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does not even contain half of one part in a hundred, and the apple little more than quarter, being respectively represented as 0.41, and 0.27. Our grain contains a much larger quantity. A thousand parts of wheat yield twenty-three parts; and the same quantity of oats yields no fewer than forty. Hay again, which of course has lost a considerable amount in weight by the process of drying, exhibits a figure of ninety parts in the thousand.

The constituents of this ash are very varied. Dr. Johnson gives no fewer than fourteen elementary bodies; and these by combination with the O. H. C. or N. form an infinity of compounds. Potash and soda are among the most plentiful and commonly met with of all the components of this ash. Sea plants, and those growing in the vicinity of the sea, abound in soda; whereas inland species possess a larger quantity of potash. It is a curious and interesting fact in the economy of the plant, that a species which inhabits the sea shore, will, on being cultivated at a distance from it, lose its appetite for soda, and put up with the matter at hand most nearly resembling it, which is potash. Nay, it has been noticed, and proved beyond the shadow of a doubt by Professor Dickie, that the sea-thrift, seaplantain and scurvy-grass (which grow both on the sea shore and on elevated mountain districts), contain in the former situation much soda, and in the latter much potash; the one being increased as the other is diminished.

Flint in a highly reduced state, occurs very abundantly in many plants, especially in what are called horse-tails and Dutch rushes; also in the stems of grasses of different kinds. Oat and wheat-straw furnish respectively, forty-five and twentyeight parts in the thousand; whereas the grains exhibit only nineteen, and four. Lime, which is next in quantity, and paramount in importance, is found in all plants. Sometimes, in union with oxalic acid (as in the rhubarb) it acts as an antidote to the poisonous qualities which are the necessary concomitants of the acidity; at other times, it unites with C. and forms a body identical with chalk and marble, with which it encases the growing plant. This occurs in some water plants. Still more valuable is it, however, when, in conjunction with phosphorus, it is prepared to supply the waste in our bony structure. In this form, it is chiefly found in the cereal grains which minister to our daily wants. Iron, magnesia, copper, iodine, and a multitude of others are occasionally found though in very small quantities; and, as some of these will be noticed under the head of products, we may conveniently pass on without them.

All bodies found in plants, are derived either as liquids through the soil, by the roots, or as gases from the air by the leaves. From the soil, the plant takes dead inert matter; which perhaps never existed as the heat or life, and yet may have been the earthly prison of mind itself; and from this death it makes new life. From the air, the plant absorbs that poisonous gas, carbonic acid (C. and O.) which rises like choking smoke from the furnace within man's laboring bosom, and from this death, this enemy of life, it extracts the sting and sends back the pure vivifying Oxygen, again to cheer the exhausted flame of life,-again to combine with the rebel Carbon, again to return pure and blameless; and so through this giddy whirl of revolutions, till the great day shall come when life will depend on something more infinite than a thin subtle gas.

Plants and animals are the antithesis of each other. The plant is the great gatherer. It takes from the dead and motionless, whether in earth or air; and it builds a living structure in itself. This is preyed upon by the animal; and another living fabric is the result. It dies, and then all this accumulation of organism,—all this fair body, rifled from the grave, returns to it again. Even we who write and read this page, when the passing bell has told that our spirits have walked out in fresher raiment, and the green turf has been spread over our weary heads, must restore to earth all of her that we possess-to be again stolen from her bosom by the green herbage, to be cropped by the sheep, aye, or even the ass; again and again to perform that harmonious round of unceasing and untiring

usefulness.

D.

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THE DELIGHTS OF A GARDEN.

HE WHO HAS NO TASTE for a garden is to be pitied. We question, indeed, if such a person can be amiable. Flowers have a charm about them that must win upon a gentle heart.

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We rarely pass by a cottager's garden without being struck by the neatness of its arrangement, and the beauty of its flowers; and we as rarely fail to find the gude wife a type of what is exhibited out of doors. propos to this subject, is an article which appears in a late number of the Florist. It is entitled "The Poor Man and his Garden." From it we make an extract or two, as being well worthy attention:

It is a remarkable fact, and one to which I scarcely know an exception, that the state of the cottage-garden is a tolerably correct index to the internal condition of the tenement and its inhabitants. Whenever I find outside the door a neat and well-cropped garden, and more especially if I observe one cherished spot radiant with the brightest of flowers (can any one tell me why cottage flowers are always so very, very bright?) I am certain to find cleanliness, order, and comfort within.

