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," cried Mrs. Lawson, appearing at that instant with a face
inflamed with anger--"Henry, _I_ would not give your father any money
to-day, because he is so very extravagant in giving it all away."
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.
"Henry, I am your father--give me the money I want."
"Augusta, my love, you know it was all his," said Henry, going close
to her, and speaking in a kind of whisper.
"My dearest Henry, were it for any other purpose but for throwing
away, I would not refuse. I am your father's best friend, and your
best friend, in wishing to restrain all extravagance."
"My dear father, she wishes to be economical, you know."
He dangled the purse, undecidedly, in his fingers.
"Will you give me the money at once, and let me go?" cried John
Lawson, elevating his voice.
"My dear Augusta, it is better--"
"Henry, do not, I beg of you."
"Henry, my son, will you let me have the money?"
"Indeed, Augusta--"
"Henry!"
Mrs. Lawson articulated but the one word; there was enough of energy
and determination in it to make her husband close the purse he had
almost opened.
"I ask you only this once more--give me the few shillings?"
John Lawson bent forward in an eager manner; a feverish red kindled
on his sallow cheeks; his eyes were wildly dilated, and his lips
compressed. There was a pause of some moments.
"You will not give it me?" he said, in a voice deep-toned and
singularly calm, as contrasted with his convulsed face.
Henry dangled the purse again in his hand, and looked uneasily and
irresolutely toward his wife.
"No, he will not give it--you will get no money to squander on poor
people this day," Mrs. Lawson said, in a very sharp and decided voice.
John Lawson did not say another word; he turned away and slowly
descended the stairs, and walked out of the house.
He did not return that evening. He had been seen on the road leading
to the house of a relative who was in rather poor circumstances. Henry
felt rather annoyed at his fathers absence; he had no depth in his
affection, but he had been accustomed to see him and hear his voice
every day, and therefore he missed him, but consoled himself with
the thought that they would soon meet again, as it never entered his
imagination that his father had quitted the house for a lengthened
period. Mrs. Lawson felicitated herself on the event, and hoped that
the old man would remain for some time with his relative.
The following day a letter was handed to Henry; it was from his
father, and was as follows:
"TO MY SON HENRY--I have at last come to the resolution of quitting
your house, which I can no longer call mine, in even the least degree.
For weeks--for months--ever since you married--ever since your wife
took upon herself what she calls the management of your house and
purse, I have felt bound down under the weight of an oppressive
bondage. I could not go and take a pound or a shilling from our common
stock, as I used to do before you married, when you and I lived in one
mind, and when I believed that the very spirit of your departed, your
angel mother, dwelt in you, as you had, and have still, her very face
and form. No, no, we had no common stock when you married. She put me
on an allowance--ay, an allowance. You lived, and saw me receiving
an allowance; you whom I loved with an idolatry which God has now
punished; you to whom I freely gave up my business--my money-making
business. I gave it you--I gave all to you--I would have given my
very life and soul to you, because I thought that with your mother's
own face you had her noble and generous nature. You were kind before
you married; but that marriage has proved your weakness and want of
natural affection. Yes, you stood at my side yesterday; you looked
on my face--I, the father who loved you beyond all bounds of fatherly
love--you stood and heard me beg for a few shillings; you heard me
supplicate earnestly and humbly, and you would not give because your
wife was not willing. Henry, I could force you to give me a share of
the profits of your business; but keep it--keep it all. You would not
voluntarily give me some shillings, and I shall not demand what right
and justice would give me. Keep all, every farthing.
"It was for charity I asked the few shillings; you know it. You
know from whom I imbibed whatever I possess of the blessed spirit of
charity. I was as hard and unpitying as even your wife before your
mother taught me to feel and relieve the demands of poverty. Yes, and
she taught you; you cannot forget it. She taught you to give food to
the starving, in your earliest days. She strove to impress your infant
mind with the very soul of charity; and yesterday she looked down from
the heaven of the holy departed, and saw you refusing me, your father,
a few shillings to bestow on charity.
