Importance of them. Reason gives peace of mind. Fears of the orthodox. Reason may regenerate the world; Faith does not. Another way of treating the subject Mr Gladstone upon education. Opposes "dread of results" to "desire of learning." Gladstone and Strauss. Various oracles. Oxford graduates rarely philosophic. Lord Bacon's aphorisms. Science obstructed by human weaknesses. Progress of science barred by ecclesiastics. Religion and despotism. The man who scouts induction is a bigot. Revelation requires exposition. Three sets of expounders—all differ. Which must the faithful follow? Popish miracles claim credence from the faithful. He who argues must be logical. Can a bigot be a liberal? If learning is valuable, it must have free scope. Choice proposed—faith or reason? Men of mark who shun religious inquiry. Faraday and Gladstone. Influence of faith, or reason, on the clergy. Examples. An objection noticed. Reason useless in matters of faith—its absurdity demonstrated.

It is now time to enter upon what has, throughout the composition of the preceding essays, been constantly present to my mind, viz., "reconstruction." In the two larger volumes, and in this small one, it has been my aim to clear away the foul rags which have, for many thousand years, been heaped upon the lovely figure of truth—to endeavour to remove the meretricious, or rubbishy, constructions that designing men have builded round the magnificent structure of God's universe. I have, in my own opinion, demonstrated that the Jews have no real claim to be regarded as Jehovah's chosen people, and that their writings present no marks of having been inspired or revealed—that, on the contrary, there are proofs to show that a large portion of their Scriptures are worthless fabrications, contrived by imperfectly educated men, for a political purpose, or to foster vanity.

In our examination into the character of the Hebrew God, and of those individuals said to be his special friends and messengers, as given in the Bible, we found evidence to show that the historians were a semi-civilized, sensual, and malignant race, whose ignorance was only surpassed by their arrogance. It has been further shown, that every portion of the Jewish Scriptures which modern Christians have adopted into their own religion, came to the so-called "chosen people" from those whom they, and many amongst ourselves, designate "heathen." We have, still further, shown the almost absolute identity between the current Christian faith and that originated by Sakya Muni, which still reigns in Thibet, Tartary, China, Ceylon, Japan, and elsewhere. We have demonstrated that a high grade of civilization, and a form of government more paternal and provident than any which the old world knew, existed in Peru, without the smallest evidence of Christianity or Mosaism having ever existed there.

We have, in addition, shown that the miraculous conception of the Virgin Mary is not, by any means, as great a marvel as it is generally supposed to be, such an occurrence being as common to-day as it was from the beginning, and as it probably ever will be. By a similar inquiry we could readily have proved that the ascension of Jesus was not at all unique, inasmuch as great men of old were in the habit of rising after their decease, and making their dwelling in the heaven above—e.g., Romulus.

We have, still further, demonstrated that the modern belief in an angelic host has nothing in it peculiar to Bible Christians and modern Jews, and that our notion of a resurrection of the body is not exclusively a portion of the Christian's creed, but that it was held, in one form or another, more or less distinct, by the ancient Greeks and Romans, and the distant Japanese. In fine, we have done much to sweep away the major part of the religious doctrines and dogmas which are prevalent in the Christian world.. Our writing hitherto has been essentially iconoclastic.

But, amongst all the idols which we have attempted to throw down, we have not, in any instance, threatened morality. We take no credit for forbearance, but we point to the fact, inasmuch as whenever opposite religionists contend about their tenets, they never lay violent hands upon morality. They may abuse the practice of their opponents, and hold up the imaginary vices of their enemy to execration, but real goodness in the work of life is ever respected.*

As soon as the Popes of Rome were free from persecution and danger, they, in their turn, used the arts of the tyrants of old, and sought for political supremacy by pandering to all the passions of kings and great men—if, by that means, they could make them friendly. Up to within a very short period there has not been a Christian despot, or a Pope, who has not punished political crimes more severely than offences against morality.

Yet, with all the fearful practices adopted by Romanists, they have ever had in their months exhortations to propriety and personal purity—their words have been peaceful, whilst war of the most malignant type has been in their hearts. What they have practised, however, they have accused their adversaries of having preached.

It may also be objected that some small sects in modern days have really preached the doctrines of "free love," and license in sensuality; but of these it would be unprofitable to discourse. The people who join in promulgating such doctrines are below contempt.

When controversialists find that they have one subject upon which they can all of them cordially unite, the philosopher would expect that they would study to develope it, and, for that purpose, place it in the foreground. But this is far from their practice. The ministers of every denomination, on the contrary, place morality far behind doctrine—those of the Protestant sect, for example, declare "good works" to be essentially valueless without "faith," and our pulpits teem with discourses which demonstrate the enormous superiority of a blind belief, in doctrine and dogma, over an intelligent morality, irrespective of creed.

In this propensity our preachers do not stand alone, for, in every instance where history has led us to inquire into this point, we find that submission to priestly rule has been regarded as more praiseworthy than virtue. When Israel slew the Midianites there was no apparent difference between the morals of the two people. Both were equally bad or good; but such as they were, their deeds were sanctioned by different gods; and whilst the Jews were right, their opponents were wrong. When the Crusaders attacked the Saracens, there can be little, if any, doubt that the worth of the latter far exceeded that of the former; but as their faith differed, the practice was of no consequence in the eyes of the invaders, and he who died in fighting for his country was execrated by the robbers, who desired to steal it.

If, from a comparatively distant past, we approach nearer to our own times, there is abundance of testimony to prove that the excellence of the French Protestants was superior to that of the Papal priests and their followers in the time of Louis XIV.; but this was of no avail—the good were persecuted by the bad, because they were good only in deeds and not in doctrine—the last being upheld by the bigots who persecuted them.

We may all see precisely the same phenomenon in our own day. Those who are called Unitarians, and the vast majority of those who are designated atheists are, in proportion to their numbers, far more moral than those who are generically described as "Christians;" but their integrity in every relation of life does not prevent their being abused and persecuted, by parsons in "the establishment," by every means available in a free country, and amongst the weapons used, the most common are slander and false witness.

On inquiry into its origin, we find at the root of this aversion to recognize probity as the most important item of religion, the undoubted fact that the upright, thoughtful man requires no other person to help him as a priest or a mediator between him and the Creator.

To possess a doctrine there must be some one to teach it, and the demand begets a supply. But though the last aphorism is true in commerce, it is not by any means universally so, for many an inventor of goods has to force a supply, ere any demand for his article can arise. It is certainly so in Ethics. The Jews made no request to Moses for a new religion when he offered to lead them; they soon became weary of him, and wanted to go back to Egypt. Jesus constrained his first followers to accept a salvation of which they did not feel the need, and Mahomet compelled, at the sword's point, his victims to accept that which they detested. In these instances there was no want to be met, except on the part of individuals who desired to obtain personal influence.

In religion the laws of supply and demand have only exceptional sway, for each individual priest or minister may, according as he pleases, elect to provide for known desires, or to inaugurate a new set of requirements. But whether he does one or the other he is clearly an opponent to, and frequently disliked by, any one who refuses all manner of traffic in spiritual affairs. He is then practically in the same condition as the English government was in when the Chinamen refused to take the opium which they had been receiving for many years before; and, like it, he must endeavour to enforce his wishes by war. But the parson does not fight with cannon and gunpowder, for he assumes the power to wield weapons of far greater importance—viz., the power to torture after death all his adversaries. "Believe me," run his words, "and you shall be saved from hell fire; reject my message, and you shall be burned in everlasting flames!"

