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NOKT th m » > v- . j tlAMti':- AtV- .AS- r. * > ■: i V in * $ w’ ?,' MAKTInJs Ediloi‘8 and Proprietors. THE SEABOARD. The wayg» wo a joy to the sea^w, the to the herd, And a joy to the heart is a goal that it may not reach. fior sense that for ever the limits of sense engird, No hearing orsight that is vassal to form or speech Leams ever the secret that shadow am] silence teach, * Hears ever the notes that or eve” *hey swell subside, Sees e*5r the light that lights tho loud world’s tide, Clasps over the canse of the lifelong scheme's oontrol Where though we pursue, till the waters of life be dried, The goal that is not, and ever again tho goal. Friend, what have we sought or seek we, whate’er betide, Though the seaboard shift its mark from afar described, But aims whence aver i&ew shall arise the soul? Love, thought, song, life, but show for a glimpse, and hide The goal that is not, and ever again the goal. Swinbukne. .An Investment. The yellow haze of midsummer hns,. its. radiant £aiJ3ns over the velvet slopes of the Fairhaven farm—the river, murmuring softly over its pebbly bot¬ tom, flashed up like a sheet of silver— and the purple fields of clover, nodding ready for the scyfhe, filled the warm air with slumbrous scents. “Fine weather for the hayin’,” said Eliakim Fairhaven. To his material nature, God’s Bunshine and the grand glitter o2 earth and sky, Vsre but the in¬ struments to fill bis pockets with sordid gain—mere accessions to “a good crop!” Alas ! is not this world full of Eliakim Fairhavens, in one shape or another ? Miss Comfort Fairhaven sat beside him knitting and watching the cumber¬ some frolics of a pair of twin lambs, de¬ serted by thew heartless mother, whom she was “bringing up by hand.” “Yes,” she said, with a mechanical glance in the direction of the beamy West. “Who’s that a cornin’ np the path I wonder ?” “One of the new hands, I calculate,” said Eliakim, screwing np his eyes. “I didn’t ’gree to give ’em their supper and board into the bargain, a night afore the job begins—and I’m blessed if there ain’t a little gal along with him 1” “Tain’t no hayin’ hand,” said Miss Comfort, rising and going down the steps to meet a slender child of nine years old, who was leading a pale, bowed-down man, who walked with difficulty, lean¬ ing on a crutch. “Heart alive, child,” said Miss Com¬ fort, whose kindly nature involuntarily sympathized with all who were suffering or in distress; “what ails you ? and ysiiafc do you want here?” “Please ma’am,” began the ^ld, eagerly, “if you could give ns a r Sp¬ ht’s lodging—poor papa is so sick ay'/tired, and-” “No, I can’t l” abruptly ’ />ko in Eliakim Fairhaven. “Thjf ain’t no almshouse, nor yet a oharjf^ place. If ye can pay yonr way, weR *nd good— if ye can’t, the sooner yoH-jo about your business the better!” “We have no monaf A timidly began the child, while the as if stunned and bewildered by the heartless fluency of the old farmer’s speech, leaned up against the fence, pressing his hand on his forehead, “but-” “Then clear out and be done with it!” said Eliakim, resuming his seat with dogged composure. Miss Comfort looked appealingly a* her brother. “If I could just get ’em abowl of milk, Eliakim, and-” “Stuff and nonsense,” sonorously ejaculated the farmer, “I ain’t a goin’ to give in to this sort of thing. Once be¬ gin, and you’ll never leave off, yon soft headed womanfolk!” Slowly and wearily the two travelers turned and plodded their way adown the broad, dusty road—the languid foot¬ steps of the invalid scarce keeping up with the tripping pace of the child. “Oh, papa, papa!” sobbed the little girl, turning her bine, wistful eyes td the white, worn face, “how cruel people are!” He placed his hand upon her enrly, uncovered head. “Never mind, Essie,” he said, with a mournful, tender pathos in his voice: “it will soon end. It cannot be for long, as far as I am concerned, poor child. Bat for you--” he stopped, his voice husky with emotion. They had walked what seemed to little Esther Bell a weary way, when there was a rustle among the wild rosebushes that overhung the stone wall at their side, and a voice called hurriedly to them to "stop,” “It’s me,” said Miss Comfort Fair¬ haven, reckless of her grammar. “Elia- SPRING PLACE. GEORGIA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1883. kim—that's