11U)TINGDON JOUR AL,
BY JAMES CLARK :]
VOL. XII, NO. 14.
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POETICAL.
GIVE MME THREE Glita§-0-661iN,--MOTHER-!
BY MRS. A. M. EDMONa
The above words were the last request of an
Irish lad to his mother, as he was eying of starva
tion. She found three grains in the corner of his
ragged jacket pocket, and gave them to him. It
was all she had—the whole family were perishing
from famine.
Give me three grains of corn, mother,
Only three grains of corn;
It will keep the little life I have
Till the coming of the morn.
I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,
Dying of hunger and cold;
And half the agony of such a death
My lips have never told.
It has gnawed at my heart like a wolf, mother,
A wolf that is fierce for blood,
All the livelong day and the night beside,
Gnawing for lack of food.
I dreamed of bread in my sleep,
And the sight was heaven to see :
I woke with an eager, famishing lip,
But you had no bread for me.
How could I look to you, mother,
How could I look to you
For bread to give your starving boy,
When you were starving too?
For I read the famine in your cheek,
And in your eye so wild,
And f felt it in your bony hand,
As you laid it on your child.
The Queen has lands and gold, mother,
The Queen has lands and gold,
While you are forced to your empty breast
A skeleton babe to hold:
A babe that Is dying of want, mother,
As I am dying now,
With s ghastly look in his sunken eye,
And famine upon his brow.
What has poor Ireland done, mother,
Wital has poor Ireland done,
That the world looks on and sees us starve,
Perishing one by one.
110 the men of England care not, mother,
Tho great men and the high,
For the suffering eon's of Erin's Isle,
Whether they live or die?
There is many a brave heart here, mother,
Dying of want and cold,
While only across the channel, mother,
Are many that roll ih gold.
There are rich and proud men there, mother,
tArith wondrous wealth to view,
And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night
Would give no life and You.
Come nearer to my side, mother,
Come nearer to my side,
And hold me fondly, as you held
My father, when or died.
Quick, fur I cannot see you, mother,
My breath is almost gone;
Mother I Dear mother ! ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn !
MISCELLANEOUS.
TIES COUNTESS IDA:
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH,
IN the Province of Neukotemhurg, in
Germany, nit far from the immense for
ests that border the river Rhone, on the
top of a high clifl; was situated the eas=
tle of Count Henry de Tockenburg, one
of the most powerful of the German
barons. Lords and knights were ranked
among the number of his vassals, his
domains extending to the extreme limits
of the province. By his marriage with
Ida de Kirchberg, the Count had largely
increased his patrimonial possessions.
and his power all but equalled that of
the house of Hapsburg, which had given
emperors to Germany. Nature had en ,
lowed the Countess Ida with her most
precious gifts; to dazzling beauty, a no
ble heart, and all the pride of a race
where pride is hereditary, she united a
taste for letters and an ardent love of
the fine arts. The Swiss Historian, from
whom this portrait was taken, describe
her as endowed with all the learning
which it was possible to acquire at an
epoch when science was confined to the
monasteries, and even the haughtiest
nobles could barely make a cross at the
bottom of their papers to answer for
their signatures. The tripple influence
of the beauty, intelligence and virtue of
the Countess served as a counterpoise
to the overbearing tyranny of her hus
band. The Count Henry was one of
those rough cavaliers of olden time, who
eemed forged of the same metal as their
lancessavage,indoinitable and passion-
ate, even to madness. Passionately fond
of his wife, the Count was also passion
ately jealous-. A boy of sixteen, the
godson of the Countess and her page,
was the chief object of these jealous
suspicions: Trite kite is full of mys
tery. Ital ; (for so the boy was named ; )
never expressed his love, but it bettayed
itself in a thousand different ways—iti
his faltering Voice, his sudden blushes;
and that loss of self-command which so
often seizes a. lover in presence of the
beloved. A dreamer and a ppet ; he loved
to scale to the highest cliffs and spend
hours in meditation there, or to lose hind=
self in the immense forests that surroun
ded the castle. ! that 1 ivas old
enough," the boy would say, "to don
the cuirass or ivield the lance. I would