When belligerent kings go to battle, they do not go alone and fight single-handed for their cause; on the contrary, they enlist upon their side every man whom they can influence or compel; nor do they care, so long as the troops obey orders, what their private thoughts are; probably few Chinese who fought the British were not opium consumers, and few English cared for the drug at all. In like manner, when priests differ among themselves, they do not meet in wordy tournaments, but they enlist on their respective sides everybody whom similarity in superstition, interest, or any other motive induces to join their standard. When an issue is joined, the result is governed by force of arms, arts, or numbers, as the case maybe.

Thus, in the last resort, the correctness of a doctrine is, as we have frequently remarked in previous pages, proved by thews and sinews—not by brains. So long as the Pagans were numerically superior to Christians, the latter were heretics and victims; but when the disciples of Jesus were actually the strongest, they became suddenly "the orthodox," and the poor Pagans "the damned." In later times Protestantism asserted its faith by the prowess of Cromwell's "ironsides" in England and Ireland; in like manner the Covenanters of Scotland proved, by the might of their swords, Presbyterianism to be superior to Episcopal government. By dint of Saxon might, Ireland was long politically at one with Great Britain; now by her numbers she is allied to the Vatican.

The well-read politician will see that a contest similar to those thus indicated is going on almost all over Europe. In Great Britain and Ireland, in France, Prussia, Austria, and Italy—even in the once bigoted Spain, priestly parties are striving for supremacy over the party of rational order and philosophical government. The question at issue is by no means doubtful—it is one which has been agitated for thousands of years, but that has never assumed large proportions in consequence of general ignorance and consequent apathy. In England, France, and Germany, innumerable champions on the one side have risen, fought, and died, overpowered by the numbers-ranged against them; but, as persecution is said to be the seed of orthodoxy, so these men and their writings have, by dissemination through the press, and the effect of increased education in the languages of Europe, gradually raised so large a party, as to be able to contend with some chances of success.

It will be seen that the question to which I refer is this—"Shall men and states be governed by faith?" in other words, "by the hierarchy of the most numerous section of the community—or by reason—i.e., by the good sense of the majority?" In Austria and in Italy this issue has clearly been tried, and in both instances the priesthood has been obliged to accept a secondary position. In Prussia the same momentous point is being tried with every chance of the sacerdotal party being worsted. In the British kingdom religion has long been regarded as subordinate to state policy; nevertheless there is yet a strong party who desires to reduce her inhabitants to clerical bondage. If all the individuals composing this section of the community were united, they would prevail by their numbers; but, as the aggressive army is composed of troops who bear an almost deadly hate against each other, small danger is to be anticipated from them. The Ritualist and Roman Catholic might unite together; but these would not stand shoulder to shoulder with the Wesleyan, Baptist, and Low Churchman. Although all equally detest those who say "parsons are not wanted," sects will not ally themselves, lest, if every one were to be compelled to select a form of faith, the compulsory decree might augment the numbers following some adversary.

We have thus placed before our readers what we believe is the first article which has to be considered in Reconstruction. We have to ask ourselves whether we should enlist ourselves under the banner of faith, and endeavour to add one form of religion to those already existing; or, whether we should join the banner of reason, and repudiate all doctrines, dogmas, credences, and the like, which are offensive to common sense. We may fairly parody the words of the mythical Elisha, and say to ourselves—"Choose ye this day whom ye will serve; if faith suits your indolence, then hug your chains; if you prefer reason, gird up the loins of your mind, and metaphorically kill the priests of Rite."

Ere, however, we can reasonably expect those who have hitherto been inconsiderate to make their selection of standard bearers, it is desirable to say something of the two. In limine we must observe that we do not believe that the choice will be determined by the head alone, for there are many whose arms are, so to speak, paralyzed by a constitutional peculiarity. A hero in his study has often proved a poltroon in the field of battle. I may point the moral by quoting from memory a story in Addison's Spectator—"A B is a hen-pecked husband; he knows it, and bewails his thraldom; he consults C D, who sympathises with his case, increases his detestation for the home tyranny, and tells him how to break the chains. A B, full of resolution, tries the plan recommended, but breaks down at once." The moral is, that those who are born to serve, or are too weak-minded to assert their independence, had better submit to be ruled—even if the tyrant be a woman, than try to gain peace by conflict. Into this story I fully enter, for I know, from experience, how much "nerve" is required for any one to change his or her relative position. The moral courage of which I speak, is one that dominates over constitutional shyness and fear; it differs from the boldness of a soldier, and the dash of the beast of prey; it is not a simple mental assent; but it is a motive which, after being once placed, becomes a mainspring of life. To adopt Faith as a guide, is to go through life easily—so long as "thought" can be sent to sleep. To adopt Reason, is to prevent thought ever slumbering, and to live the happier the more steadily that the mind is watchful In few words, Faith is "a quack doctor," Reason "a physician." The first will always have the most admirers.

Without further preface, let us inquire "what Faith really is?" This is a question with which I have been familiar since my childhood, and the answer offered to me for adoption was—"It is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen" (Heb. xi. 1). This reply has never suggested any distinct idea to me, and I am confident that the author of "Hebrews" had not a definite meaning in his own mind when he wrote the words. The context shows that the word [—Greek—] is used to signify distinct states of mind, and one example, which is given frequently, indicates a different signification from another that precedes or follows. For example, in v. 5 we are told that Enoch was translated by "faith;" but the only evidence for this is, that "he pleased God;" whereas, in verse 11, we are told that Sarah, who laughed at the idea of having offspring, and disbelieved the promise which said that she should have a son, conceived "through faith." Still further, the false history of the chapter disgusted me—e.g., we read in w. 24, 25, 27, that Moses by faith elected to bear affliction with the people of God, and from the same cause forsook Egypt, not fearing the wrath of the king, &c.—both of which statements are untrue, for he ran away both from the afflictions of the Hebrews and the wrath of the monarch, and required "pressing" before he would leave his retreat in Midian. I regard the chapter thus referred to as one of the great stumbling blocks of Christianity. Its logic is contemptible; yet it must pass for truth, because Paul is thought to have written it. Being now thrown back upon our own resources for a definition of "faith," we affirm that it signifies "uncompromising belief in what one is told." Every religious book which occupies itself with this subject illustrates the word in question by affirming that it resembles the motive which actuates a child who, at a father's bidding; leaps from a height upon the promise that papa will catch him in his arms.

Though, as a rule, I am disinclined to use adjectives, I have added the word in italics, because it is a material part of the definition, and involves more than at first sight appears. Peter tried to walk upon the water—he doubted, and began to sink. He has been imitated by others; they have all failed. "Doctor," a man may say, "can I swallow this without being choked?" "Yes, if you think you can." He tries to swallow the morsel, and is choked. The result in every case is attributed to a want of faith. In other words, hesitation cannot effect what confidence can. Consequently we are justified in asserting that faith and doubt are absolutely incompatible. Faith implies an absolute and perfect confidence. This faith may be compulsory—as when a shipmaster is obliged by local law to give up the management of his ship to a pilot; or it may be spontaneous, as when a patient trusts himself to a surgeon. For a man only to give a half confidence, is to cripple to that extent the capacity of the one who is responsible.

Religious faith, then, involves the necessity of an absolute and blind confidence in the priestly pilot selected as a conductor through life to eternity; it precludes inquiry, discourages thought upon the most important matter which every man has to consider, and makes of a rational being an intellectual slave. In few words, it reduces its votary to the position of a tool, and renders him, so far as religion is concerned, mentally blind.

We recognize the accuracy of our deductions when we find that the aim of the Roman church has been to reduce men to the condition here described, and then to use them as carpenters do planes, chisels, and axes. It is probable that there never existed in the world an order of men who have so completely reduced themselves, and voluntarily too, it must be borne in mind, to the position of a machine, as the Jesuits have done. They are an instrument in the hands of their superiors, and they blindly obey. Whether the order exists for good or harm, it is not my purpose to discuss.

