The next day, in the afternoon, Dr. Barlow called on us. By the uncommon seriousness of his countenance I saw something was the matter. "You will be shocked," said he, "to hear that Mr. Tyrrel is dying, if not actually dead. He was the night before last seized with a paralytic stroke. He lay a long time without sense or motion; a delirium followed. In a short interval of reason he sent, earnestly imploring to see me. Seldom have I witnessed so distressing a scene.
"As I entered the room he fixed his glassy eyes full upon me, quite unconscious who I was, and groaned out in an inward hollow voice—'Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl, for your miseries are come upon you.' I asked how he did. He replied still from St. James: 'How? why my gold and silver are cankered, the rust of them shall witness against me; they eat up my flesh as it were fire.'
"I was astonished," continued Dr. Barlow, "to see so exact a memory coupled with so wild an imagination. 'Be composed, sir,' said I, seeing he began to recollect me, 'this deep contrition is a favorable symptom.' 'Dr. Barlow,' replied he, grasping my hand with a vehemence which corresponded with his look, 'have you never heard of riches kept by the owner thereof to his hurt? Restitution! Doctor, restitution! and it must be immediate, or it will be too late.' I was now deeply alarmed. 'Surely, sir,' said I, 'you are not unhappily driven to adopt St. James's next words—forgive me but—you can not surely have defrauded.' 'O no, no,' cried he, 'I have been what the world calls honest, but not what the Judge of quick and dead will call so. The restitution I must make is not to the rich, for any thing I have taken from them, but to the poor, for what I have kept from them. Hardness of heart would have been but a common sin, in a common man; but I have been a professor, Doctor, I will not say a hypocrite, for I deceived myself as much as others. But oh! how hollow has my profession been!'
"Here seeing him ready to faint," continued Dr. Barlow, "I imposed silence on him, till he had taken a cordial. This revived him, and he went on.
"'I was miserable in my early course of profligacy. I was disappointed in my subsequent schemes of ambition. I expected more from the world than it had to give. But I continued to love it with all its disappointments. Under whatever new shape it presented its temptations, it was still my idol. I had always loved money; but other passions more turbulent had been hitherto predominant. These I at length renounced. Covetousness now became my reigning sin. Still it was to the broken cistern that I cleaved. Still it was on the broken reed that I leaned. Still I was unhappy, I was at a loss whither to turn for comfort. Of religion I scarcely knew the first principles.
"'In this state I met with a plausible, but ill-informed man. He had zeal, and a sort of popular eloquence; but he wanted knowledge, and argument, and soundness. I was, however, struck with his earnestness, and with the importance of some truths which, though common to others, were new to me. But his scheme was hollow and imperfect, and his leading principle subversive of all morality.'
"Here Mr. Tyrrel paused. I intreated him to spare himself; but after a few deep groans he proceeded.
"'Whether his opinions had made himself immoral I never inquired. It is certain they were calculated to make his hearers so. Instead of lowering my spiritual disease, by prescribing repentence and humility, he inflamed it by cordials. All was high, all was animating all was safe! On no better ground than my avowed discontent, he landed me at one in a security so much the more fatal, as it laid asleep all apprehension. He mistook my uneasiness for a complete change. My talking of sin was made a substitute for my renouncing it. Proud of a rich man for a convert, he led me to mistake conviction for conversion. I was buoyed up with an unfounded confidence. I adopted a religion which promised pardon without repentance, happiness without obedience, and heaven without holiness. I had found a short road to peace. I never inquired if it were a safe one.'
"The poor man now fell back, unable to speak for some minutes. Then rallying again, he resumed, in a still more broken voice:
"'Here I stopped short. My religion had made no change in my heart, it therefore made none in my life. I read good books, but they were low and fanatical in their language, and Antinomian in their principle. But my religious ignorance was so deplorable, that their novelty caught strong hold of me.'