Edgar and his transatlantic companion walked along Holborn in silence.
The former was deeply immersed in thought; and the American, in spite
of his forced gaiety, had not yet lost all trace of his late emotion.
Presently, they quitted the busy street and turned into one of the
narrow lanes leading to Queen Square. Arrived at the house, they were
admitted by the grimy diminutive maid-of-all-work, and slowly ascended
the maze of stairs leading to Edgar’s sitting-room. There were two
persons who looked up as they entered—Eleanor and Jasper Felix. Edgar
performed the ceremony of introduction, asking his companion if he had
ever heard of the great novelist. He had.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Slimm impressively, ‘I believe that name has been
mentioned in my hearing once, if not more.—Allow me to shake hands with
you, sir. I ain’t given to worshipping everybody who writes a ream of
nonsense and calls it a novel; but when I come across men like you,
I want to remember it. We don’t have many of your stamp across the
Atlantic, though Nathaniel Hawthorne runs you very close.’
‘Indeed, you are very complimentary,’ Felix replied; ‘and I take
your word as flattering. I don’t like flattery as a rule, especially
American flattery. It is rare, in a general way. I feel as if they
always want something, you know.’
‘Well, I do calculate my countrymen don’t give much away for nothing.
They like a _quid pro quo_; and if they can get the _quid_ without the
_quo_, so much the better are they pleased. But I didn’t come here to
discuss the idiosyncrasies of my countrymen.’
Mr Slimm seemed to possess the happy knack of making his conversation
suit his company. Edgar could not help contrasting him now with the
typical Yankee of the gambling-house; they hardly seemed like the same
men.
‘Have you got your uncle’s letter?’ Edgar asked his wife.
‘Why?’ she asked, without the slightest curiosity.
‘Why? I have almost come to your way of thinking,’ replied Edgar. ‘Do
you know, a wonderful thing has happened this morning. To make a long
story short, my good friend here was an old friend of your uncle’s.
The story is a very sad one; but the gist of it is that the paper your
uncle left so nearly resembles a tragic document which he and Mr Slimm
once perused together—what is termed a cipher—that he is almost sure it
is taken from the same. The coincidence is so strange, the two letters
are so remarkably alike’——
‘Is this really so, Mr Slimm?’ Eleanor asked eagerly.
‘Yes, madam,’ he said quietly. ‘Some day I will tell you the tale, but
not now, of how I came to be in receipt of that terrible document. Your
uncle was with me; and from what I know of the circumstances, they must
be the same. If you don’t mind me seeing it’——
Before he could finish his sentence, Eleanor was out of the room, and
a silence, an uneasy silence of expectancy, fell on the group. No one
spoke, and the few minutes she was away seemed like hours. Then she
reappeared, and put the paper in his hands.
He merely glanced at it for a moment; indeed, he had not time to read
it through before a smile began to ripple over his quaint-looking,
weather-beaten face. The smile gradually grew into a laugh, and then he
turned to view the anxious group with a face full of congratulation and
triumph.
‘Have you found it? Is it so?’ burst from three people simultaneously.
He was provokingly slow in his reply, and his Yankee drawl was more
painfully apparent than ever. ‘Young man,’ said he to Edgar, ‘what
might have been the nominal value of your uncle’s estate—if he had any?’
‘About thirty or forty thousand pounds.’
‘And I promised, if you would let me see this paper, I would show you
something worth ten thousand pounds. Well, you must pardon me for my
little mistake. One can’t always guard against mistakes, and this paper
is worth four times that amount.’
For a few moments every one was aghast at the value of the discovery.
Edgar was the first to recover himself. ‘You are not joking, Slimm?’ he
exclaimed hoarsely.
‘Never a bit,’ he replied with a gaiety delicately intended to cover
and arouse the emotion of the others. ‘There it is on the face of the
paper, as plainly as possible—the fateful words staring me in the face.
You could see them yourselves, if you only knew how.’
‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Felix. ‘And that simple paper contains a secret
worth all that money?’
‘Why, certainly. Not only that, but where it is, and the exact spot
in which it is concealed. Only to think—a starving, desperate woman
dragging such a secret as that about London; and only to think of a
single moment preventing it being buried in the Thames. Wonderful,
wonderful!’
‘Perhaps you will disclose it to us,’ said Edgar, impatient at this
philosophical tirade.
