Keats murmured, poetically, “I feel the flowers growing on my grave.” Dr. Armstrong died prescribing for a patient; Lord Tenterden, uttering the words “Gentlemen of the Jury, you will find;” General Lord Hill, exclaiming “Horrid war!” Dr. Adams, of the Edinburgh High School, “It grows dark; the boys may dismiss!” The last words of La Place were, “Ce que nous connaissons est peu de chose; ce que nous ignorons, est immense!” The history of suicide, of death in battle, and of executions, is full of such instances of consistent conduct and character. Madame Roland desired to have pen and paper accorded to her, at the “Place de la Guillotine,” that she might, as she phrased it, “set down the thoughts that were rising in her mind.” Sir Thomas More jested pleasantly as he mounted the scaffold. Thistlewood, the conspirator, a thoughtful man, remarked to one of his fellow-sufferers that, “in five minutes more, they would be in possession of the great secret.” When Madame de Joulanges and her sisters were executed, they chanted together the Veni Creator on their way from the prison to the fatal spot. Head after head fell under the axe, but the celestial strain was prolonged until the very last voice was hushed in the sudden silence of death. The delirium of the moribund exhibits itself in diversified and often contrasted manifestations. Symonds looks upon it as closely analogous to the condition of the mind in dreaming. A popular and ancient error deserves mention, only to be corrected; that the mind, at the near approach of dissolution, becomes unusually clear, vigorous, and active. “The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks which Time has made.”