He lancastcr iintclluicnm: VOL. LXIII. -ESB . iiAHdASTER iMEiLiaBSOfiE. c. bU9SID.R7SaT TOISDAT, AS VO. 8 HOBTH bUXI STRUT, 3Y 080. SANDBBSOS. ,••, . ~ s* : V' -sterms. • • Subscription.—Twer itollare per annum, payable in ad -1 ranee. No subscription discontinued until all arreor " -agesare-pald, unless at the option of the Editor. AnnansaMiafS.—Advertisements, not exceeding one •’ “ • a?UAE6f (12 lines,)..will be inserted three , times for one l .. dollar, ap.d twenty-five cents, for each additional inser . tlon. Those of greater length in'proportion. .Job TRurrrKG—-Snch as Hand Bills, Posters, Pamphlets, Blanks, Labels, 4c., 4c., executed with accuracy and on the shortest notice. - fcdif The .following, from the Louisville Journal, published'ln January, is perhaps the most magnifi cent poem whioh the war has produced. It is worthy of .golden letters: IN STATE. O Keeper of the Saored Key, And the Great Seal of Destiny, Whose eye is the blue canopy, Look down upon the warring world and tell us wbat the end will be. “ Lo,.through the wintry atmosphere, On the white bosom of the sphere, A cluster of fire lakes appear; And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior’s shield or sheeted bier. “ And on that vast and hollow field, With both lips closed and both eyes sealed, A mighty figure is revealed— Stretched at full length and stiff and stark as in the hollow of a shield. “The winds have tied the drifted snow Around the face and chin, and 10, The sceptred Giants come and go, And shake their shadowy crowns and say: ‘We al ways feared it wonld be so/ “ She oame of an heroic race : giant’s strength, a maiden’s grace, Like two in one seem to embraoe, And match, and blend, and thorough-blend, in her colossal form and face. “ Whore eon her dazzling falchion bo ? One hand ia fallen in the sea; The gulf stream drifts it far and free, And in that hand her shining brand gleams from the depths resplendently. “ And by the other in it rest, The Starry Banner of the West Is clasped forever to her breast; And of her silver helmet, 10, a soaring eagle is the orest! “ And on her brow a softened light, As of a star concealed from sight By some thin veil of fleecy white, Or of the rising moon behind the rainy vapors of the night. ■ r “The sisterhood that was so sweet— The Starry System Bphered complete, Which the mazed Orient used to greet— The Four and Thirty fallen.stars glimmer and elit ter at her feet. B “ And, 10, the children whioh she bred, And more than all else cherished, To make them strong in heart and head, Stand face to face as mortal foes with their swords crossed above the Dead ! “ Baoh hath a mighty stroke and stride, And one iB Mother-true and tried The other dark and evil-eyed; '* And by the hand of one of them his own dear Mother surely died; “ A stealthy step—a gleam of hell It is the simple truth to tell — w The Son stabbed, and the Mother fell: And so she lies—all mute, and pale, and pure, and irreproachable. “ And then the battle-trumpet blew : And the true brother sprang and drew His blade to smite the traitor through; And so they clashed above the bier, and the night sweated bloody dew! “ Now, whichsoever stand or fall, As God is Great and man is small, The truth shall triumph over all Forever and forever more the Truth shall triumph over all 1” Thus saith the Keeper of the Key, And the Great Seal of Destiny, Whose eye Is the blue oanopy; And leaves His firmament of Peace and Silence over bond and free. From Reynolds’ Miscellany. The Tradition of the House of Fothgay. BY EDWIN F. ROBERTS. Family histories in England, when they come to be analysed and examined into— in the traditions of crime or superstition whioh environ them ; in the revelations of those dark and insorutable secrets which are bound np in the histories of a race— offer, in their varied interests, the most breathless and romantic phases it is possi ble to imagine; and in nine cases out of ten prove, beyond all oavil or question, that ‘ truth is stranger than fiction.’ Besides the great picturesque beauty . which distinguishes the majority of our old manorial houses, there is not one of them that has not a story of some kind or other attached to it. Their secret panels —their hidden staircases—their undiscover able passages—their many ways of en trance and exit—their subterraneous com munication with places miles away even mostly the record of civil war, but as often a consequence of capricious design, the main purpose of which lies in obscurity, until family history is hunted up ; and then we find that the most astonishing —at times the most astounding—at times the most barrowing events, are bound np in what may hitherto have been a secret most men shrank from unravelling. How pleasantly they lie—those noble old English houses—in the repose of those fine old woods which surround them ! How their trim and stately gardens set them off! How placid their ‘ lily meres ’ —their ornamental lakes—their terraced walks ! How soft and green their close mown, velvet swards ! How soothing the cawing of the rooks in the tall elms—and how thoroughly English such a pioture is, take it in any manner you will, view it in any light you like! Muoh of .the most startling portions of the history of the country is associated with the manorial houses of England ; so that, in faot, their annals beoome integral sections of the more oompendious chronicle. Some of the greatest names on record are identified with those lordly houses whioh gave the heroes birth—and it is with the more interesting of these that we purpose to deal The house of the Fothgays of Fothgay, lying in the deepest seclusion of the oounty of Derby, which is watered by a tributary of the Trent, offers us the first illustrations in the scenes of Family His tories we purpose to lay before our readers. The house itself dates from the days of the later Tudors—a stone let into the space surmounting the fireplace in the great hall bearing the date of 1588, the year of the great Armada, when the founder of the house, Sir Edward Fothgay, a captain in Queen Elizabeth’s navy, distinguished himself in the destruction of the Spanish fleet, and thus laid the foundation of the. fortunes of his house. The building was, in fact, characterised by a quaintness and a charm, scarcely de soribable in words. There was so muoh harmony in its irregularities, even—there was in the style of the erection all that pleases a fancy whioh delights in what we understand by ‘ nooks and corners within and without, a delightful sense of rooms with warm nestling places about them, which is utterly inseparable from all we idealize in the word oomfort. At the time our story opens, and when oir Gideon Fothgay was head of the house, a strange ohange had fallen upon the ' family and its fortune?, and the heyday of its prosperity seemed to have received a sodden oheck ; while over all the shadow of a terrible fate, rather felt than recog nized or known, seemed to hover—and the coming of the blow, though retarded, was only deferred to fall with greater weight and a fall certainly at last. Sir Gideon Fothgay, represented as a stern, gloomy man—having barely yet ar rived at middle age—had lived a wanderer in foreign lands for some years back, and the only one of his name was an orphan daughter, Elsie Fothgay, a strangely beautiful girl of about ten or twelve, on whose face no one eonld gaze long without feeling a mysterious sense of awe and admiration stealing over the mind. Her beauty was of a weird and almost solemn order. Her great luminous eyes looked forth npon yon with a power of light that was felt to be at times unbeara ble. Her hair, in torrents of tempestuous blackness, fell wildly at times around her I shoulders, or streamed upon the breeze as j she raced madly around the garden walks; ■ and if any met her glances then those orbs of hers flashed out with a startling glare whioh reminded one of the dread in fluence of the evil eye. Elsie Fothgay had, so to speak, several I forms, moods and varieties of loveliness. In some of her moods her scowling beauty , was startling to look at; her eyes would j dilate and flash, or contraet, and the pupils would lessen with a fierce and feline ex pression, just as the eyes of a tiger or a cat dilate or lessen nnder the influence of light or of rage. Out from the midst of her vast wealth of tossing looks, too, the small, pale coquette face would shine whitely with an almost ghostly gleam. The thin lips, ex quisitely out, would express themselves so olosely that the blood left them, and a rush of irropressible passion would run through her trembling frame, all of a quiver and alive with nervous influences. When she was in repose, on the other hand, her beauty had an in expressibly sad and morunfnt cast. You felt an infinite pity and tenderness for this lonely mother less ohild whioh inclined to tears, and by a magnetio sympathy, otherwise