nothing else than making a faith which lies deeper than reason can
reach, the basis of our action in those respects which touch us
most nearly.

On the other hand, as good a case could be made out for placing
reason as the foundation, inasmuch as it would be easy to show that
a faith, to be worth anything, must be a reasonable one--one, that
is to say, which is based upon reason. The fact is, that faith and
reason are like desire and power, or demand and supply; it is
impossible to say which comes first: they come up hand in hand,
and are so small when we can first descry them, that it is
impossible to say which we first caught sight of. All we can now
see is that each has a tendency continually to outstrip the other
by a little, but by a very little only. Strictly they are not two
things, but two aspects of one thing; for convenience sake,
however, we classify them separately.

It follows, therefore--but whether it follows or no, it is
certainly true--that neither faith alone nor reason alone is a
sufficient guide: a man's safety lies neither in faith nor reason,
but in temper--in the power of fusing faith and reason, even when
they appear most mutually destructive. A man of temper will be
certain in spite of uncertainty, and at the same time uncertain in
spite of certainty; reasonable in spite of his resting mainly upon
faith rather than reason, and full of faith even when appealing
most strongly to reason. If it is asked, In what should a man have
faith? To what faith should he turn when reason has led him to a
conclusion which he distrusts? the answer is, To the current
feeling among those whom he most looks up to--looking upon himself
with suspicion if he is either among the foremost or the laggers.