"Henry, I can live with you and your wife no more. I should grow
avaricious in my old age, were I to remain with you. I should long
for money to call my own. Those doled out shillings which I received
wakened within me feelings of a dark nature--covetousness, and envy,
and discontent--which must have shadowed the happiness of your mother
in heaven to look down upon. I must go and seek out an independent
living for myself, even yet, though I am fifty-two. Though my energies
for struggling with the world died, I thought, when your mother died,
and, leaving my active business to you, I retired to live in the
country, I must go forth again, as if I were young, to seek for
the means of existence, for I feel I was not made to be a beggar--a
creature hanging on the bounty of others; no, no, the merciful God
will give me strength yet to provide for myself, though I am old, and
broken down in mind and body. Farewell; you who were once my beloved
son, may God soften and amend your heart."
When Henry perused this letter, he would immediately have gone in
search of his father, in order to induce him to return home; but Mrs.
Lawson was at his side, and succeeded in persuading him to allow his
father to act as he pleased, and remain away as long as he wished.
* * * * *
Ten years rolled over our world, sinking millions beneath the black
waves of adverse fortune and fate, and raising the small number who,
of the innumerable aspirants for earthly good, usually succeed. Henry
Lawson was one of those whom time had lowered in fortune. His business
speculations had, for a lengthened period, been rather unsuccessful,
while Mrs. Lawson's expensive habits increased every day. At length
affairs came to such a crisis, that retrenchment or failure was
inevitable. Henry had enough of wisdom and spirit to insist on the
first alternative, and Mrs. Lawson was compelled by the pressure
of circumstances to yield in a certain degree; the country-house,
therefore, was let, Mrs. Lawson assigning as a reason, that she had
lost all relish for the country after the death of her dear children,
both of whom had died, leaving the parents childless.
It was the morning of a close sultry day in July, and Mrs. Lawson was
seated in her drawing-room. She was dressed carefully and expensively
as of old, but she had been dunned and threatened at least
half-a-dozen times for the price of the satin dress she wore. Her
face was thin and pale, and there was a look of much care on her
countenance; her eyes were restless and sunken, and discontent
spoke in their glances as she looked on the chairs, sofas, and
window-draperies, which had once been bright-colored, but were now
much faded. She had just come to the resolution of having new covers
and hangings, though their mercer's and upholsterer's bills were
long unsettled, when a visitor was shown into the room. It was Mrs.
Thompson, the wife of a very prosperous and wealthy shopkeeper.
Mrs. Lawson's thin lips wreathed themselves into bright smiles of
welcome, whilst the foul demon took possession of her soul. Mrs.
Thompson's dress was of the most costly French satin, whilst hers was
merely British manufacture. They had been old school companions and
rivals in their girlish days. During the first years of the married
life of each, Mrs. Lawson had outshone Mrs. Thompson in every respect;
but now the eclipsed star beamed brightly and scornfully beside the
clouds which had rolled over her rival. Mrs. Thompson was, in face
and figure, in dress and speech, the very impersonation of vulgar and
ostentatious wealth.
"My goodness, it's so hot!" she said, loosening the fastening of
her bonnet, the delicate French blond and white satin and plume,
of which that fabric was composed, contrasting rather painfully at
the same time with her flushed mahogany-colored complexion, and
ungracefully-formed features. "Bless me, I'm so glad we'll get off to
our country-house to-morrow. It's so very delightful, Mrs. Lawson, to
have a country residence to go to. Goodness me, what a close room,
and such a hot, dusty street. It does just look so queer to me after
Fitzherbert-square."
To this Mrs. Lawson made a response as composed as she could; she
would have retorted bitterly and violently, but her husband had a
connection with the Thompson establishment, and for strong reasons she
considered it prudent to refrain from quarreling with Mrs. Thompson.
She therefore spoke but very little, and Mrs. Thompson was left at
full liberty to give a lengthened detail of Mr. Thompson's great
wealth and her own great profusion. She began first with herself, and
furnished an exact detail of all the fine things she had purchased
in the last month, down to the latest box of pins. Next, her babies
occupied her for half an hour--the quantity of chicken they
consumed, and the number of frocks they soiled per diem were minutely
chronicled. Then her house came under consideration: she depicted
the bright glory of the new _ponceau_ furniture, as contrasted with
shocking old faded things--and she glanced significantly toward Mrs.
