with wondering eyes into Walter’s face. ‘Does not all the money at the
counting-house belong to the firm?’
‘So I have always thought, Rachel.’
‘Then grandfather was balancing the cash?’
‘Not the hard cash of Armytage and Company. That is taken every day,
before the closing hour, to the bank.’
Looking still into the young man’s face, the girl said: ‘Then the money
must be his own.’
‘He certainly seemed to eye it, Rachel, as if every sovereign belonged
to him.’
The girl became pensive. ‘He must be rich,’ said she.
‘Very rich, if all those sovereigns are his.’
‘And he loves gold more than he loves his grand-daughter!’ Rachel
complained, in a tone of deep disappointment, while tears started into
her eyes.
Not being able to deny that there appeared some truth in the girl’s
words, Walter could answer nothing. He remained silent and thoughtful.
Suddenly the clocks of the old city began striking midnight.
‘Your grandfather will soon be coming now, Rachel,’ said the young
man, ‘so I had better be off. It would never do to let him find me
here at this late hour.’ Taking leave of the girl tenderly, he quickly
disappeared into the darkness.
Rachel re-entered the house, and threw herself into the old armchair,
stricken with surprise and grief at what she had learned. Since she was
a child, she had been taught to believe that she was struggling, beside
her grandfather, against poverty. She had been happy in the thought
that, although they were needy, nothing divided their affections. She
believed that her grandfather was slaving day and night for their
sake—slaving to keep the old house over their heads. But what was he
slaving for, after all? For gold, it was true; but for gold which he
hoarded up in secret places, hiding all from her, as though it were,
like a crime, something of a nature to be shunned.
Meanwhile the clocks are striking the small-hours. But Silas Monk
does not come home. The candle on the table beside Rachel burns low.
The girl grows alarmed, and listens for the footsteps of her old
grandfather. She goes out and looks about into the dark night. No one
is to be seen, no one is to be heard. Four o’clock—five. Still no
footsteps—not even a shadow of the man.
The dawn begins to break in a clear gray light above the sombre houses;
the roar of traffic in the streets hard by falls upon the girl’s ear.
Another busy day has commenced in the old city. ‘Is it possible,’
thinks Rachel, ‘that her grandfather can still be at his desk, counting
and recounting his gold?’
FAMILIAR SKETCHES OF ENGLISH LAW.
BY AN EXPERIENCED PRACTITIONER.
II. PARENT AND CHILD.
Children may be divided into two classes—legitimate and illegitimate;
and the liability of a father in respect of his children is widely
different in the case of the latter class from the ordinary duty and
responsibility of a parent. In order to clear the ground, we will first
dispose of the illegitimate class; and throughout this paper it must
be understood that the words parent and child, when used without any
qualifying terms, refer to those between whom that mutual relationship
lawfully subsists.
An illegitimate child, or bastard, is one who is born without its
parents having been lawfully married; and in England, a bastard born is
illegitimate to the end of his or her life; but in Scotland, such child
may be rendered legitimate by the subsequent marriage of its parents,
provided that at the date of its birth and of their marriage they were
both free to marry. The father of an illegitimate child has no right to
its custody; but he may be compelled to contribute to its support by
means of an affiliation order. A bastard cannot inherit either real or
personal estate from either of its parents, nor from any other person;
neither can any person inherit from a bachelor or spinster who is
illegitimate. If, however, such a person marries, the husband or wife
and children have the same legal rights as if the stain of illegitimacy
had not existed.
A legitimate child—with the exception noted above—is the offspring
of parents who were lawfully married before the time of its birth. A
posthumous child, if born in due time after the husband’s death, is
legitimate.
The father has _primâ facie_ a right to the custody of his children
while under the age of sixteen years; after that age, if they are able
to maintain themselves, they may be emancipated from his control.