fight bravely for the oppressed, and my
god-Mother - Would say of me as she says
of my lord :—' He is a brave and loyal
heValier: " One evening after he had
been indulging in these dreams, as he
Was returning to the castle, lie percei
ved upon a rock beneath the oratory of
the Countess, something glittering. He
soon reached it, and found it was a sim
ple ring of gold. Ital kissed it. " Per
haps it is one of the Countess' jewels,"
said he, and with the imprudence of his
age he placed it oh his finger:
The day en iviiich the event happened
that we have related above, was one of
busy preparation in the Chateau de Tock
enburg, for the Count-was expected home
from a long chase, and towards evening
the train of huntsmen and hounds came
straggling in: The Chase had all the
success that usually attended the expe
rienced hand of Count Henry and a cha
mois, some stags and a Wild boar, borne
in triumph to the chateau ; attested the
excellence of his aim. Eat although the
Count gave himself to the delights of
the chase with ardor, yet a froWn dark
ened his haughty brow, for he could not
banish froth his theinory the recollection
of the little page, with his large blue
eyes and floating tresses. He also re
membered that the week before ; during
the fete at the castle, on account of the
reception of the Count de Hapsburg, his
wife had applauded with eiartierdinary
warmth, the tittling of her little page
in the court yard of, the castle. occu
pied with these reflections, the Count
traversed his domains without noticing
the vassals who crowded to salute him,
and to whom one word froth his lips with
a consolation for their servitude; and
when he entered the castle, his gloomy
air, and lowering brow, denoted a heart
cruelly torn by the gnawings of Suspiz
cion, and prepared for a burst of rage.
" Welcome, my lord," said Ital, as he
gave the Count his hand to assist hint
from the saddle. " The Countess, but
just now was saying that you treated
the poor beasts as cruelly as if they were
your enemies." A cold glance was the
only answer of the Count, and springing
from the saddle, he pushed roughly back
the page's offered hand, and in so doing
he discovered the ring, the imprudent
boy had placed on his fiiiger. Instantly
the Count seized his hunting knife, and
turning to Arnold, his old and faithful
steward, in a voice like thunder, lie ask
ed for the Countess.
" She is in her oratory, my lord.'i
The Count cleared the staircase at a
bound, Ida was alone, kneeling before
her crucifix. A robe of black velvet,
confined at the waist by a cord of silk
and gold thread twisted together, reveal
ed all the beautiful proportions of her
face, and her dishevelled and floating
tresses enveloped her in a mantle more
splendid than that of [thy Queen. On
the entrance of her husband she rose to
receive him. . . .
" Finish your prayer," said the Count.
" Henry, Where have you been 1 what
is the matted" said the Countess, fright
ened at the look her husband darted on
her. "Have you been wounded 1"
" Re-assure yourself, madame, I have
been neither hurt by the teeth of wolves
nor the claws of eagles."
" Rut tell me, I beseech you, what is
the matter 1 Your agitation terrifies
me !" said the young Countess, as she
ran to her husband and tendeigy embra
ced him. Without paying any atten
tion to this mark of tenderness, the Count
continued in the same hollow tone of his
voice, and the same frown on his brow.
" Are you able to tell what has become
of the ring you received from me, the
day of our marriage at the Emsidien 1"
The Countess looked at her finger—
then at the table—then at the Count.
" Thy ring r t said she, with more em
barrassment than astonishment. "I cer
tainly remember to have placed it on
this table yesterday—it has rolled off;
perhaps and has been mislaid."
" Have yeti the impudence, woman ;
to tell me so to my face V'
"And why should I not tell you what
is true 1" answered the terrified Count
ess. "Do you wish me to call in my
women and interrogate them V'
CORRECT PRINCIPLES-SUPPORTED BY TRUTH,
HUNTINGDON, PA., APRIL 7, 1847.
"No! I want no proofs."
"Henry, I do not know what strangt
infatuation possesses you, but I have
told you the truth. I swear that I re
moved the ring trom my finger yester
day, and put it on this table ; it is not
there now,
and I am ignorant what has
become of it."
"Swear no mbre !" said the furious
Count; " finish your prayer; for it is the
last you *lll ever say:"
l'he Countess looked at her husbatici
with a wondering expression of doubt
and terror.
