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slowly and gradually dawned upon myself. I have no
intention of trying to refute or convince my critics, and I beg them with
all my heart to say what they think about my books, because only by
the frank interchange of ideas can we arrive at the truth.
But what I am going to try to do in this chapter is to examine the theory
by virtue of which my book is condemned, and I am going to try to
give the fullest weight to the considerations urged against it. I am sure
there is something in what the critics say, but I believe that where we
differ is in this. The critics who disapprove of my book seem to me to
think that all men are cast in the same mould, and that the principles
which hold good for some necessarily hold good for all. What I like
best about their criticisms is that they are made in a spirit of moral
earnestness and ethical seriousness. I am a serious man myself, and I
rejoice to see others serious. The point of view which they seem to
recommend is the point of view of a certain kind of practical

strenuousness, the gospel of push, if I may so call it. They seem to hold
that people ought to be discontented with what they are, that they ought
to try to better themselves, that they ought to be active, and what they
call normal; that when they have done their work as energetically as
possible, they should amuse themselves energetically too, take hard
exercise, shout and play,
"Pleased as the Indian boy to run And shoot his arrows in the sun,"
and that then they should recreate themselves like Homeric heroes,
eating and drinking, listening comfortably to the minstrel, and take
their fill of love in a full-blooded way.
That is, I think, a very good theory of life for some people, though I
think it is a little barbarous; it is Spartan rather than Athenian.
Some of my critics take a higher kind of ground, and say that I want to
minimise and melt down the old stern beliefs and principles of morality
into a kind of nebulous emotion. They remind me a little of an old
country squire of whom I have heard, of the John Bull type, whose
younger son, a melancholy and sentimental youth, joined the Church of
Rome. His father was determined that this should not separate them,
and asked him to come home and talk it over. He told his eldest son
that he was going to remonstrate with the erring youth in a simple and
affectionate way. The eldest son said that he hoped his father would do
it tactfully and gently, as his brother was highly sensitive, to which his
father replied that he had thought over what he meant to say, and was
going to be very reasonable. The young man arrived, and was ushered
into the study by his eldest brother. "Well," said the squire, "very glad
to see you, Harry; but do you mean to tell me that your mother's
religion is not good enough for a damned ass like you?"
Now far from desiring to minimise faith in God and the Unseen, I think
it is the thing of which the world is more in need than anything else.
What has made the path of faith a steep one to tread is partly that it has
got terribly encumbered with ecclesiastical traditions; it has been
mended, like the Slough of Despond, with cartloads of texts and
insecure definitions. And partly too the old simple undisturbed faith in
the absolute truth and authority of the Bible has given way. It is
admitted that the Bible contains a considerable admixture of the
legendary element; and it requires a strong intellectual and moral grip
to build one's faith upon a collection of writings, some of which, at all

events, are not now regarded as being historically and literally true. "If
I cannot believe it all," says the simple bewildered soul, "how can I be
certain that any of it is indubitably true?" Only the patient and desirous
spirit can decide; but whatever else fades, the perfect insight, the
Divine message of the Son of Man cannot fade; the dimmer that the
historical setting becomes, the brighter shine the parables and the
sayings, so far beyond the power of His followers to have originated, so
utterly satisfying to our deepest needs. What I desire to say with all my
heart is that we pilgrims need not be dismayed because the golden clue
dips into darkness and mist; it emerges as bright as ever upon the
upward slope of the valley. If one disregards all that is uncertain, all
that cannot be held to be