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 Name:_______________________ CSCI 2490 C++ Programming
Armstrong Atlantic State University
(50 minutes) Instructor: Dr. Y. Daniel Liang

(Open book test, you can only bring the textbook)

Part I: Multiple Choice Questions:

1
12 quizzes for Chapter 7
1 If you declare an array double list[] = {3.4, 2.0, 3.5, 5.5}, list[1] is ________.

A. 3.4
B. undefined
C. 2.0
D. 5.5
E. 3.4
2 Are the following two declarations the same

char city[8] = "Dallas";

char city[] = "Dallas";

A. no
B. yes
3 Given the following two arrays:

char s1[] = {'a', 'b', 'c'};

char s2[] = "abc";

Which of the following statements is correct?

A. s2 has four characters

B. s1 has three characters
C. s1 has four characters
D. s2 has three characters
4 When you pass an array to a function, the function receives __________.

A. the length of the array

B. a copy of the array
C. the reference of the array
D. a copy of the first element
5 Are the following two declarations the same

char city[] = {'D', 'a', 'l', 'l', 'a', 's'};

char city[] = "Dallas";

1
A. yes
B. no
6 Suppose char city[7] = "Dallas"; what is the output of the following statement?

cout << city;

A. Dallas0
B. nothing printed
C. D
D. Dallas
7 Which of the following is incorrect?

A. int a(2);
B. int a[];
C. int a = new int[2];
D. int a() = new int[2];
E. int a[2];
8 Analyze the following code:

#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

void reverse(int list[], const int size, int newList[])

{
for (int i = 0; i < size; i++)
newList[i] = list[size - 1 - i];
}

int main()
{
int list[] = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5};
int newList[5];

reverse(list, 5, newList);
for (int i = 0; i < 5; i++)
cout << newList[i] << " ";
}

A. The program displays 1 2 3 4 5 and then raises an ArrayIndexOutOfBoundsException.

B. The program displays 1 2 3 4 6.
C. The program displays 5 4 3 2 1.
D. The program displays 5 4 3 2 1 and then raises an ArrayIndexOutOfBoundsException.
9 (Tricky) What is the output of the following code:

#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

2
 int main()
{
int x[] = {120, 200, 16};
for (int i = 0; i < 3; i++)
cout << x[i] << " ";
}

A. 200 120 16
B. 16 120 200
C. 120 200 16
D. 16 200 120
10 Which of the following statements is valid?

A. int i(30);
B. int i[4] = {3, 4, 3, 2};
C. int i[] = {3, 4, 3, 2};
D. double d[30];
E. int[] i = {3, 4, 3, 2};
11 Which of the following statements are true?

A. The array elements are initialized when an array is created.

B. The array size is fixed after it is created.
C. Every element in an array has the same type.
D. The array size used to declare an array must be a constant expression.
12 How many elements are in array double list[5]?

A. 5
B. 6
C. 0
D. 4

3 quizzes for Chapter 8

13 Which of the following function declaration is correct?

A. int f(int a[3][], int rowSize);

B. int f(int a[][], int rowSize, int columnSize);
C. int f(int a[][3], int rowSize);
D. int f(int[][] a, int rowSize, int columnSize);
14 What is the output of the following code?

#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

3
 int main()
{
int matrix[4][4] =
{{1, 2, 3, 4},
{4, 5, 6, 7},
{8, 9, 10, 11},
{12, 13, 14, 15}};

int sum = 0;

for (int i = 0; i < 4; i++)

cout << matrix[i][1] << " ";

return 0;
}

A. 3 6 10 14
B. 1 3 8 12
C. 1 2 3 4
D. 4 5 6 7
E. 2 5 9 13
15
Which of the following statements are correct?

A. char charArray[2][2] = {{'a', 'b'}, {'c', 'd'}};

B. char charArray[][] = {{'a', 'b'}, {'c', 'd'}};
C. char charArray[][] = {'a', 'b'};
D. char charArray[2][] = {{'a', 'b'}, {'c', 'd'}};
Part II: Show the printout of the following code:

a. (2 pts)
#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

void swap(int n1, int n2)

{
int temp = n1;
n1 = n2;
n2 = temp;
}

int main()
{
int a[] = {1, 2};
swap(a[0], a[1]);
cout << "a[0] = " << a[0] << " a[1] = " << a[1] << endl;

return 0;
}

4
b. (2 pts)
#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

void swap(int a[])

{
int temp = a[0];
a[0] = a[1];
a[1] = temp;
}

int main()
{
int a[] = {1, 2};
swap(a);
cout << "a[0] = " << a[0] << " a[1] = " << a[1] << endl;

return 0;
}

c. (4 pts) Given the following program, show the values of the array
in the following figure:

#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

int main()
{
int values[5];
for (int i = 1; i < 5; i++)
{
values[i] = i;
}

values[0] = values[1] + values[4];

return 0;
}

5
 After the last statement
After the array is After the first iteration After the loop is in the main method is
created in the loop is done completed executed

0 0 0 0

1 1 1 1

2 2 2 2

3 3 3 3

4 4 4 4

Part III:

Part III:

1. Write a function that finds the smallest element in an

array of integers using the following header:
double min(double array[], int size)

Write a test program that prompts the user to enter ten

numbers, invokes this function, and displays the minimum
value. Here is the sample run of the program:

<Output>

Enter ten numbers: 1.9 2.5 3.7 2 1.5 6 3 4 5 2

The minimum number is: 1.5

<End Output>

2. Write a function that counts the number of letters in

the string using the following header:
int countLetters(const char s[])

6
Write a test program that reads a C-string and displays the number of
letters in the string. Here is a sample run of the program:

<Output>

Enter a string: 2010 is coming

The number of letters in 2010 is coming is 8

<End Output>

7
Other documents randomly have
different content
 ou d ot t d y a e t e eye
Yet mother dear, I’ll tell it openly:
Much as my haughty pride may swell and puff,
I feel submissive and subdued enough,
When thy much cherished, darling form is nigh.
Is it thy spirit that subdues me then,
Thy spirit grasping all things in its ken,
And soaring to the light of heaven again?
By the sad recollection I’m oppress’d
That I have done so much to grieve thy breast,
Which loved me more than all things else, the best.

Prose Extracts From Heine.

