the ob servers.” A NEW YORK NOBLEMAN. THE TWELVE O’CLOCK MAN. -and, unspeakably ragged and dirty. He stooU there a Inlk a human atom in the big world, so far as friends or relatives are concerned. One dirty little fist was crammed into his right eye, while tears washed white chan nels down his grimy face, and in his oiher hand he held a huge chunk of sweitzor kase. Lieutenant Burke’s stem countenance appeared over the open slate. “What is your name?” was the question, “ Denny Feely, sir,” was the answer. 44 Where are you from ?” “From N-n-new York,” was the sob bing answer. “ How old are you ?” “ T-t-twelve years, sir.” “ Shut up your crying. Nobody’s go ing to hurt you. When did you leave home ?” “ Two years ago.” “ Wlmt have you been doing all this time ?” “Traveling around, sir.” 44 Have you a father and mother ?” 4 ‘ Yes, sir ; ou Thirteenth street. ” 44 What does your father do ?” “Gits drunk.” “ Wlmt does your mother do ?” “ Gits drunk too. That’s all they do.” “ Wlmt made you leave ?” “They licked me, aud said I could light out whenever I pleased. Si I did.” 44 How did you travel around ?” “Ou the cars. I make believe deaf and dumb to git rides and git a liviug. Please let me go. Don’t lock me up.” Twelve years old aud for two years a professional tramp ! A keen, bright boy, aud able to read and write. There is the making of a smart thief and noted criminal. He was taken back and locked iu a cell with a couple of crackers and cheese for solace. So little, so puny, so ragged and for lorn, so terribly alone aud uncared for, so young in years, aud yet so horribly old in sin and shame and misery of the big, wicked world. An Apparent Premonition of Dentil. A distressing case of drowning that occured in the Lower Harbor yesterday was peculiar in that the victim hail h premonition, apparently, of his fate, and three minutes before, when on the point of stepping into the boat, he hand ed his name, written ou a tag, to a by stander, remarking, “That’s my ad dress, if I -should be. drowned.” The boat pushed off from the wharf and presently capsized, and the man went under and was seen no more alive. The card was then examined, aud the drown ed man was ascertained to be Jacob Wildeburg, a porter, in the employ of L. W. Smith, of No. 46 South Broad way, with whom he lived. Wildeburg had been seut with a barrel of meat to be delivered on board a vessel anchored iu the stream. Having obtained a boat he got into it and then handed the card to Mr. Roll, who was standing by, with the remark given above. The boat then shoved off, and bad got not more than a dozen lengths away when it was seen to turn about and fall into the trough of the sea, which was running pretty high, and then turn ove . Wildeburg sank at once. Efforts to se cure his body by grappling were suc cessful two or three hours later. The coroner declined to hold an inquest, the drowning being evidently the result of au accident.—Baltimore American, Endurance of the Bulgarians. A war correspondent sayp : Perhaps the reason why I can never bring myself to appreciate the acuteness of the mis fortunes of the Bulgarians is because they have literally as many lives as a cat. A bullet through the arm does no incapacitate them from working. One man with a piece out of the side of his head the size and shape of a half cucum ber of medium size, laying bare the bone, and below this a frightful gash chipping out the skull to the brain and severing temple, ear, cheek, and part of the neck so that a great flap hung down to the shoulder ; then a third cut on the ; left side of the tnp of his head large i Aiuruffh. tu kjll an_ordinary man ; beside ■' v, ovr>lS', "tl 'Tnng' gwi'm m »■■— right biceps penetrating to the bone— this creature, mutilated in this awful way, walked three days to this place without food, and with scarcely any water. He arrived thin, but vigorous, aud his wounds were five days old, and still undressed. He has never spent a day indoors ; he sits up and walks about all the time, aud you may meet him ou the street in the cool of the afternoon, walking along right smartly, and he has been hurt only teu days ago ! Another fellow came in with his hand cut off and his head laid opan to the brain. Why he didn’t Weed to death from his hand or die from the gash in his head, three days in this fearful heat, and on foot all the time, is a problem I cannot answer. The only possible solution for it is, that these people have been for ages temper ate, hard-working, frugal, aud healthy. Out-of-door life is their lot, and like the animals they are wounded and their vig orous nature supplies the loss and heals the wound at once. Oeorse, (heConnt Joannes—Ills Well-known Eccentricities ami Claim to Nobility. A New York correspondent of the De troit Free Press gossips of a well-known Gothamite as