“Yes,” replied Wilson; “or if not that, I think at any rate that science may ultimately be in a position to decide whether or no it can be realized.”

“But,” I said, “do you not think the same about personal immortality?”

“To be honest,” he replied, “I do not think that the question of personal immortality is one which science ought even to entertain.”

“But,” I urged, “I thought science was beginning to entertain it.  Does not the ‘Society for Psychical Research’ deal with such questions?”

“‘The Society for Psychical Research!’” he exclaimed.  “I do not call that science.”

“Well,” I said, “at any rate there are men of a scientific turn of mind connected with it” And I mentioned the names of one or two, whereupon Wilson broke out into indignation, declaring with much vehemence that the gentlemen in question were bringing discredit both upon themselves and the University to which they belonged; and then followed a discussion upon the proper objects and methods of science, which I do not exactly recall.  Only I remember that Wilson took up a position which led Ellis, with some justice as I thought, to declare that science appeared to be developing all the vices of theology without any of its virtues—­the dogmatism, the “index expurgatorius,” and the whole machinery for suppressing speculation, without any of the capacity to impose upon the conscience a clear and well-defined scheme of life.  This debate, however, was carried on in a tone too polemic to elicit any really fruitful result; and as soon as I was able I endeavoured to steer the conversation back into the smoother waters from which it had been driven.

“Let us admit,” I said, “if you like, for the sake of argument, that on the question of the immortality of the soul we do not and cannot know anything at all.”

“But,” objected Wilson, “I maintain that we do know that there is no foundation at all for the idea.  It is a mere reflection of our hopes and fears, or of those of our ancestors.”

“But,” I said, “even if it be, that does not prove that it is not true; it merely shows that we have no sufficient reason for thinking it to be true.”

“Well,” he said, “put it so, if you like; that is enough to relegate the notion to the limbo of centaurs and chimaeras.  What we have no reason to suppose to be true, we have no reason to concern ourselves with.”

“Pardon me,” I replied, “but I think we have, if the idea is one that interests us, as Is the case with what we are discussing.  We may not know whether or no it is true, but we cannot help profoundly caring.”

“Well,” he said, “I may be peculiarly constituted, but, honestly, I do not myself care in the least”

“But,” I said, “perhaps you ought to, if you care about the Good; and that is really the question I want to come back to.  What is the minimum we must believe if we are to make life significant?  Is it sufficient to believe in what you call the ‘progress of the race’?  Or must we also believe in the progress of the individual, involving, as it does, personal immortality?”