The French are the chosen people of the new religion, its first
gospels and dogmas have been drawn up in their language; Paris is
the New Jerusalem, and the Rhine is the Jordan which divides the
consecrated land of freedom from the land of the Philistines.
When Candide came to Eldorado, he saw in the streets a number
of boys who were playing with gold nuggets instead of marbles. This
degree of luxury made him imagine that they must be the king’s
children, and he was not a little astonished when he found that in
Eldorado gold nuggets are of no more value than marbles are with
us, and that the school-boys play with them. A similar thing
happened to a friend of mine, a foreigner, when he came to
Germany and first read German books. He was perfectly astounded
at the wealth of ideas which he found in them; but he soon
remarked that ideas in Germany are as plentiful as gold nuggets in
Eldorado, and that those writers whom he had taken for intellectual
princes, were in reality only common school-boys.

The Lorelei.
 I know not what it may mean to-day
That I am to grief inclined;
There’s a tale of a Siren—an old-world lay—
That I can not get out of my mind.

The air is cool in the twilight gray,

And quietly flows the Rhine;
On the ridge of the cliff, at the close of the day
The rays of the sunset shine.

There sits a maiden, richly dight,

And wonderfully fair;
Her golden bracelet glistens bright
As she combs her golden hair.

And while she combs her locks so bright,

She sings a charming lay;
’Tis sweet, yet hath a marvelous might,
And ’tis echoing far away.

The sailor floats down, in the dusk, on the Rhine

That carol awakens his grief;
He sees on the cliff the last sunbeam shine,
But he sees not the perilous reef.

Ah! soon will the sailor, in bitter despair,

To his foundering skiff be clinging!
And that’s what the beautiful Siren there
Has done with her charming singing.

FRIEDRICH SCHLEIERMACHER.
He was an admirable dialectician, and did more than
any other writer to promote in Germany a sympathetic
 study of Plato. Yet there is a touch of Romanticism in the
vague, shadowy and mystic language in which he presents
the elements of Christian thought and life.—Sime.
Wilhelm Von Humboldt says that Schleiermacher’s
speaking far exceeded his power in writing, and that his
strength consisted in the “deeply penetrative character of
his words, which was free from art, and the persuasive
effusion of feeling moving in perfect unison with one of
the rarest intellects.”—American Cyclopædia.

Extracts From Schleiermacher.

True Pleasure.—Pleasure is a flower which grows indeed of itself,
but only in fruitful gardens and well cultivated fields. Not that we
should labor in our minds to gain it; but yet he who has not labored
for it, with him it will not grow; whoever has not brought out in his
own character something profitable and praiseworthy, it is in vain for
him to sow. Even he who understands it best can do nothing better
for the pleasure of another than that he should communicate to him
what is the foundation of his own. Whosoever does not know how to
work up the rough stuff for himself, and thereby make it his own,
whosoever does not refine his disposition, has not secured for
himself a treasure of thoughts, a many sidedness of relations, a view
of the world and human things peculiar to himself—such a man
knows not how to seize the proper occasion for pleasure, and the
most important is assuredly lost for him. It is not the indolent who
finds so much difficulty in filling up the time set aside for repose.
Who find vexation and ennui in everything? From whom are we
hearing never ending complaints about the poverty and dull
uniformity of life? Who are most bitter in their lamentations over the
slender powers of men for social intercourse, and over the
insufficiency of all measures to obtain joy? But this is only what they
deserve; for man cannot reap where he has not sown.
The Esteem of the World.—We all consider what is thought of us by
those around us as a substantial good. Trust in our uprightness of
character, belief in our abilities, and the desire that arises from this
to be more intimately connected with us, and to gain our good
opinion, everything of this kind is often a more valuable treasure
than great riches. Of this the indolent are quite aware. If men would
only believe in their capacity without the necessity of producing
anything painstaking and really praiseworthy! If they would only
agree to take some other proof of their probity and love of mankind
than deeds! If they would only accept some other security for their
wisdom than prudent language, good counsel, and a sound
judgment on the proper mode of conducting the affairs of life!
Instead of rising to a true love of honor, such men creep amidst
childish vanities, which try to fix the attention of mankind by pitiful
trifles and to glitter by shadowy appearances; instead of attempting
to reach something really noble, they rest only on external customs;
the mental disposition that arises from this is their virtue, and their
governing passion is what they regard as understanding.

ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER.
A young man not understood.—Goethe.
German philosophers have as a rule been utterly
indifferent to style, but Schopenhauer’s prose is clear, firm
and graceful, and to this fact he owes much of his
popularity.—Sime.
Our inductive science ends with the questions—“Whence?”
“Wherefore?” We observe facts, and classify them; but then follows
a question respecting the substance that lies behind the facts? What
do they express? What is the Will of which they are the
Representation?—If we were isolated from the world around us, we
could not answer the question. But we are not so isolated. We
belong to nature, and nature is included in ourselves. We have in
ourselves the laws of the world around us. We find in our own
bodies the mechanical laws, and those of the organic life manifested
in plants and animals. We have the same understanding which we
find working around us in the system of nature. If we consisted only
of the body and the understanding, we could not distinguish
ourselves from nature. If we know what is in ourselves, we know
what is in nature. Now what do we find controlling the facts of our
own natural life? An impulse which we may call the Will to live. We
often use the word Will in a complex sense, as implying both
thought and choice; but in its purest, simplest sense, as the word is
used here, it means the impulse, or force, which is the cause of a
phenomenon. In this sense, there is a Will from which the
movements within the earth and upon its surface derive their origin.
It works continuously upward from the forms of crystals, through the
forms of zoöphytes, mollusca, annelida, insectia, arachnida,
crustacea, pisces, reptilia, aves, and mammalia. There is one Will
manifested in the growth of all plants and animals. That which we
call a purpose when viewed as associated with intellect, is, when
regarded most simply, or in itself, a force or impulse—the natural
Will of which we are now speaking. It is the Will to live—the mighty
impulse by which every creature is impelled to maintain its own
existence, and without any care for the existence of others. It is an
unconscious Egoism. Nature is apparently a collection of many wills;
but all are reducible to one—the Will to live. Its whole life is a never-
ending warfare. It is forever at strife with itself; for it asserts itself in
one form to deny itself as asserted in other forms. It is everywhere
furnished with the means of working out its purpose. Where the Will
of the lion is found, we find the powerful limbs, the claws, the teeth
necessary for supporting the life to which the animal is urged by his
Will. The Will is found associated in man with an understanding; but
is not subservient to that understanding. On the contrary, the
understanding or intellect is subservient. The Will is the moving
power; the understanding is the instrument.
This one Will in nature and in ourselves serves to explain a great
part of all the movements of human society. Hence arise the
collisions of interest that excite envy, strife, and hatred between
individuals or classes. Society differs from an unsocial state of life in
the forms imposed by intelligence on egoistic Will, but not in any
radical change made in that Will. Thus etiquette is the convenience
of egoism, and law is a fixing of boundaries within which egoism
may conveniently pursue its objects. The world around us, including
what is called the social or civilized world, may seem fair, when it is
viewed only as a stage, and without any reference to the tragedy
that is acted upon it. But, viewed in its reality, it is an arena for
gladiators, or an amphitheater where all who would be at peace
have to defend themselves. As Voltaire says, it is with sword in hand
that we must live and die. The man who expects to find peace and
safety here is like the traveler told of in one of Gracian’s stories,
who, entering a district where he hoped to meet his fellow-men,
found it peopled only by wolves and bears, while men had escaped
to caves in a neighboring forest. The same egoistic Will that
manifests itself dimly in the lowest stages of life, and becomes more
and more clearly pronounced as we ascend to creatures of higher
organization, attains its highest energy in man, and is here modified,
but not essentially changed, by a superior intelligence. The insect
world is full of slaughter; the sea hides from us frightful scenes of
cruel rapacity; the tyrannical and destructive instinct marks the so-
called king of birds, and rages in the feline tribes. In human society,
some mitigation of this strife takes place as the result of experience
and culture. By the use of the understanding, the Will makes laws
for itself, so that the natural bellum omnium contra omnes is
modified, and leaves to the few victors some opportunities of
enjoying the results of their victory. Law is a means of reducing the
evils of social strife to their most convenient form, and politics must
be regarded in the same way. The strength of all law and
government lies in our dread of the anarchic Will, that lies couched
behind the barriers of society and is ready to spring forth when they
are broken down.
 READINGS IN PHYSICAL SCIENCE.

