some fragments of our absurdities, and afterwards showing us what a couple of fools we have been.”  I was secretly delighted with the suggestion; and, when the subjects of dispute were very interesting, threw aside my work, whatever it was, and reported them pretty copiously.  Hence the completeness and accuracy of this admirable journal.  I cannot of course always, or even often, vouch for the ipsissima verba; and some few explanatory sentences I have been obliged to add.  But the substance of the dialogues is faithfully given.  I need not say, that they refer only to subjects of a theological and polemical nature.

I hardly know how the conversation took the turn it did on the present occasion; but I think it was from Mr. Fellowes’s noticing Harrington’s pale looks, and conjecturing all sorts of reasons for his occasional lapses into melancholy.

His friend hoped this and hoped that, as usual.

Harrington at last, seeing his curiosity awakened, and that he would go on conjecturing all sorts of things, said, “To terminate your suspense, be it known to that I am a bankrupt!”

“A bankrupt!” said the other, with evident alarm; “you surely have not been so unwise as to risk recently acquired property, or to speculate in——­”

“You have hit it,” said Harrington; “I have speculated far more deeply than you suppose.”

The countenance of his friend lengthened visibly.

“Be not alarmed.” resumed Harrington, with a smile; “I mean that I have speculated a good deal in—­philosophy, and when I said I was a bankrupt, I meant only that I was a bankrupt—­in faith; having become in fact, since I saw you last, thoroughly sceptical.”

The countenance of Fellowes contracted to its proper dimensions.  He looked even cheerful to find that his friend had merely lost his faith, and not his fortune.

“Is that all?” said he, “I am heartily glad to hear it.  Sceptic!  No, no; you must not be a sceptic either, except for a time,” continued he, musing very sagely.  “It is no bad thing for a while:  for it at least leaves the house ‘empty, swept and garnished.’”

“Rather an unhappy application of your remnant of Biblical knowledge,” said Harrington; “I hope you do not intend to go on with the text.”

“No, no, my dear friend; I warrant you we shall find you worthier guests than any such fragments of supposed revelation.  If you are in ‘search of a religion,’ how happy should I be to aid you!”

“I shall be infinitely obliged to you,” said Harrington, gravely; “for at present I do not know that I possess a farthing’s worth of solid gold in the world.  Ah! that it were but in your power to lend me some:  but I fear” (he added half sarcastically) “that you have not got more than enough for yourself.  I assure you that I am far from happy.”

He spoke with so much gravity, that I hardly knew whether to attribute it to some intention of dissembling a little with his friend, or to an involuntary expression of the experience of a mind that felt the sorrows of a genuine scepticism.  It might be both.