(b) the view that knowledge consists in the perception of ’necessary connections,’ Viewed from the standpoint of Good, this seems to be open to the same objection as (a).  But, further, it is argued that the perpetual contemplation of necessary relations among ideas does not satisfy our conception of the Good; but that we require an element analogous somehow to that of sense, though not, like sense, unintelligible and obscure.

(6) Finally, it is suggested that in our relation to other persons, where the relation takes the form of love, we may perhaps find something that comes nearer than any other of our experiences to being absolutely good.  For in that relation, it is urged, we are in contact

(a) with objects, not ‘mere ideas.’

(b) with objects that are good in themselves and

(c) intelligible and

(d) harmonious to our own nature.

It is objected that love, so conceived, is

(a) rarely, perhaps never, experienced.

(b) in any case, is neither eternal nor universal.

This is admitted; but it is maintained that the best love we know comes nearer than anything else to what we might conceive to be absolutely good.

III.  The question is now raised:  if ‘the Good’ be so conceived, is it not clearly unattainable?  The answer to this question seems to depend on whether or not we believe in personal immortality.  The following points are therefore discussed: 

(a) Whether personal immortality is conceivable?

(b) Whether a belief in it is essential to a reasonable pursuit of Good?

On these points no dogmatic solution is offered; and the Dialogue closes with the description of a dream.

BOOK I.

Every summer, for several years past, it has been my custom to arrange in some pleasant place, either in England or on the continent, a gathering of old college friends.  In this way I have been enabled not only to maintain some happy intimacies, but (what to a man of my occupation is not unimportant) to refresh and extend, by an interchange of ideas with men of various callings, an experience of life which might be otherwise unduly monotonous and confined.  Last year, in particular, our meeting was rendered to me especially agreeable by the presence of a very dear friend, Philip Audubon, whom, since his business lay in the East, I had not had an opportunity of seeing for many years.  I mention him particularly, because, although, as will be seen, he did not take much part in the discussion I am about to describe, he was, in a sense, the originator of it.  For, in the first place, it was he who had invited us to the place in which we were staying,—­an upland valley in Switzerland, where he had taken a house; and, further, it was through my renewed intercourse with him that I was led into the train of thought which issued in the following conversation.  His life in the East,