108.-GARDENS.

JESSE.

[MR. EDWARD JESSE," Surveyor of her Majesty's Parks, Palaces," &c., is the author of several volumes which have had a deserved popularity, as the faithful observations of an intelligent and reflective mind upon the common appearances of Nature, the more interesting from their familiarity. Mr. Jesse appears to have taken for his model White, of Selborne. The volume from which we extract the following passage, entitled "Scenes and Tales of Country Life," was published in 1844.]

The love of gardens and of gardening appears to be almost exclusively confined to the English, and is partaken of by the poor as well as by the rich. Nothing can be prettier than the gardens attached to the thatched cottages in Devonshire. They are fre quently to be seen on the side and oftener at the bottom of a hill, down which a narrow road leads to a rude single-arched stone bridge. Here a shallow stream may be seen flowing rapidly, and which now and then stickles, to use a Devonshire phrase, over a pavement of either pebbles or rag-stone. A little rill descends by the side of the lane, and close to the hedge of the cottage, which is approached by a broad stepping-stone over the rill, and beyond it is a gate made of rough sticks, which leads to the cottage. At a short distance, an excavation has been cut out of the bank, and paved round with rough stones, into which the water finds and then again makes its way clear and sparkling. This is the cottager's well. His garden is gay with flowers. His bees are placed on each side of a window surrounded with honeysuckles, jessamine, or a flourishing vine, and the rustic porch is covered with these or other creepers. Here, also, the gorgeous hollyhock may be seen in perfection, for it delights in the rich red soil of Devonshire. Giantstocks, carnations, and china-asters, flourish from the same cause, and make the garden appear as though it belonged to Flora herself.

Nor must the little orchard be forgotten. The apple-trees slope with the hill, and in the spring are covered with a profusion of the most beautiful blossom, and in the autumn are generally weighed down with their load of red fruit. Under them may be seen a

crop of potatoes, and in another part of the garden those fine Paington cabbages, one of the best vegetables of the county. In a sheltered nook is the thatched pig-sty, partly concealed by the round yellow-faced sunflower, which serves both as a screen and The mud or cob walls of the cottage add to its picturesque appearance, when partly covered with creepers and surrounded with flowers.

as an ornament.

Such is an accurate description of one of the many cottages I have seen in the beautiful and hospitable county of Devon, so celebrated for its illustrious men and the beauty of its women. Those who, like myself, have wandered amongst its delightful lanes, will not think my picture overcharged.

But I must introduce my reader to the inside of a Devonshire cottage. On entering it, he will see the polished dresser glittering with bright pewter plates; the flitch of bacon on the rack, with paper bags stored with dried pot-herbs, for winter use, deposited near it; the bright dog-bars, instead of a grate, with the cottrel over them, to hang the pot on, and every thing bespeaking comfort and cleanliness. The cottager's wife will ask him to sit down, in that hearty Devonshire phrase, which has often been addressed to me, and which I always delighted in-" Do y', Sir, pitch yourself," bringing forward a chair at the same time, and wiping it down with her apron. A cup of cider will be offered, or bread and cheese, or whatever the cottage affords.

I have known one of the children stealthily sent to a neighboring farmer's for a little clotted cream, which has been set before me with a loaf of brown bread, and with the most hearty goodwill. They are so delicious a banquet, that Pope might have thought of it when he said

"Beneath the humble cottage let us haste,

And there, unenvied, rural dainties taste."

I have dwelt longer than I intended on the cottage scenery of Devonshire, because I think it stands pre-eminent in this country for beauty, and because I regard its peasantry as affording the best examples I have met with of unaffected kindness, civility, industry and good conduct.

I have, on more than one occasion, expressed my admiration of

1

the agricultural population of England; and I trust that the time is not far distant, when each individual amongst them will have an allotment of land, at a fair rent, for the better maintenance of themselves and their families, not in common fields, but attached to their houses.

with any produced in this

The taste for gardens, however, is not confined to the rural districts. Round the town of Birmingham, for instance, there are some hundreds of small gardens, which are diligently cultivated by the working classes. Each garden has a little covered seat, where the owner has his glass of ale, and smokes his pipe, at the close of the evening; and here the finest auriculas, polyanthuses, carnations, &c., are to be met with. They are cultivated with the utmost skill and care, and may vie country. I have also been informed that our Spitalfields weavers have the same fondness for flowers, and are also amongst our best collectors of insects. In some other districts tulips are successfully cultivated, and in others the ranunculus and anemone. One man is celebrated for his fine stocks, another for his pansies, while a third will produce unrivalled gooseberries for size, or wallflowers of the darkest hue. I am assured that, great and deplorable as the distress now is at Birmingham, a man would sell his clothes, his furniture, indeed, all that he possessed, sooner than part with his beloved garden.