my brother—he’s gone over to the class-meetin’ at Squire Duudas, and I cut down through lots to overtake you. I tell you I can’t somehow get your father’s face out o’ my mind. You’re sick, ain’t you, mister?” “I shall soon be quite well,” he an¬ swered oalmly—and Comfort Fairhaven’s more experienced eye detected the hid¬ den meaning which the little girl never once suspected. Yes, he would soon be well, but that it would be in that coun try where the inhabitants uever say, “I am sick!” ’‘Where are you going?” asked kind Miss Corn fort, her voice growing husky iD spite of herself. “We arc going to my grandpa,” said little Essie. “Grandpa was vexed with my mamma for marrying papa and going to England, but papa thinks he'll take care of me now. But t won't stay with him unless papa stays too !” And she resolutely tightened her Hasp upon the thin, fever-burning baud. “I s’pose you want to get to Lons dade ?” said Miss Comfort. The man nodded. t “Tsitfar?” “Eleven good miles yet,” said Miss Comfort; “but I’ll tell yo what—I’ll make Joab get out the wagon, and with a good buffalo-robe over the seats, you’ll ride easy enough. They’lkbe back afore Eliakim gets through, and while you’re a-waitin’, I’ll bring down a smack o’bread and meat, and a bottle of.my current wine. ’Tain’t good to travel on an’ empty stomach.” And five minutes later Miss Comfort was carrying her hospitable intentions into effect, greatly to the delight and appreciation of the hungry child. “Now, see here,” said Miss Comfort, drawing the child asido, when Joab Imve up with the comfortable farm wagon and stout old horse, “I don’t guess you’ve got more money than you can use ?” .“We have only enough for our rail¬ road tifkets,” said Essie, her counte¬ nance falling, “but—” “I thought so,” said Miss Comfort; “and here’s a flve-dollar bill I’ve laid asi-le out of my butter money that Elia¬ kim don’t know nothin’ about. I’d laid out to have a new mouse colored merino dress this fall, but I guess you need it more’n I do; so here ’tis, and mind you don’t lose it.” The child’s eyes were brimming as she looked up in Miss Comfort’s honest, hard-featured face. “Will you let me kiss you just once ?” she whispered,standing on tip-toe to bring her blooming cheek close to the spin¬ ster’s wrinkled lips. * Kissing, as Miss Comfort might her¬ self have remarked, had she had leisure for a remark, was not mnoh in her way, but she could not resist the sweet, wist¬ ful entreaty. “There,” she said, with a strang« moisture in her eyes, “run along. Joab’s waitin’.” “Oh 1” cried little .Esther, as she sat »u the buffalo-draped seat, “I wish ^s rich and grown up!” _ “Why, what ’ud you do?” demanded honest Joab. “I’d buy a diamond necklace Rnd a pink dress for that good lady 1” Joab chuckled. “I don’t know as they’d become her,” he said, with grim jocularity. “So geo up, old Doll!” * * “I know I’m pretty old to be lookin’ arter a situation,” said Miss Comfort Fairhaven, “but I can’t starve, nor I won’t beg, so what’s there left ? We had a good farm once, but my brother could not rest till he speckilated it all away, and now he’s gone and I’m all alone. So if you know of a good place as house¬ keeper, or matron inan asylum, or gen¬ eral overseer, I don’t much care where or-” The intelligence office keeper, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, broke in on the torrent of Miss Fairhaven’s ex¬ planatory eloquence. “What wages did you ask ?” Poor Miss Comfort—the blank word wages called a rusty glow to her cheek. “I ain’t particular about that so loDg os it’s a good home.” “Here’s a place that might perhaps suit you—Housekeeper wanted at Mr. Dnponceau’s, No. — Fifth avenue. Yon might try it, although I hardly think a person of yonr appearance would suit.” “I ain’t young, I know,” said Miss Comfort with a sigh, “but there’s a deal o’ tough work left in me yet. Give me the address—I shan’t give np and starve without tryin’ for it I” Yet, spite of all her philosophy, Miss Comfort’s heart, like that of the Queen of Sheba, of old, grew faint vwithiu her as she sat in the luxurious reception room of the Fifth avenue mansion, sur¬ rounded by silken chairs, gihje* tables, ’flashing mirrors and pictures, whose radiant skies might have been painted in liquidized gold, so rare and costly wore they. / “I’m