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- 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. To Nurse Fosdyke this was some
thing so unnatural and oruel, that the
woman grew indignant, and only cherished
her neglected pet the more—fostered her
like a lioness who had taken some orphan
oub under her charge, and loved it better
than if it had been her own.
Very sad, very shy, trembling and timid
grew the unhappy Elsie. ‘My papa does
not love me,’ she would say, in tones that
made the woman’s heart throb with the
very pain of pity. <My papa, whom I
would love so well, will not look upon me.’
Une afternoon the nurse took Elsie by
the hand and led her into his room, where
he sat gloomily apart.
‘ Take her away. Do you not see Philip
Fothgay in every line of her face V he ex
claimed, as he leaped up to his feet.
‘ Are you mad, master V said the nurse.
‘ No. Are you to question me thus V
‘ She is dark—Philip was fair,’ contin
ued Nurse Fosdyke, unmoved, and facing
his scowling brow.
‘ Fair and foul !’ he muttered.
‘ One does not always see one’s own face
without looking at it in a glass,’ retorted
the nurse.
‘ What do you mean V
‘ She has your face, feature by feature
—your dark bair, your smile—ay, even
your very scowl, when the poor darling’s
heart darkens with the knowledge that her
own father does not love her.’
‘ Her own father !’
There lay bitterness and anguish and
silent rage expressed in the scornful em
phasis of the words, whioh the woman
knew but too well.’
‘ You has a diseased fancy, master,’ she
said, coldly. ‘ You will be sorry for it
some day.’
‘Do you think I am not sorry for it
now V he said, more Badly. ‘ Go—take
her away ; I do not see my child there, he
added bitterly.
‘Let me go—let mo go !’ cried Elsie,
in a shuddering whisper. ‘He does not
love me—he will not love me ! My heart
—my heart will break ! and I have no
father now but Him in heaven !’
Her voice rose into such a wail of pite
ous agony that the tall, strong man was
inexpressibly touohed by it, and absolutely
felt a strange flutter and tremble among
the fibres of his heart, as though respon
ding to the memory of a lost, silent voice
—one listened for with eager fondness,
but whioh would never fall upon his ear
again.
The start he gave was that of a man who
had become suspicious of himself, and
awake all at once, to a burning, bleeding
truth, which made him believe he had done
a cruel wrong, and was now about to be
come guilty of another wicked act.
But Elsie had rushed out of the room.
Outside the Hall, looking forth from the
wrent embayed windows, the winter had
suddenly settled and set in sternly.
The horizon all across the long level of
the low-lying grounds, seen aoross the
lawn, the garden, and the fields,lay lower
ing and heavy with a menacing storm of
snow.
Outside the window, flake after flake, the
wintry snow was falliug; and while the
scared nurse was rushing after the child,
she had plunged—the poor darling—
through the thin, (Bracking ice, which had
covered the pond, and was seeking to find
rest for her hot, weary, restless heart in
that dreadful oblivion of eternal sleep, from
which wo never awaken until the final
day.
While paralyzed in the horror of the mo
ment, and the people were rushiug out of
the house towards the pond, into which the
poor outraged and maddened child had
flung herself, his eyes fell on a pile of un
opened letters lying on his tacle aad with
out well knowing what he did, he seized
one at random, and found that it was date
ed 1 Virginia.’ He read as follws.
‘ Dear Cousin Gideon ; Your wife is as
pure as the driven snow—as innocent as an
unborn child! I hasten to tell you this,
rising out of a sick bed, after fever and a
long sea voyage had left me prostrate ;and
it was but reoently I heard from one lately
come here that you had deemed me dead,
and your wife false. In the name of truth,
disabuso yourself. I was but taking a
mad farewell of her—for I loved her well,
too! —but I also loved my honesty and
my honor, and that day you wronged both.
This, my cousin, ought to have been certi
fied to you before. I trust it is not too
late to do the service meant, and to carry
to you the love and kind remembrance of
old times in the name of your cousin.
Philip Fothgay.’