Abridged from Professor Geikie’s Primer of Physical Geography.

V.—THE SEA.
[Continued.]

The sea is full of life, both of plants and animals. These

organisms die, and their remains necessarily get mixed up with the
different materials laid down upon the sea floor. So that, beside the
mere sand and mud, great numbers of shells, corals, and the harder
parts of other sea creatures must be buried there, as generation
after generation comes and goes.
It often happens that on parts of the sea bed the remains of
some of these animals are so abundant that they themselves form
thick and wide-spread deposits. Oysters, for example, grow thickly
together; and their shells, mingled with those of other similar
creatures, form what are called shell banks. In the Pacific and the
Indian Oceans a little animal, called the coral-polyp, secretes a hard
limy skeleton from the sea water; and as millions of these polyps
grow together, they form great reefs of solid rock, which are
sometimes, as in the Great Barrier Reef of Australia, hundreds of
feet thick and a thousand miles long. It is by means of the growth of
these animals that those wonderful rings of coral rock or coral
islands are formed in the middle of the ocean. Again, a great part of
the bed of the Atlantic Ocean is covered with fine mud, which on
examination is found to consist almost wholly of the remains of very
minute animals called foraminifera.
 Over the bottom of the sea, therefore, great beds of sand and
mud, mingled with the remains of plants and animals, are always
accumulating. If now this bottom could be raised up above the sea
level, even though the sand and mud should get as dry and hard as
any rock among the hills, you would be able to say with certainty
that they had once been under the sea, because you would find in
them the shells and other remains of marine animals. This raising of
the sea bottom has often taken place in ancient times. You will find
most of the rocks of our hills and valleys to have been originally laid
down in the sea, where they were formed out of sand and mud
dropped on the sea floor, just as sand and mud are carried out to
sea and laid down there now. And in these rocks, not merely near
the shore, but far inland, in quarries or ravines, or the sides and
even the tops of the hills, you will be able to pick out the skeletons
and fragments of the various sea creatures which were living in the
old seas.
Since the bottom of the sea forms the great receptacle into which
the mouldered remains of the surface of the land are continually
carried, it is plain that if this state of things were to go on without
modification or hindrance, in the end the whole of the solid land
would be worn away, and its remains would be spread out on the
sea floor, leaving one vast ocean to roll round the globe.
But there is in nature another force which here comes into play to
retard the destruction of the land.

THE INSIDE OF THE EARTH.