‘No!’ Eleanor put in resolutely—‘no, Edgar! I do not think it would
be fair. Considering the time and trouble Mr Carver has given to the
matter, it would only be right for him to know at the same time. The
dear old gentleman has been so enthusiastic throughout, and so kind,
that I should feel disappointed if he did not hear the secret disclosed
when we are all together.’
‘How thoughtful you are, Mrs Seaton!’ remarked Felix with great
admiration. ‘Of course you are right. The old fellow will be delighted
beyond measure, and will fancy he has a hand in the matter himself.’
‘I do not see why we should wait for that,’ Edgar grumbled.
‘Impatient boy!’ said Eleanor with a charming smile. ‘Talk about
curiosity in woman, indeed!’
‘All right,’ he replied laughingly, his brow clearing at one glance
from his wife. ‘I suppose we must wait. I do not see, however, what is
to prevent us starting to see him at once. Probably, you won’t be more
than an hour putting on your bonnet, Nelly?’
‘I shall be with you in five minutes;’ and, singular to relate, she was.
‘Curiosity,’ remarked Edgar, ‘is a great stimulus, even to women.’
Arrived at Bedford Row, they found Mr Carver at his office, and
fortunately disengaged. It did not take that astute gentleman long to
perceive, from the faces of his visitors, that something very great and
very fortunate had happened.
‘Well, good people,’ he said, cheerfully rubbing his head with
considerable vigour, ‘what news? Not particularly bad, by the look of
you.’
Edgar stated the case briefly, and at the beginning of his narrative it
was plain to see that the worthy solicitor was somewhat disappointed;
but when he learned they were nearly as much in the dark as he, he
resumed his usual rubicund aspect.
‘Dear, dear! how fortunate. Wonderful, wonderful!’ he exclaimed,
hopping about excitedly. ‘Never heard such a thing in my life—never,
and thirty years in practice too. Quite a hero, Edgar.’
‘No, sir,’ Edgar put in modestly. ‘Mr Slimm is the hero. Had it not
been for him, we could never have discovered the hidden mine. Talk
about Aladdin’s lamp!’
‘And so you knew my poor client?’ broke in Mr Carver, addressing Slimm.
‘What a fine fellow he was in those days! I suppose you showed him the
secret of the cipher?’
‘Wall, no, stranger,’ replied the American, the old Adam cropping out
again strongly. ‘He guessed it by instinct, if it wasn’t something
higher’n that. I did not know it myself, though it was sent to me by
one very dear to me, to warn me of danger. You see, it might have come
into the hands of an enemy who understood English, and it was just a
desperate chance. It came a trifle late to save my peace of mind,’ he
continued naturally and bitterly, ‘and I shall never forget it. The
sight of that piece of paper in that lady’s hands,’ pointing to the
important document, ‘gave me a touch of the old feeling when I first
saw it.’
‘Poor fellow, poor fellow! Pray, don’t distress yourself upon our
account. A mere explanation’——
‘I’d almost forgotten,’ replied Mr Slimm, taking the paper from
Eleanor’s hands. ‘If you will be good enough to listen, I will explain
it.’
They drew close round the table, and he proceeded to explain.
‘The paper I hold in my hand,’ said the American, ‘is filled with
writing, commencing at the top of the paper, without anything of a
margin, and ending in the same manner. The paper, you perceive, is
ruled with dotted lines, which makes the task of deciphering the
secret all the easier. It has five dotted perpendicular lines at equal
distances; and four horizontal, not so equal in distance. These are
guide-lines. Now, I will take the letter and fold it along the centre
dotted line from top to bottom, with the writing inside—so. Then from
the second dotted line, counting from the right-hand side, I fold it
backwards, showing the writing—thus. Then I fold the fourth dotted line
from the right hand over the writing. The first part is accomplished
by turning the narrow slip of writing between the fifth line and the
left-hand side back thus; and then you see this. The rest is simple.
Fold the slip in two, keeping the writing inside; then turn the bottom
portion back and fold it across the lower dotted line, and the puzzle
is complete. Or there is yet a simpler way. In each corner of the paper
there are a few words inclosed by the dotted lines. Begin at the top at
the word “Darling,” then across the line to the words “Nelly, in.” Then
the next line, which is all inclosed at the top in the corner squares.
