faith, from Huxley to Bradlaugh, a slow and awful impression grew
gradually but graphically upon my mind--the impression that Christianity
must be a most extraordinary thing. For not only (as I understood) had
Christianity the most flaming vices, but it had apparently a mystical
talent for combining vices which seemed inconsistent with each other. It
was attacked on all sides and for all contradictory reasons. No sooner
had one rationalist demonstrated that it was too far to the east than
another demonstrated with equal clearness that it was much too far to
the west. No sooner had my indignation died down at its angular and
aggressive squareness than I was called up again to notice and condemn
its enervating and sensual roundness. In case any reader has not come
across the thing I mean, I will give such instances as I remember at
random of this self-contradiction in the sceptical attack. I give four
or five of them; there are fifty more.

Thus, for instance, I was much moved by the eloquent attack on
Christianity as a thing of inhuman gloom; for I thought (and still
think) sincere pessimism the unpardonable sin. Insincere pessimism is a
social accomplishment, rather agreeable than otherwise; and fortunately
nearly all pessimism is insincere. But if Christianity was, as these
people said, a thing purely pessimistic and opposed to life, then I was
quite prepared to blow up St. Paul's Cathedral. But the extraordinary
thing is this. They did prove to me in Chapter I. (to my complete
satisfaction) that Christianity was too pessimistic; and then, in
Chapter II., they began to prove to me that it was a great deal too
optimistic. One accusation against Christianity was that it prevented
men, by morbid tears and terrors, from seeking joy and liberty in the
bosom of Nature. But another accusation was that it comforted men with a
fictitious providence, and put them in a pink-and-white nursery. One
great agnostic asked why Nature was not beautiful enough, and why it was