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as a minister of the Gospel. The inscription on his tomb is very plain : “Rev. MATTHEW Wilks, died January 29th, 1829, aged 82 years, 4 months.'

Abney Park Cemetery contains some precious remains. There lies the Rev. ALGERNON Wells, who laboured as a Congregational minister for nearly twenty years at Coggeshall, in Essex, and after wards at Clapham Church for eleven years; also JOHN PYE Smith, born in 1774 at Sheffield, theological tutor in Homerton College for forty five years, and author of " Scripture Testimony to the Messiah," and other valuable works, dying in 1851 ; also the Rev. Dr. MEDHURST, missionary to the Chinese, who died three days after landing from China, where he spent forty years in noble work for God, aged sixty-one ; also the Rev. JOHN CAMPBELL, D.D., editor of the “Christian Witness," and the “ Christian Penny Magazine," born at Kirriemuir, Scotland, in 1795, died March 26th, 1867 ; also the Rev. ANDREW REED, D.D., pastor of Wycliffe Chapel, London, where he was born in 1787, and died in 1862 ; also of the Rev. JOSIAH CONDER; and also of the Rev. JOHN VINE HALL, celebrated as the author of the “The Sinner's Friend,” which has been translated into nearly thirty-six languages, and who was the father of the Rev. Newman Hall and Arthur Hall, both eminent ministers of the Gospel.

Bishop Butler, author of “The Analogy," was born at Wantage, in Berkshire, 18th May, 1692 ; early in life he got into metaphysical controversy with Dr. Samuel Clarke ; published his " Analogy," a masterpiece, in 1736; was made Bishop of Bristol in 1738 and Bishop of Durham in 1750. He died at Bath in 1752, and was buried in the cathedral church, Bristol. The following is the inscription over his remains, by Dr. Southey, erected in 1834:

" Sacred
To the memory of

JOSEPH BUTLER, D.C.L.
Twelve years Bishop of this Diocese,
And afterwards Bishop of Durham,

Whose mortal part is deposited
In the Choir of this Cathedral.

Others had established
The historical and prophetical grounds

Of the Christian religion,
And that sure testimony of its truth
Which is found in its perfect adaptation

To the heart of man.
It was reserved for him to develop

Its analogy to the
Constitution and Course of Nature.

And laying his strong foundations
In the depth of that great Argument,

There to construct
Another and irrefragable proof :
Thus rendering philosophy

Subservient to faith :
And finding in outward and visible things

The type and evidence
Of those within the veil.

Born A.D. 1692. Died 1752. “He who believes the Scripture to have proceeded from Him who is the AUTHOR OF NATURE, may well expect to find the SAME SORT OF DIFFICULTIES in it as are found in the CONSTITUTION OF NATURE,'--Origen, Philocal, p. 23."

The remains of St. Augustin, learned, pious, and benevolent, are said to lie in the temple, In Cielo Aureo, Pavia, Italy. His body was cast about from one place to another in those unrestful times, first being transported to Sardinia by the Romans who fled before the victorious arms of the Vandals, then being conveyed to Pavia, where it lay forgotten till the seventeenth century. St. Ambrose, Archbishop of Milan, lies in an ancient church some distance from the cathedral, under the high altar.

The following sentence is said to be engraved on Martin Luther's tomb :—“Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem” (In judgment a Nestor, in genius a Socrates, in art a Virgil).

Passing thus from grave to grave of good men of God, who spent their lives in toil for others' good, whose spirits were often severely tried by doubts and weighted with heavy responsibilities, we learn to appreciate more keenly and estimate more highly the virtues of selfdenial and self-sacrifice; we begin to see that, although a life spent in good doing, in forgetfulness of self, may bring with it many anxieties, much lonely communing, much sad revelation of the general ignobleness of humanity, much wear and tear of spirit

“There is a calm for those who weep,

A rest for weary pilgrims found;
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,

Low in the ground.
“ The storm that wrecks the wintry sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh,

That shuts the rose.” And, thinking of their calm repose on the bosom of God, and beginning to covet a similar rest from toil for ourselves, perhaps wə are ready to add, in the further words of Montgomery :

I long to lay this painful head
And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed,

From all my toil." It is worthy of remembrance that, in the case of each of the good men of God whose graves we have visited, their slumbers are sweet because their toil was faithful.

