“Until the sickness of his wife, a few months previous to her death, his health and spirits and faculties were unimpaired. But this misfortune gave him such a shock, that his constitution gradually decayed. His senses, except sight, still preserved their powers. He never preached with steadiness after his wife’s death. His voice faltered: he always looked at the seat she had used. He could not pass her tomb without tears. He became, when alone, sad and melancholy, though still among his friends kind and good-humoured. He went to bed about twelve o’clock the night before his death. As his custom was, he went, tottering and leaning upon his daughter’s arm, to examine the heavens, and meditate a few moments in the open air. ‘How clear the moon shines to night!’ He said those words, sighed, and laid down. At six next morning he was found a corpse. Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, and many a grateful blessing followed him to the grave.” THE OLD-CHURCH CLOCK. CHAPTER I. Trouble is a thing that will come without our call: but true joy will not spring up without ourselves. —BISHOP PATRICK’s “_Heart’s Ease_.” One fine day last spring—(and fine days are not so common in Manchester, at that season of the year, as to make them easily forgotten)—one fine day I was crossing the new Victoria bridge, from the Manchester to the Salford side of the river, when my attention was arrested by a middle-aged person, (I had nearly written gentleman, but that word would not have conveyed quite an accurate idea to the reader,) who was gazing very steadily over the battlements, at the OLD CHURCH CLOCK. He was a person whom I had often remarked strolling about the streets of the town, and whom I felt myself to be perfectly acquainted with, by sight, though I had no idea whatever of his name or occupation. Occupation, indeed, I felt almost assured he had none, or at least not one which demanded any considerable portion of his time; for, besides his age, which was evidently too advanced to permit him to discharge any very laborious duties, he was more abroad in the open air, than was consistent with any constant or indispensable calling. His dress was of a description which implied something above want, though not much; for, like its wearer, it had seen better days; moreover, it showed its owner to be a man not given to change; for it was of a fashion more in vogue thirty years ago, than at the present time. Over a coat that had once been of a blacker dye than now, he wore a _spencer_, or short great-coat, buttoned up to the chin. His small-clothes were strictly what their name implies, closely buttoned at the knees. His legs were comfortably encased in thick woollen stockings, which received additional warmth from a pair of short black gaiters, which clothed his ancles. Altogether he had rather the