"Faith in creeds is not to be put on and laid aside at will, like a garment. Granted that these same doctrines of Zoroaster are faint adumbrations of the Hebrew creed, the Gordian knot is by no means loosed. That prologue in 'Faust' horrified you yesterday; yet, upon my word, I don't see why; for very evidently it is taken from Job, and Faust is but an ideal Job, tempted in more subtle manner than by the loss of flocks, houses, and children. You believe that Satan was allowed to do his utmost to ruin Job, and Mephistopheles certainly set out on the same fiendish mission. Mephistopheles is not the defiant demon of Milton, but a powerful prince in the service of God. You need not shudder; I am giving no partial account; I merely repeat the opinion of many on this subject. It is all the same to me. Evil exists: that is the grim fact. As to its origin—I would about as soon set off to search for the city Asgard."
"Still, I would not give my faith for all your learning and philosophy. See what it has brought you to," answered Clara sorrowfully.
"Your faith! what does it teach you of this evil principle?" retorted Beulah impatiently.
"At least more than all speculation has taught you. You admit that of its origin you know nothing; the Bible tells me that time was when earth was sinless, and man holy, and that death and sin entered the world by man's transgression—"
"Which I don't believe," interrupted Beulah.
"So you might sit there and stop your ears and close your eyes and assert that this was a sunny, serene day. Your reception or rejection of the Biblical record by no means affects its authenticity. My faith teaches that the evil you so bitterly deprecate is not eternal; shall finally be crushed, and the harmony you crave pervade all realms. Why an All-wise and All-powerful God suffers evil to exist is not for his finite creatures to determine. It is one of many mysteries which it is as utterly useless to bother over as to weave ropes of sand."
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.
"Please put up your book and sing something for me, won't you?"
Beulah looked at the serene countenance, so full of resignation, and answered gloomily: