when he was about thirty years old; and one of the most solemn events of it is his temptation in solitude by the evil one.  Everywhere, indeed, in other religions we are discovering things that we once thought peculiar to the Christian.  And thus the fatal inference is being drawn on all sides, that they have all sprung from a common and an earthly root, and that one has no more certainty than another.  And thus another blow is dealt to a faith that was already weakened.  Not only, it is thought, can Christianity not prove itself in any supernatural sense to be sacred, but other religions prove that even in a natural sense it is not singular.  It has not come down from heaven:  it is not exceptional even in its attempt to rise to it.

Such are the broad conclusions which in these days seem to be forced upon us; and which knowledge, as it daily widens, would seem to be daily strengthening.  But are these altogether so destructive as they seem?  Let us enquire into this more closely.  If we do this, it will be soon apparent that the so-called enlightened and critical modern judgment has been misled as to this point by an error I have already dwelt upon.  It has considered Christianity solely as represented by Protestantism; or if it has glanced at Rome at all, it has ignorantly dismissed as weaknesses the doctrines which are the essence of her strength.  Now, as far as Protestantism is concerned, the modern critical judgment is undoubtedly in the right.  Not only, as I have pointed out already, has experience proved the practical incoherency of its superstructure, but criticism has washed away like sand every vestige of its supernatural foundation.  If Christianity relies solely, in proof of its revealed message to us, on the external evidences as to its history and the source of its doctrines, it can never again hope to convince men.  The supports of external evidence are quite inadequate to the weight that is put upon them.  They might possibly serve as props; but they crush and crumble instantly, when they are used as pillars.  And as pillars it is that Protestantism is compelled to use them.  It will be quite sufficient, here, to confine our attention to the Bible, and the place which it occupies in the structure of the Protestant fabric. ‘There—­in that book,’ says Protestantism, ’is the Word of God; there is my unerring guide; I listen to none but that.  All special Churches have varied, and have therefore erred; but it is my first axiom that that book has never erred.  On that book, and on that book only, do I rest myself; and out of its mouth shall you judge me.’ And for a long time this language had much force in it; for the Protestant axiom was received by all parties.  It is true, indeed, as we have seen already, that in the absence of an authoritative interpreter, an ambiguous testament would itself have little authority.  But it took a long time for men to perceive this; and all admitted meanwhile that the testament was there, and it at any rate meant something.  But now all this is changed.  The great Protestant axiom is received by the world no longer.  To many it seems not an axiom, but an absurdity; at best it appears but as a very doubtful fact:  and if external proof is to be the thing that guides us, we shall need more proof to convince us that the Bible is the Word of God, than that Protestantism is the religion of the Bible.