Next in order to the society of Jesus comes the gigantic society known as the Papacy, or Roman Catholicism. I place this as second to Jesuitry, because, for a long period, there was a certain freedom of opinion allowed to the superior clergy. But now, when it has become a tenet of the church of Rome, that its head is absolutely infallible in all matters of dogma and doctrine, it is probable that the demand of faith from the laity may equal, if not exceed, that made upon professed Jesuits.

In religion, the only place in which uncompromising faith finds its home, is the Papal. That demands unlimited belief in everything ecclesiastically promulgated, hatred of everything dogmatically condemned, and acquiescence in every sacerdotal command. Amongst that sect, doubting is an offence, and opposition is a crime.

We have seen this illustrated in the person of the learned Bishop DÖllinger, who has been excommunicated simply because he refused to accept the new fangled notions of an almost effete old pope. He cannot see anything in a modern council to supersede apostolic traditions; he doubts; therefore the Papalists do everything in their power to damn him. In like manner, although prior in time to the declaration of the Pope's infallibility, we have seen the present king of Italy excommunicated; because he, as the head of his own dominions, ordered a decree to be carried into effect which, whilst it was good for the people generally, was regarded as hostile to the church.

The observer need not, however, go far from home in search of illustrations, for every year sees one or another Protestant minister leaving the Anglican for the Roman communion, on the sole ground that in the latter there is no room for doctrinal doubts and contests. To the laity, the very repose of the religious mind is held out as a bait by Papal missionaries, and it is probably one of the most successful which "the fishers of men" employ. I once heard a brother physician express his opinion on this point. Conversation had turned upon a confrÈre who had been in religious matters "everything by turns, and nothing long." "Ah," said the Romanist, "he'll be tired of roaming some day, and find repose at last in the bosom of the church; his soul will then be at rest, and will wander no more."

The possibility of Protestants entertaining a doubt upon the power of "the Church" to demand unlimited belief and obedience from the faithful, is a sore thorn in the side of many dignitaries of the national creed. As this propensity to inquiry is an essential part of the legacy bequeathed to Englishmen by the reformation, this last movement has been execrated by some of our High Churchmen. It is asserted, that, as the taking of the Bible for the sole rule of faith has been followed by a great splitting up of the so-called "Church of Christ," so it is advisable to change the standard, and to adopt that of "Ecclesiastics" personally or collectively. In any case, such advocates desire to re-establish the reign of faith. What the Reign of Faith has been in Europe, it would be idle to describe.

As soon as the mind of an individual revolts from giving implicit faith to any creed, doctrine, or dogma, he must be regarded as a mariner who, being not quite contented with his own country, endeavours to find a better. In his voyage he first leaves the shore as a fledgling does the nest—he goes a short excursion, and returns; after a time he becomes more brave, and puts off more boldly. At first he probably finds a number of other barques as venturous as his own, and he becomes emboldened; it may be his arms are strong, his head clear, and his boat good; and he steers into the offing. No sooner does he leave the herd, however, than he is chased, and if he refuses to put back, curses follow him; and the friends whom once he had are condoled with. Such is the position of a Protestant who departs seriously from the religion of the majority. With or amongst the Romanists to leave the shore is an act of disbelief which must be atoned for by penance or punishment.

It is clear that every such individual who, like a chick, leaves the shelter of the maternal wings, must be more or less at sea. He or she may have no idea of going very far, yet may be compelled to sail on until he has reached the other side of Doubting Straits, and has landed in the realm of Reason. We can well conceive the waters to be covered by small "craft," which keep together for company's sake, or who boldly sail out and solicit followers—some cluster, it may be, round a stately galleon, others sail with a dashing cruiser, some come into collision or hostile contact with their neighbours, and try to damage each others' barques. But all are at sea—driven hither and thither by breezes which spring up, no one knows how, and drop down again as swiftly as they rose. The mariners, however, seem to enjoy the excitement, and refuse to return to their own land.

The individuals whom we here describe are the ordinary Protestant sects (not including the Unitarians, who have long reached a comparatively stable ground). These, by whatever name they are called, refuse to give implicit faith to the Pope; they will, however, accord, in some degree, to some pet parson, the management of their conscience; they dread what is called "free-thinking," as a mariner does a lee shore. They put up with every accident which arises from mingling faith with reason, and are, on the whole, contented, as long as too much pressure is not put upon them, to steer in a definite direction. Of these it may be said, "Thou art neither cold nor hot; I would thou wert cold or hot. So then, because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out. of my mouth" (Rev. iii. 15,16). The endeavour to make reason subservient to faith, must ever be a failure as complete as would be the endeavour to weld iron with water, or to heat an anchor shaft by surrounding it with cold coals and wood, then blowing a blast of air upon the whole. He who is determined to use reason, must drop faith; and he who clings to faith, must drop reason. The conclusions drawn by all who attempt the combination will always be lame and impotent.

If, in the stead of faith, an individual takes reason for his guide through this world to the next, he incurs the wrath and malignancy of the many, and the respect of the few. He comes in for far harder names than Pagans gave to Christians, and Papalists gave to Huguenots. If, unfortunately, he should live in a country where priests rule, he may be burned, as Savonarola was at Florence, Latimer and Ridley at Oxford, and Servetus at Geneva. Luther was said to be a devil—a so-called Atheist is believed to be something worse.

Yet, notwithstanding all the obloquy thrown upon Freethinkers by the orthodox, they steadily have increased in numbers, ever since the spread of education and the cheapness of books have enabled men to study in retirement When there was little instruction and few books, people gained what knowledge they had from their spiritual guides. This power of the pulpit enabled the hierarchy to set up and substantiate any claims which they chose. But, since the power of the printing press has risen, the influence of the priesthood has diminished. With all this tendency to so-called Atheism, there has been no loss of propriety; on the contrary, the probity of the few exceeds that of the many, and in all there is a great improvement. The present times in Italy are far superior to those when the Borgias and their religion were supreme.

When we inquire what the Freethinkers, or Rationalists, are, it is readily seen that they have been maligned by "the faithful." There is little difficulty in summing up their tenets: it is "Reverence, without servility." They draw their views from the book of creation, and hold it infamous to fight for supremacy where facts and logic can decide. This, however, is by far too meagre to satisfy either a friend, an inquirer, or an opponent; it is, therefore, desirable to go into the matter more fully. In doing so, I make no pretence to be the mouthpiece of a party, nor even to give a digested account of what those who have written and published before me have enunciated; my sole aim is to give, in as plain terms as I can command, the opinions which inquiry has forced upon my mind.

My first confession of faith must be negative, for, until the ground has been cleared, it is not advisable either to plant or construct:

1. I do not believe in the authority of any written book as being an inspired production, or as containing a revelation from God to man. In my estimation, the Bible is not in any way superior to the Koran, to the Dhammapada, the Puranas, the Main-yo-Khard, the Avesta, or any other collection of scriptures held sacred.

2. I do not believe the story given in Genesis of the creation, of the formation of human beings, and what is ordinarily called "the temptation" and "the fall".

3. I do not believe in the existence of what is technically designated "original sin," nor that the human race is "a fallen one;" consequently, I do not believe in the necessity for "salvation." I do not believe that death came into the world by sin.

4 I do not believe in the existence of "sin," in the ordinary acceptation of the word; nor do I believe that man requires the intervention of any fellow mortal, either to reconcile or embroil him with an unseen power.

5. I do not believe in the existence of a Devil, or of any other power in the whole universe, than that of the Supreme Maker of all.

