At the period when Bacon wrote, there was the same conservatism in science and philosophy as there had been in the Roman Church for ages, and very few, if any, had ventured to suggest the necessity for a radical change. In England the reformation of church and state preceded the reformation of philosophy; yet, there are many amongst us yet who regard all such changes as a mistake. We constantly find individuals who hanker after a despotic rule, by king or emperor, who cannot endure a church in which there is no tyrannical head, nor a science which only professes to advance, and refuses to be stationary.
Yet the thoughtful know how much the world would have lost, had it yet been prostrate at the feet of Aristotle and of barbaric Popes; and there is not a Christian who does not rejoice that Jesus prevented mankind from worshipping Moses, and adhering to Hebraic notions.
When, therefore, an individual, professing to be learned, scouts the propositions of a careful inductive and rigidly reasoning philosopher, simply because they violate generally believed notions; and when, in addition, he appeals to the ignorance and impressionability of schoolboys rather than to the mature judgment of adults, he proclaims himself, in that respect, at least, a bigot—of a dye as deep as those fanatics who urged on their fellows to suppress the discoveries of Galileo. But the matter does not end here. We recognize the necessity for a public man, who has once proclaimed his adherence to the doctrines of Revelation, and has preached the necessity for "faith," and its superiority over reason—however calm and rigid, to go further, and to proclaim that which he regards as Revelation, and who are the individuals he will receive as the interpreters of that so-called communication from God to man.
It is clear that the words which have been uttered by man require a human expounder; equally clear is it that, if the original sayings are regarded as being inspired, but, nevertheless, of doubtful meaning, they can only be cleared up by other men, who are, like the original oracles—"inspired." But, as a matter of fact, there are in our own times three distinct sets of individuals who lay claim to the faculty of interpretation; and these differ so amongst themselves, that certainly, at least, two, and very probably all, are wrong.
The man, then, who is disposed to make faith his guide must, in so far as Christianity is concerned, join himself either to the Greek or Roman Church, whose pretensions to a divine presence in their midst have been of the longest; or to the Protestant Church, which endeavours to oust the other two upon the plea that they cannot be under divine teaching, because they have become corrupt; and then, on the plea of having discovered the alleged faults, it assumes to have the authority which its predecessors have forfeited.
Thus, as we have frequently remarked before, man sits in judgment upon Him whom he calls his maker. The Protestant Churches, however, are the only ones who do not formally lay claim to having the divine presence amongst them in a conspicuous degree; they do not pretend to the performance of miracles, and they scout the idea that any modern representative of Jesus can do any wonders like those that teacher did. The Roman Church proves to the satisfaction of its votaries that "the Lord" is still with them, inasmuch as the presence of the Virgin, in a visible form, occurs to cheer her servants that trust in her intercession, and even pictures of her become instinct with life.
If, then, an individual is resolved to walk by faith alone in matters of religion, he is bound to join himself to that church wherein the divine founder is habitually and visibly present; to whose saints the saviour has appeared, and given stigmata like those which were produced in the original by the barbarous nails and spear of the Roman soldiers. For the votaries of faith—pure and unadulterated belief in things divine—the only legitimate home is the bosom of the Papal Church. Why, then, do not men, like Mr Gladstone, join it? Simply because their faith is not a pure and confiding one. It is tainted by the doubt whether the pretensions of the Roman See are sustainable, or by the certainty that Popish miracles are contemptible shams. They believe that Francis of Assisi made the stigmata, which he professed to receive from his "crucified Saviour," by burning his hands, feet, and side, with some strong caustic, or by a heated iron.
By these doubts, or certainties, individuals demonstrate that they are not in the list of the faithful; for doubt implies unbelief, and both are incompatible with faith pure and simple.
Whenever, then, a person confesses, by his words or actions, that he does examine into the grounds of his belief, he is logically bound to continue those inquiries into everything wherein there is a possibility of human error creeping.
When we pursue our observations further, and inquire into the reasons why a Papist believes certain things which a Protestant rejects, and vice versa, we find that, in the first place, each believes what he has been taught; he—to speak figuratively—imbibes his dogmas and belief with his mother's milk; and when he advances in age, is taught and imagines that he has mastered the stock arguments which are relied upon by the opposite parties. There is, therefore, on first sight, a reasoning power exercised by each; but it is not so, for the arguments themselves, and their force, are regarded as matters of faith—as weapons with which a warfare may be waged, but which, in no sense, are to be tested by those who use them.