Forty. I have told you already; to eat of the fruit of his labors in sorrow, to write his name on the sea-sands, and to leave his place to his successor after him.
Twenty. Think you that you do not defile your soul by such thoughts? To confine his aspirations to the snail-shell in which chance has cast him; to find all his delight therein; to call the three or four inches which his horizon bounds, the world; is this the chief end of man? I know not how it may be with others, but as for me, I was made for something better. I hope, I expect, to have a higher destiny!
Forty. The chase is after shadows.
Twenty. My chase is after real, tangible substances. I see them, and hope revives, strong and living, within me. Away! cold Doubt! I must have knowledge, respect, and happiness. No obstacles shall hinder me, and no allurements shall entice me, from my way. My name shall not be written on the sands: I will link it with lessons of wisdom, and grave them on the eternal rock.
Forty. Glorious dreams, young man! glorious dreams!
Twenty. They are sober, waking realities.
Forty. But since you will not be aroused, I would have no one attempt to break them. Sleep on now, for the day cometh; the clear light of morning will beam on your eyes, dispersing the mists, and then you will see your duties and capabilities through a less distorting medium.
Twenty. Call it a distorting medium if you like; but if it is the mists that make the world appear so much brighter to me than it does to you, they shall always remain before my eyes.
Forty. Sweet dreams; but alas! they cannot last! This conversation with you has filled me, even me, with strange desires and indefinite longings. But they are all vain. It is my lot to see and deal with the world as it is, and I must be contented with my little routine of daily toil. And to remain so contented, I must hold no more communion with you.
Twenty. You are a phantom, as of one in troubled slumber—a lying spirit; and I will never again admit you to my thoughts.