Read the same way at the bottom corner squares; and see the result. You
are puzzled by the folding, I see; but try the other way. Here,’ he
said, handing the paper to Nelly; ‘please read aloud what you can make
of it.’
Following his instructions, Nelly made out the words thus:
_Darling_ _Nelly, in_
_the garden_ _under the_
_Niobe_ _you will_
_find my_ _money._
The murder was out! The mystery which had puzzled every one was
explained; and after all, it was so simple! The simplicity of the
affair was its greatest safeguard. It was so simple, so particularly
devoid of intricacy, that it had baffled them all. Something
bewildering and elaborate they had expected, but nothing like this. Mr
Carver, notwithstanding his joy, looked inexpressibly foolish. Edgar
gave way to his emotion in mirth. ‘O shade of Edgar Allan Poe, what a
climax!’ he exclaimed. ‘Was it for this our worthy friend waded through
the abstruse philosophy of _The Purloined Letter_ and the intricacies
of _The Gold Bug_? Was it for this that _The Murders in the Rue Morgue_
and _The Mystery of Marie Roget_ were committed to memory?’
‘Be quiet, you young jackanapes!’ exclaimed Mr Carver testily; and
then, seeing the ludicrous side of the matter, he joined in the younger
man’s mirth with equal heartiness.
‘But why,’ said Eleanor, still serious, and dwelling upon the
mystery—‘why did not uncle fold the letter in the way he wished it to
be read?’
‘Well, madam,’ Mr Slimm explained, ‘you see in that case the letter
would have adapted itself to the folds so readily, that, had it fallen
into a stranger’s hand, he would have discovered the secret at once.
Your uncle must have remembered the letter he founded his upon, and how
easily he discovered that. By folding this paper in the ordinary way,
improper curiosity was baffled.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Eleanor mused. ‘Anyway, thank heaven, we have
solved the mystery, and we are free at last!’
‘Don’t look so serious, darling,’ Edgar said brightly. ‘It is all ours
now, to do what we like with. How happy we shall be!’
‘Ahem!’ coughed Mr Bates ominously, the only remark which, by the way,
he had made during the scene.
‘Bless me, Bates!’ ejaculated Mr Carver in his abrupt way. ‘Really, I
had quite forgotten you.—Shake hands, Bates! Let me shake hands with my
future partner.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, I think not. You’—reproachfully—‘seem to
have forgotten the will. Mr Morton’s last testament left this property
to Miss Wakefield—this money is part of his estate.’
Mr Carver groaned and sank back in his chair. It was too true. Mr
Morton’s last will devised his estate to Miss Wakefield, and this
treasure was hers beyond the shadow of a doubt.
THE FLOATING ISLAND ON DERWENTWATER.
Mr Ward in his book on the _Geology of the English Lake District_,
while describing some of the effects that various rock formations have
on scenery, has stated that the mountains surrounding Lake Derwentwater
are not only geologically interesting, but are very beautiful. To
quote his own words. He says: ‘If we take our stand upon Friar’s Crag,
jutting out into Derwentwater, we have before us one of the fairest
views that England can give. The lake, studded with wooded islets, and
surrounded by mountains of varied form and outline. Upon the west side,
the mountains, most exquisitely grouped together, have soft outlines
and smooth and grassy slopes, sometimes meeting below to form, as in
Newlands Vale, an inverted arch of marvellous elegance and grace. These
are of Skiddaw slate, which mostly weathers away in small flakes or
pencil-like pieces, giving rise to a clayey and shaly wash at the base
of the hills. Upon the east side of the lake and at its head, the case
is otherwise; the mountains have generally rough and hummocky outlines
and steep and craggy sides; whilst their waste lies below in the shape
of rough tumbled masses, like ruins of a giant castle. These consist of
rocks belonging to the volcanic series, which are hard, massive, and
well jointed. Thus we have presented to us two independent types of
scenery, formed by very distinct classes of rock.’
Southey, in a letter to Coleridge, describing the view from his house
(Greta Hall), compared the mountains of the first type above mentioned
to the ‘tents of a camp of giants;’ whilst it is between a rift in
the rocks of the latter, or volcanic series, that the Watendlath burn
rushes down and forms the picturesque Falls of Lodore.