follows : Ot course every reader of the Free Press has heard of our renowned townsman, the illustrious Count Joannes. The count is one of the queerest customers you would see in a month of Sundays. Sothern has hit him off to a “t” in the “Crushed Trage dian.” The picture is somewhat exag gerated, but not too much so for the stage. The count has appealed to one of the courts to make Sothern stop tak ing him off in that fashion. He thinks it is outrageous that a distiguisbed his torian, orator, dramatist, poet and artist, and counselor in the New York Su preme Court besides, should be ridi culed in any such manner. Evidently a change has come o’er the spirit of his dream since I saw him, a couple of weeks ago, occupying a front seat iu the Park Theater, and apparently enjoying the burlesque of himself as much as any other person present. He had spruced himself up quite neatly for the occasion, and looked rather better than usual. Theodore Tilton sat just behind him on one side and ex-Goveruor Hoffman on the other. His glossy wig was quite as fl rwing as Theodore’s back hair, and the hirsute ornament beneath his chivalric nose was not in any way inferior to the gorgeous moustache of Hoffman—the same noble moustache that once did use ful service in Tom Nast’s cartoons. Jo annes, as I have said, seemed to enjoy the play as much as any one, and when the curtain fell and he rose to leave, and bowed like a true Count Palatine, as he calls himself, to the suave and dignified Hoffman, there did not appear to be any thing in the least degree unpleasant in his mind except just a wee little bit of chagrin at the neglect of Hoffman to re turn his bow, or notice him in any way whatever. It was cruel of Hoffman, but I ilAre say the count is used to such things. ' Is the count crazy ? Well, a great many think he is, and a great many say he is not—that is, not a bit more so than George Francis Train, who may still be seen daily on a bencli in Madison square, with the little ones romping around him at a fine rate. But he probably has a bee iu his bonnet, at least. I think it is now somewhere about fifteen yea:' 1 since the bar of Boston got up a crusade against Joannes, who claimed to be one of its members, charged him with being a barrator (Anglice, public nuisance,) and brought about his expulsion from the city. He steered for New York at once, and has been one of us ever since. In liis early days George Jones was a rcryi:. ■ Unprincipled Performance. A citizen of Detroit, says the Free Press, who should be preparing him self for the unknown life beyond the grave instead of being up to such tricks, | removed the setting from his big gold ring the other day, leaving a marked | and decided vacancy. He gets on a street car, holds his hand so that the j ring must be seen, aud pretty soon a man bends forward aud remarks : 4 4 Excuse me, sir, but you have lost the set from your ring. ” “So I have,” replies the owner as he looks around on the floor. Every passenger began to peer around, aud the man who made the dis covery finally asks ; “ Was it a valuable set ?” 44 It was a thousand dollar diamond,’’ is the calm reply. There is another movement on the part of -passengers. Some look along the seat, some under it, and some make a dive for pearl buttons and other small objects. •‘When did you miss it?” asks the first man as the search weakens a little. “A year and a half ago, when I was attending camp-meeting in Illinois ?” is the sad reply. Then even passeeger straightens up, every eye looks at vaivucy, and uot the faintest smile cau l« mi ou any face, A person boarding tin- ar just then would wonder wLut‘ great man in the city had just d cd, and if tin- passengers were on theii way to take a sad farewell look at his remains. A public spouter, while ma'Jnor a speech, paused iu the midst of it, a.id exclaimed: “Now, gentlemen, what d > you think ?” lustautly a man rose in the assembly, and, with one eye par tially closed, modestly replied : 44 I think, sir—I do indeed, sir—I think if you aud I were to tramp the country to gether, we would toll more lies than any other two men in the country, sir ! and I’d not say a word during the whole time, sir.” While we are wrestling with the mo mentous question of unemployed labor, let us pause to consider how steadily and lucratively employed is the man who minds his own business. malice, perhaps, that before the count became an actor he kept a small cigar shop iu London, but he denies that, and is reaily to fight, witli either sword or pistol, any mau who dares to repeat it. How or where he got the title that he wears is a conundrum that I have never known to be solved. All that is known on the subject is that he went to Europe, a great many years ago, as plain George Jones, and came back as George the Count Joannes. Whether