WILLS OF FANCY AND OF FANTASY
It is said that Lord Eldon, in early days, would wrest pieces of poetry
into the form of legal instruments, and that he succeeded in reducing
“Chevy Chace” into the style of a bill in Chancery. The opposite
tendency, it may be imagined, is the more common, and from the history
of England to the last will and testament there is little that has not
been converted into verse from time to time. It is rumoured that the
essential points of those prosaic documents, the acts relating to Death
Duties, have been versified: certainly the “Canons of Descent” are in
verse and in print. Their quality is not high.
_Canon I._
“Estates go to the issue (item)
Of him last seized in infinitum;
Like cow-tails, downwards, straight they tend,
But never, lineally, ascend.
_Canon II._
This gives the preference to males,
At which a lady justly rails.
_Canon V._
When lineal descendants fail,
Collaterals the land may nail;
So that they be (and that a bore is)
De sanguine progenitores.”
Little better is the style of most wills which have appeared in verse.
Of these the rhyming will of Will Jackett (1789), who died in North
Place, Islington, is well known:—
“I leave and bequeath
When I’m laid underneath,
To my two loving sisters most dear,
The whole of my store,
Were it twice as much more,
Which God’s goodness has granted me here.
And that none may prevent
This my will and intent,
Or occasion the least of law racket;
With a solemn appeal
I confirm, sign, and seal,
This the true Act and Deed of Will Jackett.”
Such wills have naturally been seized upon by collectors of verse and
oddities. But for the most part they are scarcely worth transcription
in full, so that space and time may be saved by quoting a few fragments
only. A will, “found in the house of an old Batchelor lately deceased”
according to “The Muses’ Mirror” (1783), begins thus:—
“With a mind quite at ease, in the evening of life,
Unencumbered with children, relations, or wife;
Not in friendship with one single creature alive,
I make my last will, in the year sixty-five;
How I leave my affairs, though I care not a straw,
Lest a grocer should start up my true heir-at-law;
Or of such in default, which would prove a worse thing,
My land unbequeathed should revert to the king,
I give and bequeath, be it first understood,
I’m a friend, and a firm friend to the general good,
And odd as I seem, was remarked from my youth,
A stickler at all times for honour and truth....”
Four years later Nathaniel Lloyd, Esquire, of Twickenham, followed the
“old Batchelor’s” example.
“What I am going to bequeath,
When this frail part submits to death;
But still I hope the spark divine
With its congenial stars will shine:
My good executors fulfil,
I pray ye, fairly, my last will,
With first and second codicil!...
Unto my nephew, Robert Longdon,
Of whom none says he e’er has wrong done;
Tho’ civil law he loves to hash,
I give two hundred pounds in cash....
To Sally Crouch and Mary Lee,
If they with Lady Poulet be,
Because they round the year did dwell
In Twick’nham House, and served full well,
When Lord and Lady both did stray
Over the hills and far away;
The first ten pounds, the other twenty,
And, girls, I hope that will content ye.
In seventeen hundred and sixty-nine,
This with my hand I write and sign;
The sixteenth day of fair October,
In merry mood, but sound and sober;
Past my threescore and fifteenth year,
With spirits gay and conscience clear;
Joyous and frolicksome, tho’ old,
And, like this day, serene but cold;
To foes well-wishing, and to friends most kind,
In perfect charity with all mankind.”
More modern, but in its touches of human nature not of this age only,
is the will of one Sarah Smith.
“I, Sarah Smith, a spinster lone,
With little here to call my own,
Few friends to weep at my decease,
Or pray my soul may rest in peace,
Do make my last and only will,
(Unless I add a codicil,)
My brother Sam to see it done
For he’s the right and proper one.
I give the kettle that I use
At tea-time, and the little cruse
That holds hot posset for a guest
To Martha, for she’s homeliest;
Perhaps she’d like the picture too
In needlework of Auntie Loo
(So like her,) and of Uncle Jim,
She always was so fond of him.
Then there’s the parlour chair and table,
I give them both to you, dear Mabel,
With love, and when you sit thereat
Remember there your Sarah sat.