The cottager who takes a delight in his garden is essentially a domestic man. It is there, at home, surrounded by his family, he finds relaxation and amusement after the fatigues of the day. And when he seeks his humble couch (sweet and invigorating be his slumber!) will any one dare to affirm that the bosom of this wearied son of the soil does not glow with a feeling of honest pride, a sense of the dignity of the man within him, that the mightiest noble of the land might envy? I regret that so many of our cottages are without gardens; I fear that there exists a prejudice in the minds of large occupiers of land, which fixes too narrow a limit to the cottage garden; and although this evil has been somewhat remedied of late years, there is still considerable room for improvement in this respect. I am at a loss to account for this prejudice, as it would be no difficult matter to prove that the good gardener is almost invariably a first-rate laborer; how indeed should it be otherwise?

The establishment of horticultural societies in various parts of the country, with liberal prizes to cottagers, has been productive of the greatest good; but these societies are like angels' visits— few and far between. I would multiply them. I would have one in every parish of considerable extent. Smaller parishes might unite in twos and threes for the purpose. I would give prizes for every description of vegetable useful to the cottager; and one main feature of my society should be as many premiums, graduated in amount, for the best managed cottage-garden, as the funds would allow. Would I exclude flowers? By no means. I would invite their production, by bidding highly for the best nosegay; but the word bouquet should not appear in my schedule; it seems sadly out of place in a cottager's prizelist, though I have often seen it there for the purpose, I presume, of astonishing the natives. But

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AN AFTERNOON RAMBLE,-
A SKETCH FROM NATURE.

A CIRCUMSTANCE, unimportant in itself, obliged me some considerable time since, to stop for the night in a small village remote from any of the great roads. After refreshing myself in mine inn, after the usual manner of travellers, I began to reconnoitre the locality in which fate had cast my lot for the next twelve hours. It was an ancient hostelry, called "The Leather Bottle;' beneath its faded sign an inscription denoted that the house was kept by Millicent Gillyflower, a widow. A great, obtrusive-looking bow-window, gave the place an air of consequence above that of the surrounding tenements; and there was a little enclosed green on one side, intended for playing at bowls. In one corner of this green stood several benches and a rustic arbour; and in another reposed the body of an old yellow post-chaise of the most ancient fashion.

The wheels had long trundled themselves away, and had been replaced by four low posts, upon which stood this veteran of the roads, like some Greenwich pensioner resting upon his wooden legs. The interior had been converted by the ingenuity of Mistress Gillyflower into a resting-place for her feathered subjects; the upper part being fitted up with perches, whilst from below two fierce-looking hens stretched out their necks, and threatened to peck at the eyes of all those who were rash enough to look under the seat. Beyond this enclosure was the little garden, the especial pride and care of the hostess. The entrance to it was guarded by two tall yew-trees, cut into the shape of pepper-castors, which stood like sentries on each side of the gate.

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The garden was kept with the utmost neatness, and was gay with summer flowers. It did my heart good to look at them, for there I recognised many old friends which are now banished from modern gardens: there were goodly plots of camomile, and rosemary, and rue, and pennyroyal, interspersed with the livelier hues of "love lies bleeding," "Venus' looking-glass," and "the devil in the bush." There the "Star of Bethlehem" reared its spiral bloom, and there flourished the stately sunflower. Commend me to a well-grown sunflower, with his jolly round face, that one can see out of the parlor window! Having selected a fine clove pink for the ornamenting of my waistcoat, I sauntered forth into the village to pass away the evening till bed-time. My arrival seemed to have caused a consider able sensation, for the whole population of the place, including, I believe, every cat and dog, turned out to look at me. The village was like most of its kind, a straggling

collection of hovels, some old, some new, some thatched, and some tiled; most of them were crowded with ragged and noisy children, whilst some few were remarkable for their neatness, and seemed the abode of peace and happiness.

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Here, at least," thought I, "dwell content and prosperity. Man seems in the country to be of a different species from the pale, care-worn beings of a crowded city; he has leisure to pause from toil, to look around him, and to feel conscious that he exists for a noble purpose. What a relief it is to turn one's back upon the great Babylon, to lose sight of the pale-faced clerks and eternal blue-bags, that haunt one in the smoky purlieus of Lincoln's Inn." Many were the smiling faces that peeped from beneath their snowy cap-borders to take a look at the strange gentleman. A troop of barelegged urchins were wading through a brook, engaged in the humane employment of spearing minnows with a two-pronged fork; these also, abandoning their piscatory sport, joined the retinue which had already followed me from the door of the "Leather Bottle." Thus escorted, I sauntered along in my favorite attitude, my hands clasped behind me under the tails of my coat, my chin slightly elevated, my step deliberate and measured as that of a village dominie. After many stoppages, to muse upon whatever attracted my attention, I entered a narrow lane, the approach to which was guarded by a turnstile. A few yards further stood a cottage which I wished to examine; for I was attracted towards it by a kind of old-world appearance about the place. It was built of wood, and plastered between the beams with yellow clay, being constructed after the fashion in which our ancestors delighted; the gables stood towards the front, with their little diamond-paned windows of coarse glass almost obscured by the capacious eaves.

