And there we have Napoleon’s “Tete d’armee.”  That don’t mean anything.  Taken by itself, “Head of the army,” is no more important than “Head of the police.”  And yet that was a man who could have said a good thing if he had barred out the doctor and studied over it a while.  Marshal Neil, with half a century at his disposal, could not dash off anything better in his last moments than a poor plagiarism of another man’s words, which were not worth plagiarizing in the first place.  “The French army.”  Perfectly irrelevant—­perfectly flat utterly pointless.  But if he had closed one eye significantly, and said, “The subscriber has made it lively for the French army,” and then thrown a little of the comic into his last gasp, it would have been a thing to remember with satisfaction all the rest of his life.  I do wish our great men would quit saying these flat things just at the moment they die.  Let us have their next-to-the-last words for a while, and see if we cannot patch up from them something that will be more satisfactory.

The public does not wish to be outraged in this way all the time.

But when we come to call to mind the last words of parties who took the trouble to make the proper preparation for the occasion, we immediately notice a happy difference in the result.

There was Chesterfield.  Lord Chesterfield had laboured all his life to build up the most shining reputation for affability and elegance of speech and manners the world has ever seen.  And could you suppose he failed to appreciate the efficiency of characteristic “last words,” in the matter of seizing the successfully driven nail of such a reputation and clinching on the other side for ever?  Not he.  He prepared himself.  He kept his eye on the clock and his finger on his pulse.  He awaited his chance.  And at last, when he knew his time was come, he pretended to think a new visitor had entered, and so, with the rattle in his throat emphasised for dramatic effect, he said to the servant, “Shin around, John, and get the gentleman a chair.”  And so he died, amid thunders of applause.

Next we have Benjamin Franklin.  Franklin, the author of Poor Richard’s quaint sayings; Franklin the immortal axiom-builder, who used to sit up at nights reducing the rankest old threadbare platitudes to crisp and snappy maxims that had a nice, varnished, original look in their regimentals; who said, “Virtue is its own reward;” who said, “Procrastination is the thief of time;” who said, “Time and tide wait for no man” and “Necessity is the mother of invention;” good old Franklin, the Josh Billings of the eighteenth century—­though, sooth to say, the latter transcends him in proverbial originality as much as he falls short of him in correctness of orthography.  What sort of tactics did Franklin pursue?  He pondered over his last words for as much as two weeks, and then when the time came, he said, “None but the brave deserve the fair,” and died happy.  He could not have said a sweeter thing if he had lived till he was an idiot.