he road, with
the same old story, that we're altogether on the wrong track."

"Well," said Dennis, sententiously, "I do my duty."

"And," replied Ellis, "no doubt you have your reward! Proceed!" he
continued, turning to me.

"Well," I said, "I suppose I must try to go through to the end,
though these tactics of Dennis make me very nervous. I shall suppose,
however, that I have convinced him that it is not in ethical activity
as such that we can expect to find the most perfect example of Good.
And now I propose to examine in turn some other of our activities,
starting with that which seems to be the most primitive of all."

"And which is that?"

"I was thinking of the activity of our bodily senses, our direct
contact, so to speak, with objects, without the intermediation of
reflection, through the touch, the sight, the hearing, and the rest.
Is there anything in all this which we could call good?"

"Is there anything!" cried Ellis. "What a question to ask!" And he
broke out with the lines from Browning's "Saul":

"Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,
The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock
Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear,
And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair.
And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine,
And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine,
And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell
That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well.
How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ
All the heart and the soul and the senses for ever in joy."

The quotation seemed to loosen all tongues; and there followed a flood
of such talk as may be heard in almost every company of Englishmen,
in praise of sport and physical exercise, touched with a sentiment
not far removed from poetry--the only poetry of which they are not
half-ashamed. Audubon even joined in, forgetting for the moment his
customary pose, and rhapsodizing with the rest over his favourite
pursuits of snipe-shooting and cricket. Much of this talk was lost
upon me, for I am nothing of a sportsman; but some touches there were
that recalled experiences of my own, and for that reason, I suppose,
have lingered in my memory. Thus, I recollect, some one spoke of
skating on Derwentwater, the miles of black, virgin ice, the ringing
and roaring of the skate