ABSTRACT
[…] There is a town-missionary persistence in the agents of life companies which a sceptic might argue was dead against the insured, and all in favour of the insurer. The glittering prize held before you is really your own dissolution, as if, like a pig, you would be more valuable dead than alive, and there is scarcely any agent who has the manliness to forbear the narration of the story of the man who, having insured his life, died on the steps of the head office in London – the porter, with heroic self-denial, refraining from stealing the policy out of the dead man’s pocket.
