of the human mind--lies the tragedy. Not to mention the fact that
humanity always has asked, and always will ask, for an answer, they
are truly questions of more importance than anything else in the
world. If there be something on the other side, and that something an
eternal life, then misfortunes and losses on this side are as nothing.
In this case we might exclaim with Hamlet: "Nay, then, let the devil
wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables."

"I am content to die," says Renan; "but I should like to know whether
death will be of any use to me."

And philosophy replies, "I do not know."

And man beats against that blank wall, and like the bedridden sufferer
fancies, if he could lie on this or on that side, he would feel
easier. What is to be done? Are we to abuse philosophy that, instead
of building up new systems which, like a house of cards, fall at a
touch, it has confessed its impotence, and begun to search for and
classify manifestations within reach of the human intellect? Methinks
that I and everybody else has a right to say: "Philosophy, I am struck
by your common sense, admire your close analysis; but with all that,
you have made me supremely wretched. By your own confession you have
no answer for a question, to me of the greatest importance, and yet
you had power enough to destroy that faith which not only cleared up
all doubts, but soothed and comforted the soul. And do not say that,
since you do not lay down the law, you permit me to adhere to my old
beliefs. It is not true! Your method, your soul, your very essence is
doubt and criticism. This, your scientific method, this scepticism,
this criticism you have implanted in the soul till they have become a
second nature. As with lunar caustic, you have deadened the spiritual