he baptized himself in this fashion, or some wags did it for the fun of the thing, this de ponent knoweth not, but at all events he has held on to the title ever since, and the man who questions his right to it does so at the risk of a challenge. He hangs around the courts aud the theatres in a very rusty suit, with a faucy cravat, aud a flower, if he can get one, iu his button-hole, aud now and then he manages to pick up a few dollars. The count is growing old and his feet no longer carry him witli the springy mo tion of former days. He sometimes looks quite shabby, too, aud if report speaks truly there are occasions when a square meal would do him much good. His face is careworn, there is a sunken look about his eyes, ami ho has all the appearance of a sadly broken down old beau. His age cannot bo far from sixty, but his moustache is as black as it was thirty years ago. Many disappointments have befallen him, but he has borne them all with au unruffled philosophy. The latest had reference to Henry Ward Beecher aud a matter of fifty dollars. A couple of weeks ago he was induced to enter into a contract to pronounce an oration (the count’s discourses are ora tions) ou bread and water, in reply to the great man of Plymouth, his compen sation to be the sum named. When the night for delivering the 44 oration ” came around, the noble count repaired to Tam many Hall, where the talking was to be done, but the party of the other part did not appear. The manager refused to open the doors unless the rent was paid in advance, aud the result was disap pointment all around. It certainly was a very shabby way to treat a count, but then there was no help for it, and the illustrious Joannes was obliged to pocket his oration aud his chagrin and depart in the darkness. He sometimes appears iu court as a lawyer, but on nearly all such occasions he is both counsel and client. He has a penchant for bringing suits of one sort or another, but the judges rarely pay any attention to him beyond wliat the bare line of duty demauds. Ho never gets any fees, and how he manages to live is a mystery to all. Charles A. Dana p%ys him a trifle now and then for liis amusing contributions to th Sun, which are published only because their odd absurdity makes them readable, but in no other way is he known to make cuy money. To say that Joannes—but perhaps I had better not. The most gigantic intellect of the nineteenth cen- furi i(George Francis Train’s alone ex cept od) is not exactly a safe thing to fool with in the columns of a newspaper. A £77’iin Orange county, New York, lias ha f- three step-mothers and two step- fa The only fun this extraor- din . experiences is eating wed ding' Ills Uvnth in Brooklyn—The Blyatery thnl He Would Never Explain. Thomas Conners, the “ Twelve O’clock Man,” who for many years haunted the Brooklyn city hall, died one morning recently in the home of his sister, in Warren street, near Washing ton avenue, Brooklyu. About ten years ago he was first noticed clinging to the iron railing in front of the city hall at noon, and intently watching the face of the great clock in the tower. He was dressed shabbily. His toes peeped out of his shoes, and his elbows out of his sleeves, and a black stubby beard cover ed his face. He spoke to no one, and refused always to answer any person who spoke to him, except with a guttural sound. As soon as the bell began to strike twelve, he habitually drew him self up to his full height, standing on the stone base of the iron fence, and clinging to the rail. Then throwing his body back as far as his arms would per mit, he remained motionless until the last stroke of the bell ceased to echo. Then stepping down he shambled off, occasionally looking behind with a sad expression ou his face, as though disap pointed at not meeting some one, and yet half believing that the expected one might yet come. He repeated this day after day, in all kinds of weather, and soon earned the title of the “ Twelve O’Clock Man.” He was one of the sights of Brooklyn in the first years that he began to visit the hall; but as time passed he became so well known that he rarely got more than a sympathetic glance from those who passed him. The small boys who" at first annoyed him ceased their gibes on finding that he did not grow angry or in any way show re sentment. He went to his post daily, walking /with' his head down, his body bent forward, his hands thrust iu his pantaloons pockets, and his feet drag ging heavily along. Tike expression of sad anxiety on his . face was one rarely seen outside the walls of an asylum for the insane. The lilies of his face indi cated acute mental suffering, and his manner was that of a mau crushed by the weight of sorrow. Nothing could ever be obtained from Mr. Conners concerning his story 7 , but a story soon