The Altoona tribune. (Altoona, Pa.) 1856-19??, November 05, 1864, Image 1

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the cheepeet. J. A. SPBANKU.
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From Frazer’s Magazine.
Voice of his region fabulous'.
For silent else is all the air,
None else remains to tell ns
The story of the things that were
Fair fountain of this valley lone.
That, falling with a ceaseless plaint
Into thy cup of sculptured stone,:
Speakest of faity and of saint;
For name of either thou hast borne;
Time was Titania round thee played;
And rings by elfish footsteps worn
Still linger in the magic shade. when the Benedictine came.
To build upon these meadows fair,
He called thee by a holier name,
And blessed thy source with prayer;
And said the old belief was sin :
Yet still, so ran the rustic creed.
Strange voices sounded, faint and thin,
Bv summer nights along the mead.
And whether it were- saint or fay.
Blessing.or magic, who could tell ?
Men said that virtue in thee lay,
And loved thee as the Wishing Well,
And still thy chalice carved of stone*
Though old beliefs have passed away,
Though fairies and thongh saints are gone.
Brims with clear crystal day by day.
And waiting here an idle while.
And looking with a listless eye,
I see beneath thy waters’ smile
The changeless azure of the sky;
The changeless aznre flecked with gray,
That was,as deep, as fair, as clear,
Or ever down the woodland way
The tint wild savage wandered here:
Or ever man thy dwelling knew,
And, resting on the virgin sod,
Looked wandering on the imaged bine,
And blessed thee as the gift of God.
Ami if there still be power in thee
To grant the wishes we conceive;
If it avnil implicitly
The old tradition to believe—
Give me, fair stream, not gold nor love.
Not fortune high nor wealth of days,,,.
Hot strength to rise the crowd above,
Nor the deceit of human praise:
g But this: that like thy waters clear,
Thi.’ creeds and systems' come and go.
Unvexed within a narrow sphere
My life with even stream may flow—
May flow, and fill its destined sppee,
With this at least of blessing given,
Upward to gaze with fearless face.
And mirror back some truth of heaven.
“ I shall never recover from this blow,”
•aid M. CoulaincOurf, ashisfriend led him
from the room in which he had been ga
zing for the last time on the body of his
dead wife. . *
Henri Augrer sighed deeply, but though
he had lived to know that time finds for
all consolation, he did not attempt to con
“ Husbands have lost their wives before,
I know—wives that they love—but re
member how Cecile and I have loved each
other since %ur childhood ; remember all
the obstacles that separated us .for many
years; remember how I toiled to make
home worthy of her, and now but two
years of happiness, two years of enjoyment
for the work of a whole life., Oh ! it is
frightful 1 Cecile, my poor - - Cecile, how
“ er eyes yearned towards me, till at last
they, closed forever. Oh! Henri, I can
never know happiness again.”
Henri Augrer led him silently to his
s f udy, and there sat by him 'Whilst the
widower; paced the room, now talking of
his dead wife, now subbing like a child
now exhausted and weak, throwing him*
self on the sofa, and lying in the stillness
of despair. I- v
The laws of iFrance prolong but twenty
four hours' the survivor’s watch over a
dead one loved. Mme. Goulaineourt was
next morning borne from her home, and
in a few hours her husband returns to his
desolated bouse, his heart nearly broken,
his nerves worked up to the highest pitch
by the horrible ceremonies he has Wit
Madly and with wild shrieks he now
paces the room, thrusting from him all his
friends ; even Henri, who has asked to be
left alone with him, is repulsed.
At last the door of ths room opens
slowly,-and a lady in deep mourning robes,
her face calm and solemn, but with red,
tearful eyes, enters the room. She has in
her arms an infant, whose long white
robes form a contrast with her mourning
Coulaincourt does not notice her, but
she goes up to him, and as he stands beat
ing his breast and sobbing wildly, she
holds up to'him the fair, sleeping child.
“ She is another Cecile,” said the lady
in a low,;calm voice; “and the Cecile
that is gone left her to you, a memorial of
your love aitd of the two years of happi
ness you passed together.”
M. Coulaincourt sunk down on a sofa,
gazed on the child as it was laid across his
knees, and for some moments spoke nut.-
Then at last, extending a hand to each of
the friends who watched him.