"Henry," she said, "kill ttie•notl
am innocent!"
" You are guilty, and you shall surely
die ; adulterous woman !" thundered the
Count.
Astonished at her husband's manner,
the Countess recovered all her dignity,
and drawing herself up to her full height,
she spoke fearlessly and firmly.
"1 ought to protest against your sus
picions, my lord, since they are unwor
thy of us both. I have sworn that they
were false, my hand on my heart,- in this
chamber, consecrated to the God whom
we adore; but since your savage folly
will admit of no explanation, I have said
enough ! We are alone, and you are
armed; your crime will cost you no
thing, and you can add another quarter
ing to your escutcheon, and teach your
descendants how a Count of the name
Tockenborg, insulted •and assassinated
his defenceless wife!"
The disdainful dignity that marked
those fords, instead of calming his pas
sion, but still more infuriated him; and
utterly carried away by his rage and
jealousy, he seized the Countess by her
long tresses, and drawing her towards
the ivindow of the oratory, precipitated
her into the abyss overhanging which
the chateau was built. After this hor
rible action, the Count descended to the
court, and calling Arnold, ordered bib
to bring hal, six arhers of his guard,
and a wild horse of the forest.
"Have courage," said the old man to
the boy, wham he lobed as a on " for I
am much deceived if you will not hate
.need of it."
"Fear not for me," said 'tal i as -lie
stood firmly before th Counts
At a gesture froth their Master; the
archers surrounded him.
"Do you know that ring V' said the
Count, pointing to the jewel upon the
finger of the page.
"My lord," answered Ital, "I fband
that ring yesterday under the window
of thb oratory of the Countess."
" You lie !r' cried the Count.
"My lord !" exclaimed the boy, his
eyes sparkling with rage.
" You lie as that woman did," contin ,
ued the Count, " and you shall be pun ,
ished as she was punished."
A piercing cry—the cry of a broken
heart—rang, through the air ; and Itali
breaking through the circle formed
around Mini threw himself at the feet
of the Count: "My god-father, where
is my god-mother V'
Every one stood frozen with terror,
and ynu could have heard, in that im
mense court, filled as it was trith (trine('
men; the buzzing of a fly. The Count
pointed with his finger to the precipice.
" Oh ; the wretch—the murderer ! !"
gasped the page: Then stretching forth
his hands to the archers; he cried=—"Be=
hold my hands—they defy your chains!
Behold my heart—it braves your poign
ards ! What is life to me, since she is
dead !"
" Dead ! my god-mother is dead (f"
and the child sunk back helpless on the
ground.
"Tie him to that horse !" cried the
Count furiously.
The trembling soldiers executed the
order, to which Ital made no resistance
—only when he was attached, like Ma
zeppa, to his savage steed, turning his
eyes on the Count, he said—" Listen to
me, Count Henry ! I ask neither grace
nor pity from you ; life is hateful to me,
and your hatred in depriving me of it is
but friendship. 1 wish to say but one
*Ord, and that word shall weigh upon
your head as the cross on Pilate. By
my soul's saltation, the Countess was
innocent ! I loved her, it is true—why
should I have hid it from you ? I loved
her with a boundless ; fertent love—but
only as the angels love iii Heaven. To
see her each day of my life to sit upon
the cushion which supported her feet ;
to wear as a holy relic, next my heart,
the faded flower that had fallen from
her tresses, and at evening to sing to
her upon my harp those warrior ballads
she loved so much, was all my love as
pired to. She never knew that I loved
her, and she is dead without knowing it.
Oh! you have killed an angel, and may
my curse be ever upon you !"
"Unloose the dogs," thundered the
furious Count, "and let him spout his
love to the echoes of the mountains."