But a mother can apply to the court for an order that she may have
the exclusive care of her children while they are respectively under
seven years of age; and after that age, for leave of access to them
at reasonable times, in cases where husband and wife do not live
together. In case of the divorce of the parents, the court will give
directions as to the custody of the children of the marriage, taking
into consideration the offence against morality of the guilty parent,
but also what is best for the children’s education and upbringing and
prospects in life.
A parent is bound to maintain and educate his children according to his
station; and if the father should neglect his duty in this respect,
the mother—if living with her husband—may, as his agent, order what is
necessary, and he would be responsible for the expense thus incurred,
which must be strictly limited to what is reasonably necessary. If a
child should become chargeable upon the poor-rates, both father and
grandfather are responsible for repayment of the cost incurred; the
former primarily, and the latter secondarily, in case of the absence
or inability of the father. In like manner, a child may be compelled
to repay to the poor-rates authorities the cost of maintenance of his
parents, if he have the means of doing so.
A child while under the age of twenty-one years cannot enter into a
binding contract, even with the consent and concurrence of its parent,
except for special purposes. One of these purposes is the acquisition
of knowledge which will enable the child to earn its livelihood when it
arrives at maturity. Thus apprentices and articled clerks may be bound
in such a manner as to render it compulsory for them to serve until
they respectively attain the age of twenty-one years; but the binding
cannot be extended beyond that age. As soon as an apprentice attains
his majority, he may elect to vacate his indenture, and be free from
any further compulsory service. This is founded upon the well-known
principle, that a minor can only be compelled to perform contracts
entered into on his behalf during his minority; and that when he
attains the age of twenty-one years, he is free to enter into contracts
on his own behalf, which stand upon an entirely different footing, and
are entirely inconsistent with the former contract. It may also be
mentioned here that a minor, when he becomes of age, is free to elect
whether he will perform any other contracts which he may have entered
into during his minority. If any such contract be beneficial, he may
allow it to stand; and if it be otherwise, he may cancel it; but the
other party, if of full age, will be bound by his contract.
In this connection we may notice the Infants Relief Act, 1874. Although
primarily aimed at the protection of ‘infants’ from the consequences
of their own imprudence, this statute, the operation of which extends
to the whole of the United Kingdom, has been found very useful in
relieving children against a cruel but not uncommon kind of pressure
by impecunious parents, who in many cases induced their children to
encumber their expectant property in order to assist them (the parents)
when in difficulties. The manner was this: The son would while under
age sign a promise to execute a valid charge, which would accordingly
be executed the day after he attained his majority; and though the
first promise was worthless, the deed was binding. But it was enacted
that all contracts entered into by ‘infants’ for the repayment of money
lent or to be lent, and all accounts stated with ‘infants,’ should be
not merely voidable, but absolutely void; and further, the ratification
when of full age of any such promise should be void also, and the
ratified promise should be incapable of being enforced.
A parent may lawfully maintain an action on behalf of his child,
whether such child be an infant or of full age, without being liable
to be prosecuted for the offence of maintenance or champerty. In
like manner, a child if of full age may maintain an action on behalf
of his parent, even though he may have no personal interest in the
subject-matter of the action.
A parent may also protect his child, or a child protect his parent,
from violence or assault, in such circumstances as would expose a
stranger to the charge of officiously intermeddling with strife which
did not concern him.
The power of an Englishman to dispose of his property by will being
absolute, the consideration of a parent’s will as affecting his
children need not detain us long. The principal peculiarity is this:
In case of the death of a child or grandchild of a testator in the
lifetime of the latter, leaving lawful issue, any devise or bequest in
the will in favour of the deceased child or grandchild will take effect
in favour of his issue in the same manner as if he had survived the
testator and died immediately afterwards. In similar circumstances, a
gift in favour of any other person who died in the testator’s lifetime
would lapse, that is to say, it would altogether fail to take effect.
But in Scotland, the power of a father to dispose of his property
by will is much more restricted, being confined to what is called
the ‘dead man’s’ part—namely, so much as remains after setting aside
one-third of the personal property or movable goods for the widow; and
one-third for the children of the testator. Or if there be no widow,
then the share of the children is one-half, which is divisible among
them equally. The rights of either widow or child may be renounced by
an antenuptial marriage contract, or for some equivalent provision
given in such a contract, or by will; and a child of full age may by
deed discharge his claim for _legitim_, as the children’s share of the
succession is called.