“ Sister,” said he—“ Henri, for the sake
of the child; 1 will try to live.”
Seventeen years after this, the door of
this same room;was opened, and a young,
bright, beautiful face, with shining braids
of chestnut Itair around it, was thrust in.
•“Eh? Father mine, why are you so
long ?” exclaimed a fyesh young voice, and
a light form bounded frpm the door to tlie
sofa where Coulaincourt was seated
“ Cecile!” "said Co tlaincourt, looking
up, a smile of joy beaming on his face.
“ Yes, Cecile,” said the young girl. “I*
really is very strange I cannot make you
more obedient to your daughter, yet I’m
sure I spared no pains in your education.
Don’t you linow that breakfast ts ready ?”
“No, yes; F had forgotten it. I was
thinking— ’l.
“ Thinking about what ?”
“ Well—”
“ Now, sir, if you dare to have a
thought you have not communicated to
me, you had better look out.”
“ Indeed,; I have not —” •
“ Let me cross-examine you.”
“ Well.”'
“ Are your affairs in order !”
“ Yes.” : , c, .
“ Has no house where you had money
“ None.”
“ Are you prepared to meet all your
notes !”
“ Yes.” '■<
* “ Have you made any bad speculation?”
“No.” : ;
“ Are you not satisfied with Adrian !”
“ Absurd!! You know Adrian is de
voted to me, heart and soul.”
“ Well, then, what were you thinking
“ You.” ■’
“ Me—about me ? And you dare to
look serious, almost sad, when you are
thinking of-me 1 '■ This is worse Jhirifany
thing. Pniy, what thoughts could Tin
spire you with that could make you look
sad and serious !”
“ Thoughts inspired by last night’s
ball—” j'
“ Why, they should be merry thoughts;
wasn’t I the very queen of the ball!
didn’t I dance every dance, and were you
not surrounded by all the young men in
the room ?” ' . '
■“ Yes, greeted'! was and overwhelmed
with wine and refreshments handed to me
on all sides; and that has made me melan
choly, for I am alraid of losing the trea
sure for which I have toiled these many
“Why ! Do you think these young gen
tlemen were rubbers in diguise, or ain’t
you sure of the lock of youi* strong box?”
“Cecile, Cecile, you are laughing at
your father; the treasure I mean is your
Have these men any intention of
carrying, tpe off? What a pity they
should be such dangerous characters, for
i they waltz so well.”
“ Don’t’pretcnd to misunderstand me.
j Cecile, you know exactly what I mean.—
! You know that you were admired by every
|‘body, and you know what is likely to
I follow this admiration of a parcel of young
! men.”
|, No, I don’t.”
| “It is too-bad Ito think that after a life
| spent iji loving you, in making! you what
iyoudpre—beautiful, amiable, i good, ac
! compliahed, just because you are eighteen,
■ I am to give you up ; yes, give you up (o
a domestic invader called a son-in-law, a
. man who will carry you off from mi;, a
man who will assume to love you, and
what is worse, 9 man you miiy probably
learn to love yourself; it is dreadful!”
“ flat all this is imaginary. I’m
ashamed of youone would think you
1 were a young, romantic girl.” 1
“ Imaginary, is it 1 What do you
think has happened this very morning ?”
“ Has there been an invader here
already ?”
“ Yes, an invader that has actually pro
posed for your hand, Colonel Santerre, an
invader who is rich, who is well born, an
invader in fact against whAm there is not
a single objectiou to be made, unfortu
“ Yes, one that you have never thought
of, but which is the most powerful of all;
I don’t like him, and I wdu’t have him.”*
Monsieur Couluincourt rose, and clasp
ing his daughter to his heart, heaved a
deep sigh,of relief.
I thought you would want to get
married ; all young girls are said to want
to get married.”