The order was executed, and soon
might be heard the hoofs of the steed
gailtlPing over the rocks, and the sav
age cries of the dogs let loose upon his
tracCii:
After this horrible tragedy was en
acted, silence reigned throughout the
chateau. Shut tip In a solitary cham
ber of the donjon, hung with black,
lighted by one ever-burning lamp, the
Count passed his days and nights, sub
ject to the torturing of remorse: If he
sometimes threw off his inaction; it was
but to pursue, in the most savage re
treat, the eagle or the wild boar; and
from the earnestness with which he fol
liAred these terrible pastimes, it ebuld
easily be seen that he only sought re
lief froM the horrible thought that op
pressed him. His nights were filled
With apparitions of his murdered wife;
and often, when all in the castle were
buried in sleep, the Count would call
Arnold tti his aid in that husky tone
that fear alWayS creates. The death of
Ida—her irreproachable conduct for so
long a time- , --and especially the. last
words of ltal, the loyal little page, had
filled his mind with horrible doubts and
inexpressible anxieties: He would not
have regretted the awful crime he had
committed, if those he had killed were
guilty ; but he trembled lest he had
been deceived, and that fear was gradu
ally killing him.
One day the Count had risen,
almost
exhausted from the violence of his suf
ferings, suddenly determined to visit
the chamber -where he had killed the
Countess; and ascending the stairs, he
soon found himself in her oratory. No
thing' was changed—the crucifix was in
the same place—the jewels
.glittered on
the toilet table—and the half open win=
dows looked out on the abyss that con
tained the remains of his murdered
wife. The Count threw himself on a
chair, and crrereotne b' his grief, was
fast sinking into a state of insensibility;
when the noise of wings disturbed hitn;
and as the Count opened his eyes, a
crow flew through the open window,
carrying away in its itiouth a diainoad
ear-ring he had taken from the toilette
table. No more doubt—he was guilty !
The ring had been taken and dropped
the same way. The Count did not
dofibt for an instant; but that Providence
had Made use of this means to unveil
to him all the etiotinity of his crime—
for in thnt age faith Was as siifiple as it
was absolute: Pale; his hair bristling
With horror, the Count rushed from the
fatal chamber, crying, like Richard 111,
" a horse, a horse."
"My lord," said Arnold, "the horizon
looks cloudy, and soon a terrible tempest
will burst upon us."
"The better for me. What tempest
can equal that which rages in my
breast 1" Saying these words ; he sprang
to the saddle, and in another •moment
was gone.
"He will neifer return," said old Ar
nold to the archer, who stood beside
hiM, as he brushed a tear from his
bronzed cheek. " Did you mark his
pale lips and trembling limbs 1 I do
not know what restrained the from fol
lowing him." .
"Take care!" said the archer. "Do
you not remember how he hung William
Wey from the window ftir having, dur
ing one of his diabolical hunts, killed a
wild boar ; that, but for him, would have
torn the Count itt pieces !"
The predictions of Arnold ivere soon
realized. The black clouds that were
but specks in the sky first, now over
spread the whole horizon; the flashes
of lightning lit on the Castle de Tock
enberg as if it was in flames ; and the
eagle, perched on the brow of the pre ,
cipice, mingled his hoarse Shrieks With
the splendid horrors of the tempest.
But what did the roaring of the storm
matter to the Count 1 Like the myste
rious cavalier in the ballad of Leonora;
he rode on and on without ceasing—
bounded over the chasms that intersect
ed his path, urging his steed up the
steep ascent, and over the rocks and
peaks, where even the daring chamois
hunter had never penetrated. Sudden
ly his horse, resistinc , the furious blows
of the Count, stopped—his limbs trem
bling, and his nostrils wide distended
from excess of terror. The Count en
deavored to pierce the darkness, and
straining his eyes over the neck of his
horse, he saw before him the yawning
mouth of a bottomless abyss. Without
making the slightest effort to shun it,
the Count threw the bridle upon the
neck of the animal. " Advante of re- ,
treat," said he, "I care hot if the road
but leads to death." Freed from the
restraint of the rein ; the horse with that
mar - Venetia instinct Which is not reason,
but which often surpasses it, turned to
the left; and cautiously descending an
almost perpendicular , ravine, emerged
into a flowery plain situated in the
middle of the rocks like an Oasis in the
desert. On the border of this plain was
a little hut of brick, surmounted by ft
cross: The Count dismounted, and
knocked with the hilt of his sword at
the door. A hermit, enveloped in a
long robe of serge, appeared on the
threshhold.
" Oh, you," said the Coufit, " tvhom
grief, without doubt, has conducted to
this spot, give a last resting place to a
dying man, upon whose head the bitter
est cup the world can give, has been
poured out."
