Systematised knowledge may thus conceivably come into conflict with the presuppositions or the ideals of some particular religion. It is then that a "religious problem" arises. A religion indissolubly associated with a geocentric conception of the universe would tend to become discredited as soon as that conception had been disposed of by "systematic knowledge." Science may even tend to produce an attitude to life hostile not only to a particular religion but to _all_ religion. If materialism should ultimately be found to be consistent with systematic and accurate knowledge, it is difficult to see how any attitude to life which could be appropriately described as "religion" could survive. The religious problem would then, at any rate, cease to trouble us. The religious apologists would be free to turn their attention to matters of more moment. But it is not only with the cessation of religion that the religious problem slumbers. There are certain happy periods when religion flourishes undisturbed by obstinate questionings. These classical ages of religion exist when systematised knowledge seems to support the contemporary religious outlook--when science and religion speak with one voice. Such unanimity seems to us to-day too good to be possible, but that is only because our own age is exceptional--not because those happier ages were exceptional; they, in fact--if we trace history backwards--would seem rather to have been the rule. Primitive man, it would seem, was troubled by no discords of the kind which disturb our peace. His systematic knowledge--such as it was--was entirely in accord with his religion, the two were, in fact, in his case practically one. His science _was_ his religion. It may not have been very sound science, nor very elevated religion, but it served his purpose admirably. He was too busy with the struggle for survival to indulge in speculation. His religion was severely practical, and he was faithful to it because experience seemed to indicate that it paid. But the Stone Age hardly deserves (in spite of its freedom from religious difficulties) to be described as one of the classical ages of religion; absence of struggle does not necessarily mean richness of life. There are ages which better deserve that appellation. There are times when all existing culture--even of a high level--is closely associated with the current religion, endorses its ideals, sanctions its hopes, puts the stamp of finality upon its faith. Such an age cannot perhaps hope to be permanent; for life means movement, and movement upsets equilibrium, and human knowledge tends to increase faster than the human mind can adapt itself to it or digest it. But such ages are looked back upon with regret when they are past, they shed a golden radiance over history, their tradition lingers, they even leave behind them monuments of art and literature which are the wonder, and the inimitable models, of succeeding generations.