“ But they have not such fathers as I
have ; now come to breakfast, and make
yourself perfectly easy on the score of
husbands, for I shall never, as long as 1
live, leave you.” t ' '
Now when Mile. Cecile spoke in this
way, she was telling the truth ; but not
all the truth, for certainly she was giving
her father to understand that she had no
affection in the world beyond the one she
had for him, and that she never intended
to marry. M. Coulaincourt had made an
idol of his daughter; after his wife’s death
he had consecrated his life to this child,
and gradually he had grown to look on all
who sought to share her affection with
jealousy, such almost as a lover might have
felt. But with all this, M. Coulaincourt
knew that every girl in France is expected
to bo married between the ages of eighteen
and twenty; an old maid is a rara avis in
France, and all his wile’s and his own re
lations were importunate for him to find
a match for his daughter. She was beau
tiful, young, and charming, and possessed
a handsome dowry; pretenders were not
wanting. M. Coulaincourt felt as if a
doom threatened him. He was afraid to
talk to Cecile on the subject, so the posi
tive declaration he had drawn from his
daughter that morning caused him mqp
happiness than be had known for many
But after all it was an E\e-like, wo
manish answer she had given him, she did
love some one better than her father, and
the happiness of her life depended on her
Many years before, Cecile, being then
only six years, as she was sitting in her
father’s carnage, driving along the high
road in a'country pbice where her father
had hired a residence for the summer, had
spied a boy three or four years older than
herself, sitting on the wnyside crying.
One command from Cecile had stopped
the carriage, and the next minute she was
by the side of the child, inquiring into his
griefs, and forcing info his hand the cakes
■and cherries with which her little basket
was laden.
Monsieur Coulaincourt inquired, how
ever, more particularly into-the boy’s cir
cumstances and condition, and finding him
really an object of pity, and believing his
story, had taken twenty francs out of his
pocket to give him. But Cecile stopped
him indignantly.
“ Not at all,” said she, “ he is going
home with us.” . -
And home he had accordingly been ta
ken. It was luting that he had the be
ginning of a good education, that lie spoke
correctly, and was a very well behaved
boy, continuing his own story that he was
the orphan of a gentleman who had passed
his life in writing, the boy could not say
what, and who died suddenly, pen in hand,
leaving no indication who he was beyond
his own name, and but just money enough
to bury him.
The orphan boy had been turned adrift;
and bewildered and helpless, had wandered
on until forlorn and wearied, he had sat
down by the wayside and wept.
Coulamcourt had Adrian, as he was
called, educated, and now at the time
Coulaincourt, was in such trouble about
his daughter, Adrian had taken oif his
patron’s hands all the responsibility of his
business, one of the most important in the
great commercial city of Havre.
‘“Cecile has been a blessing to me,”
Coulaincourt would say, from the mo
ment her aunt laid her in my arms. I
owe the prosperity to my house to her, for
she gave me Adrian.”
Adrian felt the deepest gratitude to both
the merchant and his daughter ; his was a
fine, generous nature, that does not shrink
from obligation ; but the sentiment he felt
for father and daughter, as he grew older
naturally assumed a different aspect. To
both he was devoted ; but as he saw her
expand into loveliness, both of mind and
person, he came to love Cecile, passion
ately, deeply. lint he concealed his pas
sion as he would have hidden a crime, for
he felt it would be the basest ingratitude,
which is a crime, to seek an'alliance which
was so infinitely beneath what Cecile had
every right to expect.
But Cecile had not been as blind as her
father to Adrian’s feelings, neither was she
so scrupulous as Adrian, for she had made
up her girlish mind to marry Adrian, and
she had by her woman's tact discovered
his love fo^her.
On the day of her Explanation with her
[independent in evehythinq.]
father Cecile contrived, on some vain pre
text —he often undertook commissions for
her—to summon Adrian to, her presence.
She had determined to make him declare
his' sentiment, for she felt that the time
had come when she would have to combat
all her relations determined on her mar
riage, and her father determined on keep
ing her to himself. .
Adrian was timid in her presence that
she felt she had to encourage him ; so af
ter a little insignificant conversation, Ce--
cilc suddenly asked him if he had seen the
letter addressed to her father by Colonel
do Lacy. - ■
“ I have.”
“ You know the answer!”
“ M. Coulaincdurt has told me —”
“That 1 would not have him. I don’t
intend to. marry at all; 1 wish people
would leave me alone.”
“ They are not likely to do that; you
know, M’lle. ! Cecile. that wherever you go,
you excite admiration and love.”
