Beulah - Page 239/348

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.