Lawson's sofas and chairs. Next she made a discursive detour to the
culinary department, and gave a statement of the number of stones of
lump sugar she was getting boiled in preserves, and of the days of the
week in which they had puddings, and the days they had pies at dinner.
"But, Mrs. Lawson dear, have you seen old Mr. Lawson since he came
home?" she said, when she was rising to depart: "but I suppose you
haven't, for they say he won't have anything to do with his relations
now--he won't come near you I have heard. They say he has brought such
a lot of money with him from South America."
At this intelligence every feature of Mrs. Lawson's face brightened
with powerful interest. She inquired where Mr. Lawson stopped, and
was informed that he had arrived at the best hotel in town about three
days previously, and that every one talked of the large fortune he had
made abroad, as he seemed to make no secret of the fact.
A burning eagerness to obtain possession of that money entered Mrs.
Lawson's soul, and she thought every second of time drawn out to the
painful duration of a long hour, while Mrs. Thompson slowly moved her
ample skirts of satin across the drawing-room, and took her departure.
Mrs. Lawson dispatched a messenger immediately for her husband.
Henry Lawson came in, and listened with surprise to the intelligence
of his father's return. He was taking up his hat to proceed to
the hotel in quest of him, when a carriage drove to the door.
Mrs. Lawson's heart palpitated with eagerness--if it should be her
husband's father in his own carriage--how delightful!--that horrible
Mrs. Thompson had not a carriage of her own yet, though she was always
talking of it. They, Mrs. Lawson and her husband, had just been about
setting up a carriage when business failed with them. She ran
briskly down the stairs--for long years she had not flown with such
alertness--rapid visions of gold, of splendor, and triumph seemed to
bear her along, as if she had not been a being of earth.
She was not disappointed, for there, at the open door, stood John
Lawson. He was enveloped in a cloak of fur, the costliness of which
told Mrs. Lawson that it was the purchase of wealth; a servant in
plain livery supported him, for he seemed a complete invalid.
Mrs. Lawson threw her arms around his neck, and embraced him with a
warmth and eagerness which brought a cold and bitter smile over the
white, thin lips of John Lawson. He replied briefly to the welcomings
he had received. He threw aside his cloak, and exhibited the figure
of an exceedingly emaciated and feeble old man, who had all the
appearance of ninety years, though he was little more than sixty; his
face was worn and fleshless to a painful degree; his hair was of the
whitest shade of great age, but his eyes had grown much more serene in
their expression than in his earlier days, notwithstanding a cast of
suffering which his whole countenance exhibited. He was plainly, but
most carefully and respectably dressed; a diamond ring of great value
was on one of his fingers; the luster of the diamonds caught Mrs.
Lawson's glance on her first inspection of his person, and her heart
danced with rapture--Mrs. Thompson had no such ring, with all her
boasting of all her finery.
"I have come to see my child before I die," said the old man, gazing
on his son with earnest eyes; "you broke the ties of nature between
us on your part, when, ten years ago, you refused your father a few
shillings from your abundance, but--"
He was interrupted by Mrs. Lawson, who uttered many voluble
protestations of her deep grief at her having, even though for the
sake of economy, refused the money her dear father had solicited
before he left them. She vowed that she had neither ate, nor slept,
nor even dressed herself for weeks after his departure; and that,
sleeping or waking, she was perpetually wishing she had given him the
money, even though she had known that he was going to throw it into
the fire, or lose it in any way. Her poor, dear father--oh, she wept
so after she heard that he had left the country. To be sure, Henry
could tell how, for two or three nights, her pillow was soaked with
tears.
A cold, bitter smile again flitted across the old man's lips; he made
no response to her words, but in the one look which his hollow eyes
cast on her, he seemed to read the falsehood of her assertions.
"I was going to add," he said, "that though you forgot you were my
son, and refused to act as my son, when you withheld the paltry sum
for which I begged, yet I could not refrain from coming once more to
look on my child's face--to look on the face of my departed wife in
yours--for I know that a very brief period must finish my life now.