“ The Christian sleeps in Jesus-blessed thought!

Hush, mourners! though ye could, awake him not !
Would ye recall him from the home of bliss,
The 'better country,' to a land like this?
To weep as we are weeping-all our pain,
Temptations, conflict, to endure again?
No, brother! slumber now, and take thy rest
In the low sleeping-place which Christ has bless'd,
Till the great Easter morning light the skies,
And all His people like Himself shall rise,
Bright in His radiance, with His beauty fair,
Ever His glory and His bliss to share.
Oh, precious hope ! already from afar
Through sorrow's night see the morning star,
And, guided by its beams, we calmly lay
Our sleeping ones to rest, to wait that day.'"

JOSEPH HUGHES.
Newton Heath, Manchester.

OLD KNUCKLES.

area.

I had been very busy writing one afternoon lately, and hadn't really noticed that the light which came in at the study window had gradually grown less and less till it had ceased to merit the name of light, and become a mixture of sbades, which were slowly thickening into darkness. I found it out at length, however, and saw there was nothing for it but either to stop my employment or light the gas, and for two or three sufficient reasons I resolved not to do the latter.

So I dropt my pen, laid my head against the great hard back of my easy-chair, and let my eyes and thoughts fly out of the window. They didn't go far nor stay very long away, for it was growing too dark for them to be out without me.

At the back of my house there is what we call the flower-garden. Now, lest any person should form a false impression from this very pretty designation, I feel bound to state that no flowers are cultivated there with the solitary exception of a yellow dahlia, which came up of itself from somewhere, and which would very likely have bloomed where it stood in unrivalled beauty had it not been roughly broken off close to the ground by the wind, and since disappeared. Well, but it was not of the defunct dahlia that I was going to speak, so much as of one among a row of lofty trees which has grown up by the roadside beyond my garden wall, and takes the liberty of exercising a constant oversight of everything within the aforesaid limited

There are not many trees, only some eight or nine in all, mostly elm. I have been familiar with them for a few months only. I have only seen them in their full feather of foliage, spreading, listing, bending, and shaking, as sunshine, breeze, or shower spent itself upon them, and I had begun to think of them only as I had so often seen them, beautifully clothed in their scaly coat of leaves. But now behold what a change! They might have fallen among thieves who have coveted their goodly garments, and made off with them; for there they stand, all eight in a row, and never a leaf to ... cover themselves, and a chilling prospect of winter before them. All their rich, magnificent foliage, which hung in bunches, feathers, festoons, and arches is gone, all but about a dozen little withered things away up on the top branches, looking as if they never had either father or mother in the world, or as though they had lost their way and don't know if they ought to try to go up or down. All gone but them, and a few days will see their places forsaken.

Well, I was just saying to myself, “Poor things! what a change has come over them! I almost pity them."

And while I was indulging in this bit of sentiment, my eye was running over them from tree to tree, high and low, and ever in the midst of them, my eye turned back to a queer, ill-shaped little dwarf elm, which seemed to be looking back straight at me through my window. At first I looked away, but then I looked back, and couldn't help it, and really as the twilight thickened and clean lines grew more indistinct, it seemed as if that odd-looking little tree was actually forming a face of its own.

There were the two eyes through the boughs, the mouth, and such a comical shifting laughing face as I vever before beheld. Then there were two long, lank arms, with such elbows,

you?”

and one of them stretched out towards me, and positively the audacious thing was moving to me, as if it were saying, “How do, how do; fine evening, very fine out here, only rather cold;" and then it rattled its wooden fingers together as if to warm them. I started up from my chair, and came close to the window to look out at the old tree, and try if I could get to know what it meant. What surprised me most was when I found it could talk—and it did talk as I never heard tree do before—and I'll just tell you something of what passed between us during the half hour I stayed there. First I said, “How do ?” then it said “How do” back again ; but instead of perpetuating the salutations I thought I would start something else, so I said, “ Ah, so it's you, is it; let me see, what do they call

“Oh, they call me anything, but nothing very grand, as you may suppose. You shall call me just what you like.”

“Well, then, if you won't be offended”—“Oh, no, no,” he broke in, “not a bit.”—“Then I'll call you KNUCKLES."

