In any event, what a roll call! We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded by a sleep; the selfsame sleep which these, our living dead men and women in steel armor and gauzy muslins, in silken hose and sock and buskin, epaulettes and top boots, brocades and buff facings, have endured so long and know so well! "If I should die in Paris I should expect them--or some of them--to meet me at the barriers and to say, 'Behold, the wickedness that was done in the world, the cruelty and the wrong, dwelt in the body, not in the soul of man, which freed from its foul incasement, purified and made eternal by the hand of death, shall see both the glory and the hand of God!'" It was not to be.

I shall not die in Paris.

I shall never come again.
Neither shall I make apology for this long quotation by myself from myself, for am I not inditing an autobiography, so called?
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