pitched battles make a grim grenadier; and he who shrank from the
muzzle of a cannon, is now ready to yield his mustache for a sponge.

And truly, since death is the last enemy of all, valiant souls will
taunt him while they may. Yet rather, should the wise regard him as
the inflexible friend, who, even against our own wills, from life's
evils triumphantly relieves us.

And there is but little difference in the manner of dying. To die, is
all. And death has been gallantly encountered by those who never
beheld blood that was red, only its light azure seen through the
veins. And to yield the ghost proudly, and march out of your fortress
with all the honors of war, is not a thing of sinew and bone. Though
in prison, Geoffry Hudson, the dwarf, died more bravely than Goliah,
the giant; and the last end of a butterfly shames us all. Some women
have lived nobler lives, and died nobler deaths, than men. Threatened
with the stake, mitred Cranmer recanted; but through her fortitude,
the lorn widow of Edessa stayed the tide of Valens' persecutions.
'Tis no great valor to perish sword in hand, and bravado on lip;
cased all in panoply complete. For even the alligator dies in his
mail, and the swordfish never surrenders. To expire, mild-eyed, in
one's bed, transcends the death of Epaminondas.



CHAPTER X
They Arrange Their Canopies And Lounges, And Try To Make Things
Comfortable