It may seem at first as if it were hopeless that man should ever
know anything about the earth’s interior. Just think what a huge ball
this globe of ours is, and you will see that after all, in living and
moving over its surface, we are merely like flies walking over a great
hill. All that can be seen from the top of the highest mountain to the
bottom of the deepest mine is not more in comparison than the
mere varnish on the outside of a school globe. And yet a good deal
can be learnt as to what takes place within the earth. Here and
there, in different countries, there are places where communication
exists between the interior and the surface; and it is from such
places that much of our information on this subject is derived.
Volcanoes are among the most important of the channels of
communication with the interior.
Let us suppose that you were to visit one of these volcanoes just
before what is called “an eruption.” As you approach it, you see a
conical mountain, seemingly with its top cut off. From this truncated
summit a white cloud rises. But it is not quite such a cloud as you
would see on a hill top in this country. For as you watch it you notice
that it rises out of the top of the mountain, even though there are
no clouds to be seen anywhere else. Ascending from the vegetation
of the lower grounds, you find the slopes to consist partly of loose
stones and ashes, partly of rough black sheets of rock, like the slags
of an iron furnace. As you get nearer the top the ground feels hot,
and puffs of steam, together with stifling vapors, come out of it here
and there. At last you reach the summit, and there what seemed a
level top is seen to be in reality a great basin, with steep walls
descending into the depths of the mountain. Screening your face as
well as possible from the hot gases which almost choke you, you
creep to the top of this basin, and look down into it. Far below, at
the base of the rough red and yellow cliffs which form its sides, lies
a pool of some liquid, glowing with a white heat, though covered for
the most part with a black crust like that seen on the outside of the
mountain during the ascent. From this fiery pool jets of the red hot
liquid are jerked out every now and then, stones and dust are cast
up into the air, and fall back again, and clouds of steam ascend from
the same source and form the uprising cloud which is seen from a
great distance hanging over the mountain.
This caldron-shaped hollow on the summit of the mountain is the
crater. The intensely heated liquid in the sputtering boiling pool at its
bottom is melted rock or lava. And the fragmentary materials—
ashes, dust, cinders, and stones—thrown out, are torn from the
hardened sides and bottom of the crater by the violence of the
explosions with which the gases and steam escape.
The hot air and steam, and the melted mass at the bottom of the
crater, show that there must be some source of intense heat
underneath. And as the heat has been coming out for hundreds, or
even thousands of years, it must exist there in great abundance.
But it is when the volcano appears in active eruption that the
power of this underground heat shows itself most markedly. For a
day or two beforehand, the ground around the mountain trembles.
At length, in a series of violent explosions, the heart of the volcano
is torn open, and perhaps its upper part is blown into the air. Huge
clouds of steam roll away up into the air, mingled with fine dust and
red hot stones. The heavier stones fall back again into the crater or
on the outer slopes of the mountain, but the finer ashes come out in
such quantity, as sometimes to darken the sky for many miles round,
and to settle down over the surrounding country as a thick covering.
Streams of white hot molten lava run down the outside of the
mountain, and descend even to the gardens and houses at the base,
burning up or overflowing whatever lies in their path. This state of
matters continues for days or weeks, until the volcano exhausts
itself, and then a time of comparative quiet comes, when only
steam, hot vapors, and gases are given off.
About 1800 years ago, there was a mountain near Naples shaped
like a volcano, and with a large crater covered with brushwood. No
one had ever seen any steam, or ashes, or lava come from it, and
the people did not imagine it to be a volcano, like some other
mountains in that part of Europe. They had built villages and towns
around its base, and their district, from its beauty and soft climate,
used to attract wealthy Romans to build villas there. But at last, after
hardly any warning, the whole of the higher part of the mountain
was blown into the air with terrific explosions. Such showers of fine
ashes fell for miles around, that the sky was as dark as midnight.
Day and night the ashes and stones descended on the surrounding
country; many of the inhabitants were killed, either by stones falling
on them, or from suffocation by the dust. When at last the eruption
ceased, the district, which had before drawn visitors from all parts of
the old world, was found to be a mere desert of grey dust and
stone. Towns and villages, vineyards and gardens, were all buried.
Of the towns, the two most noted were called Herculaneum and
Pompeii. So completely did they disappear, that, although important
places at the time, their very sites were forgotten, and only by
accident, after the lapse of some fifteen hundred years, were they
discovered. Excavations have since that time been carried on, the
hardened volcanic accumulations have been removed from the old
city, and you can now walk through the streets of Pompeii again,
with their roofless dwelling houses and shops, theaters and temples,
and mark on the causeway the deep ruts worn by the carriage
wheels of the Pompeians eighteen centuries ago. Beyond the walls
of the now silent city rises Mount Vesuvius, with its smoking crater,
covering one half of the old mountain which was blown up when
Pompeii disappeared.
Volcanoes, then, mark the position of some of the holes or
orifices, whereby heated materials from the inside of the earth are
thrown up to the surface. They occur in all quarters of the globe. In
Europe, beside Mount Vesuvius, which has been more or less active
since it was formed, Etna, Stromboli, and other smaller volcanoes,
occur in the basin of the Mediterranean, while far to the northwest
some volcanoes rise amid the snows and glaciers of Iceland. In
America a chain of huge volcanoes stretches down the range of
mountains which rises from the western margin of the continent. In
Asia they are thickly grouped together in Java and some of the
surrounding islands, and stretch thence through Japan and the
Aleutian Isles, to the extremity of North America. If you trace this
distribution upon the map, you will see that the Pacific Ocean is
girded all round with volcanoes.
Since these openings into the interior of the earth are so
numerous over the surface, we may conclude that this interior is
intensely hot. But we have other proofs of this internal heat. In
many countries hot springs rise to the surface. Even in England,
which is a long way from any active volcano, the water of the wells
of Bath is quite warm (120° Fahr.). It is known, too, that in all
countries the heat increases as we descend into the earth. The
deeper a mine the warmer are the rocks and air at its bottom. If the
heat continues to increase in the same proportion, the rocks must be
red hot at no great distance beneath us.
It is not merely by volcanoes and hot springs, however, that the
internal heat of the earth affects the surface. The solid ground is
made to tremble, or is rent asunder, or is upheaved or let down. You
have probably heard or read of earthquakes; those shakings of the
ground, which, when they are at their worst, crack the ground open,
throw down trees and buildings, and bury hundreds or thousands of
people in the ruins. Earthquakes are most common in or near those
countries where active volcanoes exist. They frequently take place
just before a volcanic eruption.
Some parts of the land are slowly rising out of the sea; rocks,
which used always to be covered by the tides, come to be wholly
beyond their limits; while others, which used never to be seen at all,
begin one by one to show their heads above water. On the other
hand some tracts are slowly sinking; piers, sea walls, and other old
landmarks on the beach, are one after another enveloped by the sea
as it encroaches further and higher on the land. These movements,
whether in an upward or downward direction, are likewise due in
some way to the internal heat.
Now when you reflect upon these various changes you will see
that through the agency of this same internal heat land is preserved
upon the face of the earth. If rain and frost, rivers, glaciers, and the
sea were to go on wearing down the surface of the land continually,
without any counterbalancing kind of action, the land would
necessarily in the end disappear, and indeed would have
disappeared long ago. But owing to the pushing out of some parts of
the earth’s surface by the movements of the heated materials inside,
portions of the land are raised to a higher level, while parts of the
bed of the sea are actually upheaved so as to form land.
This kind of elevation has happened many times in all quarters of
the globe. As already mentioned most of our hills and valleys are
formed of rocks, which were originally laid down on the bottom of
the sea, and have been subsequently raised into land.
This earth of ours is the scene of continual movement and
change. The atmosphere which encircles it is continually in motion,
diffusing heat, light, and vapor. From the sea and from the waters of
the land, vapor is constantly passing into the air, whence, condensed
into clouds, rain and snow, it descends again to the earth. All over
the surface of the land the water which falls from the sky courses
seaward in brooks and rivers, bearing into the great deep the
materials which are worn away from the land. Water is thus
ceaselessly circulating between the air, the land, and the sea. The
sea, too, is never at rest. Its waves gnaw the edges of the land, and
its currents sweep round the globe. Into its depths the spoils of the
land are borne, there to gather into rocks, out of which new islands
and continents will eventually be formed. Lastly, inside the earth is
lodged a vast store of heat by which the surface is shaken, rent
open, upraised or depressed. Thus, while old land is submerged
beneath the sea, new tracts are upheaved, to be clothed with
vegetation and peopled with animals, and to form a fitting abode for
man himself.
This world is not a living being, like a plant or an animal, and yet
you must now see that there is a sense in which we may speak of it
as such. The circulation of air and water, the interchange of sea and
land; in short the system of endless and continual movement by
which the face of the globe is day by day altered and renewed, may
well be called the Life of the Earth.
 SUNDAY READINGS.

SELECTED BY THE REV. J. H. VINCENT, D.D.

AM I NOT IN SPORT?
By JAMES WALKER, D.D., LL.D.
[February 3.]

