How many children
will persevere in the innocent scepticism which is so natural and
so desirable, under a sense of disapproval? One of my own earliest
experiences in the ugly path of religious gloom was that I
recognised quite clearly to myself that I did not love God at all.
I did not know Him, I had no reason to think Him kind; He was angry
with me, I gathered, if I was ill-tempered or untruthful. I was
well enough aware by childish instinct that my mother did not cease
to love me when I was naughty, but I could not tell about God. And
yet I knew that, with His terrible power of knowing everything, He
was well aware that I did not love Him. It was best to forget about
Him as much as possible, for it spoiled one's pleasure to think
about it. All the little amusements and idle businesses that were
so dear to me, He probably disapproved of them all, and was only
satisfied when I was safe at my lessons or immured in church.
Sunday was the sort of day He liked, and how I detested it!--the
toys put away, little ugly books about the Holy Land to read, an
air of deep dreariness about it all.
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