PROTESTANT AND PAPAL CHRISTENDOM.
Something near forty years of examination of the theologies on and off—more years very much on than quite off—have given me a good title—to myself, I ask no one else for leave—to make the following remarks: A conclusion has premises, facts or doctrines from proof or authority, and mode of inference. There may be invention or
falsehood of premise, with good logic; and there may be tenable premise, followed by bad logic; and there may be both false premise and bad logic. The Roman system has such a powerful manufactory of premises, that bad logic is little wanted; there is comparatively little of it. The doctrine-forge of the Roman Church is one glorious compound of everything that could make Heraclitus[[71]] sob and Democritus[[72]] snigger. But not the only one. The Protestants, in tearing away from the Church of Rome, took with them a fair quantity of the results of the Roman forge, which they could not bring themselves to give up. They had more in them of Martin than of Jack. But they would have no premises, except from the New Testament; though some eked out with a few general Councils. The consequence is that they have been obliged to find such a logic as would bring the conclusions they require out of the canonical books. And a queer logic it is; nothing but the Roman forge can be compared with the Protestant loom. The picking, the patching, the piecing, which goes to the Protestant termini ad quem,[[73]] would be as remarkable to the general eye, as the Roman manufacture of termini a quo,[[74]] if it were not that the world at large seizes the character of an asserted fact better than that of a mode of inference. A grand step towards the deification of a lady, made by alleged revelation 1800 years after her death, is of glaring evidence: two or three additional shiffle-shuffles towards defence of saying the Athanasian curse in church and unsaying it out of church, are hardly noticed. Swift has bungled his satire where he makes Peter a party to finding out what he wants, totidem syllabis and totidem literis,
when he cannot find it totidem verbis[[75]] This is Protestant method: the Roman plan is viam faciam; the Protestant plan is viam inveniam.[[76]] The public at large begins to be conversant with the ways of wriggling out, as shown in the interpretations of the damnatory parts of the Athanasian Creed, the phrases of the Burial Service, etc. The time will come when the same public will begin to see the ways of wriggling in. But one thing at a time: neither Papal Rome nor Protestant Rome was built—nor will be pulled down—in a day.
The distinction above drawn between the two great antitheses of Christendom may be illustrated as follows. Two sets of little general dealers lived opposite to one another: all sold milk. Each vaunted its own produce: one set said that the stuff on the other side the way was only chalk and water; the other said that the opposites sold all sorts of filth, of which calves' brain was the least nasty. Now the fact was that both sets sold milk, and from the same dairy: but adulterated with different sorts of dirty water: and both honestly believed that the mixture was what they were meant to sell and ought to sell. The great difference between them, about which the apprentices fought each other like Trojans, was that the calves' brain men poured milk into the water, and the chalk men poured water into the milk. The Greek and Roman sects on one side, the Protestant sects on the other, must all have churches: the Greek and Roman sects pour the New Testament into their churches; the Protestant sects pour their churches into the New Testament. The Greek and Roman insist upon the New Testament being no more than part and parcel of their churches: the Protestant insist upon their churches being as much part and parcel of the New Testament. All dwell vehemently upon the doctrine that there must be milk
somewhere; and each says—I have it. The doctrine is true: and can be verified by any one who can and will go to the dairy for himself. Him will the several traders declare to have no milk at all. They will bring their own wares, and challenge a trial: they want nothing but to name the judges. To vary the metaphor, those who have looked at Christianity in open day, know that all who see it through painted windows shut out much of the light of heaven and color the rest; it matters nothing that the stains are shaped into what are meant for saints and angels.
But there is another side to the question. To decompose any substance, it must be placed between the poles of the battery. Now theology is but one pole; philosophy is the other. No one can make out the combinations of our day unless he read the writings both of the priest and the philosopher: and if any one should hold the first word offensive, I tell him that I mean both words to be significant. In reading these writings, he will need to bring both wires together to find out what it is all about. Time was when most priests were very explicit about the fate of philosophers, and most philosophers were very candid about their opinion of priests. But though some extremes of the old sorts still remain, there is now, in the middle, such a fusion of the two pursuits that a plain man is wofully puzzled. The theologian writes a philosophy which seems to tell us that the New Testament is a system of psychology; and the philosopher writes a Christianity which is utterly unintelligible as to the question whether the Resurrection be a fact or a transcendental allegory. What between the theologian who assents to the Athanasian denunciation in what seems the sense of no denunciation, and the philosopher who parades a Christianity which looks like no revelation, there is a maze which threatens to have the only possible clue in the theory that everything is something else, and nothing is anything at all. But this is a paradox far beyond my handling: it is a Budget of itself.
RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY.
Religion and Philosophy, the two best gifts of Heaven, set up in opposition to each other at the revival of letters; and never did competing tradesmen more grossly misbehave. Bad wishes and bad names flew about like swarms of wasps. The Athanasian curses were intended against philosophers; who, had they been a corporation, with state powers to protect them, would have formulized a per contra. But the tradesmen are beginning to combine: they are civil to each other; too civil by half. I speak especially of Great Britain. Old theology has run off to ritualism, much lamenting, with no comfort except the discovery that the cloak Paul left at Troas was a chasuble. Philosophy, which always had a little sense sewed up in its garments—to pay for its funeral?—has expended a trifle in accommodating itself to the new system. But the two are poles of a battery; and a question arises.