Chapter II: Part 2

The rector’s family, besides himself and his wife, consisted of two sons and two daughters, all grown up, with the exception of Master Hubert, a boy of ten years old, who was endowed with such a remarkable fund of animal spirits that he was the terror of the neighbourhood; and from the first moment of Miss Masterman’s arrival, he became the special _bête noire_ of that lady. With all the other members of the family, Miss Masterman was much pleased. The rector himself was a polished and dignified person, and by the extreme, if rather laboured, courtesy of his manners, he endeavoured to tone down the somewhat exuberant spirits of the rest of his family. Mrs Draycott was a gentle, refined matron, with a sweet, though rather weary face, and was simply adored by her husband and children. The two daughters, Adela and Magdalen, were charming girls, full of fun, and very popular with their two brothers, of whom the senior, Clive, was aged nineteen.

To the young people, Miss Masterman’s arrival was little short of a calamity; they were so much in the habit of freely stating their opinions on all subjects without restraint, that the presence of a stranger appeared to them an unmitigated bore. It was in vain that their mother reminded them that the handsome sum paid by Miss Masterman for her board would be a very desirable addition to the family exchequer. At a sort of cabinet council held after she had retired to her room the first night after her arrival, Master Hubert expressed, in schoolboy slang, his conviction that she was a ‘ghastly old crumpet;’ a nickname which she retained until a servant one day brought in a letter which, she said, was addressed to ‘Miss Pobe Masterman;’ from which moment, Miss Masterman went by the name of ‘Pobe’ till the end of her visit—a piece of irreverence of which that lady happily remained quite unconscious.

By the time Miss Masterman had settled down in her new abode, the principal ladies of the parish came to call upon her; and as some of them were not only rich but very highly connected, Miss Masterman greatly appreciated their kind attentions. Among them was a Lady O’Leary, an Irish widow, with whom Miss Masterman soon struck up a great intimacy. Lady O’Leary was generally believed to be a person of large fortune; but as this supposition was based entirely on her own representations with regard to property in Ireland, there were some sceptical spirits who declined to believe in it as an established fact. Lady O’Leary shared three furnished rooms with a Miss Moone, who lived with her as companion; and it soon became quite an institution for Miss Masterman to take tea with her two or three times a week at least. On these occasions, the two ladies—for Miss Moone discreetly withdrew when Lady O’Leary had visitors—discussed all the affairs of the parish, until, by degrees, they got upon such thoroughly confidential terms, that before long they had imparted to each other their joint conviction that the general moral tone of the parish was lamentably low, and that it was doubtless owing in a great measure to the deplorably frivolous conduct of the family at the rectory; for Miss Masterman had discovered, to her amazement and horror, that the rector not only permitted his daughters to read Shakspeare, but even gave them direct encouragement to do so. Nor was this all; he actually was in the habit, once a year, of taking all his children up to London to see the pantomime at Drury Lane!

Among the more frequent visitors at the rectory was a Mrs Penrose, an exceedingly pretty young widow, who had recently taken a small house in the village, where she lived very quietly with an old servant, who appeared greatly attached to her mistress. The widow, who was apparently not more than five-and-twenty, was a charming brunette, with sparkling black eyes, and hair like waves of shining brown satin; and her sweet face and animated manners made her generally very popular in the village, where she visited the poor and assisted the rector in various parochial works of charity. Especially was she a favourite at the rectory, not only with Mr and Mrs Draycott, but with the young people, her presence in the family circle invariably giving rise to so much hilarity, that even the rector was attracted by the general merriment, and would leave his study to come and sit with his family, and allow himself to join in their mirth at Mrs Penrose’s lively sallies. Indeed, he had even been heard to declare, in Miss Masterman’s hearing, to that lady’s unspeakable disgust, that when he was fagged and worried with the necessary work of a parish, a few minutes of Mrs Penrose’s cheerful society acted on his mind like a tonic.

Miss Masterman, from the first, had taken an extraordinary antipathy to Mrs Penrose, who appeared to her to be everything that a widow ought not to be! Her bright face and unflagging spirits were a constant offence to the elder lady, though she had often been told that the late Captain Penrose was such a worthless man that his early death, brought about entirely by his own excesses, could be nothing but an intense relief to his young widow, who was now enjoying the reaction, after five years of married misery. Miss Masterman’s dislike to Mrs Penrose was fully shared by her friend Lady O’Leary; and they both agreed that the widow was in all probability a designing adventuress, and deplored the infatuation which evidently blinded the rector as to her real character, for, as Lady O’Leary observed: ‘Though it was given out that Mrs Penrose was the particular friend of _Mrs_ Draycott, the rector’s partiality was obvious!’

