October 23. 
THE COTTAGE GARDENER. 
53 
wanted or not, as we have sometimes found it a trouble¬ 
some weed sowing itself where not wanted. Usually a 
little seed is wanted every year, which save from the 
best. Clear the beds from all weeds, and slightly fork 
them up, adding some good rotten dung or other short 
manure if it is to be had; if not, do not cover the beds with 
coarse litter under the plea of protecting the roots, as 
the soured condition the ground is in when that litter is 
removed is anything but beneficial, but if the crowns of 
the plants be near the surface, rather cover them with 
earth taken from the alleys or intervening spaces, 
leaving the whole in a rough state for the atmosphere 
(the best of all fertilizers) to act upon. If forced Aspa¬ 
ragus he wanted early, no time must he lost in preparing 
for it, taking care that your dung-bed, if you use one, be 
not too warm for it at first; where apparatuses, heated by 
hot water, are at command, this difficulty is easily 
overcome. 
Seakale. —This vegetable will also require to be put 
in motion now, if it be wanted at any time this side of 
Christmas ; as, like everything else, the first batch sub¬ 
mitted to the quickening influence of heat is of more 
slow progress than succeeding crops, and when forced 
in the open ground we have often seen it refuse to grow 
at all when the heat was at all rank, or beyond a 
very moderate warmth, so that, for many reasons, it is 
better to sow some seed every year, in order to have 
plants to take up and force. In very good ground we 
have seen them grow as large as medium-sized Carrots 
the first season; when so, they are quite large enough 
to take up, but two-year-old plants are more often used ; 
whichever they may be, let them be taken up with the 
root as entire as possible, and planted, not too thickly, in 
some suitable place. We have seen them do remarkably 
well in a sort of closet by the side of hothouse fires, 
which are in motion at the time. We have also had 
them in a mushroom-house, with very good success; or 
we have had them in a dung-bed, with a dark frame over 
them. A genial heat is all that is wanted to enable the 
buds, which contain the future heads in embryo, to 
develope themselves to the best advantage; and the 
credit is, in a great measure, due to the accumulated 
matter stored up in that bud, to which the whole plant 
acts as a storehouse ; so that, in digging it up, it is ob¬ 
vious any injury sustained by the plant must be placed 
to its account as so much loss. We shall probably return 
to this subject hereafter; suffice it now to say, that in 
whatever condition it be placed in to force, means must 
be taken to insure a certain amount of moistme, yet not 
too much, or the plants will perish, but just sufficient to 
make the vegetable crisp and tender, which it would not 
not be if kept in too dry an atmosphere. Unless it be 
covered with sand, ashes, or other material of that sort, 
total darkness is indispensable. 
Sundries. — Celery and Cardoons earth up at favour¬ 
able opportunities; the latter will require to be first 
tied round with haybands. Cauliflowers will now be 
fit to prick out into a frame, having the soil raised to 
within a foot or less of the glass; some of the largest 
plant at once into hand-lights where they are to remain. 
Gather the last of the Tomatoes , and hang the green 
ones up as previously recommended. French Beans 
must be protected if they are wanted for a late supply ; 
and on wet days see to the stores of Carrots , Potatoes, 
Onions, &c. 
J. R. 
MISCELLANEOUS INFORMATION. 
OUR VILLAGERS. 
By the Authoress of “ My Flowers," &c. 
In almost every parish there exists some object of pecu¬ 
liar interest, some person suffering from one or other of the 
special calamities that afflict the children of men, which 
human skill cannot heal, and which call loudly upon our 
sympathies, however lowly and obscure the sufferers may be. 
William Dyer (the subject of a former paper) has a son 
who has been blind from his birth; and a most interesting 
lad he is. As a little fellow in petticoats, he used to be seen 
running about the lanes, led by his brother just younger 
than himself, who seemed to have been trained to the 
business — took the greatest care of him — and never 
appeared to get out of temper because of having this 
helpless little one tacked to him wherever he went. The 
wonder was that they escaped being run over in the narrow 
lanes, heedless as children usually are; but the little guide 
piloted his charge with perfect safety, and nothing ever 
molested them. 
As little Henry grew older, Dyer’s master became much 
interested in him, and by his means he was placed under the 
care of a master of a school in a neighbouring parish, under 
the patronage of a lady of rank, where he was kindly 
treated, and taught as much as his humble instructor could 
teach a blind child. He was very quick, and intelligent, 
gentle, and obedient; everyone liked him, and spoke well of 
him. 
The object Dyer’s master had in view, was to obtain him 
admittance into an asylum, where he might be taught a 
trade, and enabled to earn his own bread, but the difficulty 
of effecting this was so great, that a less kind or resolute 
friend would have been quite disheartened. The letters 
this gentleman had to write to interest friends and obtain 
votes for the poor little fellow, amounted to a great many 
hundreds; but at last he was rewarded for all his benevolent 
exertions, by receiving the boy’s nomination, and an order 
for his immediate admittance. 
Dyer, who was at this time so far recovered from his 
severe illness as to walk about, took his child round to his 
different friends before his departure, and it was a very 
interesting sight. The consumptive-looking parent leading 
his little blind boy—the one apparently sinking into un¬ 
timely decay, the other just entering upon life under cir¬ 
cumstances so affectingly sad—going forth into a world he 
could never see or comprehend, and leaving behind him all 
to whom his calamity had made him cling so closely. 
The boy sang some of the hymns he had learned at 
school. There is extraordinary plaintiveness and feeling in 
the voices of the blind; and it touches a chord in every 
heart to hear them praising and magnifying Him, whose 
wonders on earth, whose glittering firmament, whose day 
and night, are all hid from their eyes, and who is Himself 
their great and only “ Light." Little Henry brought with 
him his book of raised characters, which had been kindly 
given him, and in which he had been taught to read. It 
was, I think, the Gospel of St. John, and it was deeply 
affecting to see his little hands spread over the pages, 
feeling the words with his fingers, and reading with ease— 
as he did so, in spite of his sightless eyes—the Word that 
giveth life. Blessed, thrice blessed is he, whose benevolent 
heart led him to use his talents thus in the cause of the 
afflicted, and invent a means whereby the blind may “ search 
the Scriptures,” and, amid their cheerless darkness, acquaint 
themselves with God! The sons of science, whose know¬ 
ledge has led them to bore through mountains, to traverse 
arms of the sea as though it were dry land, to bring distant 
countries almost to our doors, and men to converse together 
as it were face to face, when hundreds of miles stretch be¬ 
tween them—all these wise and mighty men stand silent 
before him who holds in his benificent hand books that the 
blind can read. 
Two years have elapsed since Henry Dyer went to the 