I should not have come here, I feel--I know it is the weakness of my
nature--I should have died amongst strangers, for the strangers
of other countries, the people of a different hue and a different
language, I have found kind and pitiful, compared with those of my
own house."
"Oh, don't say so--don't say so--you are our own beloved father; ah,
my heart clings to every feature of your poor, dear old face: there
are the eyes and all that I used to talk to Henry so much about. Don't
talk of strangers--I shall nurse you and attend to you night and day."
She made a movement, as if she would throw her arms around his neck
again, but the old man drew back.
"Woman! your hypocritical words show me that your pitiless heart is
still unchanged--that it has grown even worse. You forced me out to
the world in my old age, when I should have had no thoughts except
of God and the world to come; you forced me to think of money-making,
when my hair was gray and my blood cold with years. Yes, I had to
draw my thoughts from the future existence, and to waste them on the
miserable toils of traffic, in order to make money: for it was better
to do this than to drag out my life a pensioner on your bounty,
receiving shillings and pence, which you gave me as if it had been
your own heart's blood, though I only asked my own. Woman! the black
slavery of my dependence on you was frightful; but now I can look
you thanklessly in the face, for I have the means of living without
you. I spent sick and sleepless days and nights, but I gained an
independence; the merciful God blessed the efforts of the old man, who
strove to gain his livelihood--yes, I am independent of you both. I
came to see my son before I die--that is all I want."
Mrs. Lawson attempted a further justification of herself, but the
words died on her lips. The stern looks of the old man silenced her.
After remaining for a short time, he rose to take his departure; but,
at the earnest solicitations of his son, he consented to remain for
a few days, only on condition that he should pay for his board and
lodging. To this Mrs. Lawson made a feint of resistance, but agreed in
the end, as the terms offered by the old man were very advantageous.
"I shall soon have a lodging for which no mortal is called on to
pay--the great mother-earth," said the old man, "and I am glad, glad
to escape from this money-governed world. Do not smile so blandly on
me, both of you, and attend me with such false tenderness. There, take
it away," he said, as Mrs. Lawson was placing her most comfortable
footstool under his feet; "there was no attendance, no care, not a
civil action or kind look for me when I was poor John Lawson, the
silly, most silly old man, who had given up all to his son and his
son's wife, for the love of them, and expected, like a fool as he was,
to live with them on terms of perfect equality, and to have the family
purse open to him for any trifling sums he wished to take. Go, go
for God's sake; try and look bitterly on me now, as you did when you
forced me out of your house. I detest your obsequious attentions--I
was as worthy of them ten years ago, before I dragged down my old age
to the debasing efforts of money-making. You know I am rich; you would
worship my money in me now. Not a smiling look, not a soft word you
bestow on me, but is for my riches, not for me. Ay, you think you have
my wealth in your grasp already; you know I cannot live long. Thank
God that my life is almost ended, and I hope my death will be a
benefit to you, in softening your hard hearts."
Mrs. Lawson drew some hope from his last words, and she turned away
her head to hide the joy which shone on her face.
In a few days the old man became seriously ill, and was altogether
confined to his room. As death evidently approached, his mind became
serene and calm, and he received the attentions which Mrs. Lawson and
his son lavished on him with a silent composure, which led them to
hope that he had completely forgotten their previous conduct to him.
The night on which he died, he turned to his son, and said a few
words, a very few words, regarding worldly matters. He exhorted
Henry to live in a somewhat less expensive style, and to cultivate a
spirit of contentment without riches; then he blessed God that he was
entering on a world in which he could hear no more of money or earthly
possession. He remained in a calm sleep during the greater part of the
night, they thought, but in the morning they found him dead.
The funeral was over, and the time was come in which the old man's
will was to be opened. Mrs. Lawson had waited for that moment--she
would have forcibly dragged time onward to that moment--she had
execrated the long hours of night since the old man's death--she had
still more anathemized the slowly passing days, when gazing furtively
through a corner of the blinded window, she saw fine equipages and
finely-dressed ladies passing, and she planned how she would shine
when the old man's wealth would be her own. She drew glorious mental
pictures of how she would burst from behind the shadowing cloud of
poverty, and dazzle all her acquaintances. Her dress, her carriage,
her style of living would be unique in her rank of life for taste and
costliness. She would show them she had got money--money at last--more
money than they all.