According to the taste of former times, the whole skeleton of the house was visible. There were beams and uprights, and corner pieces, and cross-trees, all formed of solid oak, and intersecting the plaster in a lozengelike pattern. In front of the cottage was a small enclosure, for it could scarcely be called a garden; here grew the stumps from which some cabbages had been cut, and a few stunted specimens of that vegetable ; the whole of the floricultural department was comprised in one large rose tree, which, though old and cankered, was covered with bloom; beyond this, there was no attempt at a garden. Another object, however, very soon engaged my attention, and this was a wicker cage, containing a young blackbird, which hung upon a nail near the window. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon, and the

whole force of a summer sun poured down upon its devoted head, without even the shelter of a leaf or a bough to protect it.* The poor creature lay at the bottom of its cage, gasping for breath, and was unfurnished with either food or water. So strongly did I feel moved to pity by its unfortunate condition, that I determined to intercede in its behalf. I knocked repeatedly with my knuckles on the door; but receiving no answer, I gently raised the latch, and found myself in a small low apartment, which appeared to answer the double purpose of a kitchen and a living room.

· ·

The scene which now presented itself was worthy the pencil of a Wilkie or a Hunt. There was but one human being present; but from her I could not take my eyes. Nay now, gentle reader, repress that smile, which is curling your lip so disdainfully, and cease your bantering remarks; for methinks I hear you say, "Now for a love adventure; the author has mounted his highflyer, and is going to rave about dimpled cheeks, pearly teeth, and dove-like eyes, in a strain more befitting a midshipman in her Majesty's navy, than a sober, middle-aged gentleman, who wears short gaiters, and carries two seals to his watch.' No, my dear friend, there were neither dimples, teeth, nor even eyes to be seen; for these last were closed in sleep and as for the two first, they had long taken a final leave of the before me. In sober parlance she was an old woman-a very old woman-and one who bore no traces of ever having been remarkable for personal attractions. What then, you will say, could I see so interesting about her? I scarcely know myself; perhaps it was the whole scene together that pleased me; there was, besides, an air of neatness and comfort in the interior of the cottage, which the outside did not lead one to expect.

person

Seeing that my entrance into this dwelling did not awake its inmate, who still continued to slumber in her high-backed chair, I hesitated what to do; but being, like the good dame before me, rather overcome with the heat of the weather, I took possession of a vacant seat, and began to look about me. The old-fashioned, one-handed clock, ticked solemnly in its tall and well-polished case; and the walnut-wood dresser was garnished with its holiday plates; but the large open chimney pleased me the most; it was capacious enough to form a little room of itself. The massive fire-dogs, of cast iron, seemed as if they had once belonged to the

*Similar acts of brutal cruelty may at this season be witnessed daily, both in town and country. Innocent birds, as we have repeatedly said, are a doomed race.-ED. K. J.

hall of some baronial mansion, and accorded well with the stout iron plate which defended the chimney-back from the fire.

Across the mantel-piece was stretched a small valance of printed cotton, over which was suspended, in a neat black frame, a picture of the Nativity, upon which the artist had not been sparing of his colors. On either side of this, hung a china medallion; upon that on the right was inscribed,

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Prepare to meet thy God," and on its companion, "Lay hold on eternal life." Near the fire-place stood a quaint-looking arm-chair, the seat of which was covered with a well-worn calf-skin. But to return to the old woman: there she sat near the ample chimney, and by the side of a small round table, whose three legs each terminated in a claw holding a ball. Before her lay a few of those miscellaneous articles which are supposed to be necessary to the art of stitchery. In the midst of these things sat a pretty tortoiseshell kitten, diving its little busy paw into the recesses of the work-basket, and making a glorious confusion amongst the cotton and bobbins: luckily for her, all this mighty mischief was unperceived by her mistress, who still continued her nap.

The work upon which the good woman had been engaged, was the knitting of a stocking; and though the grasp of her fingers was unloosed from the pins, they were frequently moved by the convulsive twitchings of an uneasy sleep. The ball of worsted had rolled into the middle of the room, assisted perhaps by the same mischievous agency that was at work amongst the cottons.

The slumbers of the person before me were by no means tranquil; ever and anon she sighed bitterly; and once I thought that I saw a tear stealing from under her eye-lashes. "Poor soul!" thought I, "you, too, have tasted of the bitterness of life!" It seemed to me also, as if she had known better days; for her dress, though made of coarse materials, and in a byegone fashion, had something about it above that of a common cottager. Her silvery hair was neatly parted below her plaited cap-frill, and her neckerchief was of snowy whiteness. She was a little woman, of a spare habit; and though there was nothing approaching to a lady about her, yet she did not look exactly like a village goody.