a’most sorry I come !” thought Mies Comfort. “I don’t fairly beliove 1 can give satisfaction here.” While the thought was passing through her mind, the door swung open on its silver-plated hinges, and a tall young lady in a blue silk morning robe entered—a young lady with golden brown hair looped after the fashionable style over her brow, and deep blue eyes. Miss Comfort rose and dropped a stiff little courtesy. “I’ve called to see ” she began, but to her amazement the rest of her speech was abruptly ohecked by the yonng lady’s arms being thrown round her neck. “Ob, I’m so glad to see you,” she cried out, ecstatically. “I thought I never should see you again. I went to the old farm,, but you had gone away, nobody knew whither!” And she hugged Miss Comfort more enthusiastically than ever, the bright tears sparkling on her eyelashes. “Why,” demanded the bewildered spinster, “who are you?” “I'm Essie. Don’t you remember little Eisie Bell, that you gave the five dollar bill to, in the twilight, by the vtild-TOse bushes, when-” “Ob, o h !” exclaimed Miss Com¬ fort. “You don’t mean to say that you are that-” And hero she stopped, nearly stran¬ gled by Essie’s renewed embraces, while she listened to the story of “papa’s death,” and how grandpapa had adopted her; and how she was surrounded by all that luxury could devise, or art invent. “And I have longed to see you again,” added Essie, “for if it had not been for your kindness, papa nevar could have reached his home I A’.i you shall live with me now, and be my darling old friend I” “No,” said Miss Comfort, gravely, shaking her head. “I’ve come to apply for a situation as housekeeper, and if you won't give it to me, why I must go elsewhere.” , And Essie was obliged to consent. “But mind,” said she, nodding the golden masses of her crepe hair, “I shall give you what wages I please! Grandpa always intrusts those things tp my management!” So Miss Comfort Fairhaven stayed, nominally a housekeeper—really the trusted and revered head of the estab¬ lishment, and her declining years were surrounded by a peace and luxury she never dared to dream of in her loftiest aspirations. Miss Comfort Fafrliaven had invested the five-dollar bill advantageously. She had cast her bread upon the waters, and after many days it had returned to her. Old-Fashioned Chicken Pot-Pie. Julia Corson . tells liow to make it as follows: Have a large tender chicken carefully plucked, singed, drawn and wiped with a wot towel; cut it in joints put it over the fire in just enough boil¬ ing water to cover it, with half a pound •E salt pork cut in small, thin slices, and boil it gently until it is tender. Mean¬ time, make any good plain pastry, or proceed as follows: Sift together a pound of floor, a level teaspoenful of salt, half a saJt-spoonful of white pepper and a dessert-spoonful of any good baking powder; butter an old-fashioned round bottom iron, pot on tho inside, strain the broth from the chicken, put over the fire in a saucepan a heaping table-spoon¬ ful of flour and two of butter, stir them until they are smooth, then gradually stir in enough of the chicken broth to make a sauce of the proper consistency; let it boil once, and season it palatably with salt and pepper; when the sauce is ready rub tiro heaping table-spoonfuls of butter into the flour prepared as direoted above, and then quickly mix with it enough of the chicken broth or of water to form a dough stiff enough to roll out about quarter of an inch thick, and use it for lining the buttered pot; after the pot is lined put in the chicken, together with enough of the sauce to moisten it, reserving the rest to serve with the pot-pie; wet the upper edges of the crust and fit them with a cover of the pastry, taking care that every part is closed securely. Butter the lid and place it on the pot; put the pot into a hot oven, and bake the pot-pie until the crust is delicately browned. - This can be ascertained by inserting a fork be¬ tween the side of the pot and the crust; 03 soon as the crust is done serve the pot-pie on a deep platter, taking it out of the pot as entire as possible. e __ A dude returned from college to his parents’ city apartments. As he war undressing to go to bed at night he no¬ ticed a handsome motto on the wall, “God bless our flat,” and it him all night so that he oould sleep. THE STORY OF A