I

“The older I grow,” Mr. E. V. Lucas has said, “the less, I find, do I want to read about anything but human beings.... But human beings, as human beings, are not enough; they must, to interest me, have qualities of simplicity or candour or quaintness.”

The words of the writer are peculiarly apt to describe the charm of wills. But the older we grow, the more do men and women, by reason only of their humanity, absorb our interest. In wills human nature is most vividly and variously displayed. In wills the dead speak, and in a manner live again. The poor and the rich, men learned and men illiterate, all alike have made interesting wills. In some cases humour and pathos are more unconscious, in others opportunity for effect is greater; but in wills of every class, and of every age or form, there is much worthy of remark.

Historically they are invaluable records. In them are reflected all social, political, and religious revolutions. By them the history of families or places is preserved and illuminated. As long ago as the sixteenth century John Stow realised their value, and often referred to them in his “Survey of London.” No local record to-day would be complete without the wills of its worthies.

There is unrivalled scope for the imagination in perusing the last dispositions of the dead. How easy it is, with these documents before us, to picture the figures of each generation; the fervent Catholic of the fifteenth century, the pious benefactor of the sixteenth, the “heroic English gentleman” of the seventeenth, the Whig or Tory of the eighteenth; and at all times the homely or eccentric testator who allows many a secret comedy or tragedy to appear, many a prejudice or foible, many a sentiment of resignation or revolt. Some give the impression of peevishness and irresolution, of spite or hate; some of sentimental or petty desires; some of serene care for the future, of dignity and calm.

Little, indeed, in all literature is more arresting than the revelation of personality, the unveiling of intimacies that are seldom seen: in wills these intimacies occur, the veil is withdrawn, in a manner that elsewhere can rarely be observed. Whether they be light or serious, amusing or tragic, the occurrence of such vivid traits in a will gives them a character peculiarly humorous or correspondingly sad. The idiosyncrasy is magnified, the bias more distorted, when placed in such a setting.

On the other hand, the interest of a will may arise not merely or so much from its provisions in themselves, as from our knowledge of the inner history of the testator’s life and death. Bishop Corbet, that witty and jovial soul, was one of those fathers who, for all their love and longing, for all their piety, are disgraced by their sons. In his will, dated July 7, 1635, and proved on the 5th of the following September, he wrote: “I commit and commend the nurture education and maintenance of my son and daughter into the faithful and loving care of my mother-in-law, declaring my intent by this my last will, as I have often in my health expressed the same, that my desire is that my said son be brought up in good learning, and that as soon as he shall be fit be placed in Oxford or Cambridge, where I require him upon my blessing to apply himself to his books studiously and industriously.”

He had in “health expressed the same” by verse: but the son Vincent, in spite of prayer and admonition, was a ne’er-do-well, and after the Bishop’s death a beggar in London. These lines were addressed to him upon his third birthday by his fond but ill-requited father:—

Or take the case of the Gills, father and son. Alexander Gill, senior, was High Master of St. Paul’s School from 1608 to 1635, and is famous as having numbered Milton among his pupils. A degree of fame is also his for the unsparing use of the rod, which he wielded even upon his son, the under master:

In his will we see that as he had ruled in his lifetime, so he would have his wife rule after him. “And although it may seem needless to charge my sons so professed how they should honour their mother, yet I hold it fit in and by this my last will to leave this precept unto them as my last remembrance, charging them as much as I can that, as they hope for a blessing of God to be with them, to give her that honour which is due as the law of God and nature bindeth them, and in every thing to harken to her counsel and precept and to obey her and be ruled by her.”

Nor is it surprising to find that another son, Nathaniel, “hath refused my correction,” and that he has an “unthankful and injurious brother.” “To my unthankful and injurious brother Simon Gill I freely forgive all debts which he oweth me, with all demands for other charges of food apparel losses and supplies in his want by which I have been much damnified by him, which in a most charitable accompt would come to above fifty pounds; I forgive, I say, all most freely except one bill of eight pounds, which debt I give to my executrix, with hope she will not be troublesome to him by suit thereof except he become troublesome unto her or her children as his manner hath been towards me and others.”

There are other interesting passages, but as a final touch to the will of this stormy nature it may be noticed that he gives “the dust of this wicked carcase to be buried in the dust.” Altogether his will confirms the opinion of Aubrey in his “Brief Lives,” that “Dr. Gill, the father, was a very ingeniose person, as may appear by his writings. Notwithstanding he had moodes and humours.”

Sometimes the circumstances suggest romance. “On the morning of the action between the Portland packet and the Temeraire French privateer, off Guadaloupe, on the 14th of October, 1796,” says Kirby’s “Wonderful Museum” (1803), “Mr. Cunningham, a passenger, who, in a previous engagement sustained by the Portland packet with another privateer, had evinced great courage, observed to the captain that he felt a strong impression that his dissolution was at hand; and on the enemy bearing in sight, he went below and made his will, declaring his hour was come; returning to his station on deck, in a few minutes a bullet verified his prediction.”

So it has been again and again, from the case of Mary Stuart, writing her will in her own hand during the last hours before her execution, or of Archbishop Laud drawing up his will in the Tower, to the case of SeÑor Ferrer, dictating his testament in the prison chapel at Barcelona.

II

Strange histories, it will be seen, lie behind wills, dull and similar as at first sight the majority appears. The history may not always be explicit, but the suggestion conveyed by some gift or revocation, some phrase or fact, may often be completed by the reader’s imagination. So Dorothy Skipwith, of Catesby, in Lincolnshire (will dated 1677), “did revoke and declare void the legacy of twenty guineas mentioned to be given to Mr. Shomoon, a Frenchman living in Whitehall, which she said she so revoked in regard he refused to come to her in the time of her sickness.”

At times we know something of that which lies beneath the surface of the will. The Duchesse d’AngoulÊme (died October 19, 1851) forgives, “following the example of her parents,” all who have injured her, expressing her love for France and her gratitude to the Emperor of Austria. And towards the end she states: “I wish all the sheets, papers or books written by my hand, which are in my strong-box or my tables, to be burnt by the executors of my will.” These, we are told, were prayers, meditations, notes which might have caused hurt to the feelings of others, lists of charities and books of account. The will is signed in the name of “Marie ThÉrÈse de France, Comtesse de Maines,” the title which she took in her days of exile.