He oould not deny the plain truth here
so clearly written, and which he was only
too eager to understand. The year that
had passed—the thousands of miles which
lay between the two men—the long mys
tery of the silence that had placed an
almost insuperable barrier between the fa
ther’ s heart and the child’s—were things
he did not stop to discuss.
After followed an enclosed scrap—brief
as a despatch from the field of battle, and
quite a full of faot: —
‘ The writer of the accompanying epistle
died of fever, eanght while exploring some
unknown river coast inland, and the pro
per rites of civilized and Christian people
have been done over his grave. ' E.’
And this was the end of the gallant, the
handsome, the brave lad Sir Gideon had
loved in his youth! Innooont of harm to him
—loving as he had loved, and had not suc
ceeded ! Dead !—dead to his forgiveness
—his awakened old love !—dead and his
wrongs dead with him ! The strioken man
gave a groan of pain, and hid his face in
his hands.
Then oame a terrible reaction.
The letter fell oat of his hand—the
stern, strong man grew dazzled with a sort
of rapture. But meantime—and a return
ing tremor oame with quiokening pulse
upon him—meantime, where was his ohild ?
This time he sprang forth himself jost
in time to behold her being taken out of
the water by her honest old groom, Dan
Snaffle, aided by Nurse Fosdyke, and sur
rounded by a crowd consisting of the
lodge-keeper’s wife and little ones, gazing
on in speechless terror, and the servants
of the Hall, who arrived just in time to
encumber eaoh other with their useless
help.
‘ My darling ! —my Elsie ! —my little
wronged one ! —my dove !’
The half-fainting child heard her father’s
strong though trembling voioe, as he took
her oat of the arms of the groom, and
bore her into the house, followed by the
troubled nurse.
‘Oh, master, master !’ she began.
‘ Silence, nurse ! She is dearer to me
than life.’
‘ My papa loves me now, nursey,’ -she
said, with an angelio smile lighting up her
fair, pale faoe.
‘ Forever—forever ! And may God
pardon me that I have been so blind—so
deaf—so long !’
Oh! how lovingly the twining arms
olung to his neok ! How throbbingly the
man clasped his darling to his heart!
So we leave her clinging to the breast of
that father.
She had reoovered, as it were, from the
dead; for Elsie yet beeame the light, the
hope, the bright glory of Fothgay ; and
it was not till the troubles of the Civil
War fell upon the land that its brightness
died out, and its name faded away from
the memories of men.
THE BATTLES OF 1812.
The Albany Journal, in contrasting the
events of the present war with that of
1812, exhibits the magnitude of the pres
ent oontest. The war of the revolution
was relatively a mere succession of skir
mishes. The war of 1812, measured both
as regards numbers and the field of ope
rations, shrink into oontemptible insig
nificance beside the gigantic operations
that are going on at the present hour. If
we 100k s baek at the history, more espe
cially of the last war with England, and
compare its leading incidents with those
of the conflict now raging, we shall find
that it hardly rises to the dignitv of a
modern reconoissanco. The ‘battles’
dwindle down into the veriest martial
emeutes ; the casualties are few, and the
number of prisoners taken in viotorions
engagements oounted rather by hundreds
than thousands. We-cite a few incidents
from the war of 1812 to show what petty
affairs, relatively, were some of the most
brilliant victories achieved by our arms.
The first battle of any importance .was
that of Brownstown, near Detroit, fought
August 9, 1812. Our foroe was only six
hundred ; that of tho British and Indians
combined seven hundred and fifty. Our
loss was eighteen killed and sixty-three
wounded ; that of the enemy one hundred
and sixty. General Hull’s ‘army,’ which
disgracefully surrendered at Detroit six
days later, numbered but twenty-five hun
dred men, while that of the enemo con
sisted of only seven hundred English and
six hundred Indians. ’ No wonder Gen.
eral Brock who commanded the latter
wrote to Sir General Provost—‘when I
detail my good fortune, your Excellency
will be surprised.’ At the battle of
Queenstown, two columns of three hund
red men each did about all fhe fighting
on our side. Gen. Yan Rensselaer in
his report says :—‘One thijd of the men
who remained idle might have saved all.