“ Nonsense ;do you moan, to’say then
that every man who sees me is in love with
nie ?”
“Everyone who is often in-your so
“Everyone! Why, Adrian, you then,
who have known me all your life, and see
nie every day, are you iti love with me ?”
“ Mademoiselle, that is a cruel ques-
“ Not at all, Adrian, it is an honest
question, and demands an honest answer.
Give it to me from your heart, Adrian.”
“ Then, Cecile, from my heart, I love
“And, Adrian, with all my heart, 1
love you ; do not go off into ecstacies of
joy ; our love has a great obstacle to sur
“My poverty—my birth ?”
“ No, your love ; my father will never
forgive that.’?
“ It must be concealed from him, tjiis is
the only way to bring about our marriage.
Trust all to me and we shall be happy.”
Adrian's presence in the counting-house
was never of so little use as on that day ;
lie could not bring his mind to Contemplate
dull commercial details after all he had
heard that morning. The dream he had
never dared to think would be realized had
become a reality.
On Cecile the interview of the morning
had a different effect: it made her serious
and thoughtful. After all, Adrian was
but a creature of her father’s bounty, and
that might be an obstacle, not one that
would resist a positive desire of hers ex
pressed in bar usual positive manner, but
one she Qoulifnot signify without declaring
her love for Adrian, and that would make
her father miserable, and might perhaps
utterly prevent the success of her plans.
“ lie must 'propose Adrian to me him
self,” was the result of Cecile’s reflections.
It so happened that a few days aftier she
had taken it, a letter came from her; aunt,
urging her brother to establish her niece,
and requesting , him to send her on a visit
of three months to her to Paris. “ I have
been nursing a capital match for her for
more than a year,” said she, “so pray send
“ Now really this is too bad,” said M.
Coulaincourt, “ your aunt being your
mother's sister fancies she has a right over
you ; and I cannot part with you.” ,
“ I shall certainly not go.”
“Then here--every one is asking the,
honor of my daughter’s hand. I wonder
if the men think I took all this care of you ■
expressly for them ?”
“Theyneed not trouble themselves,” said
Cecile, “I wi|l never leave you;' but as
you would not like me after all to be an
old maid, I should like to rind a husband
who .would consent to come and live here
and make my i home his.”.
“ For that we mqst find some one who
is not rich.”
“And whp will understand us both;
but where is sffch a being to be found I”
“Ah!” exclaimed M. Coulajncourt,
starting up— “I have the very man;
he has often, told me he would lay down
his life for me; he will not dare refuse me
Cecile's heart beat, but she had sufficient
self-control to keep down the blush that
thrilled through her veins, as with an air
of indifference, she replied—
‘‘Adrian? Oh, yes; why, he knows
us both so well, knows all otir faults, and
knows all ‘my love for you , you might
make him your partner, but then would
he have me ? Perhaps he loves some one
else.” . ;
“Nonsense!; he cannot, he shall hot;
my Cecile thein will never leave me, and
no passionate love will ever come to ob
scure the love of all her popr father's life.
It will not be too great a Sacrifice, though,
will it, Cecile? I think you must like
“Just enough, father, to marry him
, without aversion ; and I shall love him for
■ keeping me all my life near you.” !
“ What then is to be done’”
“ I am rich enough for both.”
“ Who has i no relations.”,
“ Certainly.” .
“ Who has grcat respect for you.”
“ Love him, but only second to me.”
“Of course!” '
Coulaincourt hastened to the counting
house, shut himself up in his office with
Adrian, and there made the proposition to
him. Adrian, being a man, had not as
much tact as Ceciie, and, thrown off his
guard, avowed his passion for her, which
came near spoiling the whole plot.
But Cecile’s tact and skill came to the
rescue. Never was accepted suitor,re
ceived in a colder or more cavalier man
ner. Not one word of tenderness, not
one look of love was bestowed on him du
ring the whole courtship. Not for ten
minutes was he ever alone with his ih
.tended. Coulaincourt was enchanted;
Ceciie, too, for she* had gained her point j
her lather wa? not jealous of her husband.
On the wedding day, as they were re
turning from church, Adrian offered his
arm to his bride, but she had already ta
ken her father’s.
