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.