no right to smile.  In our way we are as keen about the great question as the Brahmans are, and for us the problem of problems may be stated in few words—­“Is there a future life?” All our philosophy, all our laws, all our hopes and fears are concerned with that paralyzing question, and we differ from the Hindoo only in that we affect an extravagant uncertainty, while he sincerely professes an absolute certainty.  The cultured Western man pretends to dismiss the problem with a shrug; he labels himself as an agnostic or by some other vague definition, and he is fond of proclaiming his idea that he knows and can know nothing.  That is a pretence.  When the philosopher says that he does not know and does not care what his future may be, he speaks insincerely; he means that he cannot prove by experiment the fact of a future life—­or, as Mr. Ruskin puts it, “he declares that he never found God in a bottle”—­but deep down in his soul there is a knowledge that influences his lightest action.  The man of science, the “advanced thinker,” or whatever he likes to call himself, proves to us by his ceaseless protestations of doubt and unbelief that he is incessantly pondering the one subject which he would fain have us fancy he ignores.  At heart he is in full sympathy with the Brahman, with the rude Indian, with the impassioned English Methodist, with all who cannot shake off the mystic belief in a life that shall go on behind the veil.  When the pagan emperor spoke to his own parting soul, he asked the piercing question that our sceptic must needs put, whether he like it or no—­

     Soul of me, floating and flitting and fond,
     Thou and this body were life-mates together! 
     Wilt thou be gone now—­and whither? 
     Pallid and naked and cold,
     Not to laugh or be glad as of old!

Theology of any description is far out of my path, but I have the wish and the right to talk gravely about the subject that dwarfs all others.  A logician who tries to scoff away any faith I count as almost criminal.  Mockery is the fume of little hearts, and the worst and craziest of mockers is the one who grins in presence of a mystery that strikes wise and deep-hearted men with a solemn fear which has in it nothing ignoble.  I would as lief play circus pranks by a mother’s deathbed as try to find flippant arguments to disturb a sincere faith.

First, then, let us know what the uncompromising iconoclasts have to tell about the universal belief in immortality.  They have a very pretentious line of reasoning, which I may summarise thus.  Life appeared on earth not less than three hundred thousand years ago.  First of all our planet hung in the form of vapour, and drifted with millions of other similar clouds through space; then the vapour became liquid; then the globular form was assumed, and the flying ball began to rotate round the great attracting body.  We cannot tell how living forms first came on earth; for they could not arise by spontaneous generation,