As it was, some looking on, while many
fled into the woods, leaving their breth.
ern to their fate.’ At the siege of Fort
Erie the English threw two thousand red.
hot shot without hurting a man. Our loss
was only four killed and seven wounded.
Brigadier General Smith abandoned his
favorite project of invading Canada West
because, although he had been preparing
the greater part of the summer, and had
energetically drummed up volunteers, he
had sueceoed in collecting only fifteen
hundred men, and he did not think the
expedition would be successful unless he
had fifteen hundred more. At tho battle
of Yorkiour force was seventeen hundred :
that of the enemy seven hundred English
and one hundred Indians. Our loss was
three hundred killed and wounded ; that
of tho enemy one hundred killed, three
hundred wounded, and two hundred pris
oners. This was one of the most bril
liant of onr victories, yet it is not to be
compared to the battle of BelmoQt or that
of Ball’s Bluff, either as regards the num
bers engaged or the losses sustained. At
the battle of SacXetts Harbor the enemy’s
force was seven hundred ; ours five hun
dred. His loss in killed and wounded
was one hundred and fifty ; ours one hun
dred and fifty four. Among the trophies
taken by our troops was the British
standard and mace. Over the latter hung
a hnman scalp ! Commodore Perry’s vic
tory on Lake Erie was esteemed a ‘big
thing’ in its day; yet his whole fleet con
sisted of only fifty-four gnns and two
swivels ; that of ■ the enemy sixty-three
guns and two swivels! Our loss in kill
ed and wounded was one hnndreb and
twenty-three ; that of the enemy has nev
er been definitely known. At the battle
of Chippewa our loss was three hundreb
and twenty-eight; that of the enemy five
hundred and fourteen. At the battle of
Fort Erie onr loss was eighty-four . that
of the enemy fieve hundred and eighty
four. At the battle of Baltimore
the enemy’s foroe numbered from seven
to eight thousand ; ours was probably less
than half that number. Our loss was one
hundred and seventy; that of the enemy
some seven hundred killed, wounded and
missing.. Even the battle of New Or
leans looks insignificant to eyes that have
witnessed a reconoissanoe on the. Poto
mac sixteen thousand strong, and a re
view of seventy thousand. .The British
foree, including Bailors and marines, was
abont fourteen thousand jjthatof (general
Jackson three thousand two hundred on
the left bank of the river and about eight
hundred distributed in positions hard by.
Our loss whs seven killed and six wounded;
that of the enemy seven hundred killed
and fourteen hundred It is
safe to say that, notwithstanding the tor
por of a large portion of our army, and
the taunts that we. have thus far been
only ‘playing,’ at war,’ a greater number of
lives have been lost within the last-five
months than during the entire war of
1312.
0?* A minister, appointed , ohaplain in
an Ohio regiment, lately wrote the follow
ing note to a brother preacher:—‘ Dear
brother if you oan get a commissionas ohap
lain,will pay you s6ty a month and alivin
beside. 'The cause of krist kneads you in
his army.’
A married lady consulted her lawyer
on the following question, viz: ‘As .I wed
ded Mr T for his wealth, and that
wealth is now spent, am I not to all intents
and purposes a widow, and at libety to
marry again V
What is a Blow ?—Hearing a physi
oian remark that a small blow will break
the nose, a rustio exelaimed, ‘Well, I
dunno ’bout that ', I’ve blowed my nose a
great many times, and I’ve never broke it. ’
A child of five, having seen her father
for the first time, he having been absent in
California, was muoh astonished that he
should claim any authority over her, and on
an oooasion of rebellion, as he. administered
punishment, she oried out— ‘ I wish you
had never married into our family !’
rplIK LANCASTER INTELLIQESOER
1 JOB PRINTING ESTABLISHMENT,
No. 8 NORTH DUKE STREET, LANCASTER, PA.