My poor old spectacles will be
More use to you, alas, than me,
So take them, Polly, and they may
Perhaps sometimes at close of day
Grow dim when memories arise
Of how they suited Sally’s eyes.
Pussy will not be with you long,
But while she lives do her no wrong,
A mug of milk beside the fire
Will be the most that she’ll desire.
There’s little else I have to mention,
For, when I’ve spent my old-age pension,
Not many crowns disturb my sleep,
But what there is is Sam’s to keep:
He’s been a brother kind and good
In all my days of solitude.
And so farewell: no word of ill
Shall stain my last and only will;
But, friends, be just and gentle with
The memory of Sarah Smith.”
Genuine wills in rhyme are naturally rare, but literature is full of
imaginary or fantastic testaments, as well in prose as in verse. To
such a one Sir Walter Scott refers in a letter to Lady Anne Hamilton:
“I always remind myself of the bequest which once upon a time the wren
made to the family of Hamilton. This magnanimous, patriotic bird, after
disposing of his personal property to useful and public services, such
as one of his legs to prop the bridge of Forth and the other to prop
the bridge of Tay, at length instructs his executors thus:—
“And then ye’ll take my gallant bill,
My bill that pecks the corn,
And give it to the Duke of Hamilton
To be a hunting horn.”
Whether in prose or in verse—verse not seldom prosaic—a striking
similarity of idea runs through them, from the will of the _cochon_ of
the fourth century, who gives his teeth to the quarrelsome, his ears to
the deaf, his muscles to the weak, down to the will of Chatterton in
the eighteenth century, who gives “all my vigour and fire of youth to
Mr. George Catcott, being sensible he is most in want of it,” and “from
the same charitable motive ... unto the Rev. Mr. Camplin, senior, all
my humility.”
On earth all things decay and have their period, so all things may make
their wills.
“Omnia tempus edax depascitur, omnia carpit,
Omnia sede movet, nil sinit esse diu.”
The idea may be indefinitely extended. Among the writings of Thomas
Nash, for instance, is a fantasy entitled “Summer’s Last Will and
Testament.”
_Summer loquitur._
“Enough of this, let me go make my will....
The surest way to get my will performed
Is to make my executor my heir,
And he, if all be given him, and none else,
Unfallibly will see it well performed.
Lions will feed, though none bid them fall to,
Ill grows the tree affordeth ne’er a graft.
* * * * *
This is the last stroke my tongue’s clock must strike
My last will, which I will that you perform:
My crown I have disposed already of.
Item, I give my withered flowers and herbs
Unto dead corpses, for to deck them with;
My shady walks to great men’s servitors,
Who in their masters’ shadows walk secure;
My pleasant open air, and fragrant smells,
To Croydon and the grounds abutting round;
My heat and warmth to toiling labourers,
My long days to bondmen and prisoners—
My fruits to Autumn, my adopted heir,
My murmuring springs, musicians of sweet sleep,
To murmuring malcontents, with their well-tuned ears,
Channelled in a sweet falling quatorzain,
Do lull their ears asleep, listening themselves....”
Peignot, in his “Choix de Testaments” (1829) made a beginning of a
bibliography of imaginative or imaginary wills, among which he cites
the last will of the _Ligue_ in the “Satyre Ménippée.” It has eloquent
and poignant passages.
“Plus, suivant la coutume et anciennes lois,
Je fais mon heritier tout le peuple françois;
Je lui laisse les pleurs, le sang, les pilleries,
Les meurtres, assassins, insignes voleries,
Les veuves, orphelins, et les violemens,
Les larmes, les regrets, et les rançonnemens,
Les ruines des bourgs, des villes, des villages,
Des chateaux, des maisons et tant de brigandages,
Les ennuis, les douleurs et tous les maux reçus
Par surprise ou assauts, par les flammes et feux,
Bref de son cher pays les cendreuses reliques,
Reste de mes labeurs et secrètes pratiques.”
Peignot showed what possibilities lay in this research; perhaps
of poetic wills his countryman Villon’s “Testaments” are the most
noteworthy. English literature, too, has many poems of this nature, and
John Donne’s poem called “The Will” is characteristic of its author and
of its kind.
“Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,
Great Love, some legacies; I here bequeath
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see;
If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee,
My tongue to Fame; to ambassadors mine ears;
To women or the sea, my tears:
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore
By making me serve her who had twenty more,
That I should give to none, but such as had too much before:
My constancy I to the planets give;
My truth to them who at the court do live;
Mine ingenuity and openness,
To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness;
My silence to any who abroad hath been:
My money to a Capuchin:
Thou, Love, taught’st me, by appointing me
To love there, where no love received can be,
Only to give to such as have an incapacity....”
It can be seen how readily the mock will lends itself to satire or
wit; but as a last example of poetic wills may be quoted one of quite
another nature, one which savours of the piety and the spirit of
seventeenth-century testaments.
“Here in the presence of my God
While yet He spares me from His rod,
Of perfect memory and mind
And wholly to His will resigned,
Not knowing how my lot shall be,
Or if my soul may suddenly
The summons hear to haste away
Unto the realms of deathless day,
Ere mortal flesh and spirit faint
Or sickness all the senses taint,
Before I lose the good intent,
I make my will and testament.
And first my soul to God I give,
In whom all souls and spirits live,
That He would set it in the place
Prepared of His eternal grace,
Though stained with many a spot it be,
Nor fit for saints’ society,
Until my Saviour wash it white
And worthy of its Maker’s sight:
Sweet Jesu, may this faith prevail,
Nor at the last Thy Presence fail.
My body to the fire or earth
I give, without remorse or mirth,
That without pomp or any pride
The trammels may be laid aside
That hemmed the soul in, but with meet
Solemnity in church and street,
Due reverence that moves the heart
Of him who sees the dead depart,
And tells the living he must come
At last himself unto the tomb.
And since there have been granted me
Some goods of this world’s currency,
(An earnest as I hope and trust
Of goods that perish not in dust,)
And since of higher weight and worth,
The first felicity of earth,
There has been granted me a wife
With ecstasy to crown my life,
To calm my spirit in distress
And put a term to loneliness,
I give, devise, bequeath, dispone,
All that I have or call my own,
(Though only for the meanwhile lent,)
My goods, my stock, my tenement,
Unto her use that she may crave
No substance when I reach the grave:
Though would that it were thrice the more
To bless her with an ampler store.
Item. The essays of my pen,
All thoughts or poems, all that then
May perfect or imperfect be,
The records and remains of me,
I give her to destroy or keep,
The chaff to burn, the grain to reap,
I give her all sweet thoughts that passed
Betwixt us from first days to last,
All words of soft and tender guise,
All tears and smiles of heart or eyes,
To brood on and to dream upon
When I the unknown way am gone.
Item. I give, all else above,
My fervent and unchanging love
To have and hold without restraint
To her own use, not far and faint,
But near and burning, not removed
With the dear presence that she loved.
Therefore her spirit I entrust
To God’s tuition, till the dust
And scales of earth fall from her eyes,
And she awake in Paradise.
Lastly, revoking every will,
Without a wish or thought of ill,
Praying for pardon from the great,
Nor less from those of less estate,
For word or deed, that I may be
Remembered but with amity,
Praying beyond all and above
Pardon of His unbounded love,
In perfect charity with all,
Awaiting the great change and call,
Hereto I set my seal and hand,
That at the last my will may stand
Inviolate, and none contest
My mind and meaning manifest.”
That sweet spirit Eugénie de Guérin, at the entry in her Journal
for March 31, 1838, suddenly muses on the making of a will: “Let us
see how I would make my will. To you, my Journal, my pen-knife, the
‘Confessions’ of Saint Augustine. To Father, my poems; to Érembert,
Lamartine; to Mimi, my rosary, my little knife, ‘The Way to Calvary,’
‘The Meditations of Father Judde.’ To Louise, ‘The Spiritual Conflict’;
to Mimi also my ‘Imitation’; to Antoinette, ‘The Burning Soul.’ To you
also my little strong box for your secrets, on condition that you burn
all mine, if there should be any in it. What would you do with them?
