There was something heroic in his way of dying. No moans, no cries; just
a dignified endurance. From the western window of the shed chamber where
he lay he could see the multitude of fowls below, in the yards where he
had so lately reigned supreme. Occasionally, with a heroic effort, he
would get on his legs and gaze wistfully on the lively crowd so
unmindful of his wretchedness, then sink back exhausted, reminding me of
some grand old monarch, statesman, or warrior looking for the last time
on the scenes of his former triumphs. I should have named him Socrates.
At last he was carried to a cool resting place in the deep grass,
covered with pink mosquito netting, and one kind friend after another
fanned him and watched over his last moments. After he was really dead,
and Tom with tears rolling down his face carried him tenderly away, I
woke from my ambitious dream and felt verily guilty of aviscide.

But for my vainglorious ambition Beauty would doubtless be alive and
resplendent; his consort, modest hued and devoted, at his side, and my
bank account would have a better showing.

There is a motto as follows, "Let him keep peacock to himself," derived
in this way:

When George III had partly recovered from one of his attacks, his
ministers got him to read the king's speech, but he ended every sentence
with the word "peacock."

The minister who drilled him said that "peacock" was an excellent word
for ending a sentence, only kings should not let subjects hear it, but
should whisper it softly.