SOLDIER HOW he was treated while HERVINU HIS COUNTRY. Taken Prisoner, lie Makes a List ot Pris¬ oners and is Punished lor It. A correspondent in the Graphic l de¬ scribing the services of Clara Barton, alludes to her work in 'numbering the graves of the Union dead at Anderson ville, and also to a young soldier who assisted. Our correspondent does not recall tho name and speaks of him as a Connecticut soldier. An interesting story is connected with this mention. The young man was a Vermonter, by name Dorrance Atwater, now United States Consul at Tahiti. Mr. Atwater •vas a drug clerk when he entered the Union Army. He was captured at Win¬ chester, Va., in i8G3, and sent to Ander sonville. There ho was placed in the drug room of the hospital. On the day of his capture be had received news of lus father’s death. Feeling keenly in this sorrow the anxiety of his mother, who Flight not know of her son’s fate, ho was led to conceive the idea of pre¬ serving in some way a copy of the death roll, to the making of which ire was de¬ tailed. At daily risk of his life he made this copy, concealing the coarse brown sheets whereon it was written about his person. Thirteen thousand names, with regiments, etc., were thus obtained. Atwater desired to publish them so that the families might at least know of their members’ fate. When exchanged he was also mustered out. Arrived in Washington, he desired the government to have all the benefit of his work, but he also wished to publish it. He was induced to re-enlist in the general ser¬ vice as a clerk, with the understanding, as he believed, that when copies were made liis originals should be returned. His work was of great pecuniary value, ns it peifected records and enabled tho government to properly settle claims, etc. Mr. Atwater found that the official mind (and that being military also, it was more than oommonly overbearing •nSfii abogant) repudiated the agreement and declared that the proposed publica¬ tion would be injurious. The government copy was made. Miss Barton, who had, in the Sanitary Commission Service, or¬ ganized a bureau for tracing missing soldiers, was requested by Mr. Stanton to go to Andersonville with a quarter¬ master and esoort and assist in marking the graves of the dead. Mr. Atwater was also sent, having charge of his orig¬ inal rolls. The work was done. Mr. Atwater believed these rolls wero his property, and in some way conveyed them to tho New York Tribune office for publication. On his return to Wash¬ ington he was arrested at the instigation of an officer named Breck, tried by court-martial, and sentenced as a thief' to one year’s imprisonment at hard labor in the Albany Penitentiary. Great indignities were heaped npon him. Wirz’s trial was in progress and Atwater was mobbed on the streets while passing under guard, the returned soldiers being told that he was trying to save the Ati dorsonville keeper. He went to prison and served six months of his sentence, while Miss Barton kept up a constant struggle in his behalf. She got a reso¬ lution of investigation before Congress, and then the Judge Advocate-General reviewed the sentence, declaring it to be illegal, as the larcenous motive was wanting, the young man having fully believed that the rolls were his own property. In the meanwhile the Trib¬ une had published them. Mr. Atwater was at once released, and soon after ap¬ pointed United States Consul at Zanzi¬ bar, Africa. He has been to the Con¬ sular service ever since. From His High Estate. Among the vagrants committee to the Tombs of New York City was a man about 63 years of age, of venerable ap¬ pearance, who many years ago occupied an excellent position in society. He was nn ex-Judge of the Marine Court (now City Court). He occupied a seaton the bench of the Marine Court during 1818 and 1850. Af¬ ter his retirement he was a candidate for re-election, but failed of tho nomination. This disappointment affected his future life. He became dissipated, and al¬ though he was a good lawyer and conld have built np a lucrative practice, he threw away his chances by his habits. He lost caste in the profession and sank lower and lower until he beoamo an ob¬ ject of obarity to those who had known him doting his prosperity. Old lawyers and judges remembered him and gave him money for old acquaintance sake. He has been several