to revert to the thoughts and impressions of former years, which is probably dependent on the processes by which the substance of the brain is undergoing decay. The more recent formations are the first, as we have seen, to crumble away, and the process not only brings to the surface, if we may so speak, the earlier formations—that is, the material records of earlier mental processes—but would appear to bring those parts of the cerebrum into renewed activity. Thus, as death draws near, men "babble of green fields," as has been beautifully said, though not by Shakespeare, of old Jack Falstaff. Or less pleasant associations may be aroused, as we see in Mrs. Grandmother Smallweed, when "with such infantine graces as a total want of observation, memory, understanding, and intellect, and an eternal disposition to fall asleep over the fire and into it," she "whiled away the rosy hours" with continual allusions to money.
The recollections aroused at the moment of death are sometimes singularly affecting. None can read without emotion the last scenes of the life of Colonel Newcome. I say the last scenes, not the last scene only, though that is the most beautiful of all. Every one knows those last pages by heart, yet I cannot forbear quoting a few sentences from them. "'Father!' cries Clive, 'do you remember Orme's "History of India?"' 'Orme's History, of course I do; I could repeat whole pages of it when I was a boy,' says the old man, and began forthwith: "'The two battalions advanced against each other cannonading, until the French, coming to a hollow way, imagined the English would not venture to pass it. But Major Lawrence ordered the sepoys and artillery—the sepoys and artillery to halt, and defend the convoy against the Morattoes.' Morattoes, Orme calls them. Ho! ho! I could repeat whole pages, sir.'" Later, "Thomas Newcome began to wander more and more. He talked louder; he gave the word of command, and spoke Hindoostanee, as if to his men. Then he spoke words in French rapidly, seizing a hand which was near him, and crying, 'Toujours, toujours.' But it was Ethel's hand which he took.... Some time afterward, Ethel came in with a scared face to our pale group. 'He is calling for you again, dear lady,' she said, going up to Madame de Florac, who was still kneeling. 'And just now he said he wanted Pendennis to take care of his boy. He will not know you.' She hid her tears as she spoke. She went into the room, where Clive was at the bed's foot; the old man within it talked on rapidly for awhile; then again he would sigh and be still: once more I heard him say hurriedly, 'Take care of him when I'm in India,' and then with a heart-rending voice he called out, 'Léonore, Léonore!' She was kneeling at his side now. The patient's voice sank into faint murmurs; only a moan now and then announced that he was not asleep. At the usual evening hour the chapel-bell began to toll, and Thomas Newcome's hands outside the bed feebly beat time. And, just as the last bell struck, a peculiar, sweet smile shone over his face, and he