utterly inexplicable, you became a companion of her solitude, so to speak, and every latent tenderness in the inner being was awakened on her behalf. The lonely house, lying in a sheltered dell, and surrounded by lofty hills and waving woods, which entirely shut her in from the outer world, although an inex pressible sylvan charm was imparted to it, must, m one respect, have exercised an influence, and not a healthy one, perhaps, upon her. Shut up from the companionship of those of her own age and sex, no wonder the impressionable child should have grown up, marked by peculiarities of so eooentrie a kind. An old groom, who led her pony about the grounds, the pleasance and a paddock or two offering sufficient room for exercise ; her governess, a timid, weak and easily startled creature ; and a nurse, a motherly woman of a stronger minded order, —these were all she knew, or was accustomed to meet with. Hence, her ignoranoe was on a par with an intellect of the most subtle order. It did not occur to those nearest to her that her ignorance of the world and its ways was the natural consequence of isolation ; while, on the other hand, her’subtle logic often confounded them. She seemed to think like no other child, and every act she did was committed upon impulse. One moment she would storm out furiously, and the next fall in passion ate tears on the bosom of the offender, aud ask for forgiveness, which we may be sure was readily enough granted. There were the usual number of domes tios, male and female, under charge of the venerable housekeeper, Mrs. Wy-ford, en gaged in their various occupations at Foth gay Hall; so that if a cloud hung over the old manorial establishment, it certainly did not arise from any lack of the means requisite for keeping up its past dignity. With few of these, however, did little Elsie come into contact; and though there was not one among them but went into frantic encomiums upon her beauty, and discussed her temper—now angelic, and at another time having a spice of the devil in it, as the phase goes- still there was a sheltering tenderness yielded instantly for the motherless girl, for the story of her bereavement was a sad and a tragical one. In the evenings when the twilight came, and Madame Leon, the governness, sat at the table, looking over her pupil’s lesson, while Nurse Fosdyke sat apart with her needle, watohing her oharge out of the corner of her eye—in such evenings, Elsie, seated in a nook of the bay window, watching the waning shadows, would moan, and murmur to herself the sweet name ‘Papa—papa!’ ‘ What is it, my pet V the nurse would ask. ‘ I want my papa, nurse. When will he come home V ‘ Soon, now—very soon, now, my dar ling. ‘lt is long—very long ago, since yon said that,’ sighed Elsie. ‘ Yes, darling, yes ; but he will not be long now.’ Nurse, where is my mamma ?, de manded the child, abruptly, one evening, as she ohanged the question. ‘ Why, bless the dear one!’ exolaimed the nurse, giving a start, as though she had been shot. ‘ You must not ask questions, Miss El sie,’ interposed Madame Leon, in a tone of grave authority, though she really knew not why or wherefore she could have said so. The nurse looked aghast, her lips quiv ering and her eyes filling with tears; then, snatohing her to her, buried the child’s face in her motherly breast. There were times when, in her graver mood, the great lambent eyes were hidden by her long drooping eyelashes—when the moan of a young soul rocked upon a bed of agony would break over her purpled lips—when an expression of the most poig nant anguish would tremble and twitch on on her pale lips—a sign of sorrow the nurse dreaded to see more than aught else. ‘ What is my pet thinking of v she said, soothingly, to her charge on all occasions. ‘Of my mamma !—of my mamma !’ burst forth Elsie. ‘ Oh, mamma! will you never, never, never oome baok to Elsie more V The burst of grief whioh auooeeded this was dreadful to witness. ■With quivering lips* and eyes running withteats-—withe fierce, almost ? tigerish “ THAT COUNTRY IS THK MOST PROSKEROUB WIINRR LABOR COMMANDS THI ORNATRBT RNWABD.”—BUCHANAN. LANCASTER CITY. PA., TUESDAY MORNING. APRIL 15, 1862. fondness would Nurse Fosdyke, on these occasions, seize the child, and press her to her throbbing heart with a force that al most wrung a cry of pain from her. ‘ My darling—my darling ! don’t speak of this—don’t break your poor nursey’s heart!’ ‘ Pray be calm, my little angel,’ said her governess. ‘lt is wrong to give way to grief so.’ This time, Elsie was not to be qnieted. It would seem that the ohild had been brooding npon a faot, the nature of which she eonld not quite arrive at, and was bent on having her doubt solved. ‘ I want to know abont my mamma,’ she said with a resolute quietude that her solemn eyes seemed to plead the deeper for. ‘ Mamma is not here, Elsie, my pet,’ replied the nurse, soothingly, but still as if doubtful of the result of her answer. ‘ When will she be here V asked Elsie ; and this calmer tone was not more reassu ring than if put in her sterner mood. ‘I—I don’t—know,’ said Nurse Fosdyke, with a hesitating manner that might plead being half guilty to tho possession of some unweioome secret. ‘ Where is she, nurse V persisted Elsie. ‘ My pet, don’t now.’ ‘ Where is she—where is my mamma V ‘ Oh, heaven help me !’ oried the strong woman, all trembling, ‘ for this is more than my courage can bear.’ ‘ Nurse,’ continued Elsie, as her voioe deepened, and the flash came into her eyes and the soowl came over her brows, whioh made her childish beauty look so terrible even. ‘ She is—she is—dead, my dear ! Oh, me—oh me !’ moaned the nurse — 1 she is dead !’ ‘ Dead!’ repeated the girl, in an awful whisper. ‘Yes, my dear, dead!’ replied the nurse, now almost desperately, and like a woman who had no other way to get ont of a difficulty than by looking it steadily in the face. The governess looked on in no little dismay, for she saw that her pupil was in a temper not to be trifled with, and mere commonplace interference would have been out of plaoe. ‘ Dead !’ said Elsie, sternly. ‘Do you dare to deceive me 1’ The soowl now darkening her marble brows seemed to frighten the nurse, col lected as she was at most times. ‘ My darling Miss Elsie,’ began Nurse Fosdyke. ‘ You call me Elsie—nothing more,’ said the young girl. ‘ The others may call me ‘ Miss,’ ’ she continued, with a sort of spito against the term, ‘ but don’t you do so. The nurse was dumb, not knowing what to say. ‘ How can she be dead when I see her so often V continued Elsie, with the col lected air of one going to hold an argu ment, and having the best ground to stand upon. ‘ See her !—see your mamma V A shudder of absolute terror shook the strong woman. ‘ Yes,’ ‘ Meroiful goodness protect us ! what oan the child mean V murmured Nurse Fosdyke, like one driven to her wits’ end. ‘ I see her, with her white face and long streaming hair ; and she smiles upon me— so piteously, so sadly.’ ‘Don’t, my darling—don’t, my pre oious !’ almost screamed the nnrse. ‘lt’s only dreams.’ The child shook her head. It meant to say, and did say, that there were realities far beyond the power of dreaming—that there were facts quite out of the domain of fancy, and that this was one of them. ‘ 1 see her now! There she is ! Look !’ cried the child. She pointed out into the evening air, laden with vapors ; for the autumn had set in, and the long, moaning winds were giving tokens of that solemn mise.ere which sing the dirges of the departed seasons. In the wreathed mists whioh were riding across the waters of the broad pond where the lilies grew, and beside of which Elsie loved to sit and lose herself in dreamy reverie, there actuall grew before the stea dy look of the woman the outline of a fe male form. It became clearer—more and more dis tinct to the two women. The features became recognizable. Madame Leon had never seen Elsie’s mother, but Nurse Fos dyke had been with her in her lifetime, and had tended her death-bed. The face, white and speotral as it was, had a certain sweetness of expression like that often worn by Elsie. The lustre of the large dark eyes shone across the eve ning gloom. The black hair waved on the shoulders, and the gaze of the phantom seemed to be bent towarns the window with a yearning, imploring look, as if seeking for and selecting some individual form from among them. ‘ She is smiling—she is beckoning me— she always does so !’ cried Elsie ; ‘ let me go to her.’ ‘ Ob, my child—my lovo—my darling ! no, no, no!’ oried the nurse; olasping the girl with a strong clasp to her breast. ‘ Oh, me ! what is to be the end of all this sad and miserable piece of work V ‘ And you say my mother is dead V Elsie uttered these words in a tone of reproach, of quiet irony, of a reproof ut terly scorching in its tranquility, as though she said, ‘ Do not attempt to de ceive me again. The French governess shook with all the terror which a superstitious mind, apt to believe in these unrealities, must neoes sarily succumb to, as she murmnred in her own tongue ejaculations of astonishment, of fear, and of devout adjurations mingled with the same. The two women had, for the instant, forgotten Elsie, and were watohing* the visitant, which, wreathing in a thin, white misty vapor, disappeared. Elsie was lying in a deep, tranquil sleep, on the carpet, her head pillowed on the nurse’s footstool; and when Mrs. Fosdyke turned her head away and let her eyes fall on her beloved oharge, it was with a sti fled cry of joy, such as we utter at times when recovering from some hideous dream that she oanght the fair, frail burden up, and bore it to her chamber, where her own bed lay beside Elsie’s and never left her during the whole night following. Madame Leon, too terrified to remain alone in that shadowy, ghostly apartment, followed silently, though, as it were, under sufierance, for the. nurse was jealous of interference in' her province; and while she kept the inmates of the honse away with a high and haughty hand, she tolera ted the timid little governess beeause the latter was a necessity of her own Elsie’s, the ohild could not dispense with. The nurse looked on the governess as she wonld hava looked on food, or air, or something that Elsie could not do withont. . That evening, while the shadowy night was weaving itself into blaokness without —while snow-flakes were falling, precur sors of the coming winter—while the winds were moaning and rumbling, and hollow gusts in the twisted chimneys—that eve ning Nurse Fosdyke relieved her mind, and shared her dark seoret with another ; and principally because it oonoerned El sie, confided to the governess the following particulars, whioh, to avoid some circum locution, on the nurse’s part, we shall give in a version of our own : * # * * * * Sir Gideon and Sir Philip Fothgay were two cousins, sons of two brothers, one of whom, the father of Phillip, had fallen in tha wars of Marlborough in Plan ners ; and the boy, who soon after lost his mother, was brought to Fothgay Manor to be brought up with young Gideon, to be educated, to be treated with eqnal fond ness, and to be in all respects, save inher itance, on the same footing as his cousin Gideon. Philip Fothgay had nothing to fear from poverty, as his father had bequeathed him a liberal fortune, so that there could be no sense of dependence left on the youth’s mind. It was only to give him compan ionship, a oheerful home, for Fothgay Hall was then a happy plaoe. ‘ Ah me,’ said the nurse, ‘ how different in those days when we were all ten years younger, and the great hall rang with langhter, and the guests were many where there comos now never a one.’ At the time when the young men had left college, and were living at the Htfll previous to taking their proper places and stations in the world—for Philip was des tined for the army, and Gideon, tho very prototype of his great Irish namesake, bold, brave, daring, with a frame of iron and sinews of steel, was meant for parliament —he who ought to have commanded armies —at this very time comes a third person into the family of Fothgay, one of tho most lovely and bewitohing creatures that eyes ever dwelt npon. Helen Garthside—whioh was her name —was also a cousin by the mother’s side, and by a conjunction of oircumstances which would sound like mere invention but for the truth of the fact, she too was an orphan ; and old Sir Gideon—a brave, warm-hearted, kindly old gentleman—took the pretty creature under his wing, and put her at the head of his household in the place of his own dead wife—for Mistress Margaret Fothgay had departed this life in peace a twelvemonth before ; and the stout old knight seemed to lavish all his old love on tho pretty creature that was now his charge, and the Hall was merry, the Hall was happy—all went merrily till the knight himself died, and was laid, with many tears and sincere regrets, in the family vauit. And Sir Gideon Fothgay the elder, and indeed the only son, ‘ reign ed in his stead,’ and after the proper time of sorrow for the good old man was over, things went on for a time pretty much as before. The two young men were nearly of an age, four or five and twenty. Helen Garthside was nineteen, and a very queen of a woman. Now, when two handsome young men and a lovely young woman, bound indi rectly to both by the ties of