“Oh, as to that, of course I should, for my part,” cried Ellis, “and so, I hope, should we all.  In fact, I consider it rather monstrous to ask the question at all.”

“My dear Ellis,” I protested, “you are really the most inconsistent of men!  Not a minute ago you were laughing at Wilson for his acquiescence in the extinction of the individual ’with his opportunities unrealized, his faculties undeveloped,’ and all the rest of it.  And now you appear to be adopting precisely the same attitude yourself.”

“I can’t help it,” he replied; “consistent or no, life’s good enough for me.  And so it should be for you, you ungrateful ruffian!”

“I am not so sure,” I said, “that it should be; not so sure as I was a few years ago.”

“Why, you Methuselah, what has age got to do with it?”

“Just this,” I replied, “that up to a certain time of life all the Good that we get we take to be prophetic of more Good to come.  What we actually realize we value less for itself than for something else which it promises.  The moments of good experience we expand till they fill all infinity; the intervening tracts of indifferent or bad we simply forget or ignore.  Life is good, we say, because the universe is good; and this goodness we expect to grasp in its entirety, not to-day, perhaps, nor to-morrow, but at least the day after.  And so, like the proverbial ass, we are lured on by a wisp of hay.  But being, at bottom, intelligent brutes, we begin, in time, to reflect; we put back our ears, and plant our feet stiff and rigid where we stand, and refuse to budge an inch till we have some further information as to the meaning of the journey into which we are being enticed.  That, at least, is the point that has been reached by this ass who is now addressing you.  I want to know something more about that bundle of hay; and that is why I am interested in the question of personal immortality.”

“Which means—­to drop the metaphor——?”

“Which means, that I have come to realize that I am not likely to get more Good out of life than I have already had, and that I may very likely get less; or if more in some respects, then less in others.  For, in the first place, the world, as it seems, is just as much bad as good, and whether Good or Bad predominate I cannot say.  And in the second place, even of what Good there is—­and I do not under-estimate its worth—­it is but an infinitesimal portion that I am capable of realizing, so limited am I by temperament and circumstance, so bound by the errors and illusions of the past, so hampered by the disabilities crowding in from the future.  For though, as I think, the older I get the more clearly I recognize what is good, and the more I learn to value and to perceive it, yet at the same time the less do I become capable of making it my own, and must in the nature of things become less and less so, in so far at least as Goods other than those of the intellect are concerned.  And this is a position which seems to be involved in the mere fact of age and death frankly seen from the naturalistic point of view; and so it has always been felt and expressed from the time of the Greeks onwards, and not least effectively, perhaps, by Browning in his ’Cleon’—­you remember the passage: