74 
THE COTTAGE GARDENER AND COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, May 1, 1860. 
EFFECTS OF THE LAST WINTER. 
Mr. Robson suggests, which I consider is of great importance, 
that if any one of the readers of The Cottage Gardener would 
enumerate any varieties of vegetables that may have withstood 
the rigours of the last winter it would he beneficial to many of its 
numerous readers, I beg, therefore, to enumerate a few, by stating 
justly their various merits. Before doing so I may state the 
position of aspect and locality of our place, which it may be 
questioned is superior to some. We are in close proximity to 
the Erith of Forth, but partially exposed to some severe cold winds 
from the distant German Ocean, which I find very injurious to 
our spring blossoms of frtiit trees. 
I have been here for nearly fifteen years, but have never had 
the hardy Scotch green to give way so much before; they actually 
dissolved away, and, as Mr. Robson justly remarks, my Brussels 
Sprouts were very inferior to former seasons in size. And, although 
well done for, indeed, truly speaking, had I not had my own 
proved seed saved, I should undoubtedly have conjected that 
I had a spurious sort. Therefore, we should duly consider 
circumstances at times before we rashly condemn a neighbour or 
nurseryman. 
However, the Cottagers’ Kale stood well with me; and a variety 
of hybrid Cabbage I raised some years ago with the very object 
in view of getting a truly hardy and useful vegetable—I named it 
the Intermediate Cabbage, as it will, by making two sowings, 
continue fit for use till early summer Cabbages are ready. Its 
female parent is the Cabbaging Scotch Green crossed with 
McEwen’s Dwarf Cabbage. They do not come every one alike : 
some are green, others a little tinged with a purple shade on the 
under Btalks of the outside leaves. However, it is a fear-nought 
for hardiness, I think every person, particularly those in ex¬ 
posed situations, should have a portion of it. I know it is pre¬ 
ferred here to either Savoy greens or Scotch greens. The true 
sort heads equal to any Cabbage, and when at maturity will keep 
double the time before it bursts in its heads. Sow 1st of April 
and 21st for a second. 
The following will give an idea of some of select varieties of 
Broccoli I have grown this last season. Three rows of each 
variety, planted on a quarter of ground forty yards long; at the 
end of each variety I state what died out of the three rows :— 
Frogmore Protecting , 27 died. Turner’s Farly Incomparable , 12. 
E. G. Henderson’s Dabneny Late White , 3. Improved White 
Malta, 18.-— W. Melville. 
MAT PRICE’S RESOURCES. 
My old schoolfellow, Mat Price, an only son, a smart, tight, 
idle, little good-natured fellow, left school at an early age to try 
his fortune in a merchant ship—an occupation quite in keeping 
with his disposition. No one ever thought Mat would find the 
fortune, or, if found, would keep it; nor did he care or think 
much about “ grubbing up a lot of rubbish,” as he called money. 
’Twas all very well for his two old maiden aunts to be looking at 
every blessed shilling—no comfort in that—miserable work!!! 
He didn’t want more than his pay ; and the sooner his lark was 
out the less “ tin ” was in his pocket, and the happier he found 
himself. His occupation on shore was a constant restlessness— 
an everlasting shifting from place to place—eternally smoking, 
always chattering, always moving. In-doors without his pipe in 
the interval of meals, when his sisters were at peace, busily 
employed in something suitable to the fancy and tastes of each, 
Mat was equally active in body if not so in mind—he was never 
still. At one time sitting with his logs across a chair and his 
elbows on the back, looking attentively out of the window, “ yarn¬ 
ing ” all the while. Of a sudden he would disengage his legs from 
their inelegant situation, wheel round the piece <Si furniture with 
its back towards the table, reinstate his legs and arms in precisely 
the same situations, and, with “no end” of story-telling, puzzle 
each busybody to do a single stitch of work ; Mat looking at 
them all the while with his comic face, and saying such things as 
nobody in the world could help laughing at. After tiring of this 
hard work, to use his own words, he was “ game ” for a walk, and 
his mother, a widow living near a small village, Mat generally 
bent his steps “ towards town,” as he called it, for the double 
purpose of rousing the natives and getting some “ backeyhis 
good-tempered face had a welcome everywhere. At the rectory he 
professed to bo a monstrous lover of flowers, though it was sus¬ 
pected that the owner of the same had the greater share of the 
admiration. He also declared to Will Smith, the one-eyed 
pensioner, that no man ever was so “ fond ” of poultry as he, 
especially the “ spickley ones ” (Hamburg 1 !s), Will’s favor/ites ; 
but the yarn was the inducement, and a cosy “bit of weed” 
together. To the couple near the common, old servants provided 
for by his late father, he declared that his knowledge of bees was 
extraordinary ; and actually, to please Betty, pretended to be 
much interested, and, in fact, related such wonderful anecdotes as 
actually to impress the poor old couple with a mysterious awe 
concerning them. 
