Read Ebook: International Weekly Miscellany of Literature Art and Science — Volume 1 No. 4 July 22 1850 by Various

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So the beasts criticized the lamb, each in his own way; and yet it was a good lamb, nevertheless.

MEETINGS have been held at the house of Mr. Justice Coleridge, in London, at which a committee has been formed, with the Bishop of London at its head, to initiate a subscription to do honor to the memory of the poet Wordsworth, by placing a whole length effigy of him in Westminster Abbey, and, if the funds suffice, by erecting a monument to his memory near Grassmere.

CHARLES LUCIEN BONAPARTE is now at Berlin, where he occupies himself exclusively with scientific pursuits, and the society of learned men.

THE UNIVERSITY OF DURHAM has conferred the honorary degree of M.A. on Robert Stephenson, and on Mr. Henry Taylor, the author of "Philip Van Artevelde."

JOHN G. SAXE has been elected by the Mercantile Library Association of Montreal, to deliver the poem at the opening of their winter course of lectures.

THE SULTAN of Turkey has granted to the Princess Belgioiso, for herself and the Italian emigrants, some extensive tracts of land on the gulf of Nicomedia.

THE OLD MAN'S BEQUEST;

A STORY OF GOLD.

Through the ornamented grounds of a handsome country residence, at a little distance from a large town in Ireland, a man of about fifty years of age was walking with a bent head, and the impress of sorrow on his face.

"Och, yer honor, give me one sixpence, or one penny, for God's sake," cried a voice from the other side of a fancy paling which separated the grounds in that quarter from a thoroughfare. "For heaven's sake, Mr. Lawson, help me as ye helped me before. I know you've the heart and the hand to do it."

The person addressed as Mr. Lawson looked up and saw a woman whom he knew to be in most destitute circumstances, burdened with a large and sickly family, whom she had struggled to support until her own health was ruined.

"I have no money--not one farthing," answered John Lawson.

"No money!" reiterated the woman, in surprise: "isn't it all yours, then?--isn't this garden yours, and that house, and all the grand things that are in it yours?--ay, and grand things they are--them pictures, and them bright shinin' things in that drawing-room of yours; and sure you deserve them well, and may God preserve them long to you, for riches hasn't hardened your heart, though there's many a one, and heaven knows the gold turns their feelin's to iron."

"It all belongs to my son, Henry Lawson, and Mrs. Lawson, and their children--it is all theirs," he sighed heavily, and deep emotion was visible in every lineament of his thin and wrinkled face.

The poor woman raised her blood-shot eyes to his face, as if she was puzzled by his words. She saw that he was suffering, and with intuitive delicacy she desisted from pressing her wants, though her need was great.

"Well, well, yer honor, many's the good penny ye have given me and the childer, and maybe the next time I see you you'll have more change."

She was turning sadly away, when John Lawson requested her to remain, and he made inquiries into the state of her family; the report he heard seemed to touch him even to the forgetfulness of his own sorrows; he bade her stop for a few moments and he would give her some relief.

He walked rapidly toward the house and proceeded to the drawing-room. It was a large and airy apartment, and furnished with evident profusion; the sunlight of the bright summer-day, admitted partially through the amply-draperied windows, lit up a variety of sparkling gilding in picture-frames, and vases, and mirrors, and cornices; but John Lawson looked round on the gay scene with a kind of shudder; he had neither gold, silver, nor even copper in his pocket, or in his possession.

He advanced to a lady who reclined on a rose-colored sofa, with a fashionable novel in her hand, and after some slight hesitation he addressed her, and stating the name and wants of the poor woman who had begged for aid, he requested some money.

As he said the words "some money," his lips quivered, and a tremor ran through his whole frame, for his thoughts were vividly picturing a recently departed period, when he was under no necessity of asking money from any individual.

"Bless me, my dear Mr. Lawson!" cried the lady, starting up from her recumbent position, "did I not give you a whole handful of shillings only the day before yesterday; and if you wasted it all on poor people since, what am I to do? Why, indeed, we contribute so much to charitable subscriptions, both Mr. Lawson and I, you might be content to give a little less to common beggars."

Mrs. Lawson spoke with a smile on her lips, and with a soft caressing voice, but a hard and selfish nature shone palpably from her blue eyes. She was a young woman, and had the repute of beauty, which a clear pink-and-white complexion, and tolerable features, with luxuriant light hair, generally gains from a portion of the world. She was dressed for the reception of morning visitors whom she expected, and she was enveloped in expensive satin and blond, and jewelry in large proportions.

John Lawson seemed to feel every word she had uttered in the depths of his soul, but he made a strong effort to restrain the passion which was rising to his lips.

"Augusta, my daughter, you are the wife of my only and most beloved child--I wish to love you--I wish to live in peace with you, and all--give me some money to relieve the wants of the unfortunate woman to whom I have promised relief, and who is waiting without. I ask not for myself, but for the poor and suffering--give me a trifle of money, I say."

"Indeed, Mr. Lawson, a bank would not support your demands for the poor people; that woman for whom you are begging has been relieved twenty times by us. I have no money just now."

