“Ye lawyers who live upon litigants’ fees,
And who need a good many to live at your ease;
Grave or gay, wise or witty, whate’er your degree,
Plain stuff or State’s Counsel, take counsel of me:—
When a festive occasion your spirit unbends,
You should never forget the profession’s best friends:
So we’ll send round the wine, and a light bumper fill
To the jolly testator who makes his own will.
“He premises his wish and his purpose to save
All dispute among friends when he’s laid in his grave;
Then he straightway proceeds more disputes to create
Than a long summer’s day would give time to relate.
He writes and erases, he blunders and blots,
He produces such puzzles and Gordian knots,
That a lawyer intending to frame the thing ill,
Couldn’t match the testator who makes his own will.
“Testators are good, but a feeling more tender
Springs up when I think of the feminine gender!
The testatrix for me, who, like Telemaque’s mother,
Unweaves at one time what she wove at another.
She bequeathes, she repeats, she recalls a donation,
And ends by revoking her own revocation;
Still scribbling or scratching some new codicil,
Oh! success to the woman who makes her own will.
“’Tisn’t easy to say, ’mid her varying vapors,
What scraps should be deemed testamentary papers.
’Tisn’t easy from these her intention to find,
When perhaps she herself never knew her own mind.
Every step that we take, there arises fresh trouble:—
Is the legacy lapsed? Is it single or double?
No customer brings so much grist to the mill,
As the wealthy old woman who makes her own will.
“The law decides questions of meum and tuum,
By kindly consenting to make the thing suum,
The Æsopian fable instructively tells,
What becomes of the oysters, and who gets the shells.
The legatees starve, but the lawyers are fed;
The Seniors have riches, the Juniors have bread;
The available surplus of course will be nil,
From the worthy testator who makes his own will.
“You had better pay toll when you take to the road,
Than attempt by a by-way to reach your abode;
You had better employ a conveyancer’s hand,
Than encounter the risk that your will shouldn’t stand.
From the broad beaten track when the traveler strays,
He may land in a bog, or be lost in a maze;
And the law, when defied, will avenge itself still,
On the man and the woman who make their own will.”
Ingersoll on Decoration Day
Robert G. Ingersoll died at Dobbs Ferry, New York, July 21, 1899. He left no will. A number of his great speeches were funeral orations. The following extract from an address made on Decoration Day to the Soldiers at Indianapolis, Indiana, is regarded as the most touching example of imagery and vision to be found in English literature:
“The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sound of preparation—the music of the boisterous drums, the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators; we see the pale cheeks of women and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part from those they love. Some are walking for the last time in quiet woody places with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing babies that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing; and some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with brave words spoken in the old tones to drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door, with the babe in her arms—standing in the sunlight sobbing; at the turn of the road a hand waves—she answers by holding high in her loving hands the child. He is gone—and forever.”
Elegy on a Wife