Anne Davis, spinster, whose will is dated November 14, 1803, reveals, or half-reveals, some family trouble. She directs that “in case of my demise my poor decayed body to be decently interred in the burying ground of Marybone upon the grave where my late dear aunt and friend lays; her name is on a stone, and I desire mine to be put on the stone.... I desire to have a patent coffin lined on the outside with the best black cloth, nails, etc., etc., and every thing that is proper on this occasion, the best hearse and one coach with the black velvet feathers and porters. I desire Mr. William Joachim, Mrs. Joachim, Miss Joachim and Mrs. Toby ... to see my poor decayed body decently buried upon my dear aunt’s grave,” and “I desire Mr. William Joachim, my executor, will advertise for my brother Mr. William Davis. The last time I ever saw him was the 8th of May, 1794, for he desired to see my dear aunt when she lay dead. He said he was going down to Portsmouth in the agency line. May God forgive him for all his unkindness to me; I freely forgive him, and please God that he may make a proper use of what I have left him.”

Edward Roberts, bachelor, of the parish of St. Clement’s Danes (but when he made his will in July, 1664, on board the Great Eagle), was open and emotional: “Whensoever it shall please God to call me out of the world, whether I die by sea or by land, I do give will and bequeath all that ever I have or shall leave behind me at my death ... unto Elizabeth Jones whom I love with all my heart and above all women in the world. And if I had a thousand pounds or neversomuch she should have every groat of it.”

It needs no subtlety of imagination to diagnose his case; but one would like to unravel the story of romantic tenderness that seems to lurk behind the simple will of a Richard Mathews, servant to Hugh Hamersley, of Spring Gardens, St. Martins-in-the-Fields. He died (was it of love?) on or before the 10th of October, 1779. His will was dated October 5th, and after some legacies, including one to Mrs. Collis, his “late worthy fellow-servant,” he continues: “It is my further desire that 5s. apiece may be given to the men as carries me to church, and it is my further desire to be buried in a decent manner and my body laid by a young woman who died at the Rev. Mr. Ellet’s some time ago.”

That the lover is careful to choose suitably his last resting-place we know from the will of Chrysostom in “Don Quixote.” “‘This morning that famous student-shepherd called Chrysostom died, and it is rumoured that he died of love for that devil of a village girl, the daughter of Guillermo the Rich, she that wanders about the wolds here in the dress of a shepherdess.’ ‘You mean Marcela?’ said one. ‘Her I mean,’ answered the goatherd; ‘and the best of it is, he has directed in his will that he is to be buried in the fields like a Moor, and at the foot of the rock where the Cork-tree spring is, because, as the story goes (and they say he himself said so) that was the place where he first saw her.’” With similar sentiment Sir Miles St. John, in Lord Lytton’s “Lucretia,” by his will requested that a small miniature in his writing-desk should be placed in his coffin. “That last injunction was more than a sentiment: it bespoke the moral conviction of the happiness the original might have conferred on his life.”

In fiction we may realise what terrible deeds or poignant memories are revived and referred to by the clauses of a will. Thus in Mrs. Henry Wood’s “George Canterbury’s Will” we know, when Mrs. Dawke’s will is read, that her husband is the murderer of her child: “To my present husband ... five-and-twenty pounds, wherewith to purchase a mourning ring, which he will wear in remembrance of my dear child, Thomas Canterbury.”

In real wills such knowledge is often hidden from us. Yet innumerable touches, tender or strange, harsh or sweet, break through their monotony; ways of life and attitudes of thought, records of deeds or feelings long ago, are brought vividly before us. Do not the romance and spirit of England live again in such a document as this? “Right Worshipful, I safely arrived in the Downs from the Straits the 22nd day of March last and got to London on Easter Eve, where I presented myself to the Dean of Westminster and other friends. But on Easter Monday I was engaged by Sir William Penn to go along with him to the Great Fleet under the command of his Royal Highness the Duke of York, the which I readily embraced as thinking it my duty to appear wheresoever I may in probability do the Church, my Prince, and my Country, the best service possible. I am at present constituted chaplain on board the Unicorn where the Lord Peterborough is to sail. Our fleet I can assure you is in a gallant posture, lying not far from Harwich, at all points ready for action. I freely refer myself to the goodness of my God, who hath preserved me hitherto in many dangers (viz.) of battle shipwrecks fire and storms, etc. And if I shall be taken out of the world my desires are as heretofore (viz.) that such moneys of mine as are in your Worship’s hands, or aught else that may be any ways due to me from Christ Church, be about Michaelmas next, 1665, paid unto Alexander Vincent, the eldest son of my brother Ambrose Vincent, or if he shall not then be living unto my eldest surviving nephew whether by brother or sister. I wish all prosperity and happiness to yourself, Dr. Allestry and my friends in Christ Church, and remain your much obliged and true friend and servant John Vincent. (From aboard the Unicorn riding with the Fleet not far from Harwich April 12, 1665.)”

But the seafaring spirit has not always run so high, as the will of a Richard French reveals. “At the Cowes in the Isle of Wight the 18th of July, 1636. Whereas by reason of certain disabilities which I have found in myself more than ordinary this voyage, every man being almost disencouraged in respect of the smallness of the vessel and desperateness of the journey, because that my mate Robert Anderson hath by his no small industry and to the maintaining of my credit undertaken this voyage with me and still carefully pursued, I do here in this paper confirm and refer over unto him by deed of gift, conditionally he goes this journey and I miscarry, all the goods belonging to me in the pinnace.” Evidently the testator did miscarry, for the document was proved on the 19th of August, a month and a day after its execution.

III

Thomas Eden, whose will is dated at Wimbledon, August 14, 1803, only whets the appetite: “I, Thomas Eden, of sound mind and understanding, though gradually failing in personal strength from advance in years and what I have gone through in my life, do make this my last will and testament.” But many curious items of biography emerge from wills. Sometimes they are accidental or incidental; at other times the testator makes much of them. Philip, fifth Earl of Pembroke, bequeathed “to Thomas May, whose nose I did break at a mascarade, five shillings.” Recently a legacy was left to one whom the testator had nearly burned to death, another to one whom a testator had saved from drowning. “I have been very unfortunate,” wrote a lady lately deceased. “I thought to have a companion for the rest of my days by remarrying, but am once more stranded and alone.”