“As a madman who casteth firebrands, arrows, and

death, so is the man who deceiveth his neighbor, and
saith, ‘Am I not in sport?’” Proverbs xxvi, 18:19.
It is incalculable how much pain is inflicted, and how much injury
is done, without anything which can properly be called malicious
intent, or deliberate wrong. Thus there are those who, like the
madman mentioned in Scripture, will cast firebrands, arrows, and
death, and then think it a sufficient excuse to say, “Are we not in
sport?” Let it be that they are; I think it will not be difficult to show
that this will not excuse, or do much to palliate, the conduct in
question. I think it will not be difficult to show that men are
answerable for the mischiefs they do from mere wantonness or in
sport, and that it is wrong-doing of this description which makes up
no inconsiderable part of every one’s guilt.
It is to little or no purpose to be able to say that such offences do
not originate in conscious malice, for, as has just been intimated, the
same is true of a large proportion of acknowledged crimes. It is
seldom, very seldom, that men injure one another from hatred, or
for the sake of revenge—because they find, or expect to find, any
pleasure in the mere consciousness of inflicting pain. Men injure one
another from wantonness, or want of consideration; or, more
commonly still, because the carrying out of their policy, or their
prejudices, or their sport, happens to interfere with the interests and
comfort of others, and, though really sorry for this, they are not
prepared to give up either their policy or their prejudices, or their
sport to spare another’s feelings. Wars are waged and conquests
made, mourning and desolation spread through a whole country, in
the wantonness of honor, or to gratify an insatiable ambition; but
without anything which can properly be called malice, either in the
first movers or immediate agents. Men opposed to each other in
politics or religion will allow this opposition to go to very unjustifiable
lengths, even to the disturbing of the peace of neighborhoods, and
the breaking of friendships and family connections; and all this, to
be sure, must give rise to a great deal of ill-will and hot blood; but it
does not originate in malice, properly so called—in positive malice
toward anybody. Likewise a rash and improvident man may bring
incalculable mischief on all connected with him, involving them in
pecuniary difficulties, or committing and paining them in other ways,
and yet be able to allege with perfect truth that he did not mean to
do them any harm; that, so far from being actuated by malice, he
feels nothing and has felt nothing but the sincerest affection for the
very persons whom he has injured, and most affection, perhaps, for
those whom he has most injured. But why multiply illustrations? The
whole catalogue of the vices of self-indulgence and excess—black
and comprehensive as it is—has nothing to do with malicious intent;
that is to say, these vices do not find any part of their temptation or
gratification in ill-will to others, or in the consciousness of causing
misery to others. And yet who, on this account, denies that they are
vices, or that they are among the worst of vices?
The moral perplexity existing in some minds on this subject may
be traced to two errors: making malice to be the only bad motive by
which we can be actuated, and confounding the mere absence of
malice with that active principle of benevolence, or love of our
neighbor, which Christianity makes to be the foundation and
substance of all true social virtue.
 How unfounded the first of these assumptions is, appears
generally from what has been said; but the same may also be shown
on strictly ethical grounds. We must distinguish between what is
simply odious, and what is immoral. The malignant passions when
acted out by animals are odious, but they are not immoral, because
they are not comprehended in that light by the agent. The reason
why the malignant passions are immoral in man is that he knows
them to be immoral; and accordingly any other passion, which he
knows to be immoral, becomes for the same reason alike immoral to
him as a principle of conduct. Hence it follows that, though not
actuated by malice, we may be by some other motive equally
reprehensible in a moral point of view, though not perhaps as odious
—by the love of ease, by vanity or pride, by unjust partialities, by
inordinate ambition, by avarice or lust—dispositions which have
nothing to do with malice, but yet are felt and acknowledged by all
to be bad and immoral.

[February 10.]
Moreover, the tendencies of modern civilization are to be
considered in this connection. Times of violence are gradually giving
place to times of self-indulgence and fraud; and the consequence is
that now, where one man is betrayed into vices of malevolence and
outrage, twenty are betrayed into those of frivolity, licentiousness, or
overreaching. I go further still. Suppose a man actuated by none of
these positively bad motives; nay, suppose the injury done to be
accidental and wholly unintentional, this will not in all cases justify
the deed. The question still arises whether the injury done,
supposing it to be wholly unintentional, might not have been
foreseen, and ought not to have been foreseen; for, where the well-
being of others is concerned, we are bound not only to mean no
harm, but to take care to avoid everything which is likely to do
harm; and negligence in this respect is itself a crime. So obviously
just is this principle, so entirely does it approve itself to the reason
and common sense of mankind, that we find it everywhere
recognized, in some form or other, in the jurisprudence of civilized
countries. “When a workman flings down a stone or piece of timber
into the street, and kills a man, this may be either misadventure,
manslaughter, or murder, according to the circumstances under
which the original act is done. If it were in a country village, where a
few passengers are, and he calls out to all people to have a care, it
is misadventure only; but if it were in London, or other populous
town, where people are continually passing, it is manslaughter,
though he gives loud warning; and murder, if he knows of their
passing and gives no warning at all, for then it is malice against all
mankind.”[A]
Equally groundless is the second of the above mentioned
assumptions, to wit: that of confounding the mere absence of malice
with the active principle of benevolence itself or that love of our
neighbor which Christianity makes to be the foundation and
substance of all true social virtue. There is nothing, perhaps, which
more essentially distinguishes worldly propriety and legal honesty
from Christian virtue than this, that they stop with negatives. They
are content with avoiding what is expressly forbidden, not reflecting
that this, at the best, only makes men to be not bad; it does not
make them to be good. Besides, if we take this ground, if we allege
the absence of all anger and resentment, we bar the plea that we
were hurried into the act by the impetuosity of our passions—a plea
which the experience of a common infirmity has always led men to
regard as the strongest extenuating circumstance of wrong-doing. If
we have given pain to a fellow creature, it is stating an aggravation
of the fault and not an excuse, to say that we did not do it in
passion, but in cold blood; and worse still, if we say that we did it in
sport. What! find sport in giving pain to others? This may consist, I
suppose, with the absence of what is commonly understood by
malice; but I utterly deny its compatibility with active Christian
benevolence, or with what indeed amounts to the same thing, a
kind, generous, and magnanimous nature. Were I in quest of facts
to prove the total depravity of man, I should eagerly seize on such
as the following: The shouts of heartless merriment sometimes
heard to arise from a crowd of idlers collected around a miserable
object in the streets; a propensity to turn into ridicule, not merely
the faults and affectations of others, but their natural deformities or
defects; jesting with sacred things, or practical jests, the
consequences of which to one of the parties are of the most serious
and painful character; and the pleasure with which men listen to
sarcastic remarks though causeless and unprovoked, or to wit the
whole point of which consists in its sting. Not that the doctrine of
universal and total depravity is actually proved even by such
conduct, for happily the conduct itself is not universal; to some it is
repugnant from the beginning; and besides, even where it is fallen
into, I suppose it is to be referred in a majority of cases to a love of
excitement, rather than to a love of evil for its own sake. Still I
maintain that the conduct in question, however explained, is
incompatible, or at any rate utterly inconsistent, with thoughtful and
generous natures.