Miss Masterman had been at Sunnydale for six weeks, when one morning she received a letter from her housekeeper, informing her that Mr Lambe had taken upon himself to remark that the orphans were looking pale and jaded, and that he was going to take them all to spend a day at the seaside. Miss Masterman, on reading this letter, felt most indignant, and at once wrote to Mr Lambe to forbid the proposed excursion; and after enumerating the many obligations under which she had laid him—not forgetting the hundred pounds she had lent him—she concluded by expressing her surprise that he should presume to interfere with her special protégées in any way whatever.

To this Mr Lambe replied that he was ‘extremely sorry if he had offended Miss Masterman; that he had imagined that she would be pleased for the orphans to have the treat, particularly as some of them looked far from well; but that, having promised the children, it was impossible for him to break his word, particularly as he had ordered a van for their conveyance and made all the necessary arrangements for the trip; he therefore trusted that Miss Masterman would forgive him if he still kept his promise to his little friends.’

Furious at this unexpected opposition to her will, Miss Masterman at once went in search of Mrs Draycott to inform her that it was necessary for her to go home for a week or ten days on business of importance. Finding that Mrs Draycott was not at home, she repaired to the rector’s study, and after knocking at the door, and being told to enter, she informed Mr Draycott of her intentions. Saying that she must write home at once, she was about to withdraw, when Mr Draycott courteously asked her if she would not write in the study, to save time, as he was just going out. Miss Masterman thanked him; and as soon as he had gone, sat down and wrote to her housekeeper to say that she would be at home the following day without fail. Having finished her letter, she was about to leave the room, when she observed a note in a lady’s handwriting, which had apparently slipped out of the blotting-pad on to the floor. She picked it up, and was about to return it to its place, when the signature, ‘Florence Penrose,’ caught her eye. ‘What can that frivolous being have to say to the rector?’ thought Miss Masterman; and feeling that her curiosity was too strong to be resisted, she unfolded the note, and read the following words:

MY DEAR FRIEND—I have just received the diamonds, which are exactly
what I wanted. The baby’s cloak and hood will do very well. I have
now nearly all that I require. My only terror is, lest our secret
should be discovered.—In great haste. Yours, as ever,

FLORENCE PENROSE.

_P.S._—I hope you won’t forget to supply me with plenty of flowers.

Here was a discovery! For a few moments Miss Masterman sat motionless with horror; her head was in a whirl, and she had to collect her thoughts before she could make up her mind what to do. The first definite idea that occurred to her was to secure the note; the next was, to show it to Lady O’Leary and to discuss with her what was to be done. As soon, therefore, as she had completed all her arrangements for her journey on the morrow, she repaired to her friend’s lodgings; and after Lady O’Leary had fairly exhausted all the expletives that even her extensive Irish vocabulary could supply, to express her horror and detestation of the conduct of the rector and Mrs Penrose, the two ladies laid their heads together, and seriously discussed the advisability of writing to the bishop of the diocese and sending him the incriminating letter. However, they finally decided to do nothing before Miss Masterman’s return to Sunnydale; and in the meantime, Lady O’Leary undertook to be on the watch, and to keep her friend _au courant_ as to what was going on in the parish.

It was late that evening when Miss Masterman returned to the rectory, and by going up directly to her room, she avoided meeting the rector. The next morning she pleaded headache as an excuse for having her breakfast sent up to her; and did not come down until, from her window, she had seen Mr Draycott leave the house, knowing he would be away for some hours. He left a polite message with his wife, regretting that he had not been able to say good-bye in person to Miss Masterman.

‘The wily hypocrite!’ thought that lady. ‘He little thinks that his guilt is no secret to me. But such atrocity shall not go unpunished!’

When she took leave of Mrs Draycott, she astonished that lady by holding her hand for some moments as she gazed mournfully into her face; then, with a final commiserating glance, the worthy spinster hurried into her fly. As she drove away, she leant forward and waved her hand to the assembled family with such effusion, that Mrs Draycott exclaimed: ‘Dear me, I fear I have done Miss Masterman injustice. I had no idea that she possessed so much feeling as she showed just now. One would really think she was going for good, instead of only ten days!’

‘No such luck,’ cried the irrepressible Hubert. ‘But, at all events, we have got rid of her for a week at least; so now, we’ll enjoy ourselves, and forget all about “Pobe” till she turns up again!’—a resolution which the young gentleman did not fail to keep most faithfully.

