By:
Edited By Heymen Wreford
A writer says of a celebrated man, in writing his life, that the last remark he heard him utter was a jest.
“On the afternoon the day before he died, as I was sitting at his bedside, the spirit lamp that kept the fumes of eucalyptus in constant movement about the room through some awkwardness of mine was overturned. Mr. L―, who was dozing, opened his eyes at the sound of a little commotion caused by the accident, and perceived the flare-up. Flames?’ he murmured interrogatively, ‘not yet, I think.’ He laughed quizzically, and went off to sleep again.” He was over eighty. God is not mocked.