[A] Blackstone.

[February 17.]
Still, many who would not think entirely to excuse the conduct in
question can find palliations for it and extenuating circumstances,
some of which it will be well to examine.
In the first place it is said that the sport is not found in the
sufferings of the victim, but in the awkward and ludicrous situations
and embarrassments into which he is thrown. Now I admit, that, if
these awkwardnesses and absurdities could be entirely disconnected
with the idea of pain, they might amuse even a good mind; but as
they can not be thus disconnected—as all this is known and seen to
be the expression of anguish either of body or mind, or to be the
consequence of some natural defect or misfortune, or some cruel
imposition on weakness or good nature—I affirm as before, that he
whose mirth is not checked by this single consideration betrays a
want of true benevolence, and even of common humanity. Neither
will it help the matter much to say that the pain and mortification
are not known, are not seen, or at least are not attended to; that
this view of the subject is entirely overlooked, the mind being wholly
taken up with its ludicrous aspects. For how comes it that we have
so quick a sense to everything ludicrous in the situation and conduct
of others, but no sense at all to their sufferings? Our hearts, it would
seem, are not as yet steeled against all sympathy in the sufferings
and misfortunes of our neighbors, provided we can be made to
apprehend and realize them; and this is well; but why so slow to
apprehend and realize them? If, though directly before our eyes, the
thought of them never occurs to our minds; if we can say, and say
with truth, that while we enjoy the sport it never once occurred to
us that it was at the expense of another’s feelings, though this fact
was all the time staring us in the face—does it not at least betray a
degree of indifference or carelessness about the feelings of others,
which is only compatible with a cold and selfish temper? Put
whatever construction you will, therefore, on this kind of sport, it
argues a bad state of the affections; for either its connection with
the pain and mortification of others is perceived, and then it is
downright cruelty; or it is not perceived, and then it is downright
insensibility.
Another ground is sometimes taken. There are those who will say,
“We cannot help it. Persons of a constitution less susceptible to the
ludicrous, or less quick to observe it, may do differently, but we
cannot.” Obviously, however, reasonings of this sort, if intended as a
valid excuse, betray a singular and almost hopeless confusion of
moral ideas. They cannot help it? Of course they do not mean that
they would be affected in the same way by the same thing, under all
circumstances and in all states of feeling. Let the coarse jest be at
the expense of a parent, or of a sister; or let its tendency be to bring
derision on an office, a cause, or a doctrine which we have much at
heart; or let it offend beyond a certain point against the
conventional usages of what is called good society—and, instead of
provoking mirth, it provokes indignation or contempt. All they can
mean, therefore, is simply this: Their sense of the ludicrous is so
keen, that, when not restrained by some present feeling of justice,
humanity, or decorum, it becomes irrepressible. Undoubtedly it does;
but this is no more than what might be said of the worst crimes of
sensuality and excess. What would you think if a sordid man should
plead, that being sordid by nature, and not having any high principle
or feeling to restrain him, he cannot help acting sordidly? Does he
not know that it is this want of high principle and feeling which
constitutes the very essence of his sin? We have shown that to find
sport in what gives pain, argues a bad state of the principles and
affections. Manifestly, therefore, it is to no purpose to urge as an
excuse, that in the existing state of our principles and affections we
can not help it; for the existing state of our principles and affections
is the very thing which is complained of and condemned.
It may be contended, as a last resort, that this state of mind is
consistent, to say the least, with amiable manners, companionable
qualities, and good nature. But if herein is meant to be included real
kindness of heart, or the highest forms of generosity and nobleness
of soul, I deny that it can be. There is no necessity of trying to make
it out that men of this stamp are worse than they really are.
Unquestionably they can and often do make themselves agreeable
and entertaining, especially to those who are not very scrupulous
about the occasions of their mirth, and feel no repugnance to join in
a laugh which perhaps they would hesitate to raise. Good-natured
also they may be, if nothing more is meant by this than the absence
of an unaccommodating, morose, and churlish disposition; for there
are two sorts of good nature, the good nature of benevolence, and
the good nature of ease and indifference. The first will not consist,
as we have seen, with wrong-doing from wantonness or in sport;
but the last may; yet even when it does, not much credit can accrue
from this circumstance. Worthy of all honor is that good nature
which springs from genuine kindness and sympathy, or a desire to
make and to see everybody happy; but the same can hardly be said
of what often passes for good-nature in the world, though it is
nothing but the result of an easy temper and loose principles.