6. I do not believe in any description which has yet been given of Hell or Heaven.

7. I do not believe that God has ever directly spoken to man.

8. I do not believe that God has ever become incarnate, or that he has a celestial spouse, or a son.

9. I do not believe in the existence of truth-speaking prophets, in the existence of angels, or ghosts, or in the supernatural birth of any one.

10. I do not believe that God has now, or ever has had, a separate and chosen people, peculiarly "His own," and, consequently, that there are none to whom the term "the elect" can apply.

11. I do not believe that what is generally designated religion is necessary to the existence of law and order in a state or in a family.

12. I do not believe that God requires the assistance of man, here or elsewhere, to enable Him to find, or to keep, or to punish, His subjects.

These negatives might be multiplied, but I doubt whether profitably so, inasmuch as the more we dilute important points, the less readily are they recognized. We may now proceed to affirmations:—

1. I do believe in the existence of a distinct Power in creation—great beyond conception, which pervades all space—which is everywhere present in the earth, the sea, the air, and in every conceivable part of the Universe—which made all things, and gave to them properties, powers, and laws. A power to which it were blasphemy to assign ears, eyes, hands, or human parts, and an evidence of a grovelling mind to suppose it capable of human passions, such as love, hate, jealousy, and merriment, and to describe it as ignorant, vacillating, and grieved at its own work. That Power I cannot conceive as having either an origin or an end. Into the designs of such a power, man cannot enter, nor can he even seem to approach them, except by noticing the works of creation, and studying the laws which apparently govern it By the term, "laws of nature," I understand "the laws of the power of which I speak." I cannot conceive how man can form an idea of a state of spiritual existence of which he can neither see, observe, or notice anything.

It is, in my opinion, unnecessary here to enter into the vexed question of the continued interference of this Power with its works, for where we have only human analogies to guide us, it is undesirable to argue upon them in the attempt to discover the superhuman. As we shall have occasion shortly to indicate our views upon a matter analogous to this, we will postpone anything which we may have to say.

I believe that the Power has never made, nor can ever make, a mistake; that all its works are perfect, and that where they seem to us to be otherwise, it is from our ignorance of their design.

It seems to me that lions and lambs, sharks and gudgeons, that hawks and chickens, form a portion of a grand scheme: that the distinct classes of animals were originally perfect; that they may deteriorate, yet never advance beyond perfection. I do not believe that a lion could become, under any circumstances, a bull; a bear a camel, or a pig an elephant.

2. The belief that the Creator made each creature originally perfect, and with certain well defined propensities, involves the further confidence that the indulgence in those propensities is a necessary part of the scheme of creation; consequently, I believe that the tiger eats flesh because it is a law of his existence, and that in doing so he commits no sin. I believe, still further, that a close observation of nature gives us some apparent insight into the plan of creation For example, I think the existence of gills in a fish leads us fairly to the conclusion that it was intended to live in the water; that the existence of teeth implies that they were to be used in eating, wings in flying, legs in walking. Still further, when we notice that vegetables can assimilate mineral matter, which animals, as a rule, cannot, I believe that the vegetable kingdom has its special place in the world; and when, moreover, we find creatures who can eat and digest vegetables, and have a special apparatus for the purpose, it is fair to conclude that they too have their station assigned. A corresponding remark applies to the carnivora. Once again,—when an extended observation shows us that the beasts and birds of prey select for their victims the young of animals which their parents are unable to protect, the aged, who are too infirm to fight for themselves, or the sickly, which are quite unfit to live: when, moreover, we find these carnivorous creatures die when age or accident deprives them of the power of getting food; nay, when we see large numbers of all animals die from want of food, of air, of warmth, or from accidents—I believe that we are justified in deducing the idea that it is a design of the Power, that those which cannot live shall die; I believe that death is as essential a necessity to every creature as is its birth, and that its many forms have a definite purpose.

Let us now, for a moment, turn our attention to the very commencement of life. If from any cause the new being is seriously malformed or diseased, it is a common thing for the dam to miscarry. If a mother, say a pig, rat, or bird, brings forth a larger brood than she can nourish, she commonly kills the smallest, and allows only those to survive which she can find food for—the bird that lays more eggs than her nest will hold, turns the overplus out; and if, when the fledglings grow up, they are too bulky, one of them will be discarded. The cuckoo's chick has a special provision made for helping it to turn out the young of another bird, and its mother has also a special instinct to lay its eggs in the nest of the hedge-sparrow. The life of one involves the death of three or more. Again, in the aquatic world, one fish makes no scruple to feed on its own young ones or those of its neighbours, and the old crocodile seeks out its offspring as a favourite luxury. We find, moreover, that where these creatures abound there may often be found a small animal—the ichneumon—whose instinct teaches it to seek for and destroy the eggs of the saurian. In like manner crows, rats, cuckoos, and probably many other creatures, have a propensity to feed upon the eggs of various birds. In few words, we recognize throughout creation an apparent design to prevent a superabundance of life.

This remarkable provision, working, as it does, through laws which seem to be fixed and established, prevents our belief in the interference of the Creator. When an animal has reached the period of nearly adult age, there is in many instances a considerable amount of instruction given to it, sometimes by the sire, but mostly by the dam. When that has been imparted, parents and offspring seem to be like strangers to each other.

It is probable that, if we could observe all animals, we should find some system of training of the family. As it is, we can only speak of domestic fowls, and notice the order which the hen keeps up amongst her brood of chickens; they are taught to live peaceably. Her punishments are never lenient; they are, indeed, necessarily severe.

We may next proceed to inquire into the animal instincts which exist in adult life, at a period when every creature is supposed to be in its perfection. At a certain time of the year there is a propensity for the male and female to unite. There is not anything in creation which affords a more attractive study than this, for every class of creatures has a practice peculiar to itself. One might fancy that in an act so necessary and so simple there would be little cause for interest; yet, in reality, "the prodigality of design"—a term which we hope to explain fully hereafter—is more largely shown in this process than in any other. It is, however, a subject upon which one cannot descant before the general public.

So far as we are able to observe animals, we find that at this period there is, amongst a great number of classes, a power amongst the males to discover the most perfect amongst the females, and to fight for them. By this means the young are certain to be the offspring of perfection of grace and beauty in the dam, and strength and size in the sire. We can readily understand that, if the loveliest hind were to pair with the weakliest stag, the breed would degenerate, and probably die out. But the conqueror can hold his place only so long as he has vigour; when age has weakened him, the youthful successor practically prevents the old buck from being a father. In some exceptional cases (apparently so at least) the number of males exceeds that of the females, and, as a result of the instinct before alluded to, the fight ends in the majority of the males being destroyed. The survivor then has one spouse only, and not a seraglio. This is said to obtain amongst rats and lions.

As yet, there is not a sufficient amount of observation available to enable us to affirm what is the general cause of exit from life, when no death by violence occurs. We do not know the end of old buffaloes, elephants, rhinoceroses, hippopotami, whales, and other monsters. Tales are told of decrepit lions being occasionally seen tottering to their fall; and gossip says that ancient cats know when they are about to die, and retire to some secluded nook, where they give up the ghost quietly. I cannot charge my memory with a single anecdote in which the youthful animal endeavours to sustain the old one, by feeding it during its decrepitude. Throughout creation parental affection signifies solicitude for offspring. We do not anywhere discover a love towards a parent after the younger creature has reached adult age.

