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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.”

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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.

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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.

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THE NEW OPERA, on which M. Strakosch is now engaged, is to be called La Regina di Napoli.  The plot is taken from the history of the unfortunate Queen Joana of Sicily, and abounds in scenes of dramatic interest.

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[FROM THE DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE FOR JULY.]

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.