THE COTTAGE GARDENER. 
37 
April 18.] 
between tbe savoy and the Brussels sprout. It is 
characterized, as the name implies, by having a mul¬ 
titude of sprouts produced upon its stem. Now is a 
good time for sowing it; and we know that Mr. Barnes 
always makes two sowings between the middle of April 
and the 10th of May; planting out the young plants in 
July, upon ground just cleared of peas, &c.—G. W. J.] 
James Barnes. 
MISCELLANEOUS INFORMATION. 
OUR VILLAGE WALKS. 
(No. 25.) 
There must ever be a feeling of solemnity within us 
when we stand upon the ruins of any building, however 
humble, that has once been the habitation of man. In 
a beautifully wild and woody piece of ground near my 
home, there are tire remains of a little cottage garden, 
marked only by a large patch of snow-drops, and two box- 
trees, yet flourishing among the trees, and bushes, and 
fern now waving unconcernedly where the cottage used 
to stand. Not a relic of its simple walls remain: there 
is not even a mound to mark precisely the spot it occu¬ 
pied; but the shrubs and the flowers point out the 
position of the garden, once laying warmly open to the 
south, and perhaps fondly cherished by the cottage gar¬ 
dener of by-gone days. A private road only now passes 
by this quiet secluded spot; but in former times it stood 
on the verge of an extensive common, looking full upon 
a range of high downy hills, with the wild, fresh breezes 
sweeping round it, as they came laden with health from 
the sea. It is true, that every house and every garden 
we see—every building, every work executed by man’s 
hand—may remind us of those who once lived, and 
wrought, “ and builded and planted,” and who are now 
passed from the world for ever; but a deserted gar¬ 
den,—a dwelling swept, as it were, from the face of the 
earth,—has a loud and peculiar cry ; and we cannot 
help pausing to think and listen ! It says to us, that 
“ man is but vanity; his time passeth away as a shadow;” 
the frail flowers planted by his hand are longer-lived 
than he ; “ are not his days, also, like the days of an 
hireling?” We stand upon the very spot that was 
once ringing with many voices,—the home of beings as 
full of life and health as we are now,—where the busi¬ 
ness of this world was carried carefully on; and sickness 
and death were, perhaps, little thought of or feared. 
And now, the grass grows quietly upon the once cheer¬ 
ful hearth; and not a sound is heard but the sighing 
wind, and the notes of the careless birds ! Has not a 
scene like this a word for the rich and the poor? 
This day has been the first of real spring warmth, 
and how exqusite it is after the lingering cold of a hard 
winter ! There has been a something in the shade that 
told of March, but the bright sunshine, the increased 
and richer song of birds, the cottagers sitting at work 
with their doors open to admit the genial air, and a sort 
of joyous sensation in oneself, marked the near ap¬ 
proach of another summer. The fields were full of 
people; voices and whistlings arose on every side ; and 
among the allotments great bustle prevailed—heaps of 
weeds were sending forth long trains of white smoke, 
and little carts were standing about here and there, 
with tbe harness hung over them, and the donkeys 
peacefully grazing in the ditch. 
I cannot imagine that any country in the world can 
rival old England in these beautiful scenes of country 
life. Nothing, surely, can touch the sights and sounds 
that belong to a rural district in this “ sea-girt home ” of 
ours; and I always wish that at these lovely seasons 
of the year inhabitants of towns could escape from their 
long imprisonment, and pour into the country to enjoy 
a little of tbe sweetness and beauty of all we see; for 
even the country near a town never seems like the 
genuine article , such as we revel in among the woods 
and wilds. Then there is an interest in every person 
and thing among whom we live in a rural parish, which 
no doubt adds to the effect of the lovely scenery. Every 
field, every wood, every cottage, belongs to a friend or 
a neighbour; and there is pleasure in watching the 
progress or proceedings of those in whom we feel an 
interest. The lazily moving teams on the arable land 
are perpetual sources of admiration as well as interest. 
We often catch a picture in the various groupings of 
men and animals; and there is so much nationality in 
all that surrounds the plough that we can never tire 
of gazing upon it. Yet even amid the bursting beauty 
of spring we are called upon to remember, that “ all is 
vanity! ” we see, on the one hand, the ceaseless activity 
of worldly business, and on the other, “ man goetli to 
his long home, and the mourners go about the streets. 
On passing out of the village street into a bye-path, I 
saw a simple funeral moving slowly across the church 
yard towards the porch: it was the last remains of a 
cottage gardener, —of him whose potato land had been 
so signally preserved from blight. He knew “ that our 
Redeemer liveth ! ” he had felt Him to be “ the Resur¬ 
rection and the Life !” and he had for many years fre 
quented the courts of the Lord’s house, which he was 
now entering for the last time ! 
At this most solemn season let us consider our ways. 
The funeral of a cottage gardener addresses itself loudly 
to some of us: it bids us prepare for that sure and 
certain hour which comes at last upon all men ! We 
are now especially reminded that “ death is swallowed 
up in victory,”—that the grave has no terrors for^ the 
Christian, because his Surety has risen in triumph from 
the tomb, “and ever liveth to make intercession ’ for us. 
Let the cottage gardener observe with deep solemnity, 
and holy joy, this glorious season. It is the seed time 
now: wliiie life and health are spared to us, let us sow 
unto life eternal; for it will avail us nothing to dress 
our gardens, to till our land, to cherish our crops, and 
count our produce, if this is our only provision for the 
world to come. We often see labourers hard at work 
on Good Friday, while the church bell calls the flock 
to prayer. Ah! if masters would serve their Master,— 
if they would encourage their tenants, their workmen, 
and all belonging to them, to “ seek first the kingdom 
of God, and his righteousness,”—how well it would be 
with all their worldly business! bow well it would be J 
with all “the things that belong unto then peace!” 
.What will it avail us that “ Christ hath died, yea., rather 
bath risen again,” if our hearts are among the clods ol 
the earth; if our hope stretches not beyond the “ basket 
and the store; ” if we mind only “ earthly things? 
The passing-bell lias a warning voice; the coffin 
lowering into the grave is a solemn sight; the rattling 
dust speaks loudly to us of time and of eternity ! Let 
the funeral of a lowly cottage gardener awaken us to 
higher and holier things. It is a time for reflection; 
and from the simplest source we may draw a lesson of 
wisdom, good for our heedless hearts. 