[February 24.]
Still, I can not but think that a large majority of those who
sometimes look for sport in wrong-doing have enough of humanity
and of justice to restrain them, if they could only be made to
understand and feel the extent of the injury thus occasioned. Take,
for example, jesting with sacred things. Its influence on those who
indulge in it is worse than that of infidelity, for it destroys our
reverence, and it is harder to recover our reverence, after it has
been lost, than our convictions. Nay, it is often worse than that of
daring crime; the latter puts us in opposition to religion, but it does
not necessarily undermine our respect for it, or the sentiment on
which the whole rests. Consider, too, its effect on others. The
multitude are apt to mistake what is laughed at by their superiors for
what is ridiculous in itself. In France it was not the sober arguments
of a knot of misguided atheists, but the scoffs and mockeries and ill-
timed pleasantries in which the higher classes generally shared,
which destroyed the popular sense of the sanctity of religion; and
when this great regulative principle of society was gone, it was not
long before the mischief came back, amidst scenes of popular
license and desperation, “to plague the inventors.” And so of cruel
sports. In reading the Sermon on the Mount, you must have been
struck with the fact that, while he who is angry with his brother is
only said to be in danger of the judgment, “whosoever shall say,
thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.” But, on second thoughts, is
this anything more than a simple recognition of what we all know to
be true; that hatred does not inflict half so deep or bitter a feeling of
wrong as scorn? Much is said about the disorganizing doctrines and
theories of the day, but, bad as these are, they are not likely to do
so much to exasperate the poor against the rich, and break down
the bulwarks of order and law, as the conduct of some among the
rich themselves. The time was when the few could trample with
indifference on the interests and feelings of the many, and make
sport of their complaints with impunity, but that time has passed
away.
One word also on those cruel sports where animals, and not men,
are the sufferers. Cruelty to animals is essentially the same feeling
with cruelty to a fellow-creature, and in some respects it is even
more unbecoming. Man is as a god to the inferior races. To abuse
the power which this gives us over the helpless beings that
Providence has placed at our mercy, is as mean as it is inhuman. If
we would listen to the pleadings of what is noble and generous in
our natures, it would be as impossible for us needlessly to harm an
unoffending animal, as it would be to strike an infant or an idiot.
Shame on the craven who quails before his equals, and then goes
away and wreaks his unmanly resentments on a creature which he
knows can neither retaliate nor speak! Besides, we may suppose
that there are orders of beings above us, as well as below us. Look
then at our treatment of the lower animals, and then ask yourselves
what we should think, if a superior order of beings should mete out
to us the same measure. What if in mere wantonness, or to pamper
unnatural tastes, they should subject us to every imaginable
hardship and wrong? What if they should make a show, a public
recreation, of our foolish contests and dying agonies? Nay, more;
what if it should come to this, that in their language a man-killer
should be called a sportsman by way of distinction?
But I must close. We have it on the authority of the Bible, and we
read it in the constitution of man, that there is “a time to weep and
a time to laugh.” There will also be ample scope for the legitimate
action of caustic wit, so long as there are follies to be shown up,
pretenders to be unmasked, and conceit and affectation to be taught
to know themselves. But, in the serious strifes of the world, the
ultimate advantages of this weapon, though wielded on the right
side, are more than dubious. “The Spaniards have lamented,” it has
been said, “and I believe truly, that Cervantes’ just and inimitable
ridicule of knight-errantry rooted up, with that folly, a great deal of
their real honor. And it was apparent that Butler’s fine satire on
fanaticism contributed not a little, during the licentious times of
Charles II., to bring sober piety into disrepute. The reason is
evident; there are many lines of resemblance between truth and its
counterfeits; and it is the province of wit only to find out the
likenesses in things, and not the talent of the common admirers of it
to discover the differences.” At any rate we can shun the rock of
small wits who think to make up for poverty of invention by a
scurrility and grimace, who think to gain from the venom of the shaft
what is wanting in the vigor of the bow. We can imitate the example
of those among the great masters of wit in all ages, who have
ennobled it by purity of expression and a moral aim; so that, in the
end, virtue may not have occasion to blush, or humanity to mourn,
for anything we have said or done. Take any other course and we
are reminded of the confession which experience wrung from the
lips of the wise man: “I said in my heart, go to now, I will prove thee
with mirth; therefore enjoy pleasure; and behold this also is vanity. I
said of laughter, it is mad; and of mirth, what doeth it?” “Even in
laughter the heart is sorrowful, and the end of that mirth is
heaviness.”
 COMMERCIAL LAW.

By EDWARD C. REYNOLDS, Esq.

I.—LAW IN GENERAL.
It perhaps would be well for us to take a glance at the origin of
the law which we are about to consider in its practical applications.
In all our business relations, and in fact in our general conduct, so
far as that term would apply to one as a member of a community
and a citizen, we are controlled in our action by absolute, and in
some instances possibly, by arbitrary regulations or laws, with which
perhaps we may be wholly unfamiliar, but which are none the less
binding and positive in their exactions because we have neglected to
familiarize ourselves with their requirements.
It is a rule of law, that ignorance of it excuses no one. For this
reason ignorance is never pleaded in court as an answer to civil or
criminal allegations of any sort. This rule presupposes a knowledge
of the law on the part of every citizen. While, strictly speaking, this
is impossible and in reality but a fiction, any other provision would
be fraught with danger. Although, through the observance of this
rule, doubtless, hardships are occasioned—as in fact must result
from the enforcement of any law, however wise—it is
notwithstanding that, a very necessary and strictly proper
presumption. Were it to be otherwise, any attempt to enforce
obligations against dishonest parties or to punish crime would prove
ineffectual, because recourse would always be had to this defense.
Thus all law would be a nullity.
 There is fortunately a safe rule to be adopted as a guide for our
conduct, which in the main, if strictly obeyed, will obviate the
seeming hardship. Notwithstanding the fact that all inhibitions do not
involve an absolute wrong or right, that all enforcements of law are
not with justice, yet if a strict standard of right and honorable
dealings characterize individual action and conduct, for those who
adopt such a course there is but slight possibility that there is any
especial oppression in store.
But wrong doing exists. The remedy is existing law. What is it,
which as such we are to obey, and which we may safely designate
as the principle of personal protection?
The nucleus of the now voluminous laws of our country was the
well established laws, customs and usages of the American colonies
of Great Britain, when their independence was secured. At that time
the laws of Great Britain had become so generally interwoven into
our judicature as well as into our business customs and relations,
that the introduction of a wholly new system of laws would have
proved disastrous, even if it could have been accomplished.
Since, in part, law is the outgrowth of customs and ways, as we
shall see, to have attempted the engrafting of a wholly new system
would have been equivalent to an attempt to change at once the
habits and characteristics of a people.
The familiarity of the colonists with the then existing law, and its
adaptability to the then commercial transactions, made it a desirable
nucleus—already for our people, with which they might inaugurate a
system of their own.
This, then, was accepted as the common law of the country at
that time. But however well adapted the then existing laws may
have been to the wants of the people and commerce, ever changing
conditions of life and ever increasing business complications
rendered additions and new provisions necessary. These changes
were made necessary and were fostered by statute law.
 Statute law is the result of the deliberations of legislative
assemblies. Each state has its own legislature and statute law, as
has the national government. The general government being the
superior power, its laws must be recognized as superior to state
laws, that is, there can be no state law inconsistent with the laws of
the national government. The state legislatures and national
congress have power to make laws, and whatever is declared by
these bodies to be the supreme law of the land, for the government
of the individual and the protection of property, providing it does not
conflict with the provisions of the national and state constitutions
respectively, must be obeyed as such.
This then is statute law: An enactment regarding the rights of
persons or property, passed by representatives of the people in
legislature assembled.
When a question has arisen concerning which statute law has no
provisions, or some regular enactment is so worded that its meaning
is doubtful and extremely liable to be misunderstood, to compensate
for the lack in the one instance and to interpret properly the
intention of the law makers in the other, we resort to the common
law, fairly said to be “the accumulated wisdom of centuries.” Analogy
will lead us to conclude, and correctly, that this is the conservative
element of the system—the origin of which we have previously
alluded to in part—to which we would add the customs and usages
which have, since our recognition as an independent people,
received the sanction of our courts, and to become acquainted with
which reference must be made to the published reports of the
courts, known as the “U. S. Reports,” “Maine Reports,” etc.
That the common law may remain to a great extent
unchangeable, much respect is paid to the decisions of the courts,
by others than those by which they were enunciated, for it has ever
been deemed better that a precedent be respected, even if it be not
the soundest law, than to have what might seem to be better logic
at the expense of a varying precedent. Then we conclude, that
though legislatures be radical in the change of existing laws, yet in
the task of applying or interpreting such laws, so changed, courts
are generally very conservative. It will thus be seen that the rights of
the people are not liable to be unwarrantably abridged or destroyed
by any uncertain movement of a day.
By referring to our national and state constitutions, our readers
will see that the powers of both national and state governments are
divided into three departments, known as the executive, legislative
and judicial, each of which is distinct from the others, although they
work in harmony in the enactment and enforcement of the laws. The
courts come under the head of that last named, and their duties
have been demonstrated to be “to define, declare and apply the
laws.”
Of this common and statute law a very essential part is that which
is applicable to business, or commercial law, or, as it is generally
denominated in the books, the “Law-Merchant.” Much of the law
bearing upon this subject is the old common law, with the
enlargements consequent upon an increased commercial activity.
Here it is that we find many of the customs and usages of
merchants gradually merging into recognized law. The three “days of
grace” allowed on all commercial paper is but a common illustration
of this, similar in origin to many customs in all departments of trade,
which might easily be cited, and which were in their inception of
very limited significance, but which have continually been receiving a
more extended recognition, until we find them clothed with all the
insignia of authority.
These customs and usages we shall have occasion to give more
extended explanations as we touch upon the several sub-divisions of
our topic. There are a few technical words which we shall find it
convenient to use. Prof. Greenleaf clearly expresses the reason for
this, as follows:
“A great deal of the language of every art or science or profession
is technical (indeed, technical means belonging to some art), and is
peculiar to it, and may not be understood by those who do not
pursue the business to which it belongs. This is as true of the law as
of everything else.… A good instance of this is in those words which
end in er (or or) and in ee. As for example, promisor or promisee,
vendor and vendee, indorser and indorsee. These terminations are
derived from the Norman-French, which was for a long time the
language of the courts and of the law of England. And it might seem
that we had just as good terminations in English, in er and ed, which
mean the same thing. But this is not so. Originally they meant the
same thing, but they do not now, for both er and ee are applied, in
law, to persons, and ed to things, so that we want all three
terminations. For example, indorser means the man who indorses;
indorsee the man to whom the indorsement is made; but the note
itself we say is indorsed. So vendor means the man who sells,
vendee the man to whom something is sold, and the thing sold is
vended.”
In regard to the phrase “presumption of law,” to which we may
have occasion to refer. The significance of this phrase is this: Under
certain conditions, without absolute proof of the matter concerning
which some conclusion is sought, the law will presume to interpret
the intention or acts of persons. For instance, regarding criminal
procedure, one is presumed to be innocent until he is proved to be
guilty. Presumptions prevail only when proof is lacking.