Thus Mat passed a kind of lolling chatteration life when at 
home. What he did afloat I am sure I can’t say. If an opinion 
were risked, one would think ho was purveyor-general, or, rather, 
caterer-general for the mess; never a drinker—that is, he was 
never tipsy, but he had a habit of tasting a drop of everything 
comeatable, somewhat after this fashion : “ Now, my dear fellow, 
I wonder whether you’ll like this sherry—a little just to taste. 
Stop, let mo put a sip into this other glass. Mother likes the 
dark, now the girls prefer the pale. Steady a bit, for I’m think¬ 
ing there was a snack somewhere of some rare stuff gone a while 
ago, and where it is I’m blest if I know. But never mind; old 
Jones had a pipe here last night, and didn’t he put in for the 
brandy ? Here, old fellow, put your lips to this drop of old 
Cognac ; I fancy ’twill suit. And now the celleret is open, and 
dinner will be ready in about an hour, we shall be all the better 
for a toothful of these bitters; so let’s be quick and take a 
stroll.” 
I have said before that Mat was never tipsy, nor anything like 
it; but somehow or other he was a kind of a kill-care, thoughtless 
being, without an idea of compassing deceit or mischief to any 
one. His resources were few ; his mind educated but unexpanded, 
and with merriment inexhaustible. Poor fellow! he returned 
twelve months after his last voyage, enervated and broken down 
in health from a succession of ague and other fevers. Although 
disease had destroyed his health, it had not sapped the tenor of 
his even disposition, nor soured or distorted that natural kindness 
which gave to Mat a halo of childish candour and openness now 
so rare to be met with. He wanted some one to win him on, 
step by step, into some resource, or rather, I should say, energy 
to work up a resource. The stores of his mind were dead for 
lack of use—locked up; still they were there, and only wanted 
the “ Open, Sesame,” of some patient and kindred-feeling friend 
to kindle a desire for their use. Rheumatic in limb, dyspeptio 
and nervous, dependent not on his own resources but on others, 
low spirits supervened, and poor Mat succumbed to the unhappy 
state of those who want a resource. 
Twelve toiling, and 1 may say broiling, years passed by 
me in the tropics, prevented my seeing or hearing much about 
my old schoolfellow, except that he had recovered his health 
and locomotion to an indifferent extent, was married and 
settled near to his native village, occupying a pretty rural 
cottage. On my ride of some fifteen miles over to see Mat 
from a neighbouring town, after so long an absence, I pictured 
to myself the kind Of body in all probability that would 
astonish my weak nerves—warm climates don’t strengthen them. 
He appeared before my mind’s eye as a poor, shrunken, irritable 
hypochondriac, never pleased, ever grumbling—a restless Tobacco ' 
pipe ; his resources a game of dominoes, of cross pin, or some 
such idiotic amusement, to the infinite disgust of his wife and 
children. How Mat had lived so long to me was a marvel, and 
who on earth he had married was a greater one. Well, at last I 
arrived at the precincts of his domicile, put up my horse at the 
inn, and, on inquiry from a neat little girl as to the precise 
whereabouts of my friend, was directed to a neat little trellised 
cottage festooned with lovely blooming creepers; the approach 
through a neat and most tasty garden, abounding with fancy beds 
well studied with flowers, and little labelled sticks showing the 
situation of seeds, &c., newly sown. Come, come, thought I, 
this looks very like a lady’s gardening ; and this rustic summer¬ 
house, with the Clematis and a pair of old leather gloves and 
shoars on the seat, looks uncommonly like a man’s gardening. 
A nice, rough, white, well-washed terrier came running down the 
neatly-kept path—not as dogs unaccustomed to visitors do, 
barking and noising vociferously, but more from curiosity than 
otherwise. Again thought I, this looks like care, and cleanliness, 
and good servants ; and, of course, we all know how very much 
the goodness of a domestic depends on the goodness of the 
employers. The Lily-white doorstep was reached at last, and a 
pull at the well-polished bell-handle brought a scrupulously tidy 
and buxom-looking lass. On my inquiry for her master she 
familiarised the well-known reply in Devonshire villages by 
