The ploughs are still at work preparing the ground for oats to be sown in spring; or they are laying it up in fallows. The potatoes have all been dug long ago, and safely packed in houses, to preserve them from the frost, which spoils them. My uncle says, that, though potatoes are more used than formerly, they are not such a general article of food as in Ireland. The custom there is to store them in pits covered with a high mound of clay, which by excluding the air delays the progress of vegetation in the root, until the time of replanting returns.
“It is quite astonishing,” my aunt remarked last night, “how the cultivation of potatoes has spread since they were first discovered in South America, and imported by the Spaniards, who called them papas. Sir Walter Raleigh found them afterwards in Virginia; he introduced them into this country in 1596, and there is now scarcely a civilized spot on the earth to which we have not distributed them. Even to Persia, this valuable root has been conveyed by the benevolent exertions of our envoy, Sir John Malcolm; and at Abusheher the grateful inhabitants call it Malcolm’s plum.”
I have been very busy this morning clearing away all dead stalks and leaves in my garden, and completing the borders, which I have edged with thrift; and all my seed-beds have been lightly covered to preserve them from the expected frost.
The gardener is going to try two new methods of raising pine-apples; for my uncle always likes to ascertain truth by experiment. A great pit is to be filled with withered leaves, which in decaying undergo a fermentation that produces sufficient heat to answer the purpose; and in this pit the pots of pine plants are to be plunged. The second method is to place the pine-pots on a brick stand, in a moderate heat, and without being plunged in either tan or leaves. He is a most valuable gardener, and finds time for many nice little experiments without ever neglecting his regular work. All his carrot, parsnip, and beet roots are taken up and preserved in dry sand; he is now sowing celery under glass frames for an early crop for next year; and Mary says they have had celery every day since July, in Continual succession, as he constantly earthed it up, adding still to the height of the earthing in order to increase its size and whiteness. His peas and beans he sowed three weeks ago in the warm border in front of the south fruit-wall. He is now going to protect them from frost by branches of fir-trees, and he hopes to have some ready for the table by the second week in May.
What a contrast there is between the labour and attention necessary here for all these vegetable productions, and the luxuriance with which they spring up in Brazil! But there is a pleasure I am sure in successful industry, that is scarcely understood by the indolent inhabitants of those warm and fertile climates.
25th.—Yesterday being a bright lovely day, my uncle and aunt took advantage of it to go to Newnham to see the poor travellers, of whom we had heard nothing for some time.
Beyond all our hopes they found Bertram considerably better. My aunt had requested her own physician to attend him, and he is now so much recovered, that if the weather continue mild he is to set out to-morrow on his way home. The old gentleman arrived last week; and though great agitation was caused at first by their meeting, yet it seemed to have a favorable effect on Bertram, as the anxiety and fear of never seeing his poor old father again had preyed on his mind.
Madeleine’s spirits are a little improved; she allows herself once more to hope, but she is prepared to submit with true Christian resignation to whatever happens. She is relieved too from all anxiety in regard to her new father; he received her as a daughter, and expresses the greatest tenderness for her and her pretty little child; who has learned to say “dear grandpapa” among the few English words she has picked up.
When my aunt went in, she found him just going to read prayers to his son; she begged of him to go on, and she says nothing could be more touching than the scene—the weak but solemn voice of the pious old man; the calmness and devotion in the countenance of the son, and the gleam of hope that shone over Madeleine’s subdued and sad countenance.
26th.—Now that winter has really begun, we make a circle round the fire after dinner; and we are so comfortable and happy there that I am often sorry when the time comes for leaving the room.