They are affairs of conscience, some of those matters that lie between
the soul and God, some letters of counsel from M. Bories and that good
Norman curé whom I have mentioned. I keep them as a souvenir, and
because I require them; they are _my papers_, which, however, must not
see the light of day. If, then, what I write here for amusement should
come to pass, if you become my heir, remember to burn all the contents
of this box.”
Kenneth Grahame, forgetting for a moment his Eugénie de Guérin, asks
in “Dream Days”: “Who in search of relaxation, would ever dream of
choosing the drawing-up of a testamentary disposition of property?” But
this sudden craze he gives to little Harold. He was shy of showing his
“death-letter,” as he called it, but it came out after a tussle. It was
not the first will to cause dissension. “My dear Edward, when I die I
leave all my muny to you my walkin sticks wips my crop my sord and gun
bricks forts and all things i have goodbye my dear charlotte when i die
I leave you my wach and cumpus and pencel case my salors and camperdown
my picteres and evthing goodbye your loving brother armen my dear
Martha I love you very much i leave you my garden my mice and rabets my
plants in pots when I die please take care of them my dear—”
But will-making may have a sinister attraction, a suspicion of
something hardly sane. Fragments of Chatterton’s will have already
been quoted. Apprenticed to an attorney, he strove to get free, and
as a last means to induce his master to dismiss him, he left in the
office this strange document, dated April 14, 1770, in which his
approaching suicide was announced. It had the effect desired. “All
this wrote between 11 and 2 o’clock Saturday, in the utmost distress
of mind. April 14, 1770. This is the last will and testament of me,
Thomas Chatterton, of the city of Bristol; being sound in body, or
it is the fault of my last surgeon, the soundness of my mind, the
coroner and jury are to be judges of, desiring them to take notice
that the most perfect masters of human nature in Bristol distinguish
me by the title of the Mad Genius; therefore, if I do a mad action,
it is conformable to every action of my life, which all savoured of
insanity.” There follow directions for tomb and tablets, and bequests
of satirical or bitter humour. “I leave also my religion to Dr.
Cutts Barton, Dean of Bristol, hereby empowering the Sub Sacrist to
strike him on the head when he goes to sleep in church.... I leave my
moderation to the politicians on both sides of the question.... I give
my abstinence to the company of the Sheriff’s annual feast in general,
more particularly to the Aldermen.... I leave the young ladies all the
letters they have had from me, assuring them that they need be under
no apprehension from the appearance of my ghost, for I die for none of
them.... I leave my mother and sister to the protection of my friends,
if I have any. Executed in the presence of Omniscience this 14th day of
April, 1770.”
But probably of imaginative and fantastic wills the most remarkable
is one said to be the work of a lunatic in America, more surprising
for its beauty than are others for their satiric or malicious
inventiveness.[2]
“ ... I leave the children for the term of their childhood the flowers,
fields, blossoms, and woods, with the right to play among them freely,
warning them at the same time against thistles and thorns. I devise to
the children the banks, the brooks, and the golden sands beneath waters
thereof, and the white clouds that float high over the giant trees, and
I leave to the children long long days to be merry in, and the night
and the moon and the train of the Milky Way to wonder at.
“I devise to the boys jointly all the useful fields, all the pleasant
waters where one may swim, all the streams where one may fish or
where, when grim winter comes, one may skate, to have and hold the
same for the period of their boyhood.... I give to the said boys each
his own place by the fireside at night, with all the pictures that may
be seen in the burning wood, to enjoy without let or hindrance and
without any encumbrance or care.
“To lovers I devise their imaginary world with whatever they may need,
as stars, sky, red roses by the wall, the bloom of the hawthorn, the
sweet strains of music, and aught else they may desire.... To the loved
ones with snowy crowns I bequeath happiness, old age, the love and
gratitude of their children, until they fall asleep.”
FOOTNOTES:
[2] A few passages are here quoted from this will as it appeared in
the _Daily Telegraph_. It seems that its appellation “The Lunatic’s
Will” is erroneous and that it was a deliberate literary composition.
See Harris’s “Ancient, Curious, and Famous Wills” referred to in the
Preface. In that book it is quoted in full and its real origin given.