But, apart from the varied charms of scenery surrounding Derwentwater,
and the many historical reminiscences connected with the immediate
neighbourhood, the lake has a phenomenon of its own in the so-called
Floating Island. The visitor to Keswick may see at any time, and if
such be his desire, may row round and thoroughly inspect four islands
on the lake; but this one, through its somewhat eccentric movements,
is not so easily examined. In fact, it only exists as an island for
a few weeks’ duration, and then generally at intervals of several
years. The last time it was visible was in 1884, when it was noticed
about the middle of August; and disappeared during the first week in
October. It is doubtful whether all the causes of this occurrence are
yet known; for, on its last appearance, considerable interest was taken
in it by scientific men, and several experiments were made with a view
of ascertaining its substance, both solid and gaseous. Certain it is
that, even in these days of accurate information and universal reading,
considerable misconception must exist on the subject. For instance, an
article appeared in this _Journal_ for August 1874, in which it was
stated that ‘until it was driven ashore in a gale, a few years ago,
there used to be an island of this kind’ [the writer had previously
spoken of a floating island on a Swedish lake, which occasionally sank
below the surface and reappeared] ‘on Derwentwater, Cumberland.... When
a stick or fishing-rod was driven through it, a jet of water would
spurt up from the hole; thus indicating that some spring or current was
pressing against it from below; and this was probably the force which
kept it at the surface, and being of an intermittent character, allowed
it at times to sink to the bottom.’ This writer’s idea was, that a
waterfall, which he mentions as ‘throwing itself into the lake,’ but is
in reality at least a quarter of a mile off, caused a current, which,
according to its force, was able to buoy the island up by its pressure.
This fallacious theory is mentioned in one or two guide-books to
Keswick, one stating that, ‘the guides, the older and more intelligent
ones, will tell you of a little stream that gets lost in the ground.’
This ‘little stream’ is the Catgill Beck, which, in its passage from
the hills, forms the waterfall spoken of in the previous quotation. The
‘driven ashore in a gale’ statement is easily refuted by the fact that
the island made its appearance two years after in the same place as on
its previous emergences, namely, about a hundred and fifty yards from
the shore at the south-eastern corner of the lake.
The _Daily News_ of August 20, 1884, contained a short leading article
on the subject, in which, after describing the floating gardens of the
ancient Mexicans, the writer continues: ‘This at Derwentwater seems to
be merely an accidental accretion of material round some tree-trunk or
something of the kind, which, as in the larger island just alluded to
[an American one], has become in some way anchored to the bed of the
lake, probably at that point not very deep.’
The writers of the two articles above quoted could never have examined,
and probably had never even seen the island in question.
A frequent source of error is the notion people are liable to carry
away who have only seen it from the shore. Many see it, probably for
the first and only time, from the top of a stagecoach, on their way to
Buttermere or on some other favourite excursion. Just previously, the
driver has perhaps directed their attention, by a jerk of his whip over
his left shoulder, to Raven’s Crag. Now, there is a gap in the trees on
the other side, and a glimpse of the lake is caught. ‘Floating Island,’
laconically remarks Jehu to the box-seat occupants, and again points
his whip, but this time to the right towards the lake. ‘Where? where?’
ask the others behind. ‘There, there—don’t you see?’ and on rolls the
coach, some wondering if that little patch of green were it; others,
failing to see anything, refer to their guide-books or companions as to
what object of interest must next be looked for. _Lodore Hotel_ comes
into view, and the minds of the hurried tourists are once more engaged
in a hasty examination of the Falls. So the day wears on, and they have
seen the Floating Island. But how, and how much? Even the name itself
may cause misapprehension, although it would be difficult to give the
object a more definite appellation.