times committed to the workhouse on Blackwell’s Island. He staggered into the Jefferson Market Police Court and asked to be committed. He is a mental and physical wreck from the effects of drink. Justice O’Reilly committed him. VOL. IV. New Series. No. 52. FORMATION OF BATTLE. Kllocts ot Ihe line iff SkiriSMS-WH*. JBreccfi-Lond n« . Ilifles—Using the Captain Edward Field, of the 4th Ar¬ tillery, read a paper before the Military Service Institution, entitled “No Foot¬ steps, but Some Glances, Backward.” It was devoted to a consideration of changes in formation for battle which will probably be produced by the use oi breech-loading rifles. Captain Field said that the only war in which wo had really an opportunity to judge of the effect of the modern breech-loading rifle was the Russo-Turkish. War, and then the effect of the Peabody-Martini rifle was most deadly. The feasibility of making the skirmish line tho formation to bo used for a line of battle was care¬ fully and fully considered. * “The objections were said to be the difficulty of directing a large body of men deployed as skirmishers, the diffi¬ culty of rallying them when once thrown into disorder, and the loss of that stead¬ iness and concert of action with which men move to battle when elbow touches elbow and the electric thrill of the con¬ flict passes from man to man. If this style of fighting is to be employed sole¬ ly, ” said Captain Field, “war would de¬ generate into a barbaric conflict like that carried on by the Indians of the plains, or else soldiers would refuse to move with oq| protection and become like those de¬ generate Roman legions who protected themselves behind shields of wicker¬ work. As examples of people who fight independently and those who fight in ooncert take the Indians,and the ancient Scandinavians. There never was a more war-loving people or a people more brave persqpally than the Indians, but what are their shonts of conflict and songs of war compared to the measured clash of armor and the steady chaut with which the devastation of tho world moved to battle?” In concluding this part of his paper, Captain Field recommended the em¬ ployment of a lino of men deployed as skirmishers with a guidon for every company borne in their rear, these guidons to have conspicuously displayed on them the letter of the company, to servo as rallying points in case of need. He believed that troops should be moved on to the field in double columns, and at the proper moment deployed into line and precipitated through the curtain of skirmishers upon the enemy. Captain Field also believed that when large bodies of troop3 were brought into action armies operating on exterior lines had an advantage over those operating on interior lines. Electricity’s Deadly Work. . A Mexican paper says: A shocking tragedy occurred on Sunday night in the Zoealo, where the beautiful concert pavilion has been erected for the festival of All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days. It v,-as a case of peculiar interest. A man known as Pantaleon Estrada, a worker on guitars, tying a stone to the end of an ordinary wire, threw it over the electric wire. Estrada immediately fell dead in his tracks. The contact of the two wires killed him. A policeman standing by and a street car conductor had much of their clothing burned off, and wero themselves so seriously in¬ jured that their lives tremble in the bal¬ ance. The electric current affected others more or les3. The scene succeed tog the tragedy was demoralizing. For a moment the dumb terror of seeing strong men totter and fall, as if struck by some invisible hand, held the crowd spellbound. Succeeding the terrorized apathy came a wild rush for life. For¬ tunately, the exits were plentiful, and to that was dne the fact that many were not stamped to death. John Herbert, of the electric light company, mounted a ladder, with a silk handkerchief in hand, to remove the wire thrown by the unfortunate Estra¬ da. Thq rain was falling heavily at the time, but he did not notice that the handkerchief was becoming damp. He applied it to the wire to remove it, and received himself a severe shock that threw him from the ladder. Falling to the stone pavement, his head was ent open. He will recover. ‘The police be¬ lieve that Estrada represents a gang of pickpockets and thieves; that his object in throwing the wire was to extinguish the electric lights and give his pals a chance to operate. Whether that was so or not is not known, for he who could have told has had his lips burned to silenoe. A Veteran.