gained credence that he had been induced to loan $4,000 to a Brook lyn lawyer, who promised to meet him the next day at tire city hall, at twelve o’clock, and pay him back his money. Conners, it is said, was then sano, but the disappointment turned his brain ; aud he came each day expecting to meet his debtor and receive his money. This story was spoiled by an investiga tion, which showed that be was never the owner of so large a sum as $4,000, rand that he had been a weak-minded , , “' 1 ■; '—yn bad turned when he reached manhood with the liauucina tion that a man was to meet him at the city hall and pay him the money. He was followed one day and traced to a small house iu the unsettled part of the city, kuowu as “ Darby’s Patch. ” He lived there with his sister, who raised pigs, geese and goats for a living. Conners was fifty years of age. He was bom in Westmeath county, Ireland and came to this country when a boy. A wake was held over bis remains. The picture of the “ Twelve O’Clock Man,” swinging back from the imn fence, listening to the sound of the noon day clock, was painted in oil by Prof. Ferd. Boyle, as was a companion picture of him grasping tho iron pickets, and peering through the fence. Tho pic tnres hung for many years on the parlor walls of the Faust club. Two years ago, J. J. McCloskey, the actor, wrote a play entitled “ Twelve O’Cloek Mau,” repre senting the odd life of Conners. It was played for a short time iu the Park theater.—New York Sun. Let Down Easy. He limped. He carried a huge cane. He was old enough to be most anybody’s father-in-law, and he hadn’t the faintest show of cash iu his pockets, yet he was jolly. He stood in front of the Soldiers’ Monument, danced as well as a lame man could, and sang : I’m Captain Jinks with ragged clothes, I’m Captain Jinks with a rosy nose, . I’m Captain Jinks with many woes, But I am not down-hearted. When he was asked by an ^fficer to “come along,” he cheerfully went. When they put him in a cell he had no objection. When they refused to give him ice cream with his supper he was willing to take pumpkin pie. Aud when they brought him out for trial ho looked at his Honor and mildly said : 44 Let me down gently, fellow man. I’m old and thin and weak, and any bad news might bring on a fit or some thing.” “ Old man, where is your home ?” asked the court. “ All this big world is my home, ’squire. ” 44 Where are your good clothes, money and other evidences that you are not a vagrant ?” “I’m run down, ’squire. These are my Sunday clothes. I’m out of cash, and I can’t furnish any collateral for one square meal. You see me just as I am, and now wliat are your intentions toward me? Please don’t hit me with a big sentence aiPat once.” “ Joseph Strathers, you will be i^tter off in a brick house than on the streets. In a few days more the wind will blow cold, the frosts will warp you out of shape, and crusts amt crumbs won’t be laying around loose. I think I’ll send you up/’ “Yes—yes—I knew.-you would from' the start, but don’t be rash about it. Let the sentence come easy. “Well, then, I’ll sentence you in sec tions, as foliowVr” One—two—three— four—five—six Months-, out of a possible seven, and now please.ait. down and make reaily for the goo4 breakfast which will await you up there.” 44 That was beautiful—tender—touch ing !” whispered Joseph, and he sat down on a glass box in the corridor, aud carefully removed all the straws from his hair.—DeWoit Free Press. How Money Grows at Interest. If one dollar be invested and the inter est added to the principal annually,^it the rates named, we shall have tho fol lowing result as the accumulation of oue hundred years : 100 years at 1 per cent. mi 100 years at 2 jier cent. 7'.' 100 years at 2’ T per cent. I . d , 100 years at 3 per cent. i-’M 100 years at 3! i,' ]>er cent. 31 >4 100 years at 4 per cent. 50 1 ^ 100 years at 4 1 T per cent. 811.,' 100 years at 5 " per cent. 131JT 100 years at 0 per cent. 340 ' 100 years at 7 per cent. SOS 100 years at 3 per cent. *• 2,203 100 years at 9 per cent. 5 513 100 years at 10 per cent. 13,809 100 years at 12 per cent. 84.075 100 years at 15 per cent. 1.174.405 100 years at IS per cent. 15.145,000 100 years at 24 per cent. 2,551,799,404 Many carelessly infer that the increase of money at six per cent, is just twice as rapid as at three per cent.; but iu reality the increase is vastly more than this. Iu 100 years, at six per cent., the increase on any given sum is about eighteen i times as much as at three per cent. The increase at five per cent, is about eleven times as much as at two and a half per ! cent., while at teu per cent, it is-more than one hundred and five times greater j than at five per cent, for the- period named.