ic expression which
escaped from the dying man. He knew Fletcher's superstitious
tendency, and it cannot be questioned that the threat was the last
feeble flash of his prankfulness. The faithful valet replied in
consternation that he had not understood one word of what his
Lordship had been saying.

"Oh! my God!" was the reply, "then all is lost, for it is now too
late! Can it be possible you have not understood me!"

"No, my Lord; but I pray you to try and inform me once more."

"How can I? it is now too late, and all is over."

"Not our will, but God's be done," said Fletcher, and his Lordship
made another effort, saying,

"Yes, not mine be done--but I will try"--and he made several attempts
to speak, but could only repeat two or three words at a time; such
as,

"My wife! my child--my sister--you know all--you must say all--you
know my wishes"----The rest was unintelligible.

A consultation with three other doctors, in addition to the two
physicians in regular attendance, was now held; and they appeared to
think the disease was changing from inflammatory diathesis to
languid, and ordered stimulants to be administered. Dr Bruno opposed
this with the greatest warmth; and pointed out that the symptoms were
those, not of an alteration in the disease, but of a fever flying to
the brain, which was violently attacked by it; and, that the
stimulants they proposed would kill more speedily than the disease
itself. While, on the other hand, by copious bleeding, and the
medicines that had been taken before, he might still be saved. The
other physicians, however, were of a different opinion; and then Dr
Bruno declared he would risk no farther responsibility. Peruvian
bark and wine were then administered. After taking these stimulants,
his Lordship expressed a wish to sleep. His last words were, "I must
sleep now"; and he composed himself accordingly, but never awoke
again.

For four-and-twenty hours he continued in a state of lethargy, with
the rattles occasionally in his throat. At six o'clock in the
morning of the 19th, Fletcher, who was watching by his bed-side, saw
him open his eyes and then shut them, apparently without pain or
moving hand or foot. "My God!" exclaimed the faithful valet, "I fear
his Lordship is gone." The doctors felt his pulse--it was so.

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.

But the fittest dirge is his own last lay, written on the day he
completed his thirty-sixth year,