unfolds the future of the Jews; Zebulon relates that the brethren supplied themselves with shoes from the money which they got by the sale of Joseph. There seems to be some allusion to this tradition in the prophet Amos (ii. 6; viii. 6). Dan recommends his posterity to practise humility; Nepthali sees visions; Gad is contrite; Asser prophesies the coming of the Messiah; Joseph, the incarnation; Benjamin, the destruction of the Temple.
There exists a very curious and ancient testament of Job, which was discovered and published by Cardinal Maï, in 1839; it relates many details which we may look for in vain in the Canonical Book. In it Job’s faithful wife, when reduced to the utmost poverty, sells the hair of her head to procure bread for her husband.
What a remarkable document a will is! It is the voice of a man now dead, coming back in the hush of a darkened house—from the vault, low and hoarse as an echo. It speaks, and people hearken; it commands, and people obey; law supports and enforces its wishes; no power on earth can alter it. We expect to hear the voice calm, earnest, and speaking true judgment; terrible indeed if it breaks out with a snarl of hate—more terrible still if it gibbers and laughs a hollow, ghost-like laugh. For, surely, the most solemn moment of a life is that when the will is written: that will, which is to speak for man when the voice is passed as a dream; when the heart which devises it has ceased to throb; the head which frames it has done with thinking—under the fresh mould; the hand which pens it has been pressed, thin and white, against a cold shroud, to moulder with it: surely he who, at such a moment, can write words of hate must have a black heart, but he who ventures then to gibe and jest must have no heart at all.
There is some truth in the old ghost-creed; man can return after death; he does so in his will. He comes to some, as Jupiter came to Danaë, in a shower of gold; to others, as a blighting spectre, whose promised treasures turn to dust. What excitement the reading of a will causes in am m nfamily! and what interest does the world at large take in the bequests of a person of position! The last words of great men seem always to have possessed a peculiar value in the eyes of the people.
“Live, Brutus, live!” shouts the Roman mob in “Julius Cæsar;” but on hearing what Cæsar’s will promises, how
“To every Roman citizen, he gives,—
To every several man,—seventy-five drachmas . . . .
His private arbours, and new planted orchards,
On this side Tiber: he hath left them you,
And to your heirs for ever;”
then the mob changes note, and with one voice shouts, “To Brutus, to Cassius;—burn all!”
“Testamenta hominum speculum esse morum vulgo creditur.”—(Plin. jun., 8 Ess. 18.)
So they are! They are the last touch of the brush in the great picture of civilisation, manners and customs, lightening it up. Would that our space permitted us to enter into the history of wills: a few curious particulars alone can we admit.
To die without having made a will was formerly regarded with horror. A very common custom in the middle ages was that of leaving considerable benefactions to the Church. This was well enough, but the clergy were not satisfied until it was made compulsory.
Ducange says that neglect of leaving to the Church indicated a profanity, which deserved punishment by a refusal of the rites of the last sacraments and burial. The clergy of Brittany, in the fourteenth century, claimed a third of the household goods; the death-bed became ecclesiastical property in the diocese of Auxère; and Clement V. settled the claims of the Church, by deciding that the parish-priest might take as his perquisite a ninth of all the movables in the house of the dead man, after the debts of the deceased had been paid off.
Here we conclude our historical notes, and proceed at once—perhaps somewhat strangely—to give the reader a specimen of a will coming decidedly under our heading. It is that of a Pig. The will is ancient enough. S. Jerome, in his “Proœmium on Isaiah,” speaks of it, saying, that in his time (fourth century) children were wont to sing it at school, amidst shouts of laughter. Alexander Brassicanus, who died in 1539, was the first to publish it; he found it in a MS. at Mayence. Later, G. Fabricius gave a corrected edition of it from another MS., found at Memel in Thuringia, and, since then, it has been in the hands of the learned. The original is in Latin; we translate, modifying slightly one expression and omitting one bequest:
“I, M. Grunnius Corocotta Porcellus, have made my testament, which, as I can’t write myself, I have dictated.
“Says Magirus, the cook: ‘Come along, thou who turnest the house topsy-turvy, spoiler of the pavement, O fugitive Porcellus! I am resolved to slaughter thee to-day.’
“Says Corocotta Porcellus: ‘If ever I have done thee any wrong, if I have sinned in any way, if I have smashed any wee pots with my feet; O Master Cook, grant pardon to thy suppliant!’
“Says the cook Magirus: ‘Halloo, boy! go, bring me a carving-knife out of the kitchen, that I may make a bloody Porcellus of him.’
“Porcellus is caught by the servants, and brought out to execution on the xvi. before the Lucernine Kalends, just when young colewort-sprouts are in plenty, Clybaratus and Piperatus being Consuls.
“Now, when he saw that he was about to die, he begged hard of the cook an hour’s grace, just to write his will. He called together his relations, that he might leave to them some of his victuals; and he said:
“I will and bequeath to my papa, Verrinus Lardinus, 30 bush. of acorns.
I will and bequeath to my mamma, Veturina Scrofa, 40 bush. of Laconian corn.
I will and bequeath to my sister, Quirona, at whose nuptials I may not be present, 30 bush. of barley.
“Of my mortal remains, I will and bequeath my bristles to the cobblers, my teeth to squabblers, my ears to the deaf, my tongue to lawyers and chatterboxes, my entrails to tripe-men, my hams to gluttons, my stomach to little boys, my tail to little girls, my muscles to effeminate parties, my heels to runners and