Now at last she sat and saw the will being opened; she felt that it
was a mere formality, for the old man had none but them to whom he
could leave his money; she never once doubted but all would be theirs;
she had reasoned and fancied herself into the firm conviction. Her
only fear was, that the amount might not be so large as she calculated
on.
She saw the packet opened. Her eyes dilated, her lips became parched,
her heart and brain burned with a fierce eagerness--money! money at
last! uttered the griping spirit within her.
The will, after beginning in the usual formal style, was as follows:
"I bequeath to my son Henry's wife, Augusta Lawson, a high and noble
gift"--Mrs. Lawson almost sprung from her seat with eagerness--"the
greatest of all legacies, I bequeath to Augusta Lawson--Charity!
Augusta Lawson refused me a few shillings which I wished to bestow
on a starving woman; but now I leave her joint executrix, with my son
Henry, in the distribution of all my money and all my effects, without
any reservation, in charity, to be applied to such charitable purposes
as in this, my last will and testament, I have directed."
Then followed a statement of his effects and money, down to the most
minute particular. The money amounted to a very considerable sum; his
personal effects he directed to be sold, with the exception of his
very valuable diamond ring, which he bequeathed to the orphan daughter
of the poor relation in whose house he had taken refuge, and remained
for a short time, previous to his going abroad. All the proceeds \
of his other effects, together with the whole amount of his money,
he bequeathed for different charitable purposes, and gave minute
directions as to the manner in which various sums were to be expended.
The largest amount he directed to be distributed in yearly donations
amongst the most indigent old men and women within a circuit of ten
miles of his native place. Those who were residing with their sons
and their sons' wives, were to receive by far the largest relief. He
appointed as trustees two of the most respectable merchants of the
town, to whom he gave authority to see the provisions of his will
carried out, in case his son and Mrs. Lawson should decline the duties
of executorship which he had bequeathed to them. The trustees were to
exercise a surveillance over Mr. and Mrs. Lawson, to see that the will
should in every particular be strictly carried into effect. The will
was dated and duly signed in the town in South America where the old
man had for some years resided. A codicil, containing the bequest of
the ring, with some further particulars regarding the charities, had
been added a few days previous to the old man's death.
Mrs. Lawson was carried fainting from the room before the reading of
the will was concluded. She was seized with violent fever, and her
life was despaired of. She recovered, however, and from the verge of
the eternal existence on which she had been, she returned to life with
a less worldly and ostentatious nature, and a soul more alive to the
impulses of kindness and charity.
* * * * *
HORACE VERNET, the painter, is in St. Petersburgh, and is soon
expected in Vienna, where he will study the uniform, scenery, &c.,
in order to paint various scenes in the Hungarian war.
* * * * *
HARRO HARRING has escaped from Norway into England, whence he has
issued a document, describing the circumstances of his departure, and
protesting against the arbitrary and unjust conduct of the Norwegian
Government. In this paper, which is drawn up with indignant eloquence,
Harring appeals to the Norwegian Storthing of 1851, confident that
he shall receive ample justice at the hands of the Representatives of
Norway.
* * * * *
Miss H.M. WEBBER, an American, has issued a pamphlet in Brussels
advocating the assumption of the male attire by her sex till they are
married.
* * * * *
GARRIBALDI, the Italian general, is on his way to New York. He has
written his "experiences," which will soon make their appearance in
America, where, as in Europe, they will be eagerly read, as few men
can throw so much light upon the recent important events in Italy.
* * * * *
Mrs. CHILD is passing the summer near Boston, and is still occupied
with a book upon the History of the Religious Element in Society,
which has several years engaged her attention. A new edition of her
novel of _The Rebels_ has just been published, and the degree to which
it has been known is illustrated in the critical announcements of it.
The Albany _State Register_, like other journals, seems to think it a
fresh book, and observes of the writer:--"The author of Hobornok has
always been a favorite with the public, though it is a long while
since we have had the pleasure of welcoming anything from his pen.
The present work, however, bears the impress of the talents which have
always marked his writings!"
* * * * *
[FROM THE LEADER.]