CONTRACTS.
A contract has been aptly defined to be “an agreement to do or
not to do some particular thing.” It may be verbal or in writing. If
the conditions of a contract, whether verbal or written, be expressly
stated and agreed upon, it is then termed an expressed contract. If
on the other hand there are no well defined and specific agreements
regarding the undertaking or the consideration to be paid for its
accomplishment, it is called an implied contract.
The conditions of an expressed contract must be strictly complied
with, and the parties to it are bound to faithfully observe the same,
however onerous may be the burden, while the conditions of an
implied contract not being agreed upon specifically, are such as
custom may dictate. As an illustration of this: A agrees to pay B two
dollars per day for labor. This is expressed, so far as the rate of
wages is concerned; but the number of hours that shall be taken to
constitute a day’s work is not agreed upon, and must be determined
by implication. As a result, the question would be settled by the
custom in such matters which obtained in the place where the
contract was made. Or, if A engages B to undertake the building of a
cottage, with no stipulations regarding the wages to be paid, B when
the work is completed can recover for his compensation whatever is
proved to be the usual and customary remuneration paid men in the
same business and possessed of equal skill. The enforcement of
obligations is no less strict when the standing of the contract is
implied than when expressed, after determining what the obligations
of the parties are.
The elements of a contract are parties, consideration, subject
matter, mutual assent and time.
Parties.—Two or more competent persons may make a legal
contract. Competent persons, it will be observed. What constitutes
competency? Generally, legal age and sound mind; while minority,
insanity, idiocy, intoxication and coverture are said to be the
conditions of incompetency. With the exception of a few states
where females become of age at eighteen, the legal age is twenty-
one years. A consideration of the conditions of incompetency will
sufficiently explain the requisites of competency negatively. Minors,
or those who have not attained legal age, or infants as the law
denominates them, are considered incompetent because of
inexperience, and a fair presumption that unprincipled parties might
take unfair advantage of them, and lead them into business
complications which a riper experience would disapprove. The
contracts of a minor approved by him when he becomes of age are
binding, however; so that it will be observed, such contracts are not
absolutely void, only voidable at the discretion of the minor. If an
infant makes a transfer of real estate he may, on reaching his
majority, compel the purchaser to reconvey the property, by
returning to him the purchase money. The law would not permit him
to retain the purchase price and compel the re-transfer, because it is
not the policy of the law to assist the minor in his fraudulent
purposes, but only to protect him from the impositions of those
skilled in wicked devices. There are some contracts which an infant
can not disclaim, viz.: such as are for necessaries. It is something of
a question to determine what are necessaries; but the minor’s
fortune and social position must be the guide, for where sufficient
food and clothes might be all that would be termed necessaries for
one, for another by fortune more favored, “equipage, dress and
entertainments” would be considered just as essential.
Unsound Mind.—Insanity, or a mind deranged; idiocy, or the lack of
a mind; intoxication, or a mind so beclouded as to be incapable of
understandingly judging of the merits of an ordinary business
transaction; a mind in any one of these conditions is unsound, and
its possessor an incompetent.
Coverture, or marriage, by the common law made woman an
incompetent party, and she was thus precluded from legally
contracting. By statutory enactments nearly all of the states have
changed this, so that a married woman may now do business,
contract debts as though unmarried, and also hold property in her
own right. The ancient barbarous theory that marriage ought to
annul a woman’s right to property in her own name and almost deny
her individual existence is nearly a relic, an error almost of the past.
Consideration.—Any consideration is sufficient to sustain a
contract, provided it be not illegal, or that which is prohibited by law;
immoral, or that which contravenes the moral law; and provided the
contract was born of good faith, and not tainted by fraud. A contract
into which any element of fraud has entered receives no
countenance at the law. However favorable stipulations may seem, a
fraudulent intent, proved, will nullify the contract.
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