In case of intestacy, the eldest son is by the common law his
father’s heir-at-law, subject to his mother’s dower, if not barred
or discharged. But in some localities, special customs exist, such
as Borough English—prevalent at Maldon in Essex and elsewhere, by
virtue of which the youngest son is the heir—and Gavelkind, which
affects most of the land in Kent, where all the sons inherit in
equal shares. Returning to the common-law rule, where there are both
sons and daughters, the eldest son inherits to the exclusion of his
younger brothers, and his sisters whether elder or younger. But if
the intestate had no son, but several daughters, they would take
as co-parceners in equal undivided shares. It will be understood
that heirs and co-heiresses take freehold houses and land; but that
leaseholds are personal property, and like money and goods, stocks and
shares, are distributable, subject as hereinafter mentioned, among the
widow (if any) and relatives of the deceased. Copyhold property is real
estate, and the descent is in each case regulated by the custom of the
manor of which the property is holden; Borough English and Gavelkind
being much more common as affecting copyhold than freehold estates,
though even in the case of copyholds the common-law rule is by far the
most general.
The personal property of an intestate is the primary fund for payment
of funeral and other expenses, costs of administration, and debts.
When these have been paid, the widow (if any) is entitled to one-third
of what is left; and the other two-thirds are divisible among the
children. If there be no widow, the children take all, the collateral
relatives having no claim. If any of the testator’s children have died
before him, leaving issue, such issue take in equal shares the portion
which their parent would have taken if living.
In England, the heir-at-law who takes his father’s freehold estates
is not thereby deprived of his share, or any portion of his share, of
the personalty. But in Scotland, the heir must bring into account or
collate the value of what he has received in that capacity, before he
can claim any part of the movables.
If a son or daughter be possessed of real and personal estate, and
die unmarried, or widowed without children, and without making a
will, leaving a surviving father, he would take the real estate as
heir-at-law, and the personal estate as sole next of kin. If he were
dead, the mother would take a share of the personal estate with the
surviving brothers and sisters, and the eldest brother would inherit
the real estate as heir-at-law. If the mother were living, but no
brothers or sisters, nephews or nieces, she would have the personal
estate, but could not inherit the real estate so long as any heir could
be found on the paternal side. The children of deceased brothers and
sisters take equally amongst them the share of personal estate which
their deceased parent would have taken if living.
The law of Scotland is not so favourable to the father and mother of
intestates. The father does not succeed to real or heritable estate
if there be a brother or sister, and in the same event his right is
limited to that of one-half the movable estate. When the father has
predeceased, and the mother survives, she takes one-third of the
movable succession, and the rest goes to brothers and sisters or other
next of kin.
Having thus considered the rights, duties, and liabilities of parents
with respect to the persons, the necessities, and the property of their
children, and the corresponding rights and obligations of children
with regard to their parents, we must offer a few remarks on the
authority of parents over their children, and the extent to which that
authority may be delegated to others.
A parent may control the actions of his children so long as they remain
under his roof, and may insist upon his regulations being observed
and his commands obeyed. While they are of tender years, he may
inflict any reasonable punishment for disobedience or other offence,
either by personal chastisement or otherwise; but he must not torture
them, nor endanger their lives or health. He may also instruct his
children himself; or he may send them to school; in the latter case,
delegating to the schoolmaster so much as may be necessary of his power
to restrain and correct the children so intrusted to his care. Since
compulsory education became law, he _must_ use reasonable means to get
them educated. If a child should prove incorrigible, the parent may
apply to the justices of the peace to send him or her to an Industrial
School; which they have power to do on being satisfied by evidence upon
oath that the child is altogether beyond the power of its parent to
manage or control; and an order may be made upon the parent to pay the
expense of the child’s maintenance and education in such school, if his
means are sufficient to enable him to do so.