She threw herself back on the sofa, and resumed her novel; but anger, darting from her eyes, contrasted with the trained smile which still remained on her lips.

A dark shade of passion and scorn came over John Lawson's face, but he strove to suppress it, and his voice was calm when he spoke.

"Some time before my son married you, I gave up all my business to him--I came to live here amongst trees and flowers--I gave up all the lucrative business I had carried on to my son, partly because my health was failing, and I longed to live with nature, away from the scenes of traffic; but more especially because I loved my son with no common love, and I trusted to him as to a second self. I was not disappointed--we had one purse and one heart before he married you; he never questioned me concerning what I spent in charity--he never asked to limit in any way my expenditure--he loved you, and I made no conditions concerning what amount of income I was to receive, but still I left him in entire possession of my business when he married you. I trusted to your fair, young face, that you would not controvert my wishes--that you would join me in my schemes of charity."

"And have I not?" interrupted Mrs. Lawson, in a sharp voice, though the habitual smile still graced her lips; "do I not subscribe to, I don't know how many, charitable institutions? Charity, indeed--there's enough spent in charity by myself and my husband. But I wish to stop extravagance--it is only extravagance to spend so much on charity as you would do if you could; therefore, you shall not have any money just now."

Mrs. Lawson was one of those women who can cheerfully expend a most lavish sum on a ball, a dress, or any other method by which rank and luxury dissipate their abundance, but who are very economical, and talk much of extravagance when money is demanded for purposes not connected with display or style.

"Augusta Lawson, listen to me"--his voice quivering with passion--"my own wants are very few; in food, in clothes, in all points my expenditure is trifling. I am not extravagant in my demands for the poor, either. All I have expended in charity during the few years since you came here, is but an insignificant amount as contrasted with the income which I freely gave up to my son and you; therefore, some money for the poor woman who is waiting, I shall now have; give me some shillings, for God's sake, and let me go." He advanced closer to her, and held out his hand.

"Nonsense!" cried Mrs. Lawson; "I am mistress, here--I am determined to stop extravagance. You give too much to common beggars; I am determined to stop it--do not ask me any further."

A kind of convulsion passed over John Lawson's thin face; but he pressed his hand closely on his breast, and was silent for some moments.

"I was once rich, I believe. Yes--it is not a dream," he said, in a slow, self-communing voice. "Gold and silver, once ye were plenty with me; my hands--my pockets were filled--guineas, crowns, shillings--now I have not one penny to give to that starving, dying woman, whose face of misery might soften the very stones she looks on--not one penny."

"Augusta," he said, turning suddenly toward her, after a second pause of silence, "give me only one shilling, and I shall not think of the bitter words you have just said."

"No; not one shilling," answered Mrs. Lawson, turning over a leaf of her novel.

"One sixpence, then--one small, poor sixpence. You do not know how even a sixpence can gladden the black heart of poverty when starvation is come. One sixpence, I say--let me have it quickly."

"Not one farthing I shall give you. I do beg you will trouble me no further."

Mrs. Lawson turned her back partially to him, and fixed all her attention on the novel.

"Woman! I have cringed and begged; I would not so beg for myself, from you--no: I would lie down and die of want before I would, on my own account, request of you--of your hard heart--one bit of bread. All the finery that surrounds you is mine--it was purchased with my money, though now you call it yours; and, usurping the authority of both master and mistress here, you--in what you please to call your economical management--dole out shillings to me when the humor seizes you, or refuse me, as now, when it pleases you. But, woman, listen to me. I shall never request you for one farthing of money again. No necessity of others shall make me do it. You shall never again refuse me, for I shall never give you the opportunity."

He turned hastily from the room, with a face on which the deep emotion of an aroused spirit was depicted strongly.

In the lobby he met his son, Henry Lawson. The young man paused, something struck by the excited appearance of his father.

"Henry," said the father, abruptly, "I want some money; there is a poor woman whom I wish to relieve--will you give me some money for her?"

"Willingly, my dear father; but have you asked Augusta? You know I have given her the management of the money-matters of the establishment, she is so very clever and economical."

"She has neither charity, nor pity, nor kindness; she saves from me--she saves from the starving poor--she saves, that she may waste large sums on parties and dresses. I shall never more ask her for money--give me a few shillings. My God! the father begs of the son for what was his own--for what he toiled all his youth--for what he gave up out of trusting love to that son. Henry, my son, I am sick of asking and begging--ay, sick--sick; but give me some shillings now."

"You asked Augusta, then," said Henry, drawing out his purse, and glancing with some apprehension to the drawing-room door.

Henry was in the act of opening his purse; he glanced apprehensively to Mrs. Lawson; his face had a mild and passive expression, which was a true index of his yielding and easily-governed nature. His features were small, delicate, and almost effeminately handsome; and in every lineament a want of decision and force of character was visible.

"Henry, give me some shillings, I say--I am your father--I have a just right."

"Yes, yes, surely" said Henry, making a movement to open his purse.

"Henry, I do not wish you to give him money to waste in charity, as he calls it."

Mrs. Lawson gave her husband an emphatic, but, at the same time, cunningly caressing and smiling look.

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