To my Wife
this Book is most Lovingly
Dedicated
Neither is there anything of which I am so inquisitive, and delight to inform myself, as the manner of men's deaths, their words, looks, and bearing; nor any places in history I am so intent upon; and it is manifest enough, by my crowding in examples of this kind, that I have a particular fancy for that subject. If I were a writer of books, I would compile a register, with a comment, of the various deaths of men: he who should teach men to die, would at the same time teach them to live.—Montaigne.
Last Words of Distinguished Men and Women.
Adam (Alexander, Dr., headmaster at the High School in Edinburgh, and the author of "Roman Antiquities"), 1741-1809. "It grows dark, boys. You may go."
"It grows dark, boys. You may go."
(Thus the master gently said,
Just before, in accents low,
Circling friends moaned, "He is dead.")
Unto him, a setting sun
Tells the school's dismissal hour,
Deeming not that he alone
Deals with evening's dark'ning power.
All his thought is with the boys,
Taught by him in light to grow;
Light withdrawn, and hushed the noise,
Fall the passwords, "You may go."
Go, boys, go, and take your rest;
Weary is the book-worn brain:
Day sinks idly in the west,
Tired of glory, tired of gain.