Sir John Gayer, an illustrious seventeenth-century citizen of London, is still remembered in an annual sermon at St. Katharine Cree, Leadenhall Street, preached by direction of his will in commemoration of his escape from a lion on the coast of Africa. Ezekiel Nash (will dated March 27, 1800) left a charitable legacy for his preservation in an engagement with a French frigate on March the 8th, 1762. A late manager to a shipping company directed that on his tomb should be inscribed the words:

and the following summary of his achievements: “He helped to change paddle tugs to screw, to initiate high pressure and twin screws for ocean-going steamers, to introduce the Steam line Conference with the rebate system, and to start the Shipping Federation, the London Shipping Exchange, and the British Empire League.”

Richard Forster, in his will dated November 15, 1728, opens with some remarks on the Church and his position therein. “In the name of God Amen. I Richard Forster, an unworthy minister of Jesus Christ, advanced into the order of Christian priesthood according to the usage of the Church of England, the soundest and best constituted part of the Catholic Church, (a great number of whose parochial clergy have been unhappily deprived of a great part of their revenues by the injurious appropriation of tythes glebes and parsonage houses under the iniquity of Popery,) and intending to spend the remainder of my days in the communion and service of this Church, having by the providence of God and the kindness of my friends been first promoted to the Rectory of Beckly, in Sussex, and after to that of Crundale, in Kent, and lastly to the Vicarage of Eastchurch, in Sheppey, (the defects of my duty in all which parishes I pray God of His infinite mercy to pardon,) and being advanced into the seventy-eighth year of my age by the distinguishing favour of God with a sound mind and memory, though with a weak body, I do make and ordain this my last will and testament.”

John Wakring’s will, proved June 14, 1665, was written at Portsmouth in the form of a letter from on board the Resolution, November 23, 1664: “Mistress Elizabeth, my kind love and best respects presented unto you, hoping these few lines will find you in good health as I was at the present writing hereof. I have presumed, hoping it will be acceptable, to acquaint you of the receival of your letter wherein I received much joy to hear of your welfare. I should think myself the happiest man alive if I could attain so much time as for to see you before my departure, but since God has decreed it otherwise by reason of much business imposed upon me, nevertheless I would have you accept of all that is mine as yours if God shall deal with me otherwise than I do expect. In the meantime I would entreat you for to have a great care of what you have in your custody, because it may stand you in good stead hereafter, which is the letter of attorney which I left you in for the receival of all that is due unto me and my servant from the time I came out as clerk and everything else. Furthermore, I give you to understand that I am at the time Sir William Barkley’s cook and am in very much respect on all sides, and hope, for all these wars, I shall see you in good estate if God permit. So with my humble duty to your mother, and my kind love to your brother and sister and to all the rest of my friends in general, I rest yours, if God bless and permit me life, John Wakring.”

It is in these informal wills, naturally, that such delightful glimpses are more frequently obtained, and perhaps one other example may be tolerated. It is late in the next century, very different in tone from the seventeenth-century heroes, John Vincent or John Wakring. Jane Bowdler was an invalid, a spinster of Bath. The language of her will, proved March 4, 1786, is characteristic of the century. “My dear and ever honoured father, from the great indulgence you have always expressed for me I am led to believe that it will still be a satisfaction to you to comply with some little requests of mine, and therefore I will mention a few things which I would beg you to do for me after my death. And first I beg to repeat the sincerest assurances of my duty love and gratitude to you and my mother, and I pray to God to bless you and reward you for all your kindness to me. I wish these sentiments had been better expressed in my lifetime, but I fear my ill health and loss of speech have sometimes made me a burden to my friends as well as in some degree to myself. These considerations will, however, I trust contribute to reconcile them to my death, since the enjoyment of society has long been in a great measure taken away. Let us rejoice in an humble but comfortable hope that we shall meet again in a far happier state to be separated no more. May God of His infinite mercy grant it.”

IV

Above all, the thought that a will is nothing if not a preparation for death gives to its study the ultimate significance. For what can be more momentous than decisions then; what more humorous, in the older and deeper sense, than foibles and follies at such an hour? What can be more arresting than the persistence which prompts a man at the approach of death to seal his life’s work, evil or beneficent, with the sanction of his will? “Even on the verge of the grave he sought to slake his ambition by unlawful means; and he succeeded,” says Dr. August Fournier of Napoleon I. Charles V., in a codicil executed a few days before his death, solemnly exhorts his son to extirpate the heresy of Luther. SeÑor Ferrer dictates his will in the prison chapel at Barcelona, emphasising the salient points of his belief. There is no retractation or regret.

John Boyce, “he being desperately wounded in one of his legs the 25th day of July, 1666, in the engagement with the Hollanders” sets his hand and seal to his testament “first in the presence of my God above, and in the presence of us John King, Robert Goulding.” There is a fine simplicity and solemnity in that. The Noble Robert Dunant, whose will is dated at Geneva, August 12, 1768, writes simply and solemnly too. “I the underwritten Counsellor of State, having first humbled myself before God and implored the assistance of His good Spirit to conduct me wisely as well in the present as all the other acts of my life, have made and do make my will in the following manner.”

But casual and worldly wills are common enough. A few words on a picture-postcard, “All for mother” on an old envelope, have been thought enough, or have proved enough for a valid will. Mrs. Lirriper’s legacy, readers of Dickens will remember, was written in pencil on the back of the ace of hearts. “To the authorities. When I am dead pray send what is left, as a last legacy, to Mrs. Lirriper, eighty-one Norfolk Street, Strand, London.”

With others the preparation for death is a pious literary task. Recently a little volume found its way into the writer’s hands from the Maison du SacrÉ Coeur de Beauvais, a “Testament Spirituel,” which, though not executed for a court of law, must have found favour in the courts of heaven. In wills, indeed, we see the romance of souls. Catholic, Anglican, and Protestant dedications of the soul to God, whether in the fifteenth or the sixteenth century, are often very beautiful and touching. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries the custom and tradition have departed. Only occasionally a Catholic or a fervent Evangelical recalls forgotten days. Some examples of eighteenth-century piety will be given later, but these essays would not be complete without other illustrations.