The island is not mentioned either by Hutchinson or Nicolson and Burns
in their Histories of Cumberland, published towards the end of last
century. In an interesting account, however, of _A Fortnight’s Ramble
to the Lakes_, by Jos. Budworth, F.S.A., published 1795, a short
reference is made to it. After speaking of the ‘stormy breakers’ on the
lake, caused by ‘a bottom wind,’ he goes on to say: ‘It is said Keswick
Lake often wears this appearance a day or two previous to a storm; and
when violently agitated at the bottom, an island arises, and remains
upon the surface some time.... The grass and the moss are as green as
a meadow, which soon unite and become consistent. There are very few
people in the neighbourhood who have not been upon it.’ It is probably
to Jonathan Ottley, a native of Keswick, and a very careful observer,
that we owe the first really authentic account of the island. In a
paper read before the Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society,
and published in their Transactions for the year 1819, he gives a
graphic description of it, and mentions a newspaper correspondence
having appeared in the _Carlisle Journal_ some years previous, in which
two or three different theories were propounded by various writers
as to the cause of its emergence. At the end of this Memoir, a note
from John Dalton—the author of the Atomic Theory, and a native of
Cumberland, although at this time he had resided in Manchester for
some years—explains, that ‘being at Keswick in 1815, Mr Ottley and I
procured a small quantity of the gas [from the island], which I found
to consist of equal parts of carburetted hydrogen and azotic gases,
with about six per cent. of carbonic acid.’ It will be seen from the
above that the island had not escaped the observation of men of science
very early in the present century.
From a distance, it looks like a grass plot floating on the lake. It
is never more than six inches above the water, but varies considerably
in area in different years. On its last emergence, the exposed surface
was about fifty yards by twelve; but in 1842 it was upwards of ninety
yards long by twenty broad. It generally makes its appearance in July,
August, or September, and disappears towards the end of the last month.
In 1831, however, it came to the top on the tenth of June, and remained
exposed until the twenty-fourth of September—the longest period ever
remembered. It has never been seen except in the summer or autumn
months, and then only after periods of excessive drought and warm
weather; but whether its origin is owing to the lowness of the water
in the lake, or to the high temperature, or to a combination of both
causes, is still an open question.
The bed of the lake where the island appears consists of what, were
there no lake over it, would be called a peat-moss, which extends over
several acres. When the water is calm, dark-brown patches may be seen
over the whole of this area, indicating rents or fissures. The depth
of water is very uniform here, varying from six to eight feet when the
lake is at an average height. The appearance of the island is caused
by a portion of this peat-moss rising, not bodily, as in a detached
mass, but like a huge blister. It is this peculiar manner of rising
that upsets the preconceived notions of many visitors, leading some to
suppose that the surface of the lake having become lowered, through
drought or other causes, a portion of its bed has been laid bare.
Although this peat-moss is capable of considerable distention, owing to
the elasticity of its component parts, it not unfrequently occurs that
a rupture takes place whilst rising to the surface. In such cases, two
islands are sometimes formed, but more frequently one part sinks, when
a fairly accurate idea may be formed of the thickness of the peat-moss
or substance of the island. If the second portion, or part that has
remained at the surface, on resuming its position at the bottom, does
not exactly fill the same space as before, a gap is caused, which
accounts for the apparent dark patches before mentioned.
The aquatic plants growing on the bed of this portion of the lake
are, when living, all specifically lighter than water, which may
easily be proved by detaching any of them from the bottom, when they
will be found to rise to the surface. They grow, wither, and decay,
their roots matting together amidst the finely divided turf, itself
the remains of various mosses, producing what Ottley aptly calls a
‘congeries of weeds.’ The thickness of this mass is about six feet,
and rests upon a bed of clay. After a continuance of high temperature,
the air and gas—of which there is always a considerable amount in
such substances—expand. This expansion is sufficient to reduce the
weight of the whole slightly below an equal volume of water. The water
insinuates itself between the peat-moss and the bed of clay on which
it rests, but to which it is in no way attached, owing to the roots
not being able to penetrate it. The mass slowly rises, the lighter
portion gradually dragging itself to the surface, although, as has been
previously stated, not absolutely detaching itself from the rest. After
appearing above the level of the water, the weeds make vigorous growth,
which tends to reduce temporarily the specific gravity of the whole
still more, and to give that emerald hue to the exposed part which
made Budworth describe it as being ‘as green as a meadow.’ If, through
heavy rainfall, the water-level of the lake be raised, the island rises
and falls with it. Should low temperature, however, supervene, the
mass loses its buoyancy, and slowly disappears; once more to sink into
obscurity and become part of the bed of the lake, after having, for a
butterfly existence, basked under the warm August sun as the Floating
Island.
POPULAR LEGAL FALLACIES.[1]
BY AN EXPERIENCED PRACTITIONER.
