DEATH-BED DISPOSITIONS
“Because mention is made of Death in men’s wills and
testaments, I warrant you there is none will set his hand
to them, till the physician hath given his last doom, and
utterly forsaken him.”—MONTAIGNE.
Among the wills of Kentish folk there is one of a John Crampe, who
lived in the parish of St. Peter the Apostle, Isle of Thanet, by
calling a husbandman. He was one of those whose last hours are troubled
by the “heavy business” of a death-bed disposition. We read that “on
or about the 3rd day of September, 1727, the said John Crampe, now
deceased, being then sick in bed, did give directions or instructions
to him the deponent, George Witherden, ... for the making of the last
will and testament of him the said deceased.... And the said deceased
then attempted to sign the said will, but was so weak that he could not
guide the pen, and so died without signing the same.”
Or again. On the 27th of January, 1717, there appeared Margaret Preston
and Ellis Kyffin to depose that they “being together at the lodgings
of Mrs. Priscilla Blake, widow, in Crown Court, in the parish of
St. James’s, ... who then lay very ill, severally saw her the said
Priscilla Blake, who was then of sound mind memory and understanding
and well knew what she did, execute her last will and testament; ...
which will had, as they believe, been drawn up the day before by her
directions, and but just then read over to her; for the deponent, Ellis
Kyffin, asking her if she was satisfied with it all the time she was
going to make her mark to the same, the testatrix answered she was.
With that the deponent said, ‘God strengthen your hand,’ to which she
again replied, ‘Amen,’ and then made her mark to the said will as now
appears, and took a seal from the wax dropped near the same, and said
that that was her will: in testimony whereof this deponent Ellis Kyffin
subscribed her name as a witness thereto, but the deponent Preston, not
being able to write her name, was the reason that her name was not put
as a witness thereto.”
Of such cases the following, too, is picturesque and significant. The
affidavit accompanying the curt and curious will of Henry Harding, a
Staffordshire worthy, explains its formality, and reveals a touching
death-bed scene in the early morning of Easter Sunday, 1761. It
begins without preamble. “Mr. Harding gives to his two nephews Henry
and William, and his niece Mary Harding, the sum of £100 apiece.” He
proceeds to give “to his dear cousin Abramaria Harris his work chair
bottoms and his best hangings of his best bed; ... to his servant John
Johnson all his clothes (except his silk stockings).” He desires his
executors to take care of his servant George Clarke during his life.
The residue of his estate, subject to a few other bequests, he leaves
to his brother.
This will is sworn to by one Samuel Wilcock and by Abramaria Harris.
It was made at two o’clock on that Easter morning. The testator,
feeling the approach of death, sent for the said Samuel Wilcock, of
Abbots Bromley. About 1 a.m., it would seem, he arrived, and to him
Mr. Harding gave instructions to draw up his will in writing. Mr.
Wilcock accordingly wrote down the instructions of the dying man, and
then prepared to write out the will in more formal and regular style.
But before the draft could be completed, about four o’clock the same
morning, Henry Harding passed away. Truly a strange hour and a strange
time to make a will, and a harassing task for a man’s last moments on
earth. But to his negligence or superstition we owe this picture of an
Easter morning, a hundred and fifty years ago.
From the will of William the Conqueror, which was set down at his
death-bed, to that of an entombed miner, recently, who wrote: “May the
Holy Virgin have mercy on me. I am writing in the dark, because we have
eaten all our wax matches. You have been a good wife. All my property
belongs to you,” such incidents have always been occurring, and, it
may be imagined, always will occur. The Probate Court reveals them now
and then. Recently a testator, suffering from pneumonia, and near the
point of death, about 3.30 in the afternoon, dictated to his doctors
his testamentary dispositions. The document was written in pencil, and
the dying man made his mark thereto, which was duly witnessed. A copy
was then made in ink, but certain words were omitted, and, owing to the
sudden necessity of administering oxygen, not finally inserted. This
second document was executed by the testator, but, one of the witnesses
not seeing him make his mark, it could not be admitted to probate.
About 5.30 the testator died. On application to the court, probate was
granted of the pencil will.