. .
After a long silence, the holy man
pointed out a mat of rushes to the
Count. "Enter and repose," he an
swered.
These words fell upon the Count as if
they *ere tt thunderbolt.
" For eta that voice," he murmured
—" foreter that look! In the name of
Heaven, who are you I"
The stranger let fall his hood, and
the Count recognized Ida. He fell upon
his kness, and joining his hands, he
cried, or rather screamed out—
" Unfortunate shade! what is it you
want of me i"
"Recover from your terror, Henry—
I am not a phantoM, but Ida your wife,
who, saved in her fall by the crooked
trunk of a tree that projected over the
chasm, flew hither to escape from the
baibarity of her husband, and to bury
herself in these horrible solitudes."
" Ali powerful God !" said the Count,
in a tone Which indicated the load that
had bets► tetnoVed from his heart—"she
yet liVes ; 'tis she, calm and composed,
living and beautiful. She whom I knew
and whom I loved ; the sovereign mie:
tress of this dying heart. But hot dare
I address her ? Hear me, Ida: listen
to the winds how they murmur along
tilt trees ; listen to those mournful
voices from the mountain ; they all cry
for vengeance; and you are the avenger.
The abysses which I.haVe crossed are
not deeper than the gulf which sepdrates
"Your prayer tettehes us forgetful
ness; net hatred," said the Countess.
"Oh, if I may ask
. for pardon, grant
it to me now, for I am dying."
"I forgive you, Henry," said the
Countess solemnly ; "I freely forgive
you all the evil you wished to do me.
But there is an act I cannot, will not
pardon—for all nature cries out against
it; and that is, the murder you hate
committed on the gentlest child, and the
most innocent victim the world contain;
ed." .
"lull!" said the Cbunt, writhing in
agon lta
" y.
l," replied the Countess. "His
mother entrusted him to your care—
where is het"
" Oh, mercy," groaned the Count
" Conte," said the Countess, and seiz:
ing convulsively the hand of her hus:
band, she led him from the hut to a lit.:
tle mound of turf surrounded by flow:
ers, whose freshness denoted their con:
stant care. "He is there," said the
Countess, with a trembling voice. "The
Providence that brought you hither also
conducted him; but in what a condition
—oh, God! 1 saw him bdund to. a fiery
horse, his head drooping; hiS hair dis
hevelled, his body torn by a thousand
bleeding wounds. The horse fell dead
at the foot of yonder mountain, and as
I bent over him, the boy raised his eyes
towards me. Oh, never shall I forget
that look—so full of pain, of pity, and
of ecstacy. My god-mother !' he mur
mured, and then fainted. I took him in
my arias, and carried him over rocks
and precipices td this abandoned hut;
Alas, I had nothing With Which to re
vive him: I could do nothing but pray,
and I prayed for tWo days and two
nights ! The third day the sun had
just risen; I laq; Worn out by fatigue,
in a state of stupor, on a sort of litter I
had constructed of leaves and branches.
A sigh awoke me—l approached his
bedside. He was paler than the moult:
tain snow. He made an effort to rise,
but was unable. "Madame," said he,
with a failing voice, I feel I am about to
die, and dying, can tell you, without a
crime, that I love you:" And I return
that love; I answered; pressing my lips
to his very forehead ; carry my love
and this kiss to your tomb.' "
At this moment the Countess perceiv=
ed the hand of her husband loosening
in her grasp. She turned totimrds hiM
—his face was livid-- , =his lips shrunken
—his limbs stiffening: She released his
hand, and it fell powerless at his side.
Ho was dead !
The Countess caused an expiatory
chapel to the Virgin to bc built over the
spot where her husband and Ital had
breathed their last, and there she passed
her remaining days. Neither the en
treaties of her parents, the prayers of
her Vassals, nor the commands of Lit
told, the prior of Imsidieni could shake
her resolution. There she remained,
and the chamois hunters and the moun
tain shepherds have more than once
seen her wandering, like some spirit,
among the tombs of her husbaiwl and
her pdge Achille Gallet.
[EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR
WHOLE NO. 584.
Almost but not Quite Married.