As an example from Catholic England the following is typical: “In the name of God, Amen. I Dame Anne Haydon, widow, being in my whole mind and of good memory the XVIIth day of December in the year of our Lord God 1509, and in the first year of King Henry the VIIIth, make this my testament and last will in manner and form following, that is to say, First, gracious Jesu, I as a sinful creature by reason of my demerits not worthy to be accepted into the holy company of heaven to continue in that holy place, Lord, without Thy great and large mercy and grace, (the which through Thy Passion to every Christian man meekly and lowly asking graciously grantest): Wherefore I now being in my full and whole mind and in perfect love and charity, and in steadfast faith, ask and cry Thee, Jesu, our Lady Saint Mary Thy blessed Mother, all the holy company of heaven, and all the world, mercy, trusting verily that through Thy Passion and with the succour and relief of that gracious Lady Thy Mother and Maid to sinners to her calling for help of her great pity greatly and very comfortable: Wherefore, blessed Jesu, I commit my soul to Thee and to Thy blessed Mother our Lady Saint Mary and to all saints of heaven through the mean and help of St. John Baptist, St. Anne, St. Mary Magdalen and St. Christopher mine avouers. And my sinful body to be buried in the Chapel of St. Luke in the Cathedral Church of the Holy Trinity of Norwich, if I die in Norwich or in Norfolk.”

Such is a common form, diversified by individual and expressive variations, of wills in those days. The Reformation changed the form but not the spirit of these avowals. “I render back,” wrote Sarah Ward in 1662, “into the hands of my God and Creator the soul I received from Him, humbly desiring His fatherly goodness for the infinite merit of His Son Jesus Christ and His all-sufficient Passion, (on which I wholly rely, disclaiming any confidence in saints or angels,) that He would make it partaker of eternal life and a citizen of His heavenly Kingdom. My body I bequeath to the earth whence it was taken, firmly believing the resurrection of the dead, and that I shall rise again in the last day, and see God in my flesh with the self-same eyes I now use and no other. The manner of interring it I leave wholly to my executors ... being no farther solicitous for so contemptible a remnant than as it is yet the hospital of a reasonable soul.”

But with the fervent eloquence of Thomas Peniston, of St. Margaret’s, near the City of Rochester, Esquire (proved the 5th of September, 1601), these considerations must be concluded. “In the Name of the most holy and incomprehensible Trinity, Father, Son and Holy Ghost, in Person three, in power one, almighty and everlasting God, Creator of Heaven and Earth and all therein contained, to whose glorious Deity I poor wretch His creature do from the bottom of my heart and soul render most humble and most hearty thanks for all His innumerable benefits bestowed on me, as my creation of nought, my redemption by that divine mystery of the Incarnation and generous Passion of my sweet Saviour Jesus Christ, when I was through the offence of my forefather Adam become worse than nought, my continual preservation in the life present, mine election to Salvation before the foundations of the world were laid, my assured hope of glorification in time to come through His infinite mercy by the mediation of Jesus Christ, and for all whatsoever hath befallen me of good since my first entrance into this vale of misery, acknowledging them all to have proceeded merely of His unspeakable bounty and goodness without any spark of merit or desert in myself, and so much the more am I bound to Him for the same, most humbly beseeching His most glorious Majesty to accept in good part this my sincere sacrifice of thanksgiving as the only oblation which my poor sin-distressed soul in all humbleness of heart and ferventest spiritual zeal can offer unto Him for all those His manifold graces towards me, and that it will please Him for His mercy’s sake in the blood of that immaculate Lamb of God, Jesus Christ, to vouchsafe to continue His gracious goodness towards me both now and at all times hereafter, and at the present by the assistance of His Holy Spirit so to direct me in the setting down of this my last will and testament as the same may best sort to His glory, my comfort, and the good of those whom it may concern.... And first as the most principal part I do with a free and cheerful heart bequeath my soul unto almighty God the Creator and Redeemer thereof, most humbly beseeching Him for His mercies’ sake through Jesus Christ the only begotten and well-beloved Son of God the Father, in whom He is well pleased, to receive the same into His most holy and gracious protection, cleansing and purging the sinful deformities thereof with the precious blood of that my only sweet Saviour, and to bury all my transgressions and offences of what nature or kind soever in the bottom of the sea, that they never rise up in judgment against me, but that I (though of myself the most miserable sinner alive), through His infinite and unspeakable mercy by His loving imputation of the perfect righteousness and true obedience of that my most sweet Saviour Jesus Christ, who being perfect God became man, and after full performance of God’s most holy laws and commandments endured the most horrible tortures of death thereby to save my poor soul from the intolerable and endless torments of hell fire, which of itself (ah woe is me therefore) it hath deserved, and to make it inheritable to the unspeakable joys in Heaven; of which His most gracious favour being throughly assured by His holy Spirit in my soul which continually warranteth me to sing all honour, glory and praise unto my dear Father in Heaven, who in His mercy, (which by many thousand degrees exceedeth my manifold transgressions,) hath created and adopted me to be an heir of His heavenly and everlasting kingdom, I most assuredly hope and undoubtedly expect that whenso it shall please His incomprehensible Deity the fullness of time to be expired, this poor soul of mine being through His all-working power knit again to this my flesh which then shall be made incorruptible and immortal, I shall without end in Heaven enjoy the sight of my most glorious and everlasting God my Creator, Redeemer and Comforter, and there for ever with the holy saints, angels and archangels, laud honour praise and worship His most holy Name to my infinite unspeakable and sempiternal comfort. And as concerning my body which I hope I shall be always at the pleasure of my good God most ready to yield up, I will that after my death the same shall be buried in decent sort by the direction of my executors in the Cathedral Church of Rochester according to my degree and calling.”

V

It will readily be realised how wills from time to time illustrate the bare facts of history, with what vividness they might invest them if more frequently cited. Thus Margaret, Lady Hungerford, in 1476 enjoins her heirs not to disturb any of the alienations of her property, which she had been obliged to make owing to “seasons of trouble time late passed,” viz., the Wars of the Roses. Richard Lumley, Knight, Lord Viscount Lumley, writes on the 13th of April, in the thirteenth year of Charles II.: “And could I have done more for my family than I have done I would; and had done much more for them had not I had so great losses by the late calamitous times.”

Richard Burnand, of Knaresborough (1591), gives to his cousin “Dynnys Baynebrigge and his wife two silver goblets, worth in value XLs a piece, with my arms and name upon them, and they to have the use of them during their lives; and after their deceases I give the same goblets unto Anne Faux and Elizabeth Faux.” To Guy Faux he gives “two angels, to make him a ring.” This Guy is the celebrated and almost mythical figure in whose honour bonfires still flare on November 5th. Anne and Elizabeth were his sisters, and Mrs. Baynebrigge, widow of Edward Fawkes, their mother. Moreover, by the wills of Robert Wilcox in 1627, and of Luke Jackson in 1630, sermons were directed to be preached yearly on November 5th in honour of the discovery of the plot.

