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