“ Cecile,” said Coulaincourt,'. “ your
husband has, periiaps, the right—”
“All had begotten him,” replied Ce
cile, just touching Adrian’s arm with the
tips of fingers.
“ Even on her wedding day,” said Cou
laincourt to himself, with a thrill of joy,
“ she thought of me before she thought of
Cold and ceremonious was the bride’s
manner through all the banqueting and
rejoicing. • Adrian himself was almost de
ceived, and on this, the happiest day of
his life, could not help feeling sad. When
all was over, the guests gone, and Coulain
court conducted his children to v their own
apartment, his heart thrilled with joy to
thinlv that his home was now to be for
ever hers. Then. whe_n the door was
closed upon them, Cecile threw herself into
her husband’s arms and whispered, “I
love you.”
They have all three; been supremely
happy ever since, and Coulaincourt takes
the credit of all on himself, never suspect
ing the stratagem by which a woman
contrived to have her own way..
Who Fiddled.—-In the Pennsylvania
Legislature, two years ago, there ! was a
member named Charles Wilson, from one
of the northern tier counties, who con
sidered himself among the great orators of
the day, and, when pretty well filled with
“Harrisburg water,” would get off, for the
edification of his colleagues, some very rich
illustrations. Being somewh’al interested
in a bill before the House, ho made what
he considered one of his master-speeches,
during the delivery of which he used the
illustration of “Nero fiddling while Rome
was burning.” He had scarcely taken his
seat when a member tapped him on the
shoulder and said, “ Say, Charlie, it wasn’t
Nero that ‘fiddled,’it was Caesar. You
should correct that before it goes on the
record.” In an instant he was upon his
feet,»and exclaimed, “Mr. Speaker—Mr.
Speaker —I made a mistake. It wasn’t
Nero t|iat * fiddled ’ while Rome was burn
ing; if was Julius Ccesar.” Happily for
him, the speaker was so busijy engaged
that be did nut liear him ; but some mem
bers near heard and enjoyed the joke.—
Afterwards some one told him that he was
right in the first place, which resulted in
his reading all the ancient history in the
State Library during the remainder of the
winter, to assure himself as to who it was
that fiddled.”— -.Exchange.
Oke op Lamb’s Best. — Lamb once
convulsed a company with ah anecdote of
Coleridge, which, without doubt, he hatch
ed in his hoax loving brain. “I was,” he
said, “going from my house at Enfield to
the East India House one morning, when
I met Coleridge on his way to pay me a
visit. He was brimful of some new idea,
and, in spite of my-assuring him that time
was precious, he drew me within the gate
of an unoccupied garden by the road-side,
and there, sheltered from observation by a
hedge of evergreens, he took me by the
button of my coat, and,, closing his eyes,
commenced an: eloquent discourse, waving
his right hand gently as the musical words
flowed in an' unbroken stream from his
lips. I' listened,entranced; but the stri
king clock recalled me to a sense of duty.
I saw it was of no use to attempt to break
away ; so, tafcing_advantage of his absorp
tion in bis subject, and, with my penknife,
quietly severing my button from my coat,
1 decamped. Five hours afterwards, in
passing the same garden, on my way home,
1 heardCoieridge’s voice; and, on looking
in, there be was with closed eyes, the but
ton in his fingers, and the right hand
gracefully waving, just as when 1 left him.
tie had never missed me.
A Grammatical Waiter. —“ Waiter,
is my chicken a broiling ?”
“No, sir, the cook is.”.. '■
‘M didn’t order the cook. He is too
“ How will you have it done?’’
“ Why, I want it broiled, to be sore.”
“ That be is doing, sir.”
- “ But yon said he was broijing himself.”
“ So he is, but he is not being broiled.”
“ Well, Mr. Waiter, (rising and bowing
reverently), may I ask your high gram-
I jmaticolarity, fa ply cAWsm ippuect f’
From the Dollar Newspaper. '■
Potatoes should be taken from the
ground only in fair weather, and left ex
posed to the sun and windno longer than is
necessary. In handling, care should be
trken not to bruise!'the surface or break
the skin. It is a common error that a
potato will stand all manner of ill usage
and be none the worse- for it. Orchard
ings know that if an apple is bruised in
the gatherinjftt is not fit,for wilder keep
ing. In like manner farmers should know
that for table use the potato needathe same
careful handling to insure the best results.
