In the consciousness of the ancient world it lay undeciphered like the dark sentence of an oracle; and though it might be revered by some, it could not be denied by any.

But its meaning is now translated for us, and there is a new factor in the case.

We now can deny it; and if we do, its whole power is paralysed.
This when once recognised must be evident enough.

But a curious confusion of thought has prevented the positive school from seeing it.
They have imagined that what religion adds to love is the hope of prolongation only, not of development also; and thus we find Professor Huxley curtly dismissing the question by saying that the quality of such a pleasure '_is obviously in no way affected by the abbreviation or prolongation of our conscious life_.' How utterly this is beside the point may be shown instantly by a very simple example.

A painter, we will say, inspired with some great conception, sets to work at a picture, and finds a week of the intensest happiness in preparing his canvas and laying his first colours.