Chapter XI

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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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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_All Rights Reserved._