The Jobbing Department le thoroughly furnished with
new and elegant type of every description, and Is under
the charge of a practical and experienced Job
The Proprietors are prepared to
PRINT CHECKS,
NOTES, LEGAL BLANKS,
CARDS AND CIRCULARS,
BILL HEADS AND HANDBILLS,
PROGRAMMES AND.POSTBRB,
PAPER BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS,
BALL TICKETS AND INVITATIONS,
PRINTING IN COLORS AND PLAIN PRINTING,
with neatness, accuracy and dispatch, on the most reasons*
ble terms, and in a manner not excelled by any establish*
inent in tho city.
•SST" Orders ' from a dlstauce, by mall or otherwise,
promptly attended to. Address
GEO. SANDERSON A SON,
Intelligencer Office,
No. 8 North Duke street, Lancaster, Pa.
D ll ■ J
g A TC |j^
UOJKEOPATHIO PHYSICIAN,
Ok Lancaster C i t t ,
may be ron&alted professionally, at his Office, at Henry
Bear's Hotel, in the borough of Straaburg, on Thursday of
each week, from 10 o’clock iu the morning to three in the
afternoon.
An opportunity is thus afforded to residents of Strasbnrg
and vicinity to avail themselves of Homoeopathic treatment,
and females suffering from chronic diseases may enjoy the
advice of one who has made this class of dtseasee a.
speciality. J. T. BAKER, M. D.,
Homoeopathic Physician,
oct 2*2 If 41] East King street, above Lime, Lancaster
Roofing slatk.
PRICES REDUCED AT GEORGE M. BTBINMAN A
CO'S HARDWARE STORE, TN WEST KING BT.
Perseus in want of Hoofing Slate, or wishing to have
their buildiug* covered with Slate, will tind it to their
iutcrest to ctll as above. Having made arrangement* for
a large supply of very superior quality, they will be offered
at prices to euit the times.
Also a general assortment of HARDWARE, to which the
attention of Farmers, Mechanics and Merchants Is invited,
mar 11 6m 9
PHOTOGRAPAY
IN ALL ITS BRANCHES.
Executed in the best style known in the art, at
V. G . CRANE'S GALLERY
532 Arch Street, East of Sixth, Philadslphia.
LIFE SIZE IN OIL AND PASTIL.
STEREOSCOPIC PORTRAITS,
Ambrotypes, Daguerreotypes, Ac., for Oases, Medallions
PitiH. Ac. Toiar 19 21y
R V GOODS ATOLD PRICES
WENTZ BROS.
Iluvu in store a large stock of
DOMESTIC GOODB,
Mueling, Sheetings, Shirtings, Calicoes, Ac.,
Worthy the attention bf all lloueekeeperK, and those about
commencing.
GOOD CALICOE3, 10, 12%, 15 and 10 cents.
Bleached and Unbleached Sbeotiugs and Shirtings, with a
large assortment of
HOUSEKEEPING GOODS.
Many of tlwm purchased before the advance in prices.
Consequently selling at Old Price*.
JUST OPENED:
NEW LOT OF BALMORAL SKIRTS,
Beautiful Purp/es—Magenta—Green—Bearlet—Bine.
I CASE RICH NEW STYLE DE LAINEfI,
Selling at the Old Price, 25 cents.
TEE Wll >LE STOCK OF
DRESS GOODS
SELLING OFP AT REDUCED PRIOES,
To in&ku rooiaJor Spring Stock-
WENTZ BROS.,
No. 5 East King street.
feb 18 tf 0}
gO MET RING N S 3 W 1
HIGHLY IMPORTANT TO THE LADIEB.
DOWNHR’S PATENT HEMMER AND SHIELD, FOR
HAND BBWING.
Ik pronounced by all who have used It “Just the thing ”
for those using the needle, as it completely. protecta the
huger, and makes a neat and uniform hem while the opera
tor is sewing.