At length, with a heavy sigh, she awoke; and, contrary to my expectation, manifested but little surprise at seeing me before her. It is true I have not much the appearance of either a housebreaker or a pedlar. She did not even ask my business, but mechanically resuming her knitting, she quietly informed me that her nephew would be home from his work in a few minutes, as the clock

had gone five, and that Susan had stepped out to Mrs. Simmons's with some clothes to mangle.

"You seem to have been enjoying a comfortable sleep, ma'am," said I; for, with my usual absence of mind, I had quite forgotten the original cause of my entering the cottage.

"Indeed I have, sir," she replied; "but bless me, here have I dropped one, two, three stitches, while I have been dozing. Well-a-day, sleep's a refreshing thing, come when it will. It makes one forget all one's troubles, though new ones do seem to rise up ever a-while in one's dreams. Do you believe in dreams, sir?"

"Why, partly, madam," said I, willing to fall in with her humor; "I must say I think there is sometimes more in them than most people will allow."

"Do you think so, sir?" she replied, rather eagerly; "I have oftentimes strange dreams myself; one in particular, which returns to me again and again."

"I should like to hear it," said I. "Ah! sir, it would tire the like of you to be listening to an old woman's dreams. There's my nevey, henever I say any thing about them, he tells me I am growing childish; and Susan, too, begins to talk to me about the march of intellect, and all manner of things, that I never heard of when I was young.'

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"Young people will presume a little upon their education now-a-days, ma'am."

"But they are very kind to me too, sir. Five years, next Martinmas, I have lived with them. Once I had children and a husband, but now all are gone, and it appears to me like a dream that I was once a wedded wife. Oh! the long weary years that have passed over my head since those happy days! It seems almost as if death had forgotten me. Around me I see falling the young and healthy; fathers and mothers, the young wife and the only child; whilst I, who have none to care for me, still live on. Sometimes, in my dreams, I seem to die, and pass into another world, so bright, so beautiful, and peopled with familiar forms; when I wake up to the dull cold reality of this life, I feel almost angry at being recalled to sufferings and infirmities which seemed to have left me for ever. Even while you have been sitting here sir, one of these dreams which I mentioned to you has been busy with my mind, and which, as you wish it, I will relate to you. I must have fallen asleep with my eyes open, for I recollect perfectly that at first I saw everything in the room as distinctly as I now see it. I heard the clock tick, and watched the flickering shade of the rose tree upon the casement, but I had not the power to move

or speak. I felt exceedingly faint, and gradually a kind of mistiness seemed to come between me and the objects in the room; they appeared to get further off, yet larger. A chilly feeling crept over me; it came first in my hands and feet, and seemed gradually to invade my whole frame, till my heart itself was frozen and lost the power of beating. The shade deepened, till all was dark, and a feeling of icy coldness seemed to wrap me round on every side; this, in its turn, faded away into total insensibility. Gradually came returning consciousness, accompanied by a feeling of being poised in the air. I could as yet see nothing, but all around was a rushing, rustling sound, as of angels' wings. *** The vision returned to me, and the air seemed alive with beautiful forms, which came thronging round in countless myriads; thousands of sweet voices were singing the praises of the most high, and other spirits seemed to be journeying the same road with myself. After a long flight, gradually rocks, mountains, trees, and rivers became visible, and I found myself in a garden more beautiful than it can enter into the imagination of man to conceive; cool fountains, mossy dells, and the sweetest flowers were on every side; the spirits of those I loved on earth came thronging round to welcome me. Though they had neither shape nor form, I knew them for friends; and my heart yearned towards them. They appeared but as the small pale light of a glow-worm, shining from its leafy bower. of my youth, long lost, and ever mourned; Here again I seemed to rejoin the husband and a still small voice gently whispered, in accents once familiar- Mother!'"

***

from her eyes the tears which were slowly Here the poor old woman paused, to wipe stealing down her furrowed cheeks.

Poor weary soul! Who knows, thought I, whether this dream of thine be not a foreshadowing of the future? strive to make Death a King of Terrors? Why should we Rather let us think of him as a herald of bliss. Weep not for the dead!

H. HARKNESS.

CHILDHOOD.

Hark! the whoop of merry voicesHark! to childhood's roundelay; How the human heart rejoices

In its wild and boundless play! In its never-ceasing gladness,

In its innocence and mirthWho could yield to grief or sadness While such music glads the earth? Happy, merry, sunny childhood,

Wheresoe'er thy bright smiles beIn the household or the wild wood Thou'rt a thing of joy to me!

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