SCRIPTOR. Admitted, so far as my views are the outcome of my
particular condition. But you forget that the condition I have been
supposing is not merely particular, but, on the contrary, the most
general among men. Was it not old age?--which, like youth, is
independent of years. You may be young beyond your years, I may be old
in advance of them; but old age does come some time, and with it the
desire of rest.

LECTOR. But does not old age spend most of its thought in dwelling
fondly on its lost youth, hanging like a remote sunrise in its
imagination? Is it not its one yearning desire just to live certain
hours of its youth over again?--and would the old man not give all he
possesses for the certainty of being born young again into eternity?

SCRIPTOR. He would give everything--but the certainty of rest. After
seventy years of ardent life one needs a long sleep to refresh us
in. Besides, age may not be so sure of the advantages of youth. All is
not youth that laughs and glitters. Youth has its hopes, which are
uncertain; but age has its memories, which are sure; youth has its
passions, but age has its comforts.

LECTOR. Your answers come gay and pat, Scriptor, but your voice
betrays you. In spite of you, it saddens all your words. Tell me, have
you ever known what it is actually to lose any one who is dear to you?
Have you looked on death face to face?

SCRIPTOR. Yes, Lector, I have--but once. It is now about five years
ago, but the impression of it haunts me to this hour. Perhaps the
memory is all the keener because it was my one experience. In a world
where custom stales all things, save Cleopatra, it is all the better