In all the cases to which I have referred, and, were I a naturalist, they might be greatly multiplied, there is no pretence, even amongst the orthodox, that any of the creatures have committed "sin" against the Almighty, or against the community of which they form a part. On the contrary, what is done, even though it amounts to murder, is regarded as a necessity; and we admire the laws of nature which bring about such results. We do not stop to inquire whether any contrivance would prevent birds from laying too many eggs, and cuckoos from dropping theirs into the nests of other birds; we content ourselves with saying, "such is the will of Providence." It is easy to come to such a conclusion as regards what we are pleased to call "the lower animals," but as soon as we inquire "whether similar laws or instincts are implanted in us," we are generally met with a howl of repugnance.

But I believe that we shall never understand our true position in life and in nature until we deliberately investigate that which we have in common with other animals, and wherein we are different—probably superior. I use the word probably, because, in the estimation of higher beings than ourselves—if such there be—the horse and the elephant may be regarded as being far above us in the scale which those beings have framed for themselves.

I have never yet seen any deliberate attempt to work out the problem referred to. Every one, or nearly so, who if orthodox, assumes that it is absolutely wicked to compare the beasts which perish, to man who has a soul As I have, in a previous volume, shown that the evidence for the immortality of the horse is equal to that for the human race, I will not stay to point out the absurdity of building an important argument upon a baseless assumption, but simply express my belief that man has very much in common with other mammals; but that he is in possession of something superadded, which, at first sight—though not in reality—takes him out of the trammels of the ordinary laws of nature that operate in the brutes.

No one can doubt that man has as strong a propensity to unite with woman, as bulls and stags have with the females of their kind. He has, even in civilized societies, a propensity to fight with one or more of his fellows for a female of surpassing beauty. Men will combat about a disputed field or country as fiercely as dogs over a bone, or hermit crabs over a shell. As a rule, man detests to be taught, quite as much as does the whelp; yet, when he has gained an art, he is as proud of it as a highly trained spaniel. Men are gregarious as horses in a field, and quite as intolerant as they, of an interloper. Like the wild wolves, men will unite together to capture and prey upon creatures of each of whom individually he stands in fear. Like a set of wild bulls or buffaloes, men will, for a time, agree to obey a leader, and, when the object is gained, break loose. Like a cat, man will steal, when he can, his neighbours' goods, like a crow, he will pay no attention to his parents, nor to a Sunday.

Without entering into farther particulars, we may affirm that some highly trained elephants, dogs, and horses, are superior to many human beings in every point upon which an impartial judge can determine.

It is my belief that, for a man to obey an instinct which is implanted in his nature, is not "a sin" against God.

To see this in a fair light, let us assume, as we have a right to do, that it is an instinct in the nature of all known creatures, to increase and multiply their like. To avoid doing so intentionally, is a contravention of one of the Creator's laws. If this be so, then celibacy is a sin, as great, indeed, as if one were to refrain from food of all kinds; and no one can be considered as worthy of the name of good, who remains unpaired without just cause. In like manner, it is not an offence against the laws of God for any man and woman to unite, for it is as much a law of nature that they shall do so, as that they must eat and drink. The plea of "religion" cannot make that wrong, which is by nature right.

In like manner, if in a limited community—say upon an island, the number of men exceeds that of the women, I believe that a fight amongst the males for the possession of mates, would not be "sin" against the Omnipotent even though many combatants died during the contest.

Nay, so common upon many points is the agreement; amongst even the most orthodox, that none would say that a man commits a crime when he steals the store of honey laid up by bees, kills animals for food or for their fur, or covets and appropriates the prairies hitherto occupied by herds of deer and bison. Even the commandments said to be delivered by God Himself are held not to be literally binding upon man, except in relation to his friends. He may, for example, by the laws of war, murder his enemies, fornicate with their wives, steal their property, and deceive them in every way. Abraham, the so-called friend of God, murdered many Orientals, and plundered them; not because he had any quarrel with them, but simply because they had murdered and plundered some of his friends. David again, a man after God's own heart, with his dying breath, gave his son instructions to put individuals to death in cold blood, superseding the law of Sinai, by a heritage of hate. When, therefore, common consent takes certain actions out of the list of crimes or sins, provided that the deeds are done against enemies, we have to seek for the origin of those ideas which make murder, theft, robbery, rape, and false-witness crimes in the abstract.

To understand this point, we have really to start from the bestial basis, and aver that what is not sin in them, is not sin in savage man. No one of any intelligence would say that a Briton would be justified in shooting an Ashantee because the latter had killed and eaten an enemy, or an aged parent; nor would any one of us sentence a Hindoo to death because he had killed a dozen Thugs. Even in comparatively civilized American backwoods, a person who has killed a bully has been thought a public benefactor. Again, when we cast our eyes upon Australia, and learn the brutal way in which the black native virgins are violently carried away from their relatives and married, and how again they are repeatedly carried off as wives by other men, we feel ourselves justified in leaving the ravishers without punishment, for there is no violation of law, or, if there be, Englishmen have no right to interfere.

But what we tolerate in uncivilized lands, even where we are ostensibly rulers, we will not suffer in our own. The reason of this is, that we have banded ourselves into a society in which "the laws," once settled and determined by the majority, supersede, in certain cases, individual action.

To make our meaning clear, let us imagine that amongst some nation or people there is one man more astute and powerful than his fellows; still further, we assume that he has fought, or is desirous to fight, a neighbour of nearly equal force. It is clear that if his people murder each other from any cause he will lose warriors; consequently, he will let his tribe understand that he will punish homicide, on a plan which he thinks will be deterrent. Still further, as he requires soldiers of strong limbs and sturdy constitution, he declares that no woman shall many without his consent, so that he may prevent any one selling herself, or being sold, to a weak or old man for mere pelf. As, in a savage state, most possessions are those which are useful in war, he would prohibit theft. As a consequence, he, and all who respected his power to punish, would regard murder, theft, rape, and unauthorized wife-selling as crimes—offences, that is to say, against the ruler of the state, and not against the Creator of mankind.

It signifies little to my argument, whether society is governed, as the early Aryans were, by warriors, or, as the later ones were, by Brahmans. In either case the leaders make laws, and declare a violation of them to be punishable.

When communities are small in size, and extend over a small area, few rules of life are necessary; but when a nation increases in size, and especially when it consiste of many tribes or class which have voluntarily united together, legislation is far more complicated, inasmuch as the ideas of right and wrong in each section may, from long custom, vary from each other. For example, in most of the United States of America bigamy, or the possession of two wives at a time, is a crime; whereas, in Salt Lake city, its rulers have twenty, and its men a dozen, if they like, and yet are esteemed saints, and really conduct themselves as if they had a clear claim to the title.

The greatest complication is when the laws of a community have been framed, partly by soldiers, partly by ecclesiastics, and partly by mercantile men, for each party has a different creed. The first makes no scruple to fight at the command of the second, whilst the third endeavours to prevent all war whatever. The second set intrigue to have the supreme power; the first and third often endeavour to suppress the second, knowing its aggressiveness and lust of supremacy.

When a nation is under what is grandiloquently called a Theocracy, every offence against a command given ex cathedra is regarded as a sin; not simply a disregard of the law, but a defiance of the God who is said to have ordained it. Thus, according to what is known as the Mosaic law, it was a crime punishable by a lingering death to gather sticks on a Sabbath day (Num. xv. 32-36); but it was no crime to kill all the males and women of a whole nation, and retain the maidens for private prostitution and for the use of the priest (Num. xxxi. 17, 18, 40, 41). In such a nation it was no crime to commit forgery—and of all the bearers of false witness, none exceeded in ancient times the Jewish writers in the Bible—but in mercantile England, the former has been at one time punished with death, and the latter by ignominious penalties.

