believe that our opinions about what is good have some validity, even
though we cannot say what or how much."

"You say, then, that we have to accept in practice what we deny in
theory?"

"Yes, if you like. I say, at least, that the consequence of the
attempt to bring our theoretical denial to bear upon our practice
would be to reduce our life to a moral chaos, by denying the only
principle of choice which we find ourselves actually able to accept.
In your case and mine, as it seems, it is our opinion about Good that
engenders order among our passions and desires; and without it we
should sink back to be mere creatures of blind impulse, such as
perhaps in fact, many men really are."

"What!" cried Audubon, interrupting in a tone of half indignant
protest, "do you mean to say that it is some idea about Good that
brings order into a man's life? All I can say is that, for my part,
I never once think, from one year's end to another, of anything so
abstract and remote. I simply go on, day after day, plodding the
appointed round, without reflexion, without reason, simply because I
have to. There's order in my life, heaven knows! but it has nothing to
do with ideas about Good. And altogether," he ejaculated, in a kind of
passion, "it's a preposterous thing to tell me that I believe in
Good, merely because I lead a life like a mill-horse! That would be an
admirable reason for believing in Bad--but Good!"

He lapsed again into silence; and I was half unwilling to press him
further, knowing that he felt our dialectics to be a kind of insult to
his concrete woes. However, it seemed to be necessary for the sake of