In the meantime, Miss Masterman was busily employed at Bradborough in quelling orphans and other myrmidons, and reducing things in general to complete subjection to her will; but with regard to Mr Lambe, she found her task more difficult than she expected. In fact, the worm had turned; and on her summoning him to her presence and opening the vials of her wrath on his devoted head, he calmly but firmly announced his intention of sending his resignation to his bishop; which took Miss Masterman so completely by surprise, that, in her bewilderment, she actually asked him to reconsider his decision. But though she even went so far as to give her consent to the orphans having their coveted treat, Mr Lambe’s determination was not to be shaken.

The following week flew swiftly away; a good deal of correspondence devolved upon Miss Masterman through having to think of a successor to Mr Lambe, and the lady of the manor was very much worried. At last, however, everything was settled, and Miss Masterman began to think of returning to Sunnydale, where, as she felt, fresh anxieties and most painful duties awaited her.

POPULAR LEGAL FALLACIES.[1]

BY AN EXPERIENCED PRACTITIONER.

_DEEDS OF GIFT AND WILLS.—I._

One of the most universally believed fallacies is that it is better to make a deed of gift than a will for the disposal of property. Nothing can be more dangerous than this delusion, as we have often had occasion to observe in the course of our experience. A deed of gift—pure and simple—is a document under seal evidencing the fact that certain property specified therein has been absolutely given by the donor to the donee, without any reservation for the benefit of the former, or any power for him to revoke the gift or resume possession of the property in any circumstances. If the deed contains a condition that the donor shall have the enjoyment of the property during his life, and that he shall have a right to recall the gift thereby made, and dispose of the property in some other way, then the document is to all intents and purposes a will; and if it is only executed and attested as an ordinary deed, it is altogether void, in consequence of non-compliance with the directions contained in the Wills Act, 1837, which very properly requires more precautions against fraud and forgery in the case of a will than in the case of a deed. We say ‘very properly,’ because the will does not take effect during the lifetime of the testator; and therefore the greatest safeguard is removed by his death before the document can be acted upon or its authenticity be likely to be questioned. This is a common oversight. The deed is prepared and duly stamped; and in consequence of the insertion of the powers alluded to above, it proves to be utterly useless, when, after the decease of the donor, his property is claimed by his heir-at-law and next of kin because of his having died intestate. It may occasion some surprise that any solicitor will prepare a deed which he knows cannot stand the test of litigation; but this is not altogether the fault of the profession. In many cases, the danger is pointed out; but if the donor is determined to dispose of his own property in his own way, who can gainsay him? If he cannot get what he requires in one office, he will go to another; and we have several times lost clients in consequence of our refusal to prepare such a deed; all our arguments being met by the reply that there would be no duties to pay to the government if the deed were executed; a complete fallacy in many cases, as we have afterwards had occasion to know, when we have seen what followed the decease of the misguided donor.

On the other hand, if there is a genuine gift, and possession is given in accordance with the deed, what then? One case which came under our notice may illustrate the danger against which we have frequently protested in vain. A retired merchant invested the whole of his savings in a freehold estate which would produce sufficient annual income to supply all his wants and leave a good margin for future accumulations. Being a widower, in somewhat infirm health, he took up his residence in the house of his younger son, the elder being an irreclaimable reprobate. Unfortunately, the wife of this younger son was an artful and avaricious woman, whose sole reason for consenting to the arrangement as to residence was the hope of future gain. The old gentleman had an insurmountable objection to making a will—not an uncommon weakness—as it reminded him too forcibly of the time when he would have to leave his fine estate and go over to the great majority. At length, after urgent and repeated representations as to the risk of his estate being sold by his dissipated heir-at-law in case of his dying intestate, he was persuaded to execute a deed of gift to his younger son, to whom at the same time he handed the title-deeds relating to the estate. Soon afterwards, a quarrel arose between the donor and his daughter-in-law; and the latter persuaded her husband—whose moral principles were as weak as those of his brother, though in a different way—to sell the estate, and then turn his father out of his house. After his ignominious dismissal, the poor old gentleman went to the house of a nephew, who soon tired of supporting him; and eventually he was obliged to go into the workhouse, altogether neglected to the time of his death by all his relatives, except his graceless elder son; and alas! he could not assist his aged parent, as he was himself almost destitute. This may appear to be an extreme case; but it is not a solitary one, although it is one of the worst of those which have come under our own observation.