In these cases there is something extremely distressing. When a man’s
thoughts should be composed, as far as possible, in the consideration
of his final end and on the prospects of another world, he is tied to
earth by his efforts to settle his temporal affairs. It is no wonder
that moralists and theologians have insisted on the necessity of making
a will betimes: the wonder is that any should be found to neglect their
admonitions, or be surprised by sickness and sudden death. “They are so
fearful to die that they dare not look upon it as possible, and think
that the making of a will is a mortal sign, and sending for a spiritual
man an irrecoverable disease; and they are so afraid lest they should
think and believe now they must die, that they will not take care
that it may not be evil in case they should.” Maurice Barrowe, whose
will was proved in 1666, may have read Jeremy Taylor’s “Holy Dying”;
certainly his sentiments would have found favour with the great divine.
“In the Name of God Amen. I Maurice Barrowe, of Barningham, in the
County of Suffolk, Esquire, duly weighing the mutable condition of this
life and certainty of death manifested by daily examples, to prevent
cares of the world at that time, (those distracting interrupters of a
dislodging soul,) now in my perfect health and entire memory, to the
glory of God, quiet of my mind, designing of my heirs, satisfaction of
my debts, remembrance of my friends and recompense of my servants, do
make and ordain this my last will and testament.”
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.”
“LONDON.
“_June the 28th, 1718._
“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.”
The death of Susan, the maid, is recorded, though as she died last of
all we need not ascribe it to her witnessing the will. But probably
such a kindly act often cost a man his life. Possibly the parson
himself contracted the illness thus, or at least in visiting some
afflicted parishioner. For it is noticeable that of the family he was
the first to die. We can go back to July, 1515, for such an act of
devotion by the parish priest, when the will of one Gefferey Salesbury,
of Leicestershire, was witnessed by the priest only, “and no more for
fear of the plague of pest.”
To the difficulty of obtaining witnesses was added the unwillingness of
scriveners to attend. “Memorandum that upon Wednesday, the 9th day of
November, 1625, Edward Blackerby, citizen and clothworker of London,
and of the parish of St. Stephen in Coleman Street, in London, being
sick in body and in danger of death, but of perfect mind and memory,
being desirous to make his last will, sent divers times for a scrivener
of his acquaintance to write the same, and in the meantime, in the
presence of John Frank and William Blackerby, did very oftentimes
pronounce and say that he made his wife his executrix. At the length,
perceiving that the scrivener of his acquaintance which he so often
sent for was fearful to come unto him in his sickness, he thereupon
caused another scrivener to be sent for to write his will; but before
his will could be written, his memory was so decayed and so weak
that he could not finish what he intended.” Similarly Henry Ludlowe,
“late of the parish of St. Martin’s in the Fields, ... goldsmith,
being sensible of the hand of God upon him during the late contagion,
his family being visited and himself dangerously ill of the sickness
whereof he died, and having a desire to declare his will and mind, ...
no scrivener being then to be had to put his will into writing, upon a
Monday happening about the middle of August last past (1665) ... did
cause one of his nurse keepers to call up the others into his chamber
on purpose to be witnesses to what he had to say.”
With the intimate and pathetic will of Francis Mountstephen we revert
to the plague of 1603. It was proved on the 29th of August that year.
“I repose trust in you, brother Nicholas, concerning the executorship.
Brother Nicholas, since it hath pleased God to visit me with his rod,
which I pray God that rod I may take with patience, you writ unto
me concerning the suit which I ever well liked; and the cause of my
sending to you a Sunday morning was to that end, and to have made
straight those things which you requested. For that bond of £50 you
speak of I am content you should have it, upon condition that you would
see the rest equally bestowed upon the rest; but, if your discretion
think it good, let my two younger sisters have somewhat the greater
share, for they have the most need withal. Remember my uncle Baldiom
because of my promise. And so referring the rest to your discretion,
I commit you to the Lord God, (I end,) whom I desire to release me of
my pains which I intolerable do bear. From the pesthouse, this two and
twentieth of August, 1603. Your loving brother F. M. If it please God
that I do die, I owe to Edward Smith 10/-: I pray you pay it for me.
F. M. I pray you take 8/-of Elizabeth Price when she cometh to town.
Witnesses, Henry Chitham, keeper of the pesthouse, Rose Gibb and Robert
Smith.”