of John the Baptist）； to the effect that we； or at any rate that some of us； already have individually gone through this process of ing into active Being and departing out of Being more than once — perhaps very often indeed — though not necessarily in this world with which we are acquainted。 In short； like the Buddhists； I am strongly inclined to believe that the Personality which animates each of us is immeasurably ancient； having been forged in so many fires； and that； as its past is immeasurable； so will its future be。 This is in some ways an unfortable faith or instinct； thus I； for one； have no wish to live again upon our earth。 Moreover； it is utterly insusceptible of proof — like everything else that has to do with the spirit — for vague memories； affinities with certain lands and races； irresistible attractions and repulsions； at times amounting in the former case to intimacies of the soul （among members of the same sex； for in discussing such matters it is perhaps better to exclude the other） so strong that they appear to be already well established； such as have drawn me so close to certain friends； and notably to one friend recently departed； are none of them proof。 Nor are the revelations of persons who seem to have access to certain stores of knowledge denied to most men； for these may be anything or nothing。 Nor is that strong conviction of immemorial age which haunts the hearts of some of us。
No； there is no proof； and yet reason es to the support of these imaginings。 Unless we have lived before； or the grotesque incongruities of life are to be explained in some way unknown to us； our present existence； to my mind； resembles nothing so much as a handful of what is known as “printer’s pie” cast together at hazard and struck off for the reader to interpret as he will or can。 Or perhaps in this case a better example would be to pare the world to a great ball…room wherein a Puck…like Death acts as Master of Ceremonies。 Here the highly born； the gifted and the successful are weled with shouts of praise； while the plain； the poorly dressed； the halt； are trodden underfoot； here partners； chosen at hazard； often enough seem to be dancing to a different time and step； till they are snatched asunder to meet no more； here one by one the revellers of all degrees are touched upon the shoulder by the Puck…like Death who calls the tune； and drop down； down into an imperable darkness； while others who knew them not are called to take their places。
But if we admit that every one of these has lived before and danced in other rooms； and will live again and dance in other rooms； then meaning informs the meaningless。 Then those casual meetings and swift farewells； those loves and hatings； are not of chance； then those partners are not chosen at hazard after all。 Then the dancers who in turn must swoon away beneath that awful； mocking touch； do not drop into darkness but into some new well of the water of Life。 Then what we behold is but a few threads； apparently so tangled； that go to weave the Sphinx’s seamless veil； or some stupendous tapestry that enwraps the whole Universe of Creation which； when seen at last； will picture forth the Truth in all its splendour； and with it the wondrous story and the meaning of our lives。
Such； put shortly and figuratively； seems to me one of the strongest arguments for the continuity of our personal existence through various phases。 It may be； however； that it is no argument at all — that there is some other explanation （beyond that of blind； black； brutal chance）； perhaps so simple that we cannot grasp it； which accounts for everything。
One contention； however； I find it hard to accept — namely； that man appearing here for the first time through an accident of the flesh is placed and judged eternally in accordance with his deeds of at most about thirty waking； conscious years （even if his life be long）； for childhood and the time spent in sleep must be excluded。 To me such a thing is almost incredible。 Final judgment I can understand after many lives of growing towards the good or towards the ill — and； indeed； the faith I follow declares it — but not an eternity of anything decreed on the deeds of ten or twenty or thirty years passed among the surroundings in which we happened to be born； weighted with the infirmities and inherited tendencies of a flesh and nature that we did not choose。 Over a great period of many different existences； selected according to the elective fitness of the ego； matters and opportunities selves； and that ego would follow the path it selected to its inevitable end。 But one life of a maximum of thirty years full…stopped with doom 。 。 。 ！
All this； however； is a digression from my arguments to which I now return。
I have said that I believe in the truth of the New Testament story； and that to my mind everything hinges upon the fact of the Resurrection； although I am aware that many who call themselves Christians； and expect； apparently； to receive whatever benefits Christianity can bring； give no credence to this or any other miracle。 Surely these might as well expect to inherit salvation by virtue of a study of the doctrines of Confucius。 I hope that they will inherit it all the same； since God； who knows what is in man and the clay whereof we are fashioned； is merciful； and there may be； and probably are； many roads to the gate of Life； but in this case it can scarcely be reached by the faint and wandering path of a materialised and eviscerated Christianity。 Christianity as an effective creed depends； and always must depend； upon the Resurrection of its Founder while He dwelt on earth。 Or so I hold。
How； then； is this necessary faith to be attained by those who doubt？ Perhaps in many ways； though I only know of one — namely； by prayer。 It is； at any rate in its higher forms； a gift accorded in answer to prayer； it is an inspiration of the Spirit of our Maker which flows down the connecting links of prayer。 By prayer； too； I do not mean a few hurried or formal mumblings in the morning or at bedtime： I mean the continual； almost the hourly； conversation of the creature with his God。 I mean the habitual uplifting of the heart to heaven； the constant cry of fallen nature in sorrow； in joy； in sin； in every circumstance of life； to the Highest of all natures； who remembers of what metal it is made because in the beginning （ah！ what beginning？） it was from Him and is still His own。 Feeble； unworthy though it be； such prayer offered on your own behalf or on that of others； I am sure is heard； is answered across the unutterable spaces — or so it has often seemed to me — if put up in faith。 Sometimes even； for a little while it causes us to understand what is meant by the peace of God that passes understanding。 Further； it is as necessary to the sin…stained soul as is food to the frail body。 For indeed even those among us； with whom such as I cannot presume to rank ourselves； are full of faults and must appear to the Perfect Eye as though stricken with a moral leprosy。 Our only hope； knowing and remembering these faults； however oft and bitterly repented of； is to say like the man in the temple； “Lord； I am a miserable sinner”； to seek for the help we cann