Our task is a simple one--to lift from our mind that veil which somehow has fallen on us, to take that curious limitation from our perception, which at present is only transcended by inspiration. And the means to do it is by throwing aside our reason--by giving up the idea that what we think or are has any value. We too often sit as judges of nature, when all we can be are her humble learners. We have but to drink in of the inexhaustible fulness of being, pressing it close into our minds, and letting our pride of being able to foretell vanish into dust. There is a curious passage in the works of Immanuel Kant,[1] in which he shows that space must be in the mind before we can observe things in space. “For,” he says, “since everything we conceive is conceived as being in space, there is nothing which comes before our minds from which the idea of space can be derived; it is equally present in the most rudimentary perception and the most complete.” Hence he says that space belongs to the perceiving soul itself. Without going into this argument to abstract regions, it has a great amount of practical truth. All our perceptions are of things in space; we cannot think of any detail, however limited or isolated, which is not in space. [1] The idea of space can “nicht aus den Verhältnissen der äusseren Erscheinung durch Erfahrung erborgt sein, sondern diese äussere Erfahrung ist nur durch gedachte Vorstellung allererst möglich.” Hence, in order to exercise our perceptive powers, it is well to have prepared beforehand a strong apprehension of space and space relations. And so, as we pass on, is it not easily conceivable that, with our power of higher space perception so rudimentary and so unorganized, we should find it impossible to perceive higher existences? That mode of perception which it belongs to us to exercise is wanting. What wonder, then, that we cannot see the objects which are ready, were but our own part done? Think how much has come into human life through exercising the power of the three-dimensional space perception, and we can form some measure, in a faint way, of what is in store for us. There is a certain reluctance in us in bringing anything, which before has been a matter of feeling, within the domain of conscious reason. We do not like to explain why the grass is green, flowers bright, and, above all, why we have the feelings which we pass through. But this objection and instinctive reluctance is chiefly derived from the fact that explaining has got to mean explaining away. We so often think that a thing is explained, when it can be shown simply to be another form of something which we know already. And, in fact, the wearied mind often does long to have a phenomenon shown to be merely a deduction from certain known laws.