Here is a tombstone with epitaph in memory of Mary Davies, who departed this life January 24th, 1872, aged 88 years. "For more than sixty-two years she was connected with Battersea Chapel Sunday School, where by her consistent Christian character and entire devotedness to her work, she won the esteem of all. Being dead she yet lives in the hearts of many teachers, scholars and friends, who erect this stone in remembrance of a course of quiet usefulness which they deem worthy of all honour. "Not myself, but the truth that in life I have spoken, Not myself, but the seed that in life I have sown Shall pass on to ages--all about me forgotten Save the truth I have spoken, the things I have done." Here is a marble obelisk.--In memory of the Rev. James Milling, A.B., Curate of St. Mary's Battersea, who entered into rest the 11th of January 1865 aged 27 years. His last words were "Not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to his mercy he saved us by the washing of regeneration and renewing of the Holy Ghost which he shed on us abundantly through Jesus Christ our Saviour." _Titus iii_ 5 _and_ 6. This monument was erected by the parishioners and children of the Parochial Schools. On another tombstone is an inscription to the memory of Mr. John Nichols, a devoted husband and estimable father, Baptist minister and Editor of Zion's Trumpet, a magazine devoted to the interest of the Aged Pilgrims' Friend Society and its Asylum; who fell asleep in Jesus Feb. 1st, 1867, aged 67 years. "His presence guide my journey through and crown my journey's end." In the faith of Christ here also rests the Rev. Philip Pennington M.A. of Christ's College, Cambridge, sometime civil chaplain of the Island of Mauritius. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain for the former things are passed away. Many are the pledges of conjugal endearment which help to tenant these graves. "Ah! those little ice-cold fingers, How they point our memories back To the hasty words and actions, Strewn along our backward track! How those little hands remind us, As in snowy grace they lie, Not to scatter thorns--but roses, For our reaping by and by." We perceive here that ruthless death with his scythe pays no regard to infantile age, and that others in the vigour of their youthful prime as well as the matured adult and hoary-headed have been suddenly cut down by an awful surprise.