In Neiv York; a Shen time since,
young IrishwOman by the name of Mar:
garet Connell, entered the police office
With tears in her eyes, accompanied by
female friend, end related the follow:
ing tale of woe:
She stated that she. had been courted
off and on for the last two or three
Mont* by,a young man belonking to
the Washington street fraternity Of 'Run:
ners,' called GeWrge Crooft, who, aftei
many solemn promises; finally came to
the " pint " by fixing on a certain day as
the happy period for the consummation
of their mutual affection ; consequently
the bride, to prepare herself for this
eventful occasion, left her service place
in Barclay street, to arrange her toilet,
together with other little matters neces
sary on such ; important occasions. At
length the hour of eight arrived; the
time appointed for the ceremony to come
Off; the bride handed out $2 to the
groomsmen to procure a carriage; also
$1 to pay the minister ; when, after the
arrangement of this pectiniary matter,
off they started, the bride and bride:
groom, bridemaid, and two groomsmen;
filling the carriage very comfortably.—
The coachman was ordered to drive to
the residence of the Rev. Mr. S: in the
Bowery, where they'all arrived in high
glee, and *ere ushered into the parlor
to await the arriVal,Of the clergyman;
who was expected home i 1 a few min
utes. However, there they sat for near
ly half an hem) but no clergyman came
—blinking at each other by the glim
mering of the candle, like owls against
daylight, the bride's heart swelling with
anxious expectation of her future happi:
fiess; when, at first, the: bridegroom be:
coming impatient, rosé freft► his seat
and left the morn; under a promise of
returning in if few minutes but the
cold atmosphere of the street cooled the
feelings of the lover, and he forgot to
return to his bride, who waited fbr him
an hour in anxious expeetation, until;
becoming Out of patienee, she returned
again to her lodgings in Washington
street, highly indignant at such treat:
merit:. It was for this breach of pro
iniie that she applied to the police office
for redresS. It was not, she said, sti
much for the three dbllera find she Cared
—but it was the nasty ugly trick played
nptirt her ; fpr;" said she "I could
have married Pai Ileaney over and over
again ? only I thought Gebrge was the
nicest chap of the two," and not only
that, she was aware that it injured her
character, making her the laughing
Stock of all her friends. As the matter
stood at present; it was out of the pow
er of the magistrate to render her any
assistance.
There is good sense in the follow
ing extract froth a learned writer, which
ive commend to the attention of all hon
est, fair minded men There is no
thing more absurd than disputing with
a man who denies or evades plain truths
and intents fiasehood ad liliftam'k• nit
the purpose of the moment."
DARING GALLANTRY.—The Trenton
News records the following act of daring
gallantry, on the part of " about three
hundred gentlemen," at a fire :
. . . . .
, g We cibserved abtiut thirty ladies in
the line, passing huckcts to the engines
at the fire on Tuesday. About three
hundred gentlemen stood looking on at
this singular procedure, and encouraging
the fair one's L'y their smiles of appro. ,
bation !"
Tire BETTER WAY.—The sons of the
poor die rich—while the sons of the
rich die poor. What encouragement td
toil thraugh life in acquiring wealth to
ruin our children ! Better to go with
our money as we go along—educate our
sons—insure their virtues by habits of
industry and study, and let them take
mire of themselves:
A REMARKABLE WOMAN.—Died in
Orange, Mass., Feb. 2G, Mrs. SAR All
GODDhI, relict of Joseph Goddell, for:
merly of Harwich, aged 94; She was
Married at the age of 18 years--has had
four husbands; 18 years intervening be:
tween her marriage with each: She lived
With her last husband, who was ninety
years Old when she Married him, 3}
years; and a widow since the death of
her last husband, 18 years. Her first
and last husbands were brothers:
Qa- Some feeling sympathiser thinks
Mr. Polk must be cold since he has lost
his waistcoat, [Wescott.] He has con:
eluded not to join the Sons of Temper=
mace because they halie how so Marry
Divisions.
lb- A tailor following an army, was
wounded in the bead by an arrow.—
When the surgeon saw the wound, he
told his patient, that as the weapon had
riot touched his brain, there was no doubt
of his recovery. "If I had possessed
any brains," said the tailor, " I should
not have been here !"