“I freely grant I should.”

“If now a servant came into the room to say that he feared your farm-house at King’s O—–­ was on fire, though you might think it but faintly probable, you would not think it prudent to neglect the information?”

“I certainly should not.”

“And if you were immortal here on earth, and the neglect of some probably, or (we will say) only possibly, true information in relation to some vital interest might affect it through that whole immortality, you would consider it prudent to act on almost no probability at all, on the very faintest presumption of the truth?”

“I must in honesty agree with you so far.”

“What does your scepticism promise you, if it be well founded?  Much happiness?”

“To me none; rather the contrary; and to none, I think, can it promise much.”

“And if Christianity be true,—­for I speak only of that,—­I know there is not in your estimate any other religion that comes into competition with it—­immortal felicity, immortal misery, depends on it?”

“Yes; it cannot be denied.”

“You admit that scepticism may be false, even though it has a thousand to one in its favor; for by its very principles you know nothing, and can know nothing, on the subjects to which its doubts extend?”

“I acknowledge it.”

“And Christianity may be true by the very same reasoning, though the chances be only as one to a thousand?”

“It is so.”

“Then by your own confession you are not prudent, for you do not act in relation to Christianity on the principles on which you say you act in the affairs of the present life; where you acknowledge that the least presumption will move you, when the interests are sufficiently permanent and great.”

He told me, with a smile, I might have arrived at the same conclusion without any argument; for he was willing to acknowledge in general that he was not prudent, and in relation to this very subject should always admit, with Byron, that the sincere Christian had an undeniable advantage over both the infidel and the sceptic; “since,” he added, putting the admission into a very concise form, “their best is his worst.”

“Very well,” said I, “Harrington, only remember that your imprudence is none the less for your admission of it.”

“None in the world,” he admitted; but be contended there was a flaw in the argument; for that it was impossible to accept any religion on merely prudential grounds.  And he then went on, in his curious way, to lament that an unreasonable candor prevented him from here taking advantage of an ingenious argument adopted by some of the modern “spiritualists” in reasoning on the probabilities of a “future life.”  They contend that it is necessary to insulate the soul (if it would discover “spiritual truth”) from all bias of self-interest,—­from all oblique glances at prospective advantage; in fact, that only he is fully equipped for discovering “spiritual truth” who is disinterestedly indifferent as to whether it be discovered or not.  Harrington said he could not pretend that even the sceptic was so favorably circumstanced as that.  “For my part,” he said, “I cannot honestly adopt this view, and always think it prudent to accept as large an armful of happiness as I can grasp, when truth and duty do not come in the way.”