ank heaven," said Parry, "is not the view which is taken by
the Western world."

"The West" I replied, "has not yet learned to reflect. Its activity is
the slave of instinct, blind and irresponsible."

"Yes," he assented eagerly, "and that is its saving grace! This
instinct, which you call blind, is health and sanity and vigour."

"I know," I said, "that you think so, and so does Mr. Kipling, and
all the train of violent and bloody bards who follow the camp of the
modern army of progress. I have no quarrel with you or with them; you
may very well be right in your somewhat savage worship of activity. I
am only trying to ascertain the conditions of your being right, and I
seem to find it in personal immortality."

"No," he persisted. "We are right without condition, right absolutely
and beyond all argument. Pursue Good is the one ultimate law; whether
or no it can be attained is a minor matter; and if to inquire into the
conditions of its attainment is only to weaken us in the pursuit, then
I say the inquiry is wrong, and ought to be discouraged."

"Well" I said, "I will not dispute with you further. Whether you are
right or wrong I cannot but admire your strenuous belief in Good
and in our obligation to pursue it. And that, after all, was my main
point. On the other question about what Good is and whether it is
attainable, I could hardly wish to make converts, so conscious am I
that I have infinitely more to learn than to teach. Only, that there
is really something to learn, of that I am profoundly convinced.
Perhaps even Audubon will agree with me there?"

"I don't know that I do," he replied, "and anyhow it doesn't seem to
me to make much difference. Whatever we may think about Good, that
doesn't affect the nature of Reality--and Reality, I believe, is bad!"

"Ah, Reality!" I rejoined, "but what is Reality? Is it just what we
see and touch and handle?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"That is a sober view, and one which I have constantly tried to
impress upon myself. Sometimes, even, I think I have succeeded,
under the combined stress of logic and experience. But there comes
an unguarded moment, some evening in summer, like this, when I am
walking, perhaps, alone in a solitary wood, or in a meadow beside a
quiet stream; and suddenly all my work is undone, and I am overwhelmed
by a direct apprehension, or what seems at least for the moment to be
such, that everything I hear and see and touch is mere illusion after
all