A potato that is bruised or chafed, oc is
subject to a water leaving tbo
ground, is materially injured for Vinter
keeping. ’ j
A potato of the finer varieties, such as
Neshannock, Peachbluw, Kidney, Mercer,
Lady’s Finger, etc., when upon suitable
soil, properly harvested and evoked right,
is a positive delicacy upon the table; but
take the same' lot, let them be roughly
handled, dialed, immersed in water, mad
laid by in that ruined and undone condi
tion tor, a few weeks, and then cooked,
even tolerably well, and they are not a
very inviting dish.
When the potato crop of Ireland failed,
and-that people were confronted with
starvation, little did we Americans realize
how much suffering to the poor; and posi
tive inconvenience to the rich, would lie
caused by a faildrl of the potato crop in
this country. The potato is both bread
and meat in many households, and deserves
all the consideration of a prime staple, as
well as a luxury in human food. -
Potatoes for table use should not be
stored at all in a wet cellar. In such a
place their starch is hydrogenized, thereby
spoiling their finest quality for food; they
become soggy, and will never cook dry pr
mealy. For the same reason, where pota
toes are stored in heaps out of doors’and
covered with earth, avoid placing them on
any other than land which is naturally
dry, nnd where water will notsfrmd. Qa
sandy land potatoes will keep very well in
heaps, if properly covered from the winter
rains and secured from irost.
Cellar storage is most common among
farmers, and most convenient for house
hold purposes; but the cellar should be
dry. if the potatoes are free from disease,
they may be stored in close bins, with the
tops covered with dry sand or loam, which
will insure perfect preservation. Potatoes
which are tainted with rot must have their
sore spots dried up by exposure to the dry
atmosphere and a dust of slacked Umep—
Such potatoes are not fit for human food,
and should only be used under protest Hn
case of dire necessity. - liv?
In the storage of large quantities of
potatoes for stock use, say in the bfffn
cellars, it is well to use a dust of lime-
We saw a good example of this practice
in the barn cellars of the famous oldagri
culturist, James Gowcn, of Germantown,
near Philadelphia, last full. Mr. Gowen
feeds laigely of roots to his stock in winter.
His ample stone-walled cellars were heaped
with potatoes jind other roots, all iff'the
nicest order. Before putting in the stock
of roots for winter, Mr. Gowen bits the
walls and paved floors nicely cleaned and
sprinkled with lime dust, and, as the po
tatoes are put in other dustings are ad
ministered, by which all foul vapors are
avoided, and the place is free from the
noisome atmosphere usually encountered
where vegetables are stored in any quantity.
Thk Great Tragedian.^—The Califor
nia editors are a queer set. A sample of
their treatment of McKean Buchanan
proves it. When announced to Visit acei -
tain up-country town, oue of’em spoke of
him in this wise :
“ The Legitimate Drama. —We are happy
to state that the talented American trage
dian, McKean Buchanan; supported hy a
talented stock company, will shortly pay
our town a visit, etc.”
On the return trip, Mr. Buchanan hav
ing failed to come down,” as munificent
ly as was exacted, or having exhibited
evident partiality for a rival hewspaptlr,
we have : , ‘
“Buckean Muchauan, w ith hi* one
horae show, was Lera a few nighta ago, we
understand. As usual the attendance was
slim. Buckean is about played' out'with
our intelligent and discriminating commit
The Paris correspondent of the London
Star writes as follows: Restaurants for
the working classes ip Pans have, nowa
days, recourse to every species of invention
to attract attention. Last week, one jhst
opened ip the Faubourg Monturatre prom
ises a dinner of two courses an i a deswt
to whoever writes, in a legible hand,
answer to a rebus offered every morning
for solution by the dame de cemptoa. 1
■ - ' 'y.'.-j
®T A woman possessed of gcniuiar>d|U~
terature, is perhaps unnatural; so a£» the
garden rose', the l **que«n of be
“ flower of loveFia, by the laws ofbotany,
a monster, yet a lovely one. v; , >/;*-
MM. t" ,■
v -
NO. 33.