working it into
his boot; then making up his mouth for a whistle, but stopping short to
avoid being guilty of the incivility of interruption.

At length with the same invincible good nature, and with the same
pitiable insensibility to his own state, he arose to take leave. He
shook us all by the hand, Dr. Barlow twice, saying, "Doctor, I don't
think the worse of you for your plain speaking. He is a knave or a fool
that is angry with a good man for doing his duty. 'Tis my fault if I
don't take his advice; but 'tis his fault if he does not give it.
Parsons are paid for it, and ought not to be mealy-mouthed, when there
is a proper opening, such as poor Tyrrel's case gave you. I challenged
_you_. I should perhaps have been angry if you had challenged _me_. It
makes all the difference, in the event of a duel, which is the
challenger. As to myself, it is time enough for me to think of the
things you recommend. Thank God, I am in excellent good health and
spirits and am not yet quite fifty. 'There is a time for all things.'
Even the Bible allows that."

The Doctor shook his head at this sad misapplication of the text. Mr.
Flam went away, pressing us all to dine with him next day; he had killed
a fine buck, and he assured Dr. Barlow that he should have the best port
in his cellar. The Doctor pleaded want of time, and the rest of the
party could not afford a day, out of the few which remained to us; but
we promised to call on him. He nodded kindly at Dr. Barlow, saying,
"Well, Doctor, as you won't come to the buck, one of his haunches shall
come to you; so tell madam to expect it."

As soon as he had left the room, we all joined in lamenting that the
blessings of health and strength should ever be produced as arguments
for neglecting to secure those blessings which have eternity for their
object.

"Unhappy man!" said Dr. Barlow, "little does he think that he is, if
possible, more the object of my compassion than poor Mr. Tyrrel. Tyrrel,
it is true, is lying on a sick, probably a dying bed. His body is in
torture. His mind is in anguish. He has to look back on a life, the
retrospect of which can afford him no ray of comfort. But he _knows_ his
misery. The hand of God is upon him. His proud heart is brought low. His
self-confidence is subdued. His high imaginations are cast down. His
abasement of soul, as far as I can judge, is sincere. He abhors himself
in dust and ashes. He sees death at hand. He feels that the sting of
dea