This brief narrative may serve as an introduction to the explanation of one remarkable peculiarity in the practical working of a deed of gift of real estate. Personal property may of course be sold, and the sale completed by delivery of the goods or other chattels to the purchaser; but actual possession of land is no clue to the ownership thereof, the title being evidenced by deeds in the general way, the exceptions being those cases in which land has descended to the heir in consequence of the intestacy of the former owner; and also those cases in which long-continued possession has given an impregnable title to a person who was originally a mere trespasser, or at the most a tenant whose landlord has been lost sight of. When the freehold estate above mentioned was given away and the gift was evidenced by deed and actual possession, the donor lost the power of again giving it away either by deed or by his will. But he might have sold the property if he could have found a purchaser willing to complete without actual possession of the title-deeds; which, however, he might afterwards have recovered from the holder thereof; the reason for this being, that where there are two inconsistent titles, both derived from the same person, but one depending upon an actual sale and payment by the purchaser of the price agreed upon, while the other rests upon no better foundation than a mere voluntary act on the part of the donor, the title of the purchaser will prevail, because of the valuable consideration which he has paid; while the other person has paid nothing. On the other hand, if the donee, before he is dispossessed or his title superseded by a conveyance for value, were to sell the property, and if the sale were completed and the purchase-money paid, the donor would have lost his right to sell. Having placed the donee in a position to make a good title to the property, he must take the consequences of his own folly. We once had the pleasure of saving for the benefit of the vendor the value of an estate which he had previously given away; greatly to the astonishment of the donee, who supposed himself to be safely possessed of the whole estate.

It will be understood that our remarks have no application to marriage settlements or similar documents in which extensive though limited powers of appointment are generally reserved to the settler, the power extending over the whole estate or a specified part thereof; while the persons to be the beneficiaries are strictly defined; and powers are also given to him to direct the payment of portions to his younger children, and to charge them upon the estate which is comprised in the settlement. This is the legitimate way in which a landed proprietor can provide for his family; and the only serious objection which has ever been made thereto is that it has a tendency to perpetuate the descent of the estates, instead of their distribution and subdivision into smaller properties. But these documents are beyond the scope of this paper. What we strongly object to are voluntary deeds of gift, which are generally made for the purpose of avoiding the payment of legacy and succession duty, but lead too frequently to disastrous consequences. They are beneficial to the legal profession, often leading to costly and harassing litigation; but to the intended recipients of the bounty of the donor, and sometimes to the donor himself, they are in a corresponding degree injurious.

Attention may here be called to the provisions of the Customs and Inland Revenue Act, 1881, on the subject of voluntary gifts of personal property made for the purpose of avoiding the payment of the duties accruing due on the death of the owner of personal estate. By this Act, duty is payable at the like rates as the ordinary probate duty on voluntary gifts which may have been made by any person dying after 1st June 1881, whether such gift may have been made in contemplation of approaching death or otherwise, if the donor has not lived three calendar months afterwards; or by voluntarily causing property to be transferred to or vested in himself and some other person jointly, so as to give such other person benefit of survivorship; or by deed or other instrument not taking effect as a will, whereby an interest is reserved to the donor for life, or whereby he may have reserved to himself the right, by the exercise of any power, to reclaim the absolute interest in such property. This enactment removes the last argument in favour of deeds of gift, for they do not now have the effect of avoiding the payment of probate duty; and in any event, since 19th May 1853, succession duty has always been payable in respect of the benefit acquired by the successor by reason of the decease of his predecessor in title. The case of a voluntary settlement in respect of which the stamp duty has been paid is provided for by a direction that on production of such deed duly stamped, the stamp duty thereon may be returned. Personal estate includes leasehold property.

With respect to wills, the position is very different. Every man who has any property of any kind ought to make a will, especially if he desires his property to be distributed in any way different from the mode prescribed by law in case of his intestacy. Many cases occur in which the neglect to make a will is not only foolish but positively wrong. A husband has a duty to perform towards his wife which cannot be omitted without culpability; and the same may be said of the duty of a parent to his children. As to the former, there is a danger which is often unsuspected by the owner of real estate. The law provides that on the death of such a person intestate, leaving a widow, she shall be entitled to dower out of such estate; that is to say, one-third of the rents thereof during the remainder of her life; but this right to dower is subject to any disposition which the owner of the estate may have made thereof, or any charges which he may have created thereon. In England, there is no inalienable share of property which the widow and children can claim, even as against the devisee, as is the case in Scotland. But there is a power to bar the right of the widow to her dower by means of a declaration to that effect in the conveyance to a purchaser, or in any deed subsequently executed by him relating to the property. It must be observed that the declaration in bar of dower is not necessary for the purpose of creating charges upon the estate, because dower is expressly made subject to such charges. But if the declaration has been inserted in the conveyance—without the knowledge of the purchaser—his widow will have no claim to any provision out of such estate unless it shall be made for her by the will of her husband, who, in ignorance of the necessity for making a will, dies intestate, thus leaving his widow dependent upon his heir-at-law; in numerous cases, a distant relative, who is not disposed to acknowledge that the widow of his predecessor has any claim upon him.