Flowers are cultivated to a considerable extent, and with great success, in the neighborhood of London, and especially in some parts of Surrey, in which county there are many exhibitions of flowers every year. Here the rich and poor may be seen assembled together, each either admiring or criticizing particular blooms, and the poor man appearing perfectly competent to appreciate their peculiar merits. It always affords me pleasure to witness these meetings, and to watch the gleam of satisfaction in the counLenance of some cottager, when

"his garden's gem,

The heart's-ease,"

has been praised, or his well cultivated show of potatoes or apples has obtained for him some trifling prize.

Persons of influence, residing in the country, should do their

utmost to encourage the cultivation, not only of flowers, but o vegetables and bees, amongst their poorer neighbors. It not only tends to keep them out of ale and beer-houses, those curses of the laboring man in this country, but improves their minds, their hab its, and health. An amiable florist has observed, that the love of flowers is one of the earliest impressions which the dawning of reason implants in the human mind, and that happy are the parents of children in whose imaginations this desirable predilection is early evinced. It inculcates a salutary habit of reasoning and thinking on subjects worthy of exercising the thoughts, and is calculated to improve them. It gradually trains the mind to the study and observance of that most instructive volume, the Book of Nature. The passion for flowers is, indeed, one of the most enduring and permanent of all enjoyments. At the coming of each revolving spring, we anxiously return to our loved and favorite pursuit; with joy and delight we perceive that

Ethereal mildness is come,

and that the glory of reviving nature is returned.

109.-HIGHLAND SNOW STORM.

JOHN WILSON.

[JOHN WILSON, the distinguished Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, was born at Paisley, in 1788. He was the son of an opulent manufacturer, and received his elementary education at Glasgow University, proceeding afterwards to Magdalen College, Oxford. His poetical genius was developed at the university. He obtained the Newdegate Prize, and amidst a passion for athletic exercises, which distinguished him in after life, he was looked upon as one of the most remarkable young men of his day. Upon his leaving Oxford, he purchased a charming property, Elleray, on Lake Windermere. At this period he published the first of his beautiful poems, "The Isle of Palms." Subsequently he became a member of the Scottish bar, and in a few years received the appointment to that chair which he has so long filled with honor. His permanent reputation will, we think, rest upon his prose writings. His contributions to "Blackwood's Magazine" raised the whole tone and character of periodical literature. The keenest wit, the most playful fancy, the most genial criticism, the deepest pathos, were lavished

year after year with a profusion almost miraculous. Some of the finest of these productions have been collected as "The Recreations of Christopher North." It would be difficult to point to three volumes of our own times that have an equal chance of becoming immortal.]

One family lived in Glencreran, and another in Glenco-the families of two brothers-seldom visiting each other on working days, seldom meeting even on Sabbaths, for theirs was not the same parish kirk―seldom coming together on rural festivals or holidays, for in the Highlands now these are not so frequent as of yore; yet, all these sweet seldoms, taken together, to loving hearts made a happy many, and thus, though each family passed its life in its own home, there were many invisible threads stretched out through the intermediate air, connecting the two dwellings together, as the gossamer keeps floating from one tree to another, each with its own secret nest. And nest-like both dwellings were. That in Glenco, built beneath a treeless but highheathered rock,-lone in all storms,-with greensward and garden on a slope down to a rivulet, the clearest of the clear, (oh! once wofully reddened!) and growing, so it seems, in the mosses of its own roof, and the huge stones that overshadow it, out of the earth. That in Glencreran more conspicuous, on a knoll among the pastoral meadows, midway between mountain and mountain, so that the grove which shelters it, except when the sun is shining high, is darkened by their meeting shadows,-and dark indeed, even in the sunshine, for 'tis a low but wide-armed grove of old oak-like pines. A little further down, and Glencreran is very sylvan; but this dwelling is the highest up of all, the first you descend upon, near the foot of that wild hanging staircase between you and Glen-Etive. And, except this old oak-like grove of pines, there is not a tree, and hardly a bush, on bank or brae, pasture or hay-field, though these are kept by many a rill, there mingling themselves into one stream, in a perpetual lustre, that seems to be as native to the grass as its light is to the glowworm. Such are the two huts-for they are huts and no more— and you may see them still, if you know how to discover the beautiful sights of nature from descriptions treasured in your heart, and if the spirit of change, now nowhere at rest on the