_THE RIGHTS OF THE ELDEST SON AND OTHER CHILDREN OF AN INTESTATE OWNER
OF REAL AND PERSONAL ESTATE._
Many persons believe that the eldest son of a man who has died without
leaving a will, or who in other words dies intestate, is entitled
to the whole of the property, both real and personal, left by his
deceased parent; but this is an error so far as relates to the personal
estate, and in some cases also in respect of the real estate. By the
common law, which had its origin in feudal times, the eldest son was
entitled to succeed to the property of his deceased father; and might
be called upon to perform the military and other duties which were due
and accustomed to be paid in respect of such property to the immediate
feudal superior. Hence the origin of what is often spoken of as an
iniquitous system of favouritism arbitrarily established by law. When
there were no standing armies, and the king upon the throne for the
time being had to depend upon the military services of the barons who
had received lands upon condition of performing such services, while
the barons in turn had to depend upon the persons to whom they had
granted parts of their lands upon similar conditions, it was of great
importance that there should always be a male possessor of those lands.
If he were an ‘infant’ and incapable of bearing arms, a relative was
appointed guardian of his person and estate during his minority, and
upon this guardian devolved the duties appertaining to the estate. But
in those days, tenancies for years and other smaller interests in lands
were not held as of much account, being of small value, and subject to
being forfeited or declared void on various pretences; whence arises
the apparent anomaly, that leasehold property is personal estate,
whatever may be its value, and therefore distributable among all the
children of an intestate, as will be explained more fully. A third
class of property is ‘copyhold,’ which is real estate, but in respect
of which the feudal services were of a different description. Being
useful only, and not military, these services were considered as
inferior in dignity and less honourable than the duties attached to the
possession of freehold property. The subject of tenures and services
is full of interest, but the exigences of space compel us to turn away
from the tempting theme. It was, however, necessary to refer thus
briefly to the origin of the present rules of law, in order to make
intelligible the reasons for the distinctions which still exist.
We have mentioned the common-law rule of descent of land, and must note
two exceptions to the general rule. By the custom of ‘borough English,’
which exists at Maldon in Essex, in the city of Gloucester, and other
places, the youngest instead of the eldest son inherits his father’s
freeholds in case of intestacy. And by the custom of ‘gavelkind,’
which still applies to most of the land in Kent, although some has
been disgavelled by private Acts of Parliament, the freeholds of an
intestate are divisible among all the sons of the deceased in equal
shares.
Leaving these customs aside, we propose to consider the effect of the
intestacy of an owner of freehold and other property who leaves a
family of children surviving him.
In such a case, the widow (if any) would be entitled to receive
one-third of the rents of the freeholds for her life, that being a
provision made for her by the law under the name of dower. Dower
attaches to all the freehold lands and hereditaments of which her
deceased husband was the actual owner at the time of his decease,
either in fee-simple or fee-tail; except, in the latter case, if the
entail were limited to the children of the first wife, the second wife
would not be dowable out of the estate. But this provision, mercifully
made by the law for the widow of a man who had so far neglected the
duty of a husband as to omit to provide for her by his will, may be
barred in a very peculiar manner. The right of a widow to dower will be
barred if in the conveyance to her husband, or any deed subsequently
executed by him, there should be a declaration that she is not to be
entitled to dower out of the property to which such conveyance or
other deed relates. In this way many widows have been deprived of
dower without the knowledge of their husbands. If the declaration be
contained in the conveyance, the execution thereof by the husband is
not necessary, as he takes the property subject to the contents of
such conveyance. If in any other deed, probably he signs, seals, and
delivers it without taking the trouble to read its contents, trusting
to his solicitor to see that the documents are all right. There cannot
be any possible advantage in inserting the declaration in question,
and, in our opinion, any solicitor who inserts it without express
instructions to do so—which are never given—is guilty of a grave
dereliction of duty towards his client.
Subject to the right of dower, if not barred, and to any existing
mortgages or other charges, the freehold property of an intestate
becomes the property of his eldest son immediately on the death; and
the rents are apportionable according to the ownership. The proportion
of the current rent down to the actual date of the decease of the
former owner forms part of his personal estate, as well as all arrears
of rent then remaining unpaid. When the heir first receives any
rent, he pays to his father’s executors so much as belongs to them,
and retains the remainder for his own use, although he must satisfy
prior charges thereout. Thus, if the father died in the middle of a
half-year, the year’s rents being one thousand pounds, there being a
mortgage of ten thousand pounds at four per centum per annum, and the
widow being dowable, then, upon receipt of the first half-year’s rent,
five hundred pounds, the mortgagees would claim two hundred pounds,
the executors one hundred and fifty, the widow fifty, and the heir
would have one hundred for his own benefit. The next half-year, the
mortgagees would again take two hundred pounds, the widow one hundred,
and the heir two hundred pounds. This is how the practical working of
such a case is generally managed; but strictly, the widow might have
one-third of the lands set apart for her own use during her life, in
satisfaction of her right to dower. This, however, is seldom done,
although it used to be the ordinary course.