At that he rubbed his limbs against one another a moment or two, and then, looking out archly at me, he said, “ Would you like to tell me why you thought of that name ?”

“ I have no objection at all. It is because knuckles seem to be the chief characteristic in your constitution. There is hardly a foot of straight timber in you—all joints, elbows, and angles, from bottom to top, while your neighbours are lofty and straight in trunk and limb. How is it?"

“Well,” said he, “I'll tell you. In the first place, you must know, in order to understand me, that my life has a MORAL in it, or else I would not refer to it. I was unfortunately planted exactly on the top of a rock, and do all I could I never got anything out of it to subsist upon; yet by some means I have lived, only I don't grow much. That is what I call a bad start. Then when I got to carry a few branches, I was neglected and left uncared for. Then, again, before I had got firmly hold of the ground or twined my roots into the fissures of the rock, I got into trouble with a fearful storm which blew one night, and I was thrown over on my side and nearly killed. However, I held on with all the power I had left, cheered myself as well as I was able, and started to grow again, but from that moment there was a crook in my back which nothing can ever straighten. Then by the time I had grown pretty tall, the other trees had sent out their branches over my head, and wherever I went or turned they were in the way and stopped me. I tried all plans of getting through-twisting, bending, knuckling—but to no purpose. Every time I started to grow in a new direction I made another elbow, till by-and-by, as you see, I was all over and nothing else but angles and knuckles."

“That is a very sad and singular autobiography.”

“ Singular ! no, no. There are thousands of trees like me in the world, and not only trees, but men and women, too. Perhaps you won't feel complimented by what I'm going to say, but I often think there is a very great similarity between people and trees. I have seen many a person go by here whose life I am sure has been very much like mine, all difficulties and drawbacks, and who have made

very little out in the world but crooks and angles. The circumstances of their birth were unpropitious; their education and training all hap-hazard and accidental ; their first efforts in life ill-advised and unsuccessful; their after attempts hurried, fitful, impatient, and disheartening, till their resolution and ambition gradually died within them ; their after efforts are all feeble, they shrink back on contact with the least obstacle, and only end in making another elbow.”

“ And do you think there are many like that in the world ?”

" I'm sure there are. I can own them as day by day they go along underneath me, though they don't think I am so much like them.”

“Now, Knuckles, you are gloomy, and fancy things worse than they are.”

On my saying this he smiled, rattled his elbows against his sides, made his queer eyes bigger, and said, “You don't know everything."

No, I don't profess to, but I should surely have some knowledge of such cases if there are so many."

“Perhaps you wouldn't. You didn't know me for a cross-growth till autumn came and carried away my clothes and I had to appear without a covering ; and there are many people in the world who' have always grown across, only they keep it secret and covered, but it will come out by-and-by, when their winter comes and their leaves are fallen. You'll be amazed then to see the secret struggles and trials some people have had, and you'll wonder how they have managed to live at all, unless it is by the care of Him who acts as father to all of us, trees as well as men.”

“Then you think there is cne who acts the father to you, Knuckles.”

“ How can I think otherwise ? Look at my life. How could I have existed, crooked, ungainly, and uncared for as I am, had it not been for Him ? All that I get to subsist on comes from Him direct. The gentle showers which moisten my dry leaves, the sweet nightdew that softens my rigid bark, the teeming rain that cleanses me from dust and filth, the rich and glorious sunshine in morning, noon, and evening which draws out my poor strength to make another angle, the strong bracing wind which comes along thrusting and pulling at me pretending as if it would drag me out of the ground, but really only rousing into healthy exercise every power of resistance I possess, is all from Him. Oh, yes, I know He takes care of trees; and if of us, how much more of men ? But I'll tell you where the great evil lies with men—they don't really believe these things. I have watched them go along this road here on a lovely sunny day, and they have kept on the shady side of the road out of the sunshine and warmth: there they go, looking so gloomy, hopeless, miserable, and cold, and then that side of the road is not intended for foot-passengers —it has no causeway, it is rough and uneven, yet for some strange reason or other they select it and go stumbling, limping, and groaning along, till I am out of all patience with them, and if my joints hadn't been so stiff and short, I would give them such a whisk as would make them jump out into the sunshine."

you would drive them out of the shade, would you ?” “Ah, that I would, and should think I was doing them a kind

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