laid down by John Bunyan; but they were handicapped even more severely than the good Christian himself with his heavy burden—­for that fell off his back at the first sight of the Cross and Him who was nailed to it, accepted by the eye of Faith as the one Sacrifice for the sins of the world—­for the three little ones, Humble Mind, Playful, and Peace, were accompanied always and everywhere by an imp called Inbred Sin, who never ceased to tempt them to evil.

The doctrine of innate human depravity is one of the most paralysing dogmas that human fear invented or priestcraft encouraged.  I did not think of publishing “An Agnostic’s Progress” at first.  I wrote it to relieve my own mind.  I wanted to satisfy myself that reverent agnostics were by no means materialists; that man’s nature might or might not be consciously immortal, but it was spiritual; that in the duties which lay before each of us towards ourselves and towards our fellow-creatures, there was scope for spiritual energy and spiritual emotion.  I was penetrated by Browning’s great idea expressed over and over again—­the expansion of Paul’s dictum that faith is not certainty, but a belief without sufficient proof, a belief which leads to right action and to self-sacrifice.  Of the 70 years of life which one might hope to live and work in, I had no mean idea.  I asked in the newspaper, “Is life so short?” and answered.  “No.”  I expanded and spiritualized the idea in a sermon. and I again answered emphatically “No.”  I saw the continuation and the expansion of true ideas by succeeding generations.  To the question put sometimes peevishly, “Is life worth living?” I replied with equal emphasis, “Yes.”  My mother told me of old times.  I recalled half a century of progress, and I hoped the forward movement would continue.  I read the manuscript of “An Agnostic’s Progress” to Mr. and Mrs. Barr Smith, and they thought so well of it that they offered to take it to England on one of their many visits to the old country, where they had no doubt it would find a publisher.  Trubner’s reader reported most favourably of the book, and we thought there was an immediate prospect of its publication; but Mr. Trubner died, and the matter was not taken up by his successor, and my friends did what I had expressly said they were not to do, and had it printed and published at their own expense.  There were many printer’s errors in it, but it was on the whole well reviewed, though it did not sell well.  The Spectator joined issue with me on the point that it is only through the wicket gate of Doubt that we can come to any faith that is of value; but I am satisfied that I took the right stand there.  My mother was in no way disquieted or disturbed by my writing the book, and few of my friends read it or knew about it.  I still appeared so engrossed with work on The Register and The Observer that my time was quite well enough accounted for.  I tried for a prize of 100 pounds offered by The Sydney Mail with a novel called “Handfasted,” but was not successful, for the judge feared that it was calculated to loosen the marriage tie—­it was too socialistic and consequently dangerous.