In days to come, perhaps, peculiar interest will attach to the will of Mlle. Meunier, the Frenchwoman who sympathised with the views of Ferrer and left him a considerable legacy some ten years before his execution. But who can estimate the value of Raisley Calvert’s legacy to Wordsworth, whereby the poet was relieved of the deadening care of money-making?

Changes and controversies in the Church find an echo in wills. Dr. Sanderson, Bishop of Lincoln, whose will was made about three weeks before his death (January 29, 1662-3) professes his faith at a significant date: “And here I do profess that as I have lived so I desire and—by the grace of God—resolve, to die in the communion of the Catholic Church of Christ, and a true son of the Church of England: which, as it stands by law established, to be both in doctrine and worship agreeable to the word of God, and in the most material points of both conformable to the faith and practice of the godly Churches of Christ in the primitive and purer times, I do firmly believe: led so to do, not so much from the force of custom and education—to which the greatest part of mankind owe their particular different persuasions in point of Religion,—as upon the clear evidence of truth and reason, after a serious and impartial examination of the grounds, as well of Popery as Puritanism, according to that measure of understanding, and those opportunities which God hath afforded me: and herein I am abundantly satisfied that the schism which the Papists on the one hand, and the superstitions which the Puritans on the other, lay to our charge, are very justly chargeable upon themselves respectively. Wherefore I humbly beseech Almighty God, the Father of mercies, to preserve the Church by His power and providence, in peace, truth, and godliness, evermore to the world’s end: which doubtless He will do, if the wickedness and security of a sinful people—and particularly the sins that are so rife, and seem daily to increase among us, of unthankfulness, riot and sacrilege—do not tempt His patience to the contrary. And I also further humbly beseech Him, that it would please Him to give unto our gracious Sovereign, the reverend Bishops, and the Parliament, timely to consider the great danger that visibly threatens this Church in point of religion by the late great increase of Popery, and in point of revenue by sacrilegious inclosures; and to provide such wholesome and effectual remedies, as may prevent the same before it be too late.”

Similarly, Richard Ward, whose will is dated February 6, 1664-5, bequeaths his “body to the earth whence it was taken, to be decently and Christianly buried according to the order of the Church of England ... wishing and praying from my very soul that this sinful and unthankful kingdom may never forget or forfeit that most miraculous mercy of God in restoring and establishing it.” Such contemporary comments are fascinating; so, too, the spirit of the same testator who dedicates his “young tender and only son George Ward” to the service of the Church, “if God shall so dispose his heart, which I trust He will because I am not without hopes that God Almighty did accept of my solemn dedication of him before he was formed in the womb. And the good God be his guide and portion.” It is not surprising to find this gentle spirit “languishing under the fatherly visitation of my most gracious God, to whose good pleasure I with all cheerfulness submit,” and speaking of his “dear sweet wife” and “dear and tenderly loving wife.”

The Restoration is a landmark in history. But there are passages in wills which recall the clash of controversialists forgotten now, yet provocative of fierce animosities in their time. Edward Evanson, who became Rector of Tewkesbury in 1769, was a modernist and innovator, a Richard Meynell of his day. In reading the services he would adapt words or phrases at pleasure, and in the lessons point out errors of translation. But a crisis was provoked by a sermon on the Resurrection preached at Easter, 1771. He was prosecuted in the Consistory Court of Gloucester, for “depraving the public worship of God contained in the liturgy of the Church of England, asserting the same to be superstitious and unchristian, preaching, writing, and conversing against the creeds and the divinity of our Saviour, and assuming to himself the power of making arbitrary alterations in his performance of the public worship.” Finally the charge fell through, on technical grounds, in 1777, but Mr. N. Havard, town clerk of Tewkesbury, published a narrative of the case. After a life of controversy Evanson died on September 25, 1805.

We can trace out bequests both for and against this troubler of the peace. Penelope Taylor, of Worcester, a widow with views beyond the circle of her home, gave by a codicil dated July 5, 1776, to Mr. Havard £200 to testify her approbation of his conduct “in the prosecution against Mr. Evanson, Vicar of Tewkesbury, and toward the expense of that laudable suit in the defence of Christianity.”

But Dr. Messenger Monsey, with no measured language, in his will dated twelve years later, upholds the other side. The controversy was not forgotten. Dr. Monsey was a contemporary of Dr. Johnson, one who “talked bawdy” in the latter’s less than elegant phrase. His will, in several respects noteworthy, must appear again. He had given, he says, by a previous will an annuity of £50 to Mr. Evanson; but since he had declined it, the testator substituted a nominal gift of £10 per annum, to manifest his great regard “for my friend Mr. Edward Evanson, and the opinions I have of his abilities and integrity in standing forth so ably as he has done in support of reason and true religion against the nonsense jargon and impiety so avowedly professed by a set of A. B————ps, D————ns, P————ts, and D————cons, who stood forth in defence of creeds articles and subscriptions without suffering or promoting any reformation for establishing the purity and simplicity of reasonable Christianity.”

Last of all died Evanson. His will is disappointing. It opens thus: “I Edward Evanson think it my duty under present circumstances to dispose of that portion of worldly property with which it hath pleased the divine providence of God to bless me.” Otherwise there is no reference to religion, none to his stormy life, save this incidental remark: “Conscientious objections to the Liturgy of the Established Church having prevented my standing godfather for my brother-in-law Mr. William Alchorne’s son, which I should otherwise have done, in lieu of the customary baptismal gifts I now give and bequeath to Mr. Wm. Alchorne aforesaid the sum of £50 in trust and for the sole use of his son Evanson Alchorne.” His wife Dorothy was residuary legatee, and the will, witnessed by three servants, was dated April 8, 1805, and proved on October 16th. He was a fighter; but not one of those who make militant wills, proclaiming, as it were with the last breath, their prepossessions and beliefs.

VI

It was to be expected that the plagues would leave their mark on these records, and very tragic such traces are. Many were driven to make their wills while still in health, but others delayed till the sickness had seized them. Of the latter more will be quoted hereafter; a few of the former may here illustrate the plague of 1665. It is strange that Defoe did not embellish his narrative with documents so vivid.

