Pathetic, indeed, death-bed wills too often are. Here is the cry of a humble inhabitant of Kent in 1608. “Loving father, my humble duty remembered unto you. It hath pleased God to visit me with sickness, so as I think not to see you any more in this world: wherefore I pray you to be good to my wife and children.” Or take another more than a hundred years later. “Queenborough, May 12th, 1721. Brother John Smith, I am very bad, so bad that I cannot tell whether I shall live or die. So in case of death I desire you to be executor to take care of the things and the girl. I cannot write, but this shall stand in as full force as if in any other form drawn.”
More explicit, indeed of a painful preciseness, are the last words of Denham Castle, who died of smallpox in 1709. “Sir, I am very much obliged to you for enquiring after me in so particular a manner. My circumstances are very bad, and smallpox come out as thick as they can. I have not had a wink of sleep, and am choked almost with the phlegm. If some method is not taken to rid me of the phlegm and give me some speedy relief, I shall not be able to hold out. I would desire the favour to acquaint my father with it, who is at Sheperton beyond Hampton Town in Middlesex, but I would not have him or any of my sisters come near me, for it will be of no use to me. If I should do otherwise than well, I have some money in a box in my study, the only box there: it is under lock and key. Some part of it which is gold is put up within the lids of my pocket-book, which will be found wrapped up in some linen. There are also [some other sums]: that money will bury me privately; and if there is any remaining, I desire my youngest sister and Nanny who is a prentice in London may have it, as being the worst provided for.”
Well worth comparing with the last is the will of Thomas Dixon, “late of the parish of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields.”
“My dear Life,—This is to let you understand my to help myself in any respect, or move either hand or foot, no more than had I been quite dead, being seized all over my body with the dead palsy, and now lying in St. Thomas’ Hospital in Southwark; and for my comfort they tell me I shall never be cured. My Dear, there would be nothing more pleasing, or a greater satisfaction to me, than to see you here by me before I part with this life, which I do not doubt but you will consider as soon as this comes to your hands. Pray, my Dear, I desire you may make my sister a present of three pounds: you know what you are to have when you come here, not that I think it too much for you but wishes it were more for your sake. Likewise, my Dear, be pleased to give my coat, waistcoat and two pair of breeches to my father, my silver buckles to my uncle Garrott, and the razors belong to my master: as for all the rest, you may do as you think convenient, but this I desire you’ll fulfil; and likewise give one of my shirts to my cousin John Monachon, and a pair of shoes: my sister will tell you who he is.
“My duty to my dear father and mother, and I earnestly crave their blessing, and the prayers of my brother and sisters and all friends, and my love to them all, and the blessing of God be with them. I desire you may let my sister see this as soon as it comes to your hands, and to hasten your coming as soon as possible you can get ready; for to delay any time, and knowing my condition, you may perhaps not overtake me alive; for if I got England, I cannot put a bit of anything to my mouth, but as I am fed by others. This is all, my Dear, I can say, but I begs you will fulfil all that I desire in this, which is the earnest request of him who is, (without the miraculous assistance of my good God and Saviour,) on his death-bed.—Your constant and loving husband till that hour, Thomas Dixon.”
The veil is lifted from the last days of a dying man, but lifted for the moment only. Did the letter reach his wife in time? Did she hasten and reach him alive? We may hope she did, for Thomas Dixon lingered until the 8th of July; but thus wills constantly tantalise us, while they leave the more to the imagination.
In 1603 the plague, which was to mark the century with its devastations, carried off in London over 41,000 souls. Nor did the neighbouring villages escape. As witnessed by the parish register, the Rector of Clapham, with his family, fell a prey. Within one month there died:—
| Edward Coochman | Parson of Clapham | 3rd | September. |
| Judith his wife | 4th | ” | |
| Edward his son | 12th | ” | |
| Elizabeth his daughter | 15th | ” | |
| Judith”” | 18th | ” | |
| Susan his maid servant | 24th | ” |
In view of this list the Rector’s will, signed the day before he died in the presence of his maid, Susan Bennet, “and of one old Joane his keeper,” has an added pathos. “Brother Gabriel Coochman, I commend me unto you. I am at the point of death and have no hope ever to see you in this world. My will is that you shall have all my goods and chattels for the use of my wife and children. And I do hereby make you my sole executor for the use aforesaid, and do earnestly pray and desire you to have a fatherly care for the bringing up of my poor children, as my trust is in you. And so I bid you heartily farewell, till we meet in heaven; this second of September, 1603, your loving brother.”