180 
THE COTTAGE GARDENER. 
JUNE 17. 
about forming new garden walks, not to be too sparing 
of hard stones, as, after all, they are the most lasting of 
road or walk-making materials. The grinding wheel 
makes less impression on a piece of lime-stone or flint 
than it would do on chalk, ashes, or soft gravel, how- i 
ever well they may be blended together. To make them j 
as hard “and durable as flint,” is certainly on a par I 
with that argument which assured us that a wooden 
pavement was more lasting than one of Scotch granite 
for our streets. We, therefore, entreat our friends not 
to depend entirely on those materials, which only bind | 
or consolidate others of this class into that state of firm j 
smoothness capable of bearing a certain weight, only | 
when that weight rests on a tolerable broad basis, as the j 
j human foot; widely differing from that is the pressure 
of the wheel of an ordinary barrow when loaded, and 
performing its evolutions on the same spot, hundreds, 
| nay, thousands of times; it is then when the wear of 
j the walks is felt, and of whatever material it be made, it 
is sure in time to tell upon it, but of course more so 1 
when such walks are formed of such soft materials as j 
indents with the least weight upon them. Now, as it is 
scarcely possible to keep the walks in a kitchen-garden 
in that uniform good order which those of a lawn are 
usually seen in, yet they may, in a general way, be kept 
tolerably even and good, by having recourse to the 
minor walks on which to perform much of the wheeling 
and all dirty traffic. Another thing, is seldom or never 
to wheel on them in damp weather or after frosts; still, 
with all these allowances, kitchen-garden walks are 
necessarily more used than any other, and ought to be 
firm, hard, and substantial, which can only be made 
such by the plentiful use of hard stone of some kind or 
other. 
The best walks we ever remember seeing were in a 
garden in the immediate neighbourhood of lead mines. 
We understood the foundation to be, as is usual in such 
cases, rough stones intermixed with those of a finer 
description, and finally a good coating of the fine hard 
crushed stone, called “cuttings,” which is the stone 
which lead is found amongst, broken up by machinery 
into pieces in no case larger than a walnut, and mostly 
smaller. This crushed stone being angular, sooner 
becomes a united firm surface than the hard flinty peb¬ 
bles found on the seashore and by the edge of some 
rivers, and which, in the southern counties, has received 
the somewhat ambiguous name of “sea-beach.” This 
material, like a collection of boys’ marbles, or hardened 
eggs, having no affinity for each other, never unite 
unless through the intervention of some other adhesive 
body, which is hard to obtain sufficiently plentiful and 
cheap to meet all the purposes of a kitchen-garden. We, 
therefore, advise our friends to have recourse to broken 
stones if they can be had. We have frequently seen 
i road-stones broken unusually small by the inmates of a 
union workhouse, and sold at a trifle over that of ordi¬ 
nary stones; such metal is the very best that can be 
had for carriage-roads, kitchen-garden walks, and other 
thoroughfares, where ordinary sized road-stones would 
not be likely to get fixed in time without a coating of 
something else. We, therefore, beg our readers to turn 
| their attention to the above quarter in their respective 
neighbourhood, and see if such materials are not to be 
had. The chippings of stone masons’ is another useful 
article in the same way; in fact, anything in a broken 
way is serviceable if it be hard; and we have seen 
clinkers, the refuse of glass and iron furnaces, and other 
substances in that way, all used to advantage ; some of 
the latter were, on the whole, better for a time than 
stone, presenting a more repulsive bed for weeds to 
grow on. But, as we have already said enough on this 
subject, we must leave for another week our remarks on 
the minor walks and edgings. J. Robson. 
THE UPPER CHAMBER. 
By the Authoress of “ My Flowers." 
I wish I could transport some of my readers into one of 
the rooms of a little cottage, standing on the brink of a 
canal, and show them all that it contains, for it would teach 
them many lessons; hut as I cannot do so, I will endeavour 
to describe the scene, for it is one well worthy the attention 
of all, both high and low,—the inmates of the palace, as well 
as of the rural cottage. 
In this little dwelling a lock-keeper has lived for forty 
years, actively and carefully employing himself in the duties 
of his calling. He was up early and late; no weather stopped 
his labours; and he was a man fully trusted by the company, 
because he always discharged his duty well. He was a hale, 
robust man too, and though advanced in years, was in no 
peril of death, as far as human eye could see. 
James Saunders, however, had a Master whom he did not 
serve. He did the company’s work well, but he left the 
work of God utterly undone. He was a drinking, jesting, 
ungodly man ; full of everything belonging to this world, but 
dead to all that belonged to the world to come. He could 
hear the well-known sound of a barge, even when asleep in 
bed, and would spring up and rush out to see that all was 
right, but neither “ the fire,” “ the whirlwind,” nor the “ still, 
small voice," could wake his sleeping soul. He never asked 
or cared whether things were safe within; as long as “the 
water ” was all right, and he could get idle companions to 
drink and joke with, he was quite content. 
Last summer, the Angel of the Lord met James Saunders. 
He went out of his house one morning in his usual health 
and spirits, and in five minutes was carried in again without 
power to move. Cut down like the grass, stricken like a 
deer, smitten by the Hand that no man can resist, James 
Saunders was placed in bed, from which he will rise no more. 
When all hope of recovery was given up, it was necessary 
to place another lock-keeper in his cottage; and as poor 
Saunders was unable to be moved, his wife was obliged to 
make way for the new comers by settling herself in the little 
bedroom, and giving up the rest of the small tenement 
to the large family of the man placed in her husband’s 
situation. 
In this little, close room, with a south sun shining full 
upon it, lies the poor suffering lock-keeper, a pitiable sight. 
One side is powerless, and the hand and arm so heavy, that 
it is held up by a string and hook from the top of the bed, 
that it may not press upon his exhausted body, for the. 
weight was like that of a large stone. The pain, restlessness, 
■weakness, and distress of the body is great indeed ; there is 
no ease, no comfort, and there is no “ light ’’ to cheer him 
on through the dark valley. He has all to learn, -when he 
is broken down and distracted; and his tears and prayers 
are sadly mingled with the oaths and foolish talking of his 
former days. Heath has settled himself close by his pillow, 
and terrifies the soul; but when pain and disease afflict the 
body, how can the spirit awake and give itself then to God ? 
It is a fearful risk to run ; let us be ready before the bride¬ 
groom comes. 
Betty Saunders is a woman of weak and tottering frame, 
but of great spiritual attainments. It is wonderful to hear 
her speak ; how much she knows, feels, and has felt, during 
her obscure but eventful pilgrimage with the man she chose 
in her days of darkness. She had much to bear from one 
who hated and laughed at religion; but now her turn is 
come to pay back good for evil, and the words she speaks 
to him by night and day are words of extraordinary power. 
Exhausted by months of weary watching, broken rest, scanty 
food, and great distress, poor Betty can scarcely do more 
than look at and feed her helpless husband. A second bed 
crowds the small room, on which she sometimes rests; but 
he is so restless and violent if she is not near him, that 
most of her time is spent in a chair by his bedside. The 
company give him a small weekly sum, the parish allows the 
wife a loaf and a shilling noiv, but for months they withheld 
it, and she was nearly starved; for continual fire, candle, 
and other requirements for a sick-bed, all but swallowed up 
the 3s. 6d. poor Saunders receives. As it is, their privations 
are great; but in Betty’s case they are softened, sweetened, 
almost put away by the power and energy of her faith. Her 
eye kindles, and her lips pour forth streams of simple elo- 