Death came swiftly, nor was it possible always to set the will down in writing. “Memorandum that on or about the nineteenth day of July in the year of our Lord God 1665 Edward Thompson, late of the parish of St. Paul’s in Covent Garden in the County of Middlesex, shoemaker, being then of good health of body and of good or perfect memory, but his house being then shut up and visited with the plague, and one of his children shortly before dying in the house of the same disease, he declared his last will and testament nuncupative, or by word of mouth, in these or the like words following, that is to say: It is my last will and desire that, if it please God to take me out of this world by this present visitation, that then my loving friend and cousin, Mr. Andrew Caldwall, shall take care of my son Alexander Thompson, (being then his only surviving child) and shall bring him up and put him forth an apprentice, and when my said son shall come to full age to give him a just account of my estate and pay unto him what shall be then remaining thereof in his hands. But if it shall please God that my said son Alexander shall die also, then after the death of my said son I give to my two brothers in Scotland and to their children 1/- apiece. And all the rest of my goods, chattels and estate whatsoever I give and bequeath unto the said Andrew Caldwall, in regard I have been more beholding unto him than to my brothers or to any friend in the world.” Evidently he was struck down swiftly, for on the 5th of August following this will was proved.

We see the fear of death hanging over the town, and how hastily wills were prepared. “My mother desired me on her death bed to be a brother to my sister Mary Grover, and if she lived to give her in money ten pounds, (and) a gold ring which was my mother’s.... If it should please God to take me away, and my sister alive, I desire she should have all that is her’s.... John Hunt will be one to see that it be not baffled away but carefully looked to for the good of my poor sister.... And my desire is that she be defrauded of none, but that care be taken for the child’s bringing up. As for my burial accordingly to the discretion of my overseers: if healthy times decently, if other times according to their appointment. This I writ myself for fear I should be deprived by sudden death.... The trunk at Mr. Hall’s and chest and box are top full of the best of linen and other things, and my trunk is top full at the Tavern.... If I die I pray let this be engrossed and put for my will in court. Written 1st September, 1665.” (John Grover, proved May 13, 1666.)

Henry Dickens, of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields, cordwainer, makes his will “being at this present sick and weak in body, but of sound and perfect mind and memory, for which I give all possible praise and thanks to Almighty God, and not knowing what may befall me in these sad times of God’s heavy visitation with the plague, (dated September 6, 1665, proved May 4, 1666);” Ralph Tymberlake, tallow chandler, “calling to mind the great uncertainty of this life, especially at this time when the arrows of God’s wrath are amongst us,” (dated September 9, 1665, proved September 20th); and John Garland thus: “The Lord’s hand being evidently gone out against this city, and not knowing how soon the stroke of death may be my portion, in order thereunto I make this my last will and testament. And in the first place I commit my soul into the arms of my Saviour the Lord Jesus in hope of His appearing at the resurrection of the dead, that when He appears I also may appear with Him in glory; and my body to be buried in a decent place and without funeral pomp, and so deep in the earth as not unnaturally to take up other men’s bones or too easily to scratch up my own by others.” (Dated August 15, 1665, proved January 5th following.) What bitter irony that at such a time he wishes to be buried “without funeral pomp”!

But peculiarly pathetic is the will of Henry Mabank. It is a letter to his mother, in the country, perhaps, and dreading every hour to hear that her son was stricken. It was proved on May 4, 1666. “Dear Mother, my duty to you remembered, and my love to my brothers and sisters and to Mr. Rudd and Mistress Rudd and Billy and to Henry Chandler, hoping you are all in good health as I am at this present writing, thanks be to God. Dear Mother, my desire and will is, that if you never see me more that my brother George and sister Betty and sister Ann shall have £100 which is upon bond equally divided between them.... Dear Mother, if it please God that I live till the 7th of August there will be £10 due to me from my master and £3 due the 20th of August upon bond. This £13 I will leave to your disposing. I am not afraid of the sickness, yet it is very near our house. I pray excuse me from writing every week; you shall hear of my welfare in Mrs. Rudd’s letters. So in haste I rest, Your dutiful son till death, Henry Mabank. July the 20th, 1665.”

Finally, the horrors of the plague and its attendant heroisms are recalled by the will of Sir Edmund Bury Godfrey, proved April 14, 1679. His will is otherwise remarkable, consistent with his fine independent character, and this opportunity may be taken for quoting it in part. How little his wishes were observed students of his life will know, and they will know also how peculiar were the circumstances of his death, which are briefly related at the close of the following essay. “I desire my executors ... to cause my body to be privately buried in the meanest place of burial belonging to that parish or place wherein I shall die but not in the Church, this to be performed without pomp or pageantry, not to be accompanied with numerous attendants either of friends or relations the which as I affected not in my lifetime I would not have imposed on me being dead: to that end, and to avoid being troublesome to the world and especially to the streets when dead, I desire to be buried very early in the morning or very late at night with as much privateness as may be, without any solemn invitation of my acquaintances or kindred as also without any funeral sermon or other harangue, which I do hereby forbid, any monument or other memorial of stone or brass to be made for me, hoping that my failings will be buried with me in the grave without any partial remembrance of evil or good actions, if any such have been, which are so called at the relator’s pleasure. As for the Charity which I have for some years bestowed on the poor of the parish of St. Martin’s in the Fields aforesaid, viz. 10/-in bread on every Lord’s Day or on some day at the beginning of each week, my will is that my executors ... do jointly and severally take care and continue to do the same by themselves for the space of ten years from and after the time of my decease.... And I do further will that the Charity by me given of 2/-per week in bread to the poor of the parish of Selling being the place of my birth[1] ... be weekly continued to be given ... in the same manner during the same time and on the like terms as are already mentioned in the behalf of the poor of the parish of St. Martin’s in the Fields aforesaid, and be continued after the determination of twenty-one years on the same terms therein expressed at the discretion of my executors their heirs or executors and no otherwise. Item: I give unto my brother Mr. Peter Godfrey, if he shall be living at the time of my death and not else, one hundred pounds instead of my great silver flagon once intended him whereon are engraven His Majesty’s Royal Arms with my own adjoined, and was so given unto me by order of the King and Council in memory of the service which God enabled me to perform towards the visited poor in that dreadful year of plague 1665, the which I am always to remember with humility and true thankfulness.... And I do particularly give unto my brother Mr. Michael Godfrey my great flagon aforementioned of the King’s gift.”

