From my earliest and most unthinking days I have always felt that the one, great, unfulfilled want of this world is the undeniable proof that, when we leave it, we shall live again, or, rather, that we shall never cease to live. There must be a big screw loose somewhere in the various religions presented to us, which profess to give us every thing but this — vague hopes — threatening fears — promises of reward and dread of punishment — but not an atom of proof that, having passed out of this body, we shall exist either to enjoy the one, or endure the other. And never have I been so thoroughly convinced of the truth of my assertion, as since I published, now three years ago, the record of my experience in Spiritualism. Since that book appeared, letters have poured in upon me from strangers, in every habitable part of the globe, at the rate of seven and eight a day, and the cry of one and all has been the same: Show us our dead! Give us some sign that they still live and that we shall live with them.