Besides preparing his will, Barnum exacted from his wife the promise that she would write “The Last Chapter” of the _Life of P. T. Barnum Written by Himself_, giving the details of his last year to the world. From Mrs. Barnum’s account we learn that he was merry and refused to entertain the thought of death, and the mention of it was considerately kept from his eyes and ears. The newspapers, anxious to print reports of his condition, desisted when they were told that he read the papers carefully every day. He continued his business transactions, especially those involving Bridgeport real estate, and he inquired eagerly concerning the daily receipts of the circus. Until the last few weeks of his illness Barnum never gave up hope of his recovery. “Of his own death,” wrote his wife, “he would not speak. Of Death in the abstract he said, ‘It is a good thing, a beautiful thing, just as much so as life; and it is wrong to grieve about it and look upon it as an evil.’” But he looked long and wistfully at his wife and daughter, and every night his last, whispered words were, “Thy will be done....” He lingered, but in the beginning of April, 1891, it became obvious that his death was a matter of days. He calmly made arrangements for his own funeral, but always ignoring whenever possible the word, Death. He insisted that he must not be embalmed and chose a plain deal casket with a black pall for his last resting place. In giving his directions for a simple funeral, he said that of show and parade he had had enough during his fifty years before the public. He had never forgotten the horrible impression made on his mind as he gazed on General Grant’s dead face, and knowing that he was emaciated, he wished no public exhibition of his body. He sent for the Rev. Dr. Robert Collyer and chose for his funeral two hymns, one by Whittier and the other by Oliver Wendell Holmes; he said that if there was to be an address he would like the text of it to be from Luke xxii, 42: “Not my will, but Thine, be done,” and that is the text graven on his tombstone. Four days before Barnum’s death, the _Evening Sun_ of New York learned that a few weeks before, when he had been dangerously ill and was thought to be dying, Barnum, on his recovery, had written to a friend: “The only thing lacking to make me happy on my return to good health is the chance to see what sort of lines would have been written about me.” The _Evening Sun_ sent a reporter to the circus to inquire whether it would hurt Barnum’s feelings if the newspaper should print an obituary notice of him before he died. “Not at all,” answered Tody Hamilton, the press agent, knowing his boss. The next day the _Evening Sun_ devoted four columns to the facts of Barnum’s career, and there was a noticeable improvement in Barnum’s health.