good’ is.  We must make this ‘higher ideal’ stand and unfold itself.  If it cannot be made to do this, if it vanishes into mist as we near it, and takes a different shape to each of us as we recede from it; still more, if only some can see it, and to others it is quite invisible—­then we must simply set it down as an illusion, and waste no more time in pursuit of it.  But that it is not an illusion is the great positivist claim for it.  Heaven and the love of God, we are told, were illusions.  This ’highest good’ we are offered, stands out in clear contradistinction to these.  It is an actual attainable thing, a thing for flesh and blood creatures; it is to be won and enjoyed by them in their common daily life.  It is, as its prophets distinctly and unanimously tell us, some form of happiness that results in this life to us, from certain conduct; it is a thing essentially for the present; and ‘it is obviously,’ says Professor Huxley, ’in no way affected by abbreviation or prolongation of our conscious life.’

This being the case, it is clearly not unreasonable to demand some explicit account of it; or if no sound account of it be extant, to enquire diligently what sort of account of it is possible.  And let it be remembered that to make this demand is in no way to violate the great rule of Aristotle, and to demand a greater accuracy than the nature of the subject will admit of.  The ‘highest good,’ it is quite possible, may be a vague thing; not capable, like a figure in Euclid, of being defined exactly.  But many vague things can be described exactly enough for all practical purposes.  They can be described so that we at once know what is meant, and so that we can at once find and recognise them.  Feelings, characters, and personal appearance are things of this sort; so too is the taste of food, the style of furniture, or the general tone and tenour of our life, under various circumstances.  And the ‘good’ we are now considering can surely be not less describable than these.  When therefore our exact thinkers speak to us about the highest happiness, we want to know what meaning they attach to the words.  Has Professor Huxley, for instance, ever enjoyed it himself, or does he ever hope to do so?  If so, when, where, and how?  What must be done to get it, and what must be left undone?  And when it is got, what will it be like?  Is it something brief, rapturous, and intermittent, as the language often used about it might seem to suggest to one?  Is it known only in brief moments of Neoplatonic ecstasy, to which all the acts of life should be stepping stones?  It certainly cannot be that.  Our exact thinkers are essentially no mystics, and the highest happiness must be something far more solid than transcendental ecstasies.  Surely, therefore, if it exists at all we must be able somewhere to lay our hands upon it.  It is a pillar of fire by night; surely then it will be visible.  It is to be lifted up, and is to draw all men unto it.  It is nothing if not this:  and we shall see more clearly if we consider the matter further.