SEPTEMBER. 
263 
How simple! how luminous! how truthful! how practical! Are 
not words like these, dropping from the lips of a good and wise man, 
worthy of being treasured up ? Do they not establish—yea, ennoble— 
a pursuit? Here is a man of undoubted goodness and talent attached 
to those things which engage our affections, and whether we cultivate 
for profit or pleasure' do we not derive new impulses from the halo of 
brilliancy and beauty with which he surrounds them ? 
On a recent visit to Hastings 1 determined to make a pilgrimage to 
Old Humphrey’s tomb. It was a calm summer’s evening, the sky 
above was cloudless, scarcely a ripple moved'upon the sea; the sun was 
slowly setting in a flood of glory behind the western hill, as I ascended 
the steep steps and acclivity of All Saint’s churchyard. Arrived at the 
summit, a humble stone, erected by the committee of the heligious 
Tract Society, marks the spot where peacefully repose his perishable 
remains. On it are engraved these words:— 
IN HIS WRITINGS 
HE SOUGHT THE HONOUR OP GOD 
AND THE HIGHEST HAPPINESS 
OF MANKIND. 
No body-stone presses on his dust; the Millefoil spreads its beautiful 
green leaves over the ground, and the luxuriant Grass waves silently 
to and fro beneath the long shadows of the majestic Elms through which 
the old church peers grey and mistily. Before and behind rise the east 
and west hills, clothed with Furze, and Brake, and Bramble; to the 
right extends a deep valley, the hill- sides dotted with houses and trees ; 
to the left opens the boundless sea, murmuring in constant cadence a 
sweet but solemn requiem. Beautiful spot! how calm, how picturesque, 
how lovely, how completely in harmony with his character and works. 
As I stood transfixed by the beauty of the prospect, many were the 
visitors to this old church and church-yard, and few departed without 
pausing and saying a kind word over the tomb of George Mogridge, 
beUer known as “ Old Humphrey.” 
W. P. 
A VISIT TO NINETY THOUSANDS OF BOSES, AND HOME 
EXPERIENCE. 
As you were so kind as to insert an article in your June number 
addressed by me to my fellow-juveniles in the Rosery, and as I have 
been thanked by a large Rose-grower, I feel encouraged to give the 
result of a visit to Mr. Tiley’s gardens at Bath, to review his Roses in 
full bloom, on the 23rd of June, on his own invitation. His invite was 
short and simple: “I never had my Roses in greater beauty: come, 
and form your own opinion.” I set off the same day, driving 28 miles 
to Warminster, and from thence I went to Bath by train. It was a 
broiling day, but I must say the review amply repaid me. 
I have said he has thousands of Roses. Of these 1000 are that radiant, 
and beautiful, and good habited Rose, Jules Margottin. A great 
number were in beautiful bloom, and I may say that had no other Rose 