kindred, and having an equal claim upon their sympa thes—when this is the case, one inevitable consequence must follow—somebody must fall in love ; and so long as it is only some body with somebody, it is all very well ; but when two men fall in love with one and the same woman, the matter assumes complicated forms of difficulty not easy to contend with. Young Sir Gideon was a tall, finely-built man, dark of feature and hair, but frank and honest of temperament, though hot and passionate enough otherwise. Phillip Fothgay was fair and delicate of feature, though physioally hardy enough. The two young men rode together, fared together, were indeed greatly attached to eaoh other —so much so that it was this very attach ment, if none other, which kept Phillip still at Fothgay Hall long after he had de cided for the army ; but the winning grace and the beauty of Helen Garthside was really at the bottom of all. Whether she was a coquette (‘ which I don’t believe,’ said the nurse parentheti cally) whether she had a liking, without a decided love, for either, would be difficult to say. Sir Gideon, as the master of Foth gay, might influence her affeotions.— Philip, on the other hand, was a gentle and a winning creature. Be this as it may, Sir Gideon married her, and Philip Foth gay was the bridesman at the wedding. So time and oiroumstanoes ran on, and still Philip Fothgay remained at the Hall, and well nigh a twelvemonth passed by when Helen Fothgay gave promise of that cherished gift and blessing whioh, to a loving husband, is the fondest and dearest pledge of love that can be given to him— he was about to beoome a father. He had entered upon some of the duties whioh his station and his rank in life demanded of him, and had, at the time we speak of, been staying in the metropolis for some time, when a letter from home counseled his immediate return. This letter was written by Mrs. Wyford, the housekeeper, and Helen Fothgay, the young wife, knew nothing of it. He arrived at the Hall one afternoon in the late autumnal months, and leaving his horse at the lodge to be taken to the stables, crossed by the ‘ pleasance’ in order to take his wife and cousin by sur prise—his heart beating with a fond and soft emotion from thinking of the event that was so soon to happen, and to make him a proud and happy father. Two persons were walking together on the garden slopes, and well he knew them both. One was his beautifnl and beloved wife—the other was his cousin Philip ; and as he saw that she leaned on his arm, he only felt the kindlier towards his cousin. What was his horror—his rage—his silent, wordless pain— to see Phillip turn suddenly round—olasp the worshipped wife to his bosom—kiss her lips and then break away! What could he think—he the duped, the betrayed, the trusting fool—but that his wife was false, and that bis kinsman, whom a month ago he would have hazarded life ’for, had dishoiibfed him ? A few words, and the two men—the one wild with headlong passion, the other pallid and trembling (was it with the con sciousness of guilt i) —were crossing swords, lunging and parrying and thrust ing—and the unhappy woman lying in a swoon on the sward they were trampling with their, quick and battling feet. Sir Gideon knew nothing, oared for nothing, but to satiate the murderous thirst that was setting his blood on fire. They were clashing steel against steel, and sparks flashing from each weapon. Something rose faintly from the ground —rushed between—and from one o» the other reoeived a wound—a death blow, and was borne into the honse bleeding. The same hour was Elsie born. Sir Gideon hurried off to London. Philip, knowing nothing of the sad disaster,' and only desiring, in perfeot innocence, to re lieve Sir Gideon and his wife of his pres ence, crossed the oountry, and at the mouth of Humber took shipboard, and was so far lost to memory, that when news of his death oame from the Southern Amer icas, the retainers at Fothgay Hall went into mourning ; and Phillip Fothgay was dead—Helen (Garthside) Fothgay was dead—and Sir Gideon Fothgay was no one knew where. * * * * * * Sir Gideon Fothgay, all of a sudden, had returned to his old home—had returned a changed, saddened and unhappy man. At first he seemed strenuously to avoid the sight of his forlorn girl-child ; and Elsie, with her peouliar instinct, soon found that she was an object of repugnance to him. 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