In modern Theocracies, such as once existed in Austria, Spain, Italy, England, and elsewhere, it was considered criminal to think differently, upon any religious point, from the authorized standard. In those kingdoms many a person was doomed to die a painful death, and thereafter sent—as it was supposed, to Hell—whom we now regard as a virtuous, brave, and noble individual.

The common sense of mankind induces all citizens to buy what they have need of, at the smallest possible price; but a mercantile government says to its people—"You shall not buy anything from anybody who has not first paid us for the privilege of trading, and something more for every ware which he offers for sale, and every one contravening this order shall be seriously punished." Here, again, an artificial offence is manufactured that has no origin in nature.

When a people has succeeded in throwing off publicly the trammels of Ecclesiastical legislation, as England, Italy, Spain, France, Austria, Belgium, and other nations have done, they by no means shake off their private shackles. The only difference between Spain, Austria, and other places, now and formerly, is, that the priesthood are seeking to attain by subtlety what they could previously command by their state power. At one period in the history of modern Rome, it was a crime not to kneel on the bare ground when certain priests passed with a bit of wafer surrounded by gorgeous trappings. This is a crime no longer against the state, but for all who believe the Papal hierarchy it is yet a sin.

At one time in England, it was a crime not to go to church on Sunday; it was equally punishable to carry on any business. The laws respecting these matters have not yet been repealed, and they have been put recently into operation, although the good sense of the majority has made them practically obsolete. Yet, though this is the case, and the law no longer punishes Sabbath-breaking, the priestly body continue to launch their thunders against all who regard every day alike. It is, indeed, doubtful if, in the eyes of our parsons, there is any sin so great as enjoying one's self on a Sunday. The law of our country does not make it a crime for a woman to prostitute her body, or for a man to have a concubine of greater or less permanency, but the hierarchs denounce the arrangement as criminal in the sight of God.

We need not multiply our illustrations farther. Sufficient has been advanced to show that there are two distinct classes of sins—one, those made by Ecclesiastics, or by those legislators passing under the name "Society;" the other, those which are against the laws of nature—e.g., an enforced celibacy, such as that to which Romish priests are doomed. In saying this, we readily allow that what is right, according to the laws of God, as set forth in the universe, is wrong according to the code made by the legally constituted authorities of the state in which an individual lives. We grant, moreover, that, if a government is strong enough, the laws of man should be enforced by human means. But we do not believe that mortals should be compelled to carry out that which priests tell them is the justice of the Immortal, of which they know absolutely nothing. I hold that no state can fairly claim to take cognizance of, or to punish, thoughts, or any private indulgence which creates no public scandal.

If we endeavour to reduce our views to a still clearer issue, the difference between divine and human laws will be the more readily understood. Let us assume that Miss Kallistee is the most perfect woman in a district. For her contend with their natural weapons Messrs. Dunamis, Kratos, Kalos, Sophos, and Mathesis; and the conqueror, having killed his adversaries, takes the lady to wife. The law of man or of society now steps in and kills off the survivor; or, if it should know beforehand of the coming contest, will prevent it. As a consequence, the lady must be contended for peaceably, and may become the bride of impotent old age or wealthy disease. As a result, the healthy offspring, which nature would have reared, are either absent, sickly, diseased, or idiotic. Here, then, I affirm that a law of society is a sin against God.

I would wish my readers to ponder over this matter, which gives much food for thought. I do not think that such contests as I have described can be tolerated in any society of civilized beings, for, in proportion to our emergence from barbarism, we do not seek mere strength and beauty of form in our population. We desire to cultivate the intellectual rather than the animal in man. But experience has shown that, as a rule, the further man departs from the latter, and the nearer he approaches to the former, the more does his progeny deteriorate physically.

It is a problem whether, by any available contrivance short of that which was adopted by the Incas of Peru, man can uniformly develope upwards. The physiologist can readily see how the matter might be effected, but in republican or constitutional kingdoms, the means will never be adopted.

We have now come to a point when it is necessary for me, as an individual, to express an opinion as to the selection which a philosopher, living in a comparatively civilized community, should make between a promulgation of the so-called laws of God—an instruction respecting the laws of nature—or an utterance of the laws of society, with the enforcement of them. Ere forming a decision, let us endeavour to ascertain what each alternative involves.

If a state, acting through its executive government, decides to make what are called the laws of God the basis of legislation, it must first decide what those laws are. In the endeavour to do so, every thoughtful man will recognize the impossibility of verifying a single one. The whole must, therefore, be promulgated on assumption; and if so, the legislators will be conscious that they have no valid authority. If, on the other hand, they assume the laws of nature to be a safe guide, they must allow proceedings which are opposed to the feelings of the majority of civilized mortals. Being, then, averse to elect either of these codes as a sole basis, the statesman will endeavour, as far as in him lies, to make or adapt laws for the society in which he lives.

When the well-being of the community becomes the basis of its legislation, the idea of sin vanishes from the statute book, and the stern realities of life have to be envisaged with firmness and decision. So also when religion has merged into common sense, and facts are appealed to rather than fancies, policy takes the place of dogma, and the voice of a majority overcomes that of any priesthood.

Into political economy, however, it is not my desire to enter, further than may be necessary to illustrate my own opinions upon religion.

Having emancipated myself from the thraldom of bibliolatry and priestcraft generally, it is my aim to examine what seems to be my duty as a man and an integer of society. I conceive that, although I have no certain knowledge thereof, I am one of the myriads of instruments by which the Almighty works out His designs. My appreciation may be imperfect, but still it seems to me a duty, always to be a good husband, father, friend, and citizen—to act ever towards others as I should desire myself to be treated under the same circumstances—to improve such talents as I am conscious of possessing; and, in a general way, to do as much good as I can during my lifetime—taking care, if possible, to leave after my death no mischievous agency set on foot by me. In few words, I believe that the only true religion consists in a constant steady performance of duty—a duty discovered and determined by the individual, and not one prescribed by any set of men.

The conclusion thus arrived at, appears at first sight, to be meagre in the extreme, but when it is fully examined, it is found to involve important consequences. The faithful, for example, or, as they style themselves, "the orthodox," live, when they pay any attention to such matters, in a state of perpetual fear of God and eternity; some, indeed we may say many, go mad from the oppression which they feel from having committed an unpardonable sin; some pass through life weighted by the dread of not being finally "saved"; all, with rare exceptions, have a horror of death and of the results of "the judgment." Feeling assured that few will be saved, and the many will be damned, they have a dreadful feeling of certainty that either they or some of their dearest relatives or friends will be amongst the majority. Some go through life sinning and repenting—"in dust and ashes," as the technical phrase runs—until they are ashamed of their own vacillation, or go on sinning, without any qualms of conscience, until it is too late to mend; and they recognize before them "a fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation." These fantastic terrors are far more deeply rooted in the Protestants than in the Papists, who have so completely become imbued with the belief that their priests have almost unlimited power in the unseen world, that the dying folk become easy in their minds, by a full assurance of hope that friends, hierarchs, and "masses" will make purgatory bearable and heaven certain. Of fear about eternity I know nothing; feeling confident that the God who made me—directly or indirectly it would be a waste of time to discuss—had some work for me to do here. I am quite content with whatever may be assigned to me hereafter by the same Power. Of a future state I am wholly ignorant. As an integer, I feel a sort of instinct that death is not absolute annihilation; but beyond that I do not now seek to know, for every source of intelligence is absent.

To some inconsiderate enthusiasts this may seem a cold belief, but in reality it is anything but that, for my days and nights are freed from that wet blanket of vague dread which makes so many mentally shiver; and my time is passed pleasantly in the alternate labour required by duty, and the repose necessary to recruit one's energies.