Again, as to his children, the possessor of real estate ought not to forget that in the case of freehold property it will descend upon his eldest son as heir-at-law; thus leaving his younger sons and his daughters unprovided for except as to their respective shares of his personal estate, which may be of small value, or even insufficient for the payment of his debts. If the property should be copyhold, it would descend to the customary heir, who might be the eldest son, the youngest son, or all the sons as tenants in common in equal undivided shares; but in any event, the daughters would remain unprovided for.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] It should be understood that this series of articles deals mainly with English as apart from Scotch law.

A DEAD SHOT.

AN INCIDENT IN 1801.

The following singular story is perhaps worth putting on record because the narrative is strictly true.

In the year 1801, a fine old Jacobean house, known as Chatford House, situated on the borders of Devon and Somerset, was in the occupation of a Mr Edward Leggett, a wealthy farmer, and his two sons. The house, like many of its class, had originally been built so that its ground-plan formed the letter , a centre, with projecting doorway, and two wings; but one wing had been taken down altogether, as well as a portion of the other, so that the ground-plan became thereby altered and took this form, , the centre doorway remaining untouched. This should be remembered, in order to understand the circumstances of the principal incident of the narrative. Over the projecting doorway was a room which went by the name of the ‘Oratory,’ probably on account of its large projecting bay window, which gave it somewhat of an ecclesiastical appearance, and from this window a view could be obtained on all sides. The small part of the wing which was left standing was used as storerooms, and access from the outside was gained by a small door, which had been injudiciously opened in the corner, or angle, when the alterations were made.

Mr Leggett possessed a large quantity of very fine old massive silver-plate, which was placed in one of the storerooms, strongly secured and locked, in the remains of the wing referred to. It was supposed that he had also a considerable sum of money locked up with the plate, as banking was not so common in remote country-places in those days.

Now it happened that, on the 23d of April 1801, Mr Leggett and his two sons had to attend a neighbouring cattle fair, and had proposed to sleep in the town, instead of returning home the same night; but, a good customer having arranged to complete a purchase early the next morning, Mr Leggett’s eldest son, George, came back to Chatford very late and went quietly to bed; but the worry of the fair, and anxiety about to-morrow’s purchase, prevented him sleeping. His bedroom was at the end of the house, close to the store wing, and just above the little door in the angle already mentioned. Whilst restlessly tossing about from side to side, young Leggett heard the house clock strike two, and just after became aware of a peculiar grating noise, apparently under his window. To jump up and cautiously and silently open the casement was the work of a minute. It was a cloudy moonlight night, just light enough to show objects imperfectly, but enough for George Leggett to observe the figures of two men close to the little door in the angle immediately below, on which they were apparently operating with some cutting tool, which had produced the grating noise he had heard. George, who was a young man of great intelligence, quick judgment, and ready resource, instantly comprehending the situation, took his measures accordingly. He happened to be a member of the county yeomanry cavalry; and catching up his carabine and some ball cartridges, he silently left his room, and proceeding down the corridor—loading his carabine as he went along—soon reached the ‘Oratory’ room over the porch, whence he could see straight down on to the little door, which was then right in front of him. Silently opening the casement, he made a careful survey of the position, which a passing ray of moonlight enabled him to take in at a glance.

