Apiil 4, 1365.] 



JOUENAL OF HOETICULTUKE AND COTTAGE GAEDENEE. 



261 



WEEKLY CALENDAR. 



"o7 



M'ntll 



Day 



of 



Weeli. 



APRIL 4-10, 1865. 



Average Temperature 

 near London. 



Rain hi 



last 

 38 years. 



Sun 

 Rises. 



Sua 

 Sets. 



Moon 

 Rises. 



Moon 

 Sets. 



Moon's 

 Age. 



Clock 

 before 

 Sun. 



Day of 

 Year. 









Day. 



NiRht. 



Mean. 



Days. 



m. h. 



m. h. 



m. h. m. h. 





m. B. 





4 



TV 





56,5 



36.1 



4«.3 



14 



30af5 



36af 6 



after. 20 2 



8 



3 



94 



5 



W 





56.9 



36.5 



46.7 



17 



28 5 



38 6 



8 1 51 2 



9 



2 42 



95 







Th 





59.1 



84.7 



48.9 



14 



2S 5 



39 6 



U 2 19 3 



10 



2 25 



96 





F 



PlllNCE LEOPOLD Burn, 1853. 



59.4 



36.9 



48.1 



18 



24 



41 6 



15 3 41 3 



11 



2 8 



97 



8 



S 



Common Laurel flowers. 



55.7 



3.5.8 



45.8 



21 



22 5 



42 6 



17 4 1 5 4 



12 



1 51 



93 



9 



Sun 





54.5 



35.5 



45.0 



10 



19 5 



44 fi 



19 5 27 4 



13 



1 34 



99 



10 



M 



Pear flowers. 



55.4 



33.6 



44.6 



15 



17 5 



46 6 



24 6 1 48 4 



14 



1 17 



100 



From observations taken near London durinji the last thirtv-eiRht years, the average day temperature of the week 



is 56.8° 



and its 



night 



temperature 



35.6', The greatest heat was 79° 



on the 7th, 1859; and the 



lowest cold, 20', 



on the 10th, 1860. The greatest fall of rain waa | 



0.73 inch. 















1 



THE BEEAE IN OUE CIECLE. 



C;; HEN I sent you last 

 evening my mite 

 for poor Mrs. 

 Cliitty and her 

 liabes, 1 did not 

 think of saying a 

 word about the 

 sad event ; but 

 Tvhen I opened my 

 Journal this morn- 

 ing and read the 

 further words of 

 Mr. Wills, and 

 when I looked 

 through the second subscription list, in which I saw 

 recorded the poor man's shilling (what a large part of 

 his week's wages !) and the collection from the servants' 

 hall, and thoiight, too, what my Bible says of " a widow 

 and desolate," I felt a power over me which I could not 

 resist (and why should I ?), and so I too sit down to lay 

 my wreatli on the gardener's coffin. He was a good 

 fellow, and he has departed this Kfe— I do not say died, 

 that word sounds cold, and harsh, and hopeless, while 

 "departed " seems to speak of an entering into a better 

 life, and to whisper of a re-union hereafter. We .need 

 not think of the departed, gathered, as we trust,' into 

 the safe home of Him our Saxon forefathers loved to call 

 " The Good One." I think rather of the young widow 

 and her and his little ones. But first let me remark that 

 in writing in a periodical year after year one gets to feel 

 that the other writers are somehow or other one's per- 

 sonal friends. We may never have seen them, as I 

 never saw Mr. Chitty, but names seen each week be- 

 come more than names when attached to outpourings of 

 men's minds ; we generally connect some idea of an 

 author with his work. I have my own ideas of the 

 outer man— the look, the eye, the expression of face of 

 each writer. Well— one of the band is gone. A break 

 has been made, by death, in our circle — one " has dropped 

 and disappeared." Only thirty-thi-ee ! and only a three- 

 days illness ! and five little ones left, and scarce one of 

 the five beyond the age of babyhood. I close my eyes 

 and think 1 see that gardener's cottage as it was a month 

 ago. The mid-day meal is ready on the table, the wife's 

 eye is on her clock, and her ear is listening for " father's " 

 well-known footstep ; little round eyes peep through the 

 flower-pots m the window-ledge, and little feet rush to 

 the door as a corner is turned and "father" is seen 

 commg home. Down the path the children run, one 

 tmy supported and pulled along by a bigger sister ; that 

 tmy will not walk back. No, she is caught up, and 

 earned, and kissed, and petted. Then the meal and the 

 httle household events— important events in that little 

 world (aU in all to them)— are talked over. What shall 

 be the subject of the next paper for the Journal ." Won 

 derlul feats, too, of baby are recounted, and bright say. 

 No. 210.— Vol. VIII. New Bbbiss. 



ings of another little one recorded. Oh ! ye selfish, rich, 

 single men, ye only think of a poor man's poverty, and 

 not of that wealth of love which makes his home a para- 

 dise. Just a living and nothing to spare, with a good 

 wife and little ones, are riches beyond aught ye can or 

 shall ever know. I thought of that home as it was until 

 recently, and then I thought of sadder things ; of the 

 sudden illness, and the first gi'eat thought of fear stealing 



on the wife's heart, and bidding hope leave it — until 



But why say more ? my own eyes are dim from the sad 

 picture I have drawn. In that gardener's cottage 



" Silence o'er the music fell, 

 And darkness o'er the glory." 



And now for the'future ; after Nature's great burst of 

 grief has subsided, comes, for there must come, to the 

 widow the thought of her future maintenance. A double 

 burden will now be upon the weaker shoulders, children 

 must be brought up without a father to labour for them, 

 to advise them, to guide them. May God bless them, 

 and teach their mother, that she may rightly teach them. 

 Most properly a subscription has been started, and I 

 hope to learn that the money raised will be carefully ex- 

 pended, or funded for a good purpose. 



At present lies upon us the duty of giving. Kind, 

 well-oif people I ask you to help. If you have never 

 known so great a grief, you might have known it but 

 for His mercy. Show then your thankfulness by help- 

 ing her whom God has smitten. Some of you have 

 known similar griefs, you will give because you have 

 passed through a like sorrow, and you remember your 

 desolateness then. Some will say as they read, " I pity 

 the poor woman." Then show me what your pity is 

 worth by giving to her. And ye wives who press to your 

 bosoms a child that yet catches at a father's finger, you 

 will give, your husbands will let you, you will give 

 money, and tears, too, I well know. And there are 

 others whose lot has been cast in pleasant places, whose 

 sorrows have been little, whose blessings great — ladies 

 who live a calm and 'iseful single life, but who would 

 have had wives' and mothers' hearts had God willed it so, 

 you have been spared many sorrows, and many cares, I 

 ask you to give, and I know you will, to a " widow and 

 desolate." 



And now a word of advice to gardeners, you '11 take 

 it well from me I am sure. Let this death make you 

 provident. There is the post-office savings bank, or the 

 life assurance company, or, at any rate, some weU- 

 managed benefit society near you. Which will suit you 

 best — one must. 



A last word on a higher subject. Half in jest, and 

 half in earnest, I have called myself, and have been, 

 called " The Chaplain " of the staff' and writers of this 

 Journal. Not the least in jest, but altogether in earnest, 

 I will speak to you as a chaplain should. I say, then, 

 when you see how soon one in health and youth is taken, 

 and he is but one of many, for 



" The knell hath tolled— the grave hath yawned 

 For many a bright and blooming one; 

 Radiant in life when morning dawned. 

 Bat cold in death when day was done ! " 



No. 863.— Vol. XXXUJ., Old Sebibs. 



