And this is what the just—­that is to say reasonable people—­do as regards those daily affairs of life which most concern them.  They settle smaller matters by the exercise of their own deliberation.  More important ones, such as the cure of their own bodies and the bodies of those whom they love, the investment of their money, the extrication of their affairs from any serious mess—­these things they generally entrust to others of whose capacity they know little save from general report; they act therefore on the strength of faith, not of knowledge.  So the English nation entrusts the welfare of its fleet and naval defences to a First Lord of the Admiralty, who, not being a sailor can know nothing about these matters except by acts of faith.  There can be no doubt about faith and not reason being the ultima ratio.

Even Euclid, who has laid himself as little open to the charge of credulity as any writer who ever lived, cannot get beyond this.  He has no demonstrable first premise.  He requires postulates and axioms which transcend demonstration, and without which he can do nothing.  His superstructure indeed is demonstration, but his ground is faith.  Nor again can he get further than telling a man he is a fool if he persists in differing from him.  He says “which is absurd,” and declines to discuss the matter further.  Faith and authority, therefore, prove to be as necessary for him as for anyone else.  “By faith in what, then,” asked Ernest of himself, “shall a just man endeavour to live at this present time?” He answered to himself, “At any rate not by faith in the supernatural element of the Christian religion.”

And how should he best persuade his fellow-countrymen to leave off believing in this supernatural element?  Looking at the matter from a practical point of view he thought the Archbishop of Canterbury afforded the most promising key to the situation.  It lay between him and the Pope.  The Pope was perhaps best in theory, but in practice the Archbishop of Canterbury would do sufficiently well.  If he could only manage to sprinkle a pinch of salt, as it were, on the Archbishop’s tail, he might convert the whole Church of England to free thought by a coup de main.  There must be an amount of cogency which even an Archbishop—­an Archbishop whose perceptions had never been quickened by imprisonment for assault—­would not be able to withstand.  When brought face to face with the facts, as he, Ernest, could arrange them; his Grace would have no resource but to admit them; being an honourable man he would at once resign his Archbishopric, and Christianity would become extinct in England within a few months’ time.  This, at any rate, was how things ought to be.  But all the time Ernest had no confidence in the Archbishop’s not hopping off just as the pinch was about to fall on him, and this seemed so unfair that his blood boiled at the thought of it.  If this was to be so, he must try if he could not fix him by the judicious use of bird-lime or a snare, or throw the salt on his tail from an ambuscade.