After the plague, the fire. That naturally does not loom large in wills, but references may be found. Thus Edmund Calamy, “minister of the gospel,” whose will was dated October 4, 1666, and proved November 14th, gave to his “dear and loving wife,” Anne Calamy, “all the ground whereon my house stood which was lately burned down, called or known by the name and sign of the Rose, and was situate and being in St. Nicholas Lane, London, and all the timber and all the materials which did belong to the same that yet remain unburned, (if any be).” “And as for the manner of my burial, my desire is to be buried in the ruins of Aldermanbury Church; and in regard of my many children my will is that, besides mourning unto my relations, nothing be given at my funeral, not doubting that my friends and acquaintances, who shall come to perform their last office of love to me, will not come out of expectation of anything, but out of pure love and respect to the memory of their deceased friend.” This Edmund Calamy was committed to Newgate on January 6, 1663, the first Nonconformist who suffered for disobedience to the Act of Uniformity. Set free by order of the King, he was driven through the ruins of London, and the sight, it is said, broke his heart. He died on October 29, 1666, and was buried in the ruins of his church, “as near to the place where his pulpit had stood as they could guess.”

Lastly, Thomes Rich (dated July 31, 1672), devised a messuage and premises in Lime Street, St. Andrew Undershaft, the rents to be distributed as to 40s. yearly to the minister of the parish to preach there two sermons, one on New Year’s Day, the other on the third Tuesday in September, in thankfulness to God for the preservation of the parish from the Fire.

VII

Appended to the will of Thomas Appletree, a lengthy document, is the following memorandum: “Be it remembered that on Saturday the one and thirtieth day of March last past before the date hereof (April 27th, 1666) Thomas Appletree, of Dadington, ... Esq., lying sick in his bed, (his brother William Appletree of Dadington aforesaid, Gentleman, being by his bedside, and Lettice Appletree daughter of the said Thomas Appletree being in the same chamber,) his said brother William Appletree said thus unto him:—Brother I know you have made your will, pray where is it? His answer was:—It is in the little trunk at my bed’s feet.”

In this case the survivors seem to have been more anxious than the dying man that the will should not be mislaid. They were not subject to the delicacy of feeling of Mr. Weller in a later age. “Samivel,” said Mr. Weller accosting his son on the morning of the funeral, “I’ve found it, Sammy. I thought it wos there.” “Thought wot wos where?” inquired Sam. “Your mother-in-law’s vill, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller. “In wirtue o’ vich, them arrangements is to be made as I told you on last night respectin’ the funs.” “Wot, didn’t she tell you were it wos?” inquired Sam. “Not a bit on it, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller. “We wos a adjestin’ our little differences, and I wos a cheerin’ her spirits and bearin’ her up, so that I forgot to ask anythin’ about it. I don’t know as I should ha’ done it indeed, if I had remembered it,” added Mr. Weller, “for it’s a rum sort o’ thing, Sammy, to go a hankerin’ arter anybody’s property, ven you’re assistin’ ’em in illness. It’s like helping an outside passenger up, ven he’s been pitched off a coach, and puttin’ your hand in his pocket, vile you ask vith a sigh how he finds hisself, Sammy.”

The danger of a will’s loss or destruction preys upon some minds, a subject which must be recurred to in the last chapter of this book. Various expedients to facilitate the finding of the will are adopted. Dr. Thomas Cheyney, Dean of Winchester, whose will was proved in 1760, began a codicil thus: “Whereas by my last will (which may be found in the innermost part of a little walnut bureau with one glass door in my long gallery)....” Lord St. Leonards, the lawyer, made every effort for the safety of his will, it being carefully kept in a strong-box and securely guarded, as was thought; but when he died in 1875, and the box was duly opened, the will was missing after all.

“Thackeray,” says G. W. E. Russell in “Seeing and Hearing,” “did not traffic very much in wills, though, to be sure, Jos. Sedley left £1,000 to Becky Sharp, and the opportune discovery of Lord Ringwood’s will in the pocket of his travelling-carriage simplified Philip’s career. The insolvent swindler, Dr. Firmin, who had robbed his son and absconded to America, left his will ‘in the tortoiseshell secretaire in the consulting-room, under the picture of Abraham offering up Isaac.’”

A missing will is the novelist’s delight. In Miss Everett Green’s “A Will in a Well,” among the incoherent sentences of a dying man, the words “Search well” are overheard. But it needed an acute intellect to realise, after every effort had been made to find a satisfactory last will, that it was a disused well that should have been scoured for the document. In Mrs. Wilfred Ward’s “Great Possessions” a lost will is found, and redeems the testator’s reputation.

No hiding-place is too unlikely. When Lord Hailes died in 1792 no will was to be found. The daughter and only child had given up hope of possessing the mansion-house, but when her servants were locking it up and closing the shutters, from behind a panel there fell the will which secured her the estate. Harris Norman, a pedlar, who died worth over £11,000, left a will which was found in a silk hat; and lately a curious story was told in the Probate Court of a will found in a clock. The deceased’s husband, it was stated, made a search for a will, but was for some time unsuccessful. As the greater part of his wife’s property consisted of freeholds, in which under an intestacy he would take but a curtesy interest, it was with anxiety that the search was made. Eventually, at the back of a clock on the mantelpiece, the will was found, betrayed by the stopping of the clock. Not unnaturally a charge of forgery was set up. It is certainly dangerous, for more than one reason, to hide a will securely away. In this case the judge pronounced in its favour. “What more likely than after the deceased had been worried to make a will for little Hilda (her niece), she thought that she would leave her property to her husband? Was it likely that she would tell any one? Was it not likely that she would put it in some place—as in the back of the clock—which would not be opened for some days after her death?”

On the other hand, the High Court of Bengal, in 1903, refused to admit to probate a will which was stated to have been searched for and found in a tin box formerly in the possession of one who was said to have been the custodian of the will in his lifetime, and the Court said: “We hold that fraud and deceit were practised at the finding of the will.” Certainly wills are given sometimes to friends for custody, and then themselves bequeathed. Charles Johnson, for instance, seaman of the frigate Coventry, in his will dated 1778, stated that he had two wills in his possession, and these at his death he gave to his friend Henry Dye, belonging to the same ship.