At the little white-painted door were the two men, whose dark figures were well thrown up by so light a background. One was stooping or kneeling, and the other was standing close behind him, their backs, of course, being turned towards their observer. Putting his carabine on full-cock and laying it carefully on the window-sill, after a deliberate aim, Leggett pressed the trigger. A loud shriek and a stifled cry followed, then all was still. Leggett stood intently watching the spot for several moments; but profound silence prevailed—not a sound was heard, not a movement was perceptible. The only other man in the house was the groom, who was quickly roused; and lanterns having been procured, he and Leggett repaired to the spot, and were not a little staggered to find both burglars lying dead. The hand of one of them still grasped a very large steel centre-bit, with which he had been operating on the door. Subsequent surgical investigation showed that the bullet had struck the back of the first man, passing through his heart, and had then entered the head of the man who was stooping or kneeling in front of him, just behind the ear, lodging in the brain. The bodies were at once removed in-doors; and at the inquest, held the next day, the following particulars were elicited:

By the side of the dead men was found a leather travelling portmanteau, containing a highly finished and elaborate set of housebreaking tools, together with a piece of candle and a preparation of phosphorus for obtaining a light, as it is needless to say that lucifer matches were unknown in 1801, their place being supplied by the old-fashioned flint and steel and tinder-box, articles not available for burglars’ use. Each man was armed with a brace of pocket pistols, loaded and primed; and one of them carried a formidable-looking dagger, fitted into the breast of his coat; clearly showing that these ruffians were prepared to offer a desperate resistance, if interrupted or molested. They were both well dressed, and had quite the appearance of gentlemen. Each possessed a good watch and seals, and carried a well-filled purse. One only had a pocket-book, containing many papers, chiefly relating to money matters and betting transactions; but only one letter, which, however, proved of immense importance in throwing light on the lives and characters of the deceased burglars, and in telling the story of the attempted robbery. The letter was directed to ‘Mr John Bellamy,’ at an address in Shoreditch, London, and was dated from Roxburn, the name of a large neighbouring farm, and bore the initials ‘J. P.,’ which, with the writing, were at once recognised at the inquest as those of ‘James Palmer,’ the managing bailiff at Roxburn Farm, a clever and unscrupulous fellow, without any regard for truth or principle, well known in those parts, but a man whom nobody liked and everybody distrusted. This communication was in these few but significant words: ‘The 23d will do best; coast clear, no fear, all straight.—J. P.’

This letter, with the tools and a full report of the whole case, was at once sent to Bow Street, London, and an investigation made by the ‘Bow Street runners’—the detectives of those days—for there were then no regular ‘police,’ as we now understand the term. On searching the premises in Shoreditch, indicated in the letter, where John Bellamy lived, it was discovered that the supposed John Bellamy was no other than ‘Jack Rolfe,’ one of the most successful professional burglars of that day; and the authorities hesitated not to express their satisfaction that his career had been so cleverly cut short.

An immense quantity of stolen property, of almost every description, was found at Rolfe’s lodgings in Shoreditch; and what was more important—as regards the present narrative at least—a correspondence extending over three or four years between Mr James Palmer of Roxburn Farm and the arch-burglar John Bellamy, alias Jack Rolfe himself, by which it appeared that this robbery had been planned and arranged by Palmer, who had supplied Rolfe with the fullest information as to Mr Leggett’s plate and money, as well as a neatly drawn plan of the premises, which was found amongst the papers. Palmer had also arranged the date of the robbery for the 23d of April, as he had discovered that Mr Leggett and his two sons intended to sleep out that night. Nor was this all; for only a few weeks previously, the rascal had had the effrontery to invite Rolfe to pay him a visit at Roxburn, under colour of his being a personal friend, which invitation Rolfe had readily accepted; and one of the witnesses at the inquest well remembered his coming, and at once recognised him in one of the dead men—he of the centre-bit. Rolfe was described as a quiet, pleasant, and rather gentlemanly man.

Not far from Mr Leggett’s gate, a light cart and pony were found tethered early in the morning of the attempted robbery. The cart had been hired from a neighbouring market-town to convey the thieves to the scene of operations, and to bring them back with—as they fondly anticipated—a sackful of rich plunder. They had been staying a day or two at this inn as commercial travellers, calling themselves brothers, and giving the name of Sutton.

On the evidence afforded by the correspondence found in Shoreditch, Palmer was apprehended; and further investigation brought out the fact that the notorious Jack Rolfe was not only his friend, correspondent, and accomplice, but his own brother also, Rolfe being merely an ‘alias’ for his real name of Palmer. The two men were very much alike both in face and figure; and it came out in evidence that they belonged to a family of burglars and sharpers. One brother had been transported for life for robbery and violence; another was then in prison for fraud and theft; James had just been apprehended; and John had been shot dead whilst plying his trade. James appeared to have been the only member who had held a respectable position—that of manager of Roxburn Farm, and he could not keep away from dishonest practices. It was also further discovered that Palmer had been an accomplice in two or three mysterious burglaries which had been perpetrated in the neighbourhood during the two or three previous years, in which the thieves had displayed an accurate knowledge—even to minute details—of the premises attacked, the habits of the inmates, and the drawers or closets where valuables were kept. All this was due to the planning and arranging of the brother James, who could at his leisure quietly take his measures on the spot; which were then carefully communicated to his brother John, who ultimately became the willing executant. Palmer was shortly after brought to trial, convicted, and sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation.

