agnostic by the age of sixteen; and I cannot understand any one passing the age of seventeen without having asked himself so simple a question.  I did, indeed, retain a cloudy reverence for a cosmic deity and a great historical interest in the Founder of Christianity.  But I certainly regarded Him as a man; though perhaps I thought that, even in that point, He had an advantage over some of His modern critics.  I read the scientific and sceptical literature of my time—­all of it, at least, that I could find written in English and lying about; and I read nothing else; I mean I read nothing else on any other note of philosophy.  The penny dreadfuls which I also read were indeed in a healthy and heroic tradition of Christianity; but I did not know this at the time.  I never read a line of Christian apologetics.  I read as little as I can of them now.  It was Huxley and Herbert Spencer and Bradlaugh who brought me back to orthodox theology.  They sowed in my mind my first wild doubts of doubt.  Our grandmothers were quite right when they said that Tom Paine and the free-thinkers unsettled the mind.  They do.  They unsettled mine horribly.  The rationalist made me question whether reason was of any use whatever; and when I had finished Herbert Spencer I had got as far as doubting (for the first time) whether evolution had occurred at all.  As I laid down the last of Colonel Ingersoll’s atheistic lectures the dreadful thought broke across my mind, “Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.”  I was in a desperate way.

This odd effect of the great agnostics in arousing doubts deeper than their own might be illustrated in many ways.  I take only one.  As I read and re-read all the non-Christian or anti-Christian accounts of the 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.