—liichfhond ffisjiafeh. Printer’s Greek. The following is an acknowledgment of a wedding notice and a generous ; allowance of cake by a professor of ! typography • 44 We make our most re- ! spectable bow to the happy twain, aud I -| the opportunity to return our thanks for this almost un led act of liberality. May the matrimonial chase which now ! locks the form of our brother typo jus tify all his preconceived impressions. In ; whatever § of the country he may roam, | whether called upon to face tho —ing | waves of adverse fortune, or stand before ; the tt and J} of enemies, may his life be such that when the of death shall be laid on him, and the . of existence draws’ to acl e beinuy produce a clean proof, and cloimNa clear title to an hon orable If iu tha wage of history, as well as to an eaythfj inheritance beyond the **.” Words of Wisdom. True men make more opportunities than they find. Measure uot men by Sundays, with out regarding what they do all the week after. Only those faults which we eucouuter iu ourselves are iusufferable to us in others. We often pretend to fear what we really despise, and more often despise wlmt we reallv fear, A woman may always judge the esti mation in which she is held by the con versation which is addressed to her. The girls say that there is too much collar aud too little young man to the present style of masculine neckwear. Men are born with two eyes, but with one tongue, iu order that they should see twice as much as they say. To no kind of begging are people so averse as begging pardon ; that is when there is serious ground for doing so. Many are ambitious of saying grand things, that is, of being grandiloquent. Eloquence is speaking out—a quality few esteem and fewer aim at. We are taught to clothe our minds, as we do our bodies, after the fashion in vogue ; and it is accounted fantastical, or something worse, not to do so. That young mau is happy who is con tent with having acquired the skill which he aimed at, aud waits willingly when the occasion of making it appre ciated shall arrive, knowing well that it will not loiter. “A lai'k is better than a kite.”—This proverb intimates that things are not to be valued by their bulk, but according to their intrinsic worth and value; that a little which is good is better than a great deal of that which is good for nothing. If there is a man who can eat his bread at peace with heaven aud mau, it is that man who has brought that bread out of the earth by his own honest industry. It is cankered by uo fraud—it is wet by no tear—it is stained by no blood. It seems as if gold had sympathy with gold. Riches flee past the poor man’s gate, aud enter iu at the door of the wealthy. How constantly does an opulent man receive an enormous addi tion to his substance, while the poor re main always poor. 44 Brag is a good dog but holdfast is a better.”—This proverb is a taunt upon bragadocios who talk big, boast, aud rattle. It is also a memento for such as make plentiful promises for the present as well as for the future, but are sus pected to want constancy and resolnton fo make them good. A great many persons wonder why hey have so little to show for their time and their labor, and how it is that some people can manage to got so much done. The secret, if there is any‘secret, lies in the fact that those who accomplish a great deal, work according to a well- defined and uniform plan. • . It is astonishing how fruit ful of im provement a short season becomes, when eagerly seized and faithfully used. It lias ofteu been observed that they who have jnost time at their disposal profit least by it. A single hour in the day, steadily given to the study of an inter esting subject, brings unexpected ac- umulations of knowledge. The affec tions, it is said, sometimes crowd years into moments, and tfio intellect has something of the same pow er. J The Paris Exposition of 1878 is to cost $8, *00,000. The original calcula lpn was about $0000,000. It is a ^ed*poac $i,r^o,ooo. Anw^jpau wall pape and American oilcloths Germany itful Italy. Although : girl may bd Lucifer, it h-esn’t always fi makes a good match. If Nature designed a n^] drunkard, he would have beer ed like a churn, so that t drank the firmer he would The Revo. Hepr Francisco, has introd country the Japanese per is considered equal to the Russian to Turk, who bayonet-thrust—“But, my you don’t appear to object “It is the first time in eight days anything has gone into my stomaclj Just as we expected. General Tc!