Let us, for a moment, consider what would be the condition of the world, if each individual conducted himself according to the dictates of a pure and enlightened morality, instead of according to the direction of a body of Ecclesiastics.

We may, I think, fearlessly assert that there would be no wars, no murders, thefts, adulteries, libels, violations of female purity; in short, every one would do as he wished to be done by. In such a people persecution would find no place, ignorance would not be permitted, and law would be unnecessary. Other desirable things would also take place, to which it is unnecessary to refer at large.

When all are strictly proper in every relation of life, I cannot believe that anything more would be wanting to make the human family as happy as it can be here. What, let us ask, would the orthodox declare was amissing? The reply is, to my mind, awful: There would be, first, the want of hatred and malice; then would be added the want of Hell-to which enemies could be sent, and of a Heaven, in which the faithful could feed their malignancy by watching the tortures of those whom they detested on earth.

In fine, I beg to express my own deliberate opinion, which has been growing stronger monthly since I first began to collect materials for this work, that those who can find nerve to sweep from their minds the trammels which have been woven around them by hundreds of generations of hierarchs, and adopt the simple faith which I have above indicated, will be far happier and better than ever they were before. No man will stand between them and God, and they will find Him infinitely more good and merciful than any of those who profess to be His agents.

There is yet another way by which the subject of "faith and reason" may be approached, and their antagonism tested. This is by considering how far the former is essentially human, and the latter divine—by which we mean, superior to the propensity which all mankind has in common. We recognize the importance of the inquiry, when we find Mr Gladstone, a Prime Minister of England, discouraging the action resulting from philosophical thought, because a man named Paul, some 1800 years ago, recommended his friends to hold fast that which he, and they, under his teaching, believed to be good. The speech of the Premier, which was delivered at a large Liverpool School, and was written with unusual care, held up, to a lot of schoolboys, the propositions of Strauss as something which were so bad, that the enunciation of them carried with it their refutation. Yet, at the same time, the speaker allowed that the German thinker was conspicuous for intellectual attainments, powers of thought beyond the ordinary run of mortals, sobriety in mental culture, and boldness in the enunciation of the conclusions to which his reason compelled him. In Mr Gladstone's opinion, such a man's doctrines deserved to be withered; not because they were opposed to reason, to logic, to the stern reality of facts, but because they opposed the prejudices of certain persons educated in a different style of faith.

If we inquire in what way the German philosopher and the English bigot differ, we can come to no other conclusion than that the one has used his intellect upon the dogmas which have been presented to his mind, from his infancy upwards, until they have been mistaken for fundamental truths, whilst the other has exercised his mental powers upon something beyond the doctrinal grounds on which his early education has been framed. The then English Premier, who had to direct the state, allowed himself to be guided by defunct men, precisely in the same way as Pyrrhus, Croesus, and others, were governed by the pretended oracles at Delphi, Dodona, and elsewhere. The man, in other words, who once wielded the might of England, and is conspicuous for his classical acquirements, is as much the slave of superstition as any ancient Egyptian or Grecian monarch, only his oracles are not the same as theirs.

It is clear, that when the speech, to which reference has been made, was composed, Mr Gladstone was under the influence of the belief, that what he had been taught, and had adopted, must necessarily be the only truth which can be relied on, at least, in its fundamental points. It is this very presumption, this lazy habit of mind, that was long ago pointed out by Bacon as being the most fertile cause of the retardation of science, and it is remarkable that Oxford, as an University, and most of its alumni, are still victims to the weakness referred to. It naturally follows in the train of what is called classical learning, when the mind is taught to remember rather than to think; and one easily believes that he can recognize in the late Premier the gradual development of thought, and can tell the epochs when cherished idols have been thrown aside, with the energy of one who is suddenly roused to exercise a powerful mind in an independent manner.

It would be useless to copy all the aphorisms by which Lord Bacon attempted to destroy the old philosophy, which, in his time, was most universally adopted, and to build up a new state of things, in which science should advance, but a few of them are of such value that they deserve recording. In Novum Organum, aph. 23 we read—"There is no small difference between the fancies [—Greek—] of the human mind and the ideas of the divine mind—that is, between certain notions that please us, and the real stamp and impression made by created objects as they are found in nature." That is to say, man commonly imagines things to be what he fancies they ought to be, and neglects what they really are. The learned aphorist then points out certain peculiarities of men, by which they are induced to cleave to the bad, and neglect the good.

Aph. 46—-"The human understanding, when any proposition has once been laid down (either from general admission and belief, or from the pleasure which it affords), forces everything to add to it support and confirmation. But this evil insinuates itself still more craftily in philosophy and in the sciences, in which a settled maxim vitiates and governs every other circumstance, although the latter be much more worthy of confidence." Aph. 47—"The human understanding is most excited by that which strikes and enters the mind at once and suddenly, and by which the imagination is immediately filled and inflated. It then begins, almost imperceptibly, to conceive and suppose that everything is similar to the few objects which have taken possession of the mind, whilst it is very slow and unfit for the transition to the remote and heterogeneous instances by which axioms are tried, as by fire, unless the office be imposed upon it by severe regulations, and a powerful authority."

We may paraphrase the preceding axiom thus:—Those who, from personal preaching, or by parental influence, have adopted a certain belief in the truth of that which has been taught to them as a "revelation," no matter who the individuals are, or may have been, who propound it, are loth, ever, to inquire into the real nature of the matter. Hence it is that "clairvoyance" and "spiritualism" have so many staunch adherents.

Aph. 56—"Some dispositions evince an unbounded admiration of antiquity, others eagerly embrace novelty, and but few can preserve the just medium, so as neither to bear up what the ancients have correctly laid down, nor to despise the just innovations of the moderns. This is very prejudicial to the sciences and philosophy, and, instead of a correct judgment, we have but the factions of the ancients and the moderns."

There are other aphorisms following, which point out the mischief of following certain theories, simply because they have been long accepted, and are generally supposed to be correct.

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.

As far as the common run of religionists are concerned, they are all in this "fool's paradise;" they fancy that they are secure, invincible, and mighty, because they take their own prowess and their opponents weakness as matters of faith. But when one of these comes into collision with another whose reason is exercised upon facts and the deductions to be drawn from them, the questions occur, possibly for the first time, Are the grounds of my belief tenable? am I justified in using my reason only in one direction? if I profess to argue, am I not bound to be logical? and if what has been given to me as sound meat, is rotten in reality, am I bound to eat it? can it do me good in any way? When a thoughtful man has arrived at this point, he has to elect between Faith and Reason. Then, if, like Mr Gladstone, he foresees to what his inquiries will probably lead, and is disinclined to pull down a cherished edifice, even to erect a better, he will naturally cling to the old belief, saying—"With all thy faults, I love thee still." With his eyes wide open he hails the banner of bigotry, no matter what may be the scutcheon which it bears.

Then come the important questions—"What right has any religious bigot to profess himself a liberal?" and, "With what face can a man, who refuses to exercise his understanding upon what he calls the most important part of life, i.e., the preparation for eternity, proclaim himself a friend of education?"

To insist upon the value of "learning" in forming the mind, and then to set the example of recoiling from the knowledge which intellectual efforts bring, is, in a statesman, a mean vacillation. Mr Gladstone ought either to proclaim that his ideas are those of the Jesuits, or to pronounce in favour of education, to whatever goal it legitimately tends. To say to boys—or men—you must learn to think; but you must only come to the same conclusions as myself, would disgrace a statesman of a free country, though such a proclamation would seem natural to a pope, or any other tyrant I do not, for a moment, assert that the then Premier of England did, in a written, and, therefore, a deliberate speech, to a large and influential school of boys, utter the words which I have used; on the contrary, he employed his rhetorical powers to express the idea, without either clearly understanding it himself, or giving the lads a clue to it. Had the meaning of the discourse been put into a few pregnant sentences, it may be doubted whether it would ever have been uttered.