ODe-balf the labor of sewing is saved by Using this
REMARKABLY PIMPLE AND NOVEL INVENTION.
No lady should bo without it. It la also “Just the
thing ” for girls to use learning to sew.
Its remarkable cheapness tilings it within reach of the
million. Sample sent by mail on receipt of the price,
TWENTY-FIVE CENTS.
Descriptive Circulars furnished on application.
A LIBERAL DISCOUNT TO THE TRADE.
Eutorpristng Agents (wanted in every town and county
throughout tho United States and Canada,) will find most
profitable employment iu selling this useful article, as it
meets with ready sales wherever offered—has no competi
tion—aud profits are very large.
$l6O PER MONTH CAN BE REALIZED.
Address, A. H. DOWNER,
442 Broadway, New York,
Patentee and Sole Proprietor.
N. B.—General and exclusive Agencies will be granted
'■u the most liberal terms. [dec 24 8m 60
PH CE N IX LOOK IffO GLASS AND
PICTURE FRAME MANUFACTORY,
Nos. 221 East Twewtt-Thihd Strset, 173 akd 176 .Q&ISD
Street, and 215 Centre Street,
NEW YORK.
Established 1838.
EsTABUKirtD 1838.
This Establishment baa been iu successful operation 24
yf-ars, and 1* the largest of the kind iu the United States.
We have on baud, or manufacture to order, every dtfcrlp
tion of
LOOKING GLASS, PICTURE AND PORTRAIT FRAMES,
PLAIN AND ORNAMENTAL PIER, WALL, OVAL
AND MANTEL GLASSEB. CONNECTING
CORNICES, BASE AND BRACKET
TABLES, WITH MARBLE
SLA BS, TOILET
GLASSES, Ac, Ac.
Mouldings for Picture Frames', in lengths suitable for
transportation, either Gilt, Berling, Rosewood, Oak, Zebra,
Bir Jseye, Mahogany, &c. Our new Manufactory and ex
tensive facilities enable ns to fnrnish auy article in our
Hue as good as the best, aud as cheap as the cheapest.
Dealers are invited to call upon us when they visit
New York. We claim to be able to supply them with every
article in our line which they can possibly require,' at
prices lower than they can puicbaee elsewhere.
Order* by mail attended to with promptness. Do not fail
to call wbea you visit New York.
Office a.vd WARcaooMs: No. 215 Cestui; g*., New Your
HORACE V. SIGLER,
Agent.
mar 25 3m 11 [
DR J&. S 8 L £ R * S
BAIR JEWELRY STORE,
No. 20tJ North Bth Strut above Race,
PHILADELPHIA.
On hand and for sale, a choice assortment ot superior
patterns, and will plait to order
BRACELETS,
EAR lIINGB,
FINGER RINGS,
BREAST PINS,
CROSSES,
NECKLACES,
u GUARD AND
VEST CHAINS.
-#3“ Orders enclosing the hair to be plaited may be sont
by mail. Givea drawing aa near as yon can on paper, and
enclose such amount as yon may choose to pay.
Costs as follows r Ear Rings $2 to $6 —Breast Pina $3 to
s7—Finger Rings 75 cents to s3.6o—Vest Chains $6 to s 7 —•
Necklaces $2 to $lO.
Hair pnt into Uedalions, Box Breast Pins, Rings, Ac.
OLD GOLD AtfD SILVER BOUGHT AT PAIR RATES,
apr 16 ljl4
g . Z . GOTTVALB,
p&ODVCE COMMISSION MERCHANT,
No. 812 Sfeuto Quota Stur,
PHILADELPHIA.
«rnBK VNIo s , * »
!. JL A aob SiaißT aboyi Thud,
i PHILADELPHIA. .
tPTON B. NEWCOMER,
ProjyriQtoff.
AST* This Hotel lß‘central,cohTeiilent by Piaaeii#rCm
to aH'partaof the city, and in exery particnUjririagtpft to
the comfort and wants of the badness public. 4 r, . r
Jtat TERMS HJQ PER -
NO. 14.