pants for in vain; they will not ease the anguish he endures, and, more than all, they will not yield him peace at the last. Nurse Simmons is in attendance, and I cannot look at the muffled knocker without thinking of drawn curtains, and cautious treading, and gruel, and labelled vials, and teacups with teaspoons in them stained with medicine. Then I think, too, of the wearisome hours of night, the flickering lamp, the dim rushlight, the hard breathing and low moan of the patient, and the undisguised yawn of nurse Simmons. See! a man carrying a bed-rest has just stopped at the door, and asked a lad to rap for him. There he goes in with the bed-rest. The door is closed; but the muffled knocker goes on with the tale. It tells me of racking pain-of gasping agony. With God's presence, sickness and pain may be borne, but Abram Ball has no such cordial. He cannot say "I know, O Lord, that thy judgments are right, and that thou in faithfulness hast afflicted me." Nor, "Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine be done." Yesterday Andrews, the attorney, was at the house had there been any hope, would never have made his will. Abram Ball He has made money his god, and clings closely to it; but what can it do for him? That muffled knocker seems to set before me the lawyer reading the will, and the pale-faced, terror-struck old man, propped up in his bed, signing it with a trembling hand. Abram Ball has forgotten the Saviour all his life; how can he hope to be comforted in his death? Surely that is a clergyman. Nay, then it must be almost all over with Abram Ball. I hardly think he would have sent for him till his dying hour had arrived. The muffled knocker now sets forth another scene. Friends and domestics are crowding round the bed. The minister sees there is no time to lose; he declares at once that Jesus Christ is the only hope for a sinner: "There is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved;" and "He is able," even at the eleventh hour, "to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him." I have observed several passers-by look up to see whether or not the shutters are closed. They then steal a glance at the muffled knocker, and move on, wondering that Abram Ball is yet alive. Look! the minister is leaving the house. Ah, then, I was wrong, he was too late; the messenger of death tarried not, and Abram Ball has died, I fear, without consolation and without hope. What has gold done for him? It has been a curse rather than a blessing. When an old man leaves the world in despair, his death cries aloud to the young, "Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." That muffled knocker speaks of solemn things. Yonder is the doctor's carriage. Now we shall see whether it is all over with Abram Ball. The doctor has rapped at the door, and driven away without going in; Abram Ball is a breathless corpse, and the muffled knocker seems to ask the question, "Where is he?" Where is his immortal soul? The blinds are lowered, and the shutters are half raised, but the inmates of the house of death are too busy to untie the muffled knocker. There it is; the black knocker with the old glove tied round it appeals to us all, silently yet plainly setting forth the nothingness of worldly things, the necessity of a preparation for death, and the unspeakable advantages of a "good hope through grace" of everlasting life, fixed on the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world. OLD HUMPHREY AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. PLEASANT it is, whatever may be the advantages of the crowded city, now and then to pack up a few things in a portmanteau, to hasten to a railroad station, and to hurry along by the train to some rural retreat, where, in grateful repose and quiet recreation, the mind can cast off for a while its customary cares, recreate in sylvan scenery, and recruit its enfeebled powers. Most of us can call to mind favourite spots which have yielded us pleasure; most of us can say, I know a bank where the primrose groweth; A mountain rich with the heather bell; For my own part, my memory is redundant in such localities, and I have latterly added another to my list of pleasant places, rendered memorable by kind hospitality, striking scenery, and agreeable associations. My invitation to it was too kind, too pressing, and too agreeable to be disregarded; and then I was assured that the place was a nosegay of wild flowers," and a "bower of nightingales." In giving a sketch of my little holiday, I will try to be neither tedious nor egotistical. Fain would I impart the fragrance of the flowers I have gathered, and render my reflections as suitable to my reader as to myself. A kind friend who met me at the Waterloo Station, as a guide and companion, entered with me a carriage in the train about to depart, and soon we were on our way. Surrey, bounded northward by the Thames, and watered by the Mole, the Wey, and the Wandle, has few arresting objects in its natural scenery; but a ride by railroad is sure to present some attractions to a heart at ease. The rapid motion, the changing scene, and the character of the company, are enough of themselves to insure some degree of complacency. My accompanying friend on my left was scientific and talented; the stranger on my right, lady-like, intellectual, and well-informed: with the latter I was soon engaged in conversation. By turns we dwelt on scenery, science, the electric telegraph, disappointments, patience, geology, the Great Exhibition, Claremont, and religious establishments; and in two minutes more we should have been on the very heights and in the very depths of Puseyism and Popery; but the stopping of the train severed the thread of an animated, and, to me, |