Copyhold property is more uncertain in its incidents than freehold,
being regulated entirely by the custom of each manor of which the
property is holden. The three modes of descent mentioned above may
perhaps be considered to divide the manors in the kingdom almost
equally amongst them. There is an equal diversity in respect of
free-bench, the copyhold equivalent for dower. In a few manors, the
widow is entitled to the whole of the rents so long as she remains a
widow; in others, she has half; and in others, two-thirds; while in
the remainder, the proportion is the same as the dower payable out of
freeholds, one-third; although the duration of the allowance frequently
differs, not being usually for life, as dower, but during widowhood—in
some manors the additional obligation of chastity being imposed. The
heir, whether the eldest or the youngest son, is subjected to the same
obligations as in respect of freehold; and if the gavelkind custom
applies, each share on a further intestacy descends to the heirs of
the co-heir. In this way has been illustrated the disadvantage of
any rule of law which makes real estate divisible. We knew a small
copyhold estate consisting of a cottage and garden, which became by
successive intestacies subdivided into shares, some of which were worth
no more than two shillings per year each. Only those who have had
practical acquaintance with the management of land can appreciate the
inconvenience arising from this minute subdivision.
We have already said that leasehold property is personal estate; and it
only remains to explain the process of distributing the personal estate
of an intestate. Assuming that the deceased was a widower who left
seven grown-up children, and who was the owner of leasehold houses,
money on mortgage, shares in various railway and other joint-stock
companies, also household furniture and other movable effects—any
one or more (not exceeding three) of the children might apply for
letters of administration of the personal estate and effects of the
deceased; two sureties being required to enter into a bond for the due
administration of the personalty. The administrator, when appointed,
would have full power to sell the houses, shares, furniture, &c.,
and to call in the mortgage moneys. Out of the moneys to be produced
thereby, and any other money in the bank, in the house, or elsewhere,
and of any debts collected and got in, either by means of actions or
otherwise, the administrator would first pay the funeral expenses and
costs of administration, including sale expenses; next, all debts which
were owing by the intestate at the time of his decease; and would then
divide the clear residue among all the children of the deceased in
equal shares. If any child had died leaving lawful issue, the share
which he would have taken if living would be divided equally amongst
his issue. In either case, no distinction would be made in respect of
age or sex. The eldest son would take the share which fell to him,
within the rule of distributions, whether he had inherited any real
estate from his father or not. If the intestate left a widow, she would
be entitled to letters of administration, and to retain one-third of
the residue for her own benefit before the division of the remainder
amongst the children, &c.
Formerly, the shares of personal estate which passed to children of the
deceased were chargeable with legacy-duty at the rate of one per cent.;
but this does not apply to intestacies in respect of which letters of
administration have been granted on or since the 1st of June 1881,
and on which an increased rate of probate duty has been paid. This,
however, does not affect the succession duty in respect of real estate,
which is still payable.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] It should be understood that this series of articles deals mainly
with English as apart from Scotch law.
THE MOTHER’S VIGIL.
BY HUGH CONWAY.
A wakeful night with stealthy tread
O’er weary day had crept,
As near her dying infant’s bed
A mother watched and wept.
She saw the dews of death o’erspread
That brow so white and fair,
And bowing down her aching head,
She breathed a fervent prayer:
‘O Thou,’ she cried, ‘a mother’s love
Hast known—a mother’s grief—
Bend down from starry heights above,
And send my heart relief.
Sweet lips that smiled are drawn in pain,
Yet rest his life may keep,
And give him to my arms again:
Oh, let my baby sleep!’
When sickly dawn a gleam had cast
Of light on night’s black pall,
Through gates of heaven in mercy past
An answer to her call.
On sombre wings, through gloomy skies,
Death’s angel darkly swept—
He softly kissed those troubled eyes,
And lo! the infant slept.
* * * * *
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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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