— An old lady has lately died at Benares who was in many re¬ spects one of the most remarkable per¬ sonages in Northern India. She was the wife of a General in the Bengal and was in her ninety-seventh year. She was married at fifteen, had eighteen children, eighty grandchildren, seventy three great-grandchildren and five great great-grand children. She had been out of India a single day. A BATCH OF GOOD THINGS FOUND FLOATING IN THE HUMOKOU COLUMNS OF THE PRESS. In His Own Interest—A Christmas Contri¬ bution—A Foolish Question—Full ot Do ccil—In a Quiet Way—Ho Would Ue an Owl, Etc., Etc. IN HIS OWN INTEREST. "If you do not at once remit the $100 yon owe our firm,” wrote a dun tiro other day to a delinquent doctor, “we shall be obliged to put the bill into the hands of a lawyer.” “My dear sir,” replied tho doctor ur¬ banely by the next post, “if yon are happily acquainted wifi; a lawyer who is able to collect $100 from me I beg you to send him to me at onoe, for I shall be glad to employ him in my own in ‘torest.— Chicago Tribune.” HE WOULD BE AN OWL. “I wish I was an owl,” said the young lawyer as he gently felt the dimensions of her alligator belt. “Why?” she asked. “Because then I could stay up aF> night, you know, dear,” he replied. “What would you want to do such a a ridiculous thing as that for?” she tit¬ tered. “To wit:—To woo 1” — Pittaburcf Chronicle. ALL IN A QUIET WAY. “I wonder the English allow them¬ selves to bo governed by a woman,” said a citizen the other day. “Why not ?” said another. “America is governed by women.” “Governed by women? How do you make that cut ?” “Why, don’t yon see, this is a govern¬ ment cf the people.” “Yes; but the women have no hand in i! The country is governed by the men.” “Certainly; and tho men are governed by tho women.”— Boston Courier. rCLL OF DECEIT. “The world is full of deceit,” said old Mr. Squaggs, “and wimmin is mostly at the bottom of it.” “I know it,” said old-Mrs. Squaggs:; “it is after a man gets a wife that he be¬ gins to practice deceit. If he hadn't a wife ho wouldn’t need to lie so much about where he spends his evenings. You are perfectly right. It’s the women that the deceit. ” cause Old Mr. Squaggs became very thought¬ ful, —Boston Gazette. SHE DIDN'T OARE TO REMEMBER. “Miss Jonkins, permit me to intro¬ duce Mr. Smith.” Miss Jonkins is a lady whose alabaster brow has begun to fade, and whose eyes have grown dim in vain looking out for a husband. “Delighted, Mr. Smith.” “Why, Miss Julia, what a pleasant surprise. I am sure you must remem¬ ber me. It is so delightful to recall pleasant moments. I well remember our first meeting. We danoed together at a ball at Mrs. Jones’s in ’56. Don’t you remember?” But she didn’t, and he wondered all night why she was so cold and distant. _ San Francisco Chronicle. A FOOLISH QUESTION. “Lend me your ear a minute,” re¬ marked Mis. Brown to her husband the other evening. “Will you give it back to me ?” ho in¬ quired with mock anxiety. “Of course I will, you idiot 1 Do you suppose I wan *- to start a tannery ? She got the ear.— Graphic. SOME OF US KNOW HIM. A well-dressed young man was seen to stare at a woman impudently, hail a street-oar imperiously, pay his fare con¬ descendingly, seat himself fashionably and expectorate furiously. “Who is that distinguished gentle¬ man ?” whispered an awe-struck passif ger to the conductor. And the conductor replied; “He s the janitor of a West Side flat.”— Mer¬ chant Traveller. HE WAS JUST LIKE OTHER MEN. They were coming out of a dime museum. “I don’t believe that wild man of Borneo is a wild man at all,” she whis¬ pered. “Why not?” he asked. “HoY civilized just like other r'en.” “What makes you think so ?” “Didn’t you see the manager pay /' in a lot of moqey ?” “Yes; a $20 bill and a lot of small bills.” “Well, didn't you notice how oarofnl the wild man was to fold the twenty j outside ?”— Chicago Hews, A Butter.— The plea of a Nashville negro, convicted of butting an enemy almost fatally, was that in infancy he had been fed on milk from a notoriously belligerent goat. Tho Jndge said he conld not regard that fact os an extenua tiou.