The liabilities imposed by marriage differ to some extent from the
responsibilities of actual parentage. Thus, a man may be compelled to
repay the expense incurred by the maintenance of his own father, but
not of his wife’s father, in the workhouse. And though a married man is
bound to keep his wife’s children, born before his marriage with her,
until they are sixteen years of age respectively, if his wife live so
long; yet, if she were to die while any of them were under that age,
his responsibility would immediately cease. And if any of them were to
become chargeable upon the poor-rates when more than sixteen years old,
the stepfather could not be required to contribute towards the expense
of their maintenance, even though their mother should be still living.
IN A FURNITURE SALEROOM.
A DAY-DREAM.
I just missed by a neck, as they say in steeplechasing dialect—though
on second thoughts I think it must have been liker a full
horse-length—my lot being cast among second-hand furniture. I believe
I was of too philosophic a nature to make a practical auctioneer and
furniture-broker of. At least, such was something like the opinion held
by my employer—the old gentleman was a bit of a wag—who told my father,
when the latter went to see why this knight of the hammer had dispensed
with his son’s services, that my mind, like the late lamented Prince
of Denmark’s, was of too speculative a character ever to ‘mak’ saut
to my kail’ at his profession, and advised him to bring me ‘out for a
minister.’ I need not say that this advice was, for divers reasons,
never acted upon.
I suppose it must have been my twelve-months’ sojourn in this old
worthy’s service which gives me to this day a certain meditative
interest in brokers’ shops and old furniture salerooms. I am not at any
time much of a stroller about the streets and gazer into shop-windows;
but next to looking into the windows of book or print and picture
shops, I have a weakness for sauntering into musty old salerooms, and
staring idly at the miscellaneous articles of second-hand furniture
huddled within their walls, and moralising on the mutability of human
hopes and possessions. A spick-and-span new furniture and upholstery
establishment has no more fascination for me than a black-and-white
undertaker’s. But out of the bustle of the street and the broiling heat
of the mid-day sun—which is my favourite time of indulgence—and in the
dusty and shadowy corners, festooned with cobwebs, of a broker’s shop
or old furniture saleroom, I forget how the time goes, as I join over
again the sundered human relationships to the pieces of furniture at
which I stand staring in half-reverie. I fancy it must have been this
same dreamy tendency which, peeping forth in my boyish career, led
my shrewd master to forecast my future with so much certainty to my
parent. I care not about purchasing any of the articles that so absorb
me. It is not the barren desire of possession which makes me haunt
these dusty salerooms. When the place becomes crowded with people, and
the auctioneer mounts his little pulpit, I gather my wandered wits
together and ‘silently steal away.’
I say I love to linger among the cobwebs and amid the silence of
old furniture salerooms—as fruitful a source of meditation to me as
loitering among tombs ever was to Harvey. That venerable eight-day
clock standing against the wall, behind those slim walnut chairs and
couch done up in the bright green repp, its mahogany almost as black
as your Sunday hat with age, turns on my thinking faculty just as the
‘auld Scots’ sangs’ moves my guidwife Peggy to tears. I think of all
the pairs of eyes that have gazed up at the hands and figures on its
olive-tinted face, and wonder how many of them have taken their last
look of earth. My imagination transports it to some well-to-do Scottish
cottage home, where I see, held up in fond arms, the marvelling
youngsters, in striped cotton pinafores, with their wide-open eyes
staring at the representatives of the four quarters of the globe,
painted in bright dazzling colours on each corner of the dial-plate.
Perhaps some of those same youngsters, to whose inquiring and wondering
minds the pictures were an every-day exercise, are settled down, old
men and women now, in one of these distant quarters of the globe, say
America, and are sitting at this very moment in their log-hut in the
backwoods, their minds’ eyes reverting to the familiar face of that old
clock tick-ticking away in their childhood’s home.