“Memorandum, that on the three and twentieth day of July, 1595, this will was found in the little black trunk of the said Elenor Clarke standing at her bed’s foot, being found locked and opened in the presence of us John Worsopp, William Payne, John Smithe.” The heirs of Charles William Minet, who died in 1874, a descendant of a family which had fled from France at the persecution of Protestants in 1686, were not so fortunate. No will could be found, and his manor-house was sold. But in 1905, on a death in another branch of the family, some neglected cases were examined, and in one of them lay the will. It showed that the estate had been settled in tail, and it was accordingly repurchased, that the testator’s intentions might not be frustrated.

But intentionally or unintentionally, a will may be destroyed. The romance of wills breathes from this codicil to the will of a West Indian merchant. “Grenada, 20th March, 1795. I Simpson Strachan, of said Island, and in the town of St. George Northant, do make this codicil to my last will and testament dated 1786, the day and month I do not at present recollect nor can I have recourse to said will by reason of its being buried under ground to prevent its being burnt by the enemy.” Sometimes a happy chance may preserve the tenour of a will. The estate of a testatrix who died in 1872 being at the time valueless, her will was not proved. But recent improvement in certain property made probate a necessity. The original will, however, had been destroyed in a fire, and only the copy of a copy remained. This copy, though imperfectly transcribed, was admitted to probate, subject to obvious emendations.

At other times a more serious problem is presented. A will may be destroyed by the testator, or in his presence, but not necessarily so as to revoke or annul it. Upon this point interesting actions turn from time to time, and curious family histories are disclosed. It is very difficult to decide in some cases whether the deceased himself destroyed the will or whether at the time he approved of its destruction; the time and temper lost, the publicity involved, show how foolish it is to die intestate. If one wishes the estate to devolve under the statutes for the distribution of intestates’ property, it is still possible to make a will stating that this is the testator’s desire.

As foolish is it to die intending that a torn will shall be valid. In 1908 a Yorkshireman died, leaving as his will one that had been torn in fragments by his wife. Next day she pinned the pieces together, and the matter was dismissed as a joke. The testator only laughed when it was suggested that trouble might ensue through the tearing of the will. “By the Wills Act a will might be revoked by tearing by the testator or by his authority and in his presence. This will had undoubtedly been torn up in his presence, but there was no evidence that it had been done by his authority; indeed the evidence was all the other way.... No will could be revived except by a duly executed document, and similarly the testator could have revoked his will by another will had he wished to do so. It was, however, clear that he always regarded the torn will as a good one and examined it to see if it was legible. Something had been said as to all Yorkshiremen being lawyers. They were a hard-headed people, and the testator’s view was quite correct.” So said the learned Judge.

Of all acts which exasperate the human sense of piety and justice, perhaps the most exasperating is the destruction of a will after the death of the deceased. The destruction of the will of George I. by his son George II. is famous in history, but in view of evidence recently adduced we need not enlarge upon the traditional interpretation. Some wills, indeed, are better destroyed.

For the purposes of poetry, drama, and fiction, this theme is obvious but not negligible. There is a remarkable similarity between the atmosphere of Sir Arthur Pinero’s dramas and George Crabbe’s poems. Each, too, has chosen in one instance the criminal destruction of a will to build upon, and while Crabbe’s poem, “The Will,” is slight and Pinero’s drama, “The Thunderbolt,” is subtle, yet poet and dramatist are worth comparing.

In “The Will” a father wishes to disinherit his unworthy son and leave his estate to a worthy friend. The friend dissuades him, but keeps the first will in case the father should revive it.

Until the father died.

Needless to say, Wright inquires for the will, and is told that there is none. After expostulation and discreet delay, the friend is satisfied that the will is destroyed: to the son’s consternation a copy of the first will is produced, and David Wright becomes the lawful heir.

In “The Thunderbolt” the simple theme is drawn out with quiet but subtle skill. An elder brother dies, rich and with one child only, a natural daughter. The family, upon whom nature has showered neither excellence nor wealth, assembles with all the gloom and all the curiosity appropriate to the occasion. It appears that there is no will forthcoming; the daughter therefore will have no share in the estate, the brothers and a sister being entitled between them. But when all is thought to be settled and safe, when each has devised a new scheme and scale of life, a brother breaks in upon the smug conclave announcing that there was a will, but that he had destroyed it. His story breaks down, and the act is traced to his wife who nursed the deceased on his death-bed, accidentally found the will, and after his death deliberately destroyed it. The poor daughter finds that her father has not forgotten her; the selfish family is thunderstruck. Such is the character, and hence the name, of the play.

In Sir Arthur Pinero’s drama no lawsuit follows, all parties agreeing in a compromise. But in real life probate actions are a rich source of intimate dramas and revelations. From them innumerable details emerge: threats and cajolery, rights and wrongs, loves and hates, stand out with all their tender or terrible insistence. In fiction inevitably they find a place. In “Mr. Meeson’s Will” Sir Henry Rider Haggard has discovered an extraordinary theme, but he has not shown the art which made the ordinary theme of “The Thunderbolt” a subtle and telling play. Mr. Meeson is outraged by his nephew’s plain-speaking, which reminds him of his unrighteous dealings, and in a rage cuts him out of his will. The girl on whose behalf the nephew was to be disinherited is, by a strange course of events, thrown with Mr. Meeson on a deserted island, with two sailors and a child only besides. In terror of death, which swiftly overtakes him, Mr. Meeson would revive his former will, but there is nothing with or upon which to write it. The only possible method is to tattoo the dying man’s desires upon human flesh, and this is done by one of the sailors upon the back of the tortured girl. She is rescued by a passing ship; and on returning home a probate action, such as never yet had been, was fought out to a triumphant conclusion.

Another story, scarcely less remarkable in its own way, is revealed by Edmund Gosse, in “Father and Son,” of an action set in motion by a son who was grievously wronged by one of the “saints”—the sect among whom Mr. Gosse’s father held an honourable place. This member of the community had persuaded a rich man, well on in years, to board with him, and when he died a will was produced leaving his entire fortune to the “saint” with whom he lodged. Yet the old man had a son surviving. In time the son came home from overseas, and the universal legatee of the will was arrested. The trial disclosed that the old man had been “converted” by the “saint,” and had disinherited his son as an “unbeliever.” The “saint” had traced the signature to the will by drawing the testator’s fingers over the document, when he was already comatose. To the last the “saint” declared his belief that he had done no wrong, that it was righteous to wrest the money to pious and charitable uses. Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum.