But there is something which I cannot so easily pass over; he is pleased to upbraid me with my age; as if it had been in my power to stop the career of Time. Then he tells me of the loss of one of my hands, as if that maim had been got in a quarrel in some tavern, and not upon the most memorable occasion that either past or present ages have beheld, and which, perhaps, futurity will never parallel. If my wounds do not redound to my honour in the thoughts of some of those that look upon them, they will at least secure me the esteem of those that know how they were gotten. A soldier makes a nobler figure as he lies dead in battle, than safe in ﬂight and I am so far from being ashamed of the loss of my hand, that were it possible to recall the same opportunity, I should think my wounds but a small price for sharing in that prodigious action. The scars in a soldier's face and breast are the stars that by a laudable imitation guide others to the port of honour and glory. Besides, it is not the grey hairs, but the understanding of a man, that may be said to write; and years are wont to improve the latter.