She gathered up her sewing materials, put them in her basket, and
retired to her own room. Beulah felt relieved when the door closed
behind her, and, taking up Theodore Parker's "Discourses," began to
read. Poor, famishing soul! what chaff she eagerly devoured! In her
anxious haste she paused not to perceive that the attempted
refutations of Christianity contained objections more gross and
incomprehensible than the doctrine assailed. Long before she had
arrived at the conclusion that ethical and theological truth must be
firmly established on psychological foundations, hence she plunged
into metaphysics, studying treatise after treatise and system after
system. To her grievous disappointment, however, the psychology of
each seemed different, nay opposed. She set out believing her
"consciousness" the infallible criterion of truth; this she fancied
philosophy taught, at least professed to teach; but instead of
unanimity among metaphysicians, she found fierce denunciation of
predecessors, ingenious refutations of principles which they had
evolved from rigid analysis of the facts of consciousness, and an
intolerant dogmatism which astonished and confused her. One extolled
Locke as an oracle of wisdom; another ridiculed the shallowness of
his investigations and the absurdity of his doctrines; while a third
showed conclusively that Locke's assailant knew nothing at all of
what he wrote, and maintained that he alone could set matters right.
She studied Locke for herself. Either he was right and all the
others were wrong, or else there was no truth in any. Another
philosopher professed to ground some points of his faith on certain
principles of Descartes; the very next work she read proclaimed that
Descartes never held any such principles, that the writer had
altogether mistaken his views; whereupon up started another, who
informed her that nobody knew what Descartes really did believe on
the subject under discussion; that it was a mooted question among
his disciples. This was rather discouraging, but, nothing daunted,
she bought, borrowed, and read on.
Brown's descent upon Reid greatly interested her. True, there were
very many things she could not assent to; yet the arguments seemed
plausible enough, when lo! a metaphysical giant rescues Reid; tells
her that Brown was an ignoramus; utterly misunderstood the theory he
set himself to criticise, and was a wretched bungler; after which he
proceeds to show that although Brown had not acumen enough to
perceive it, Reid had himself fallen into grave errors and culpable
obscurity. Who was right, or who was wrong, she could not for her
life decide. It would have been farcical, indeed, had she not been
so anxiously in earnest. Beginning to distrust herself, and with a
dawning dread lest after all psychology would prove an incompetent
guide, she put by the philosophies themselves and betook herself to
histories of philosophy, fancying that here all bitter invective
would be laid aside, and stern impartiality prevail. Here the evil
she fled from increased fourfold. One historian of philosophy (who
was a great favorite of her guardian), having lost all confidence in
the subjects he treated, set himself to work to show the fallacy of
all systems, from Anaximander to Cousin. She found the historians of
philosophy as much at variance as the philosophers themselves, and
looked with dismay into the dim land of vagaries into which
metaphysics had drawn the brightest minds of the past. Then her
guardian's favorite quotation recurred to her with painful
significance: "There is no criterion of truth; all is merely
subjective truth." It was the old skeptical palladium, ancient as
metaphysics. She began to despair of the truth in this direction;
but it certainly existed somewhere. She commenced the study of
Cousin with trembling eagerness; if at all, she would surely find in
a harmonious "Eclecticism" the absolute truth she has chased through
so many metaphysical doublings. "Eclecticism" would cull for her the
results of all search and reasoning. For a time she believed she had
indeed found a resting-place; his "true" satisfied her; his
"beautiful" fascinated her; but when she came to examine his
"Theodieea," and trace its results, she shrank back appalled. She
was not yet prepared to embrace his subtle pantheism. Thus far had
her sincere inquiries and efforts brought her. It was no wonder her
hopeful nature grew bitter and cynical; no wonder her brow was bent
with puzzled thought and her pale face haggard and joyless. Sick of
systems, she began to search her own soul; did the very thing of all
others best calculated to harass her mind and fill it with
inexplicable mysteries. She constituted her own reason the sole
judge; and then, dubious of the verdict, arraigned reason itself
before itself. Now began the desperate struggle. Alone and unaided,
she wrestled with some of the grimmest doubts that can assail a
human soul. The very prevalence of her own doubts augmented the
difficulty. On every side she saw the footprints of skepticism; in
history, essays, novels, poems, and reviews. Still her indomitable
will maintained the conflict. Her hopes, aims, energies, all
centered in this momentous struggle. She studied over these world-
problems until her eyes grew dim and the veins on her brow swelled
like cords. Often gray dawn looked in upon her, still sitting before
her desk, with a sickly, waning lamplight gleaming over her pallid
face. And to-day, as she looked out on the flying clouds, and
listened to the mournful wail of the rushing gale, she seemed to
stand upon the verge of a yawning chaos. What did she believe? She
knew not. Old faiths had crumbled away; she stood in a dreary waste,
strewn with the wreck of creeds and systems; a silent desolation!
And with Richter's Christ she exclaimed: "Oh! how is each so
solitary in this wide grave of the All? I am alone with myself. Oh,
Father! oh, Father, where is thy infinite bosom, that I might rest
on it?" A belief in something she must have; it was an absolute
necessity of the soul. There was no scoffing tendency in her
skepticism; she could not jest over the solemn issues involved, and
stood wondering which way she should next journey after this "pearl
of great price." It was well for her that garlands of rhetoric and
glittering logic lay over the pitfalls before her; for there were
unsounded abysses, darker than any she had yet endeavored to fathom.
Clara came back, and softly laid her hand on her friend's arm.