If Mr Gladstone, like the mythical Elijah, had placed before his auditors, in naked words, the proposition—"Choose ye this day whom ye will serve, Faith or Reason," his discourse would have been clear. Even his own mind could not have painted the two as being the same thing; nor would a school-boy have failed to see that, in the future, he must elect between indefinitely expanding his intelligence, and materially contracting his intellect to the narrow limits prescribed by the faith of his parents.

To my mind it is sad to witness men of great general capacity, like the late Dr Faraday, and the past Prime Minister of Great Britain, shunning, in every way, an inquiry into the basis of their belief. We cannot regard this as a result of simple intellectual indolence, or ignorance. The only cause to which we can attribute it, is that weakness which, by most people, is called moral cowardice; a fear, not so much of Mrs Grundy—the world and its dread laugh—but the fear of some unseen, unknown, incomprehensible danger to themselves—of dangers that have no reality, except in an imagination which has been moulded long before the mind was capable of thought, but whose hold upon the individual is such, that he shrinks from the mental effort necessary to efface its impressions.

There is yet another phase of faith, which deserves a passing mention. It is that which declines to see or to hear a proof or an argument, lest it should be convinced against its will. There are many men amongst us who, in Scripture phrase, refuse to hear the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely. This obstinacy, stupidity, dogged-ness, or firmness, is quite compatible with a partially cultivated intellect, and is in itself a measure of intellectual capacity. I have heard, for example, a learned divine, but one whose writings are often so bemuddled, that the ideas which they contain are as difficult to discover "as a needle in a bottle of hay," declare that he would no more listen to an argument against the existence of "the trinity," than he would open his ears to hear evidence that his wife or mother was adulterous.

Such strong asseverations we may sympathize with, and even admire; but they prove nothing beyond the impracticability of an individual mind, or what, in some cases, takes its place—viz., the injudiciousness of acknowledging a truth, when the enunciation of a belief in it would be followed by unpleasant consequences.

Again, I know of another divine, who has steadily refused to inquire into the value of what are called "the Christian evidences," his reason being, that he is conscious that inquiry would shake his confidence in the doctrines which he teaches. He clings to what he feels to be a sham, lest others should, by his means, regard it in its proper light.

Another divine, who has not feared to be an inquirer, is incessantly persecuted by his brethren, not because he has asserted his intellectual freedom, but because, by having done so, he has, by implication, cast a sort of odium upon those who hug their mental darkness. His argument is—Can a man who hates the light be worthy to speak of the "Sun of Righteousness?" Their reasoning is based upon the assertion, that those who live in darkness, and like it, need not be told about a luminary. If people chose to believe that the moon is made of green cheese, it is more profitable to talk to them about its connection with the milky way, than to say that the notion is absurd. Faith teaches that, where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise; whilst reason only impels one to habitual thought or mental worry.

Other divines of my acquaintance have used their reason in a twofold way: they have ceased to hold their first faith, yet they hold their "livings," as they have no other means of subsistence; whilst a few have, with their advancement in knowledge, paid for their knowledge by embracing poverty.

The world treats those who walk upon the ground with a far greater injustice than it treats those who lie beneath its surface. For a man who disturbs us in our fool's paradise, more feet than hands are used; but to him who only disturbed the father's complacency, and taught the son in youth, we erect memorial statues. Jesus was crucified when he was alive, and deified when dead. His apostles were persecuted when living; now that they are deceased, they are called saints. Savonarola was burnt alive at Florence; now his memory is cherished, and his worth fully known. Luther was detested when he was able to thunder in men's ears; now he is regarded as a son of light. The present Pope, Pio Nono, has found an obsequious council, whose voices have declared him to be infallible—a god upon earth; the time will come when that Pope, and that council, will be regarded as the personification of blasphemy and folly. The days of Faith will be everlasting; but her power to act wickedly will be curtailed more and more. The reign of Reason advances every year, for it is allied to thought and knowledge; and we may fairly hope that the old adage will be true—Magna est Veritas et praevalebit.

It may be said that, in the preceding parts of this essay, I have wholly lost sight of, or, at least, have not referred to the argument—or the statement, made by the upholders of faith, as a rule of life—that reason has nothing to do with things divine, and that where God has made a direct revelation of His will to man, no human being has a right to criticise or object to it.

This kind of remark is in the mouth of every preacher, and each minister who utters it imagines that he deals a blow so very heavy that nothing can stand against it. But in reality it is only a big bubble, which collapses when it is touched. "How," for example, we may ask, "can anything be recognized as divine, unless human judgment is passed upon it? or, How can any revelation be accepted, unless the mind has examined the messenger and the message?" Who would believe the ravings of a lunatic, even though he told us that God had sent him with a message to man? Why do Christians, as a body, reject the revelation made to Mahomet, and the frequent inspirations which give laws to the latter-day saints? To these queries the reply is—"Because we know that God does not speak to man now, and that when the bible was closed all revelation ceased." But when we inquire into the reason for this belief we can find not one. Every theologian must allow that the God who spoke once to Moses spoke again; that He supplanted one dispensation by a second, and has promised a third.

Thus we see, that by their own books, the orthodox are bound to believe that supplementary communications must be made to the human race; consequently, when any one asserts that he is a divine prophet, his pretensions are examined. The faithful Christian disbelieved in Mahomet; the trusting Arabs believed in his mission, and fought for their creed. They, like orthodox divines of to-day, refused to use their reason in things divine, and to cavil at a revelation, Unable to agree, the followers of Jesus, and those of Mohammed, fought, the latter almost annihilating the former for a time, thus proving the value of their faith. Both parties had a firm belief—the one in the prophet of Nazareth, the other in the prophet of Arabia; and no reasoning could have convinced either that his trust was misplaced; nor, to this day, has reason convinced the Mahometans that Jesus was superior to Mahomet, or the Christian that the Arab sectarian was a prophet at all; and it is singular that both parties call in reason in attestation of their respective creeds.

Is, then, the sturdy English theologian to be content to leave the followers of Islam alone, because they have faith? or, must he still endeavour to convert them by the use of reason? Can the Christian adopt the belief that Mahometan and Mormon are both orthodox because they have faith? and that the Jew must still be dear to Jehovah, inasmuch as he still clings closely by faith to the revelation given to Moses and the prophets? If this cannot be done, how can the follower of Jesus hope to convert others to his belief, unless by the use of reason? If, then, the theologian uses reason as a weapon against heterodoxy, upon what ground can he object to its being employed by another? Latter-day saints have made many proselytes in Christendom, and a Mahometan floored in debate the late pious Missionary, Henry Martyn, whose propositions were met by counter ones, and every one of whose arguments was taken up and retorted, the names only of the persons spoken of being changed. "I know," said the one, "that God spoke to us by Christ Jesus"—"I know," said the other, "that Allah spoke to us by Mahomet" "You are wrong, my friend," said one, "Allah has not spoken to man since the last Apostle died." "You are wrong," said the other, "God has spoken to us long after that. You may call Mahomet an apostle, if you like; we call him a prophet of Allah, and know that he was one." And so controversy goes on now where there is faith without reason.

It is clear, then, that truth cannot be established by any number of people thundering out "I believe it," and by their victoriously fighting for it. The argument, therefore, which I may be accused of omitting, is of no value at all; it is sheer nonsense—a windbag, or, perhaps, it may best be compared to a boomerang, which, when badly used, recoils upon the person of him who threw it. Of such arguments theology is builded up.