“And this is an importance that must not be underestimated,” the interrupted sentence concluded. “In so far,” we read on together, somewhat awed, I think, to tell the truth, “as the theory is based upon the supposition that a personal divine power exists and dispenses this retributive justice----” “Wrong again,” broke in Julius, “because it’s just the law of natural results--there’s nothing personal about it.” “--and that the soul must climb a long steep path to approach this power, does metempsychosis preserve its religious character.” “He means going back into animals as well--which _never_ happens,” commented the excited boy beside me once again. We read to the end then without further interruption. “This, however, is not all. The Theory is also the expression of another idea which gives it a philosophical character. It is the earliest intellectual attempt of man, when considering the world and his position in it, to conceive that world, not as alien to him, but as akin to him, and to incorporate himself and his life as an indispensable and eternal element in the past and future of the world with which it forms one comprehensive totality. I say an eternal element, because, regarded philosophically, the belief in metempsychosis seems a kind of unconscious anticipation of the principle now known as ‘Conservation of Energy.’ Nothing that has ever existed can be lost, either in life or by death. All is but change; and hence souls do not perish, but return again and again in ever-changing forms. Moreover, later developments of metempsychosis, especially as conceived by Lessing, can without difficulty be harmonised with the modern idea of evolution from lower to higher forms.” “That’s all,” Julius whispered, looking round at me. “By George!” I replied, returning his significant stare. “I promised Hurrish, you know,” he added, blowing out the candle. “Promised I’d read it to you.” “All right,” I answered in the dark. And, without further comment or remark, we went back to our respective beds, and quickly so to sleep. Before taking the final plunge, however, into oblivion, I heard the whisper of Julius, sharply audible in the silence, coming at me across the darkened room: “It’s all rot,” he said. “The chap who wrote that was simply thinking with his brain. But it’s not the brain that remembers; it’s the other part of you.” There was a pause. And then he added, as though after further reflection: “Don’t bother about it. There’s lots of stuff like that about--all tommy-rot and talk, that’s all. Good night! We’ll dream together now and p’raps remember.” CHAPTER V