The verdict of the coroner’s jury was ‘justifiable homicide;’ for in those days of desperate and well-armed burglars, the shooting of one or two of these gentry, whilst in the act of plying their nefarious calling, was considered not only a clever but a meritorious action.

THE EVIDENCE OF THE SENSES.

The senses are the witnesses which bring in evidence from the outer world, without which that world would for us have no existence at all; but the mind sits aloft on the judgment-seat and forms its conclusions from the evidence laid before it; and these conclusions are for the most part wonderfully correct; for, though the testimony of one sense alone might lead the mind to form an erroneous opinion, this can be rectified by discovering what one or more of the other senses have to say on the same subject. When, however—as sometimes happens under peculiar circumstances—the evidence of one sense only is available, the mind may very readily arrive at a false conclusion. As an instance of this may be cited what is often observed by surgeons in cases of hip-joint disease. The patient, usually a child, complains of severe pain in the knee, which, however, has not, so far as can be ascertained, been injured in any way. Very likely, the pain is severe enough to prevent sleep at night, so that there can be no doubt about its existence, and it may perhaps have been almost continuous for some time past. Now, in such a case the surgeon will have a shrewd suspicion of what is really amiss, and very often will at once proceed to examine the hip. This he will do, too, in spite of assurances on the part of the parents that the patient always complains of the knee and of that joint only. He does not doubt that the pain feels as if it was in the knee, but he strongly suspects, nevertheless, that the disease is in the hip; and this often proves to be the case. This is an instance of what is called ‘referred sensation.’ The nerve which conveys sensation from the knee also sends a branch to the hip-joint, and it is this anatomical fact which explains the phenomenon. It might be expected that even if the pain was not felt solely in the hip, it would at least be always felt there as well as in the knee. This, however, though sometimes the case, is by no means always so. In this instance, the patient comes not unnaturally to the conclusion that where he feels the pain, there the cause of the pain must of necessity be situated. He would be quite ready to declare that there was nothing the matter with his hip, for he cannot see into the joint and discover the disease there. He has, in fact, to depend upon the evidence of one sense only, and the conclusion based upon the evidence of the single sensation of pain, is false.

Another instance in which the testimony of one sense alone may lead to a false conclusion as to the whereabouts of the cause of a pain is found in what often takes place after the amputation of a limb. Most people are aware that after part of a limb has been removed by the surgeon’s knife, the patient may still feel as though his arm or leg, as the case may be, was entire, may feel much pain in the foot when the leg has been amputated far above the ankle. Here, in recovering from the effects of the anæsthetic, were it not for the additional evidence of his eyesight, the patient might well doubt whether his limb had been removed at all. The amusing story, in Marryat’s _Jacob Faithful_, of the old sailor who, having two wooden legs, was accustomed at times to wrap them up in flannel on account of the rheumatic pains which he said he felt in them, is not so very extravagant after all. It is not, however, altogether correct, as it represents the man feeling these pains in his legs _long_ after they had been amputated. As a matter of fact, the false impression passes off before very long. The explanation given by physiologists is as follows: The severed nerve in the stump is irritated and gives rise to pain; and inasmuch as irritation to this nerve-trunk has hitherto been always caused by irritation of its ultimate filaments distributed to the foot and leg, the mind continues for some time to believe that the sensation still proceeds from thence.

We may glance at another and very similar instance of referred sensations occurring also in surgical practice. Amongst the rarer operations of what is termed plastic, and, by Sir James Paget, ‘decorative’ surgery is that by which a new nose is formed by calling in the aid of the tissue of other parts of the body. This has been done by bringing a flap of skin cut from the forehead down over the nasal bones. The flap retains its connection with the deeper tissues at a point between the eyes by means of a small pedicle, and thus its blood-vessels and nerves are not all severed. This flap is not simply pulled down from the forehead—it is twisted at the pedicle, so that the raw surface lies on the bones of the nose. Now, for some time after this operation has been performed, any irritation in the nose is referred by the mind to that part of the forehead from which the flap of skin was taken; and therefore, if a fly crawls over the patient’s nose, it appears to him to be creeping across his forehead. Before the operation, whenever the nerve-ends in the flap were irritated, it was caused by something touching the forehead, and it is some time before the mind ceases to refer such irritation to that part of the face.

Leaving, now, the domain of surgery, we may notice two simple experiments mentioned by physiologists, which all can perform for themselves. They both prove that conclusions formed upon the evidence of the sense of touch alone may be quite incorrect. By crossing the second finger over the first, and then placing a marble between the tips of the fingers, we get a sensation that leads us to suppose that there must be two marbles instead of one only. This is because two points in the fingers are touched simultaneously, which in the ordinary position could only be touched at the same moment by two marbles. Judging, then, from the sense of touch alone, the mind infers that there are two round hard substances beneath the finger-tips; but the evidence of eyesight and the knowledge that we have placed but one marble in position, corrects the misapprehension. Again, if we take a pair of compasses the points of which are not sufficiently sharp to prick the skin, and separating the extremities rather more than an inch from one another, draw them across the cheek transversely from a little in front of one ear to the lips, we shall be tempted to think, from the evidence of touch alone, that the points are becoming more widely separated. By measuring the distance between the two points afterwards, we can assure ourselves that this has not been so; but whilst the compasses were being drawn along the cheek, and still more when they had reached the lips, the impression that the distance between the points increased was very strong. This delusion is said to depend upon the fact, that some parts of the cutaneous covering of the body are much more plentifully supplied with nerves than others. It is stated that the mind probably forms its idea of the distance between two points on the skin which are irritated in any way—as, for instance, by the points of a pair of compasses touching the surface—by the number of nerve-endings lying between these two points which remain unirritated. Thus, if there be fewer unirritated nerve-endings lying between the two points of the compasses when placed on the cheek, than there are when they are placed at the lips, the mind will infer that the distance between these points is smaller in the former position than in the latter.

THE STATE’S NEGLECT OF DENTISTRY.

The machinery of the State is so vast that it may well be imperfect here and there. It frequently falls to the lot of individuals to point out how the tide of progress has left details in a condition of inefficiency. We note a recent instance of this. In August last, at the annual meeting of the British Dental Association, Mr George Cunningham, one of its members, drew attention to the backwardness of the practice of dentistry in the various departments of the State. The substance of his case amounted to this: In the army and navy, unskilled practitioners wielded uncouth and inefficient instruments in following antiquated and unscientific methods; while the police force and the employees of the India and Post offices by no means derived the full advantages of this department of medical science. Mr Cunningham was bold enough to include the inmates of prisons among those whose interests were neglected; and of course the principle of the humane treatment of criminals is already conceded in the appointment of jail chaplains and surgeons. We need not enter here into the voluminous details with which Mr Cunningham substantiated his case. The broad conclusions he would seem to draw are these: that the medical practitioner employed by the State should possess a more thorough knowledge of dentistry; that, where necessary, the services of the completely trained and qualified dentist should be secured; and that full resort should be had to the remedial resources of dental science. Seeing the suffering caused by diseases of the teeth, and the subtle and intimate connection existing between dental and other maladies, we trust Mr Cunningham’s paper may receive the consideration it would seem to deserve.

THE BOARD OF TRADE JOURNAL.

Persons wishing to keep up their information on subjects connected with trade and changes in foreign tariffs may do so by consulting the _Board of Trade Journal_, the first numbers of which have just been issued. An attempt is also made in this journal to give the public information as to trade movements abroad, from the communications of the different consuls and colonial governors. Some of the periodical statistical returns of the Board of Trade will also be included from time to time. Such a journal deserves the support of all merchants and manufacturers at all interested in our foreign trade. Formerly, the commercial Reports from Her Majesty’s representatives abroad did not see the light for months, or perhaps a year, after they were received; now, these have some chance of being really useful to persons interested in foreign trade and to the community at large.

LOVE’S SEASONS.

Love came to my heart with the earliest swallow,
The lark’s blithe matins and breath of Spring;
With hyacinth-bell and with budding sallow,
And all the promise the year could bring.

Love dwelt in my heart while the Summer roses
Poured forth their incense on every hand;
And from wood and meadow and garden-closes
The sweet bird-voices made glad the land.

Love grew in my heart to its full fruition
When Autumn lavished her gifts untold,
And answered earth’s myriad-voiced petition
With orchard-treasure and harvest-gold.

Love waned in my heart when the snows were shaken
From Winter’s hand o’er the rose’s bed;
And never again shall my soul awaken
At Hope’s glad summons—for Love lies dead.

W. P. W.

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