Twenty. I am thinking of you, and therefore am I full of joy.
Forty. I know nothing in me that should give you so much pleasure to contemplate.
Twenty. Do you count, then, honor, wealth, benefactions, and the blessings of your country, as nothing? Do I not see your head encircled with the garland of praise? Are you not enriched with all knowledge and adorned with all graces? Is this a small thing? I would give away ten years of my life, if the space that intervenes between you and me—Now and Then—might be annihilated this instant!
Forty. It is perhaps as well that that space cannot be annihilated or diminished. But could you spare ten years without feeling the loss? Do you suppose yourself sufficiently armed and equipped already, for the campaign?
Twenty. On to the combat! What armor would you have, but a quick eye, a steady hand, and a courageous heart?
Forty. By 'a courageous heart,' you probably mean animal spirits; but they will flag in a little while. Have you thought of that?
Twenty. No, Sir, I do not mean animal spirits. I mean a bold, unshrinking heart, that goes forth to meet the world, and never faints; one which does not grow weary when it is encompassed with adversity, but looks, and hopes, and fights on, till it gains its high end. Is not that armor enough?
Forty. It is, no doubt; so hard that it can receive and not be pierced by the darts of the enemy?
Twenty. There is no need of its being hard. The encounter is not a battle; it is a joust, a tournament, a passage of arms. And cannot brothers and friends tilt, and still be brothers and friends?