Over against where it stood in that same old home, between the
room door and the end of the white scoured wooden dresser with its
well-filled delf rack, I picture to myself the wasted face of a sick
woman pillowed up in bed. What weary nights she has listened to its
tick-tack, and counted the slow hours as they struck, waiting for the
dawn! I know that her head aches no longer, and that she sleeps sound
enough now, with the summer breeze stirring the green grass on her
grave.
Turning away from the venerable time-keeper, my eye falls on an
old-fashioned low-set chest of drawers, with dingy folding brass
handles, and little bits of the veneer chipped off here and there,
and the ivory awanting in some of the keyholes. Where are now, I ask
myself, the ashes of those bright household fires, which have winked in
the shining depths of their mahogany in the darkening gloaming, before
the blinds were drawn and the candles lit? What secrets and treasures
have not these same drawers been the repositories of! I see a pensive
female form, in striped shortgown and drugget petticoat, stop while
she is sweeping the kitchen floor, and, with palpitating heart, pull
out the centre small top drawer to take another look at the golden
curl, wrapped in a precious letter, in the corner beside two or three
well-worn toys. That bruised heart will throb no more with joy or pain;
neither will her tears fall any more like scalding lead on the blurred
parchment, as she lifts the bright curl to her lips before wrapping
it away out of sight again—till, mayhap, the next day, when the old
yearning returns, and she must needs go and unfold her treasure, the
sight of which brings the little chubby face—over which the curl used
to hang—once more before her brimming eyes.
The little bookcase, with the diamond-shaped panes, on the top of the
chest of drawers is an object to me of even nobler regard than the
drawers themselves. My venerable uncle, who was an author too, had just
such a little bookcase on the top of his drawers, about three-fourths
filled with sombre-looking volumes. I remember I never looked up at it
as a boy, and beheld the dim dusty books, like gray ghosts, sitting
erect, or leaning against one another in the twilight shelves, but I
associated it in my fancy with the inside of his own gray head. Already
I see the titles on the backs of some of these children of dead brains
looming out of the empty gloom through the diamond-shaped panes; and I
can recognise many of my own favourites among them. The binding is more
faded and worn on the backs of some than others, as if they had been
more often in the hand and more dear to the heart of the reader. I am
almost tempted to stretch forth my hand and renew their acquaintance.
One in particular, in faded green-and-gold binding, looking out from
amongst a motley company of fiction, _The House with the Seven Gables_,
I have a covetous eye upon.
How I should like to revisit the shadowy chambers of that old puritan
mansion, especially that low-studded oak-panelled room with the
portrait of the stern old Colonel looking down from the wall; and feel
the smell of its decaying timbers, ‘oozy’ with the memories of whole
generations of Pyncheons; to see poor perplexed old Hepzibah in the
midst of her first day’s shopkeeping, with her wreck of a resurrected
brother to care and provide for; and watch—not without reverence, even
though we are constrained sometimes to laugh—the miraculously minute
workings of her crazed old heart fighting—a kind of comic pathos, as
well as rarest heroism in her mimic battling—those troublesome spectres
of gentility which she has inherited with her Pyncheon blood.
Alas for this most bewitching of romancers! Well might his friend
Longfellow exclaim of him:
Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,
And the lost clue regain?
The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower
Unfinished must remain!
Sitting on the shelf beneath _The House with the Seven Gables_ is the
king of all the magicians—the enchanter’s name printed in tarnished
gold letters on a faded square of scarlet morocco on its calf
back—‘Shakspeare.’
On this hot July forenoon, with dusty smelling streets, when the united
heart of our mighty Babylon is panting for the water-brooks, wouldn’t
it be a treat just to step into the forest of Arden? You don’t require
to change your clothes, or bolt a hurried luncheon, or run to catch
a train, or take your place on the crowded deck of a snorting greasy
steamboat under a vertical sun; but simply to open out the volume at
that most delightful of all comedies, _As You Like It_, and at once
fling yourself down ‘under the shade of melancholy boughs,’ and ‘lose
and neglect the creeping hours of time’ listening to the moralising of
a Jaques