«tv- shevadzenischze was wounded in the Ire- pulse at Shipka pass, aud the injfna- papers are spelling his name wr And it is such an easy name to sp too! Ephraim Martin, an eccentric citizen of Sutton, N. H., who died not long ago.. bequeathed to his daughter four hedge hogs, to his oldest son five dollars, to the second son $20,000, and to the third $30,000. Johnnie lost his knife. After search ing in one pocket and another until ho had been through all without success, he exclaimed : “ Oh, dear ! I wish I had another pocket, it might be in that!” Wealthy Chinamen of San Francisco are suspected of crippling the feet of their little girls, after the fashion in their own country. Ah Moon is under arrest for having removed the bones from his daughter’s feet, so that they could be compressed. # A man who coxild not read was dis tributing handbills of a drinking, saloon. He put down his bundle and went to dinner. In his absence a temperance advocate substituted temperance tracts for the handbills, and during the rest of the day the saloons were not helped, if not hurt. “ What,” asked a youth timidly of an eminent philologist, “what, sir, is the meaning of this phrase : 4 Modus operand! ?’ ” and the great linguist, whose mind was saturated with the litera ture of ancient Greece and Borne, re- |)lie<i* !* '“Tt is Latih for 4 how the old tiling works.”’ The insincerity of a friend has often inclined men to seek for a surer reliance upon money ; these unexpected shocks makes us disgusted with our species, and it is for this reason that the old men who have seen so much of the world become at last avaricious. At a duel the parties discharged their pistols without effect, whereupon one of the seconds interfered, and proposed that the combatants should shake hands. To this the other second objected as un necessary, “fox’,” said he, “their hands have been shaking this half hour.” The world is easily deceived by ap pearances, aud frequently sympathy is bestowed entirely disproportionate to the subject. It is a knowledge of this fact probably M’hich induces a boy to roll a bag of rags rouud his cut finger every time thoxe is a probability of his mother calling attention to the fact of the stock of chopped wood being low. Who arc the Blessed J Blessed , "over re quires the liwui of your umbrella. Blessed is the woman who uevei' says to her husband, “ I told you so.” Blessed is the man who can sew on his buttons when the baby is crying. Blessed is the mother-iu-law who never reminds you that you married above your station. Blessed is the rich relation who never looks down on you—whou you are in the gutter. Blessed is the poor relation who never looks up to you—for money. Blessed is the old maid that don’t hate old people and children. Blessed is the old bachelor that don’t hate cats and canary birds. Blessed are the married people that don’t wish they were single. Blessed are the single people that are contented to remain so. Blessed is the husband who never says his mother’s pies were better than his wife’s are. Blessed is the wife (formerly a widow) who never calls up the virtues of her “dear departed” for No. 2 to emulate. Blessed is the mau who gives his wife ■ ten cents without asking her what she is ! going to do witli it. Blessed is the neighbor who is so busv/ 1 with his own affairs that he has no ti^rfe to pry into yours. Blessed is the mau who minds is own business and attends only to his own affairs, and not the affairs of his neigh- | bors. ■ Blessed is the women who don’t scold when the stove pipe falls down on the dinner table and—blessed is tho man who can fix it up without swearing. Fo«*t Mutilation by the ( liineSo. A few days ago the attention of Officer Love was attracted to a Chinese woman named All Moon, who was passing along Pacific street with a little girl nine or s ten years of age in her arms, the child being unable to w T alk in consequence of the distorted condition of her feet. Ah Moon was arrested aud conducted to the city prison with her charge, aud the cx- 1 amiuatiou there made revealed a most horrible case of mutilation. The feet of ' the child bore hardly the slightest re- 1 semblance to the natural form. It seemed as if a greater-part of the bones had : been removed by some operation of bar barian surgery, and the toes, with the ; exception of the large toe on either foot, wer& turned completely under. The feet which had the form of elongated ! hoofs were bound in bandages aud : cased in sharp-pointed shoes. 'Ehe child | w;is unable to walk or even stand with out experiencing intense pain. Ah Moon was charged with cruelty to ehildicn, and subsequently a ch*rge of mayhem was entered against her. It is believed i that this practice of mutilating^tho feet of children, according to the fashion *n vogue iu Chica, is being extensively car ried on in the city. Children thin* treated are frequently seen hobbling about iu the Chinese quarters, aud it is probable that they are not permitted to go abroad until the^wonuiiiT attendant upon the cruel mutilation are well healed, and j they are enabled to hobble without :«»• ! distance.—San Francisco Chronicle* / THIS PAGE CONTAINS FLAWS AND OTHER DEFECTS WHICH MAY APPEAR ON THE FILM