From Chapter XXIV: A Garden End

“Our appetites, though sharpened by our drive, were soon appeased, and we engaged the grinning negro to show us the way to our market-gardener friend, at whose garden we had arranged to meet for some pictures. We arrived, and found the family at dinner, and the good wife kindly asked us to wait while she cooked us a steak; but our landlord’s cheese and ale lay heavy on our stomachs, and we took the air in the old garden while we waited for the old people to finish their meal. The garden was beautifully kept, perhaps a little too neatly for our purpose. Carefully pruned and trained apple-trees, loaded with white apple-blossom tinctured with the faintest rosy flush, met us at every turn, while beneath these grew the yellow buds, rosy stalks, and broad green leaves of the rhubarb plant. Lettuces and young onions were springing up from the brown earth, and strong plants of horse-radish grew in rank luxuriance, their biting roots buried deep and cool in the earth. The old gardener–of Hebrew origin-joined us, and pointed exultingly to his spring potatoes, the “Pride of Hebron,” as he had named them with naive anachronism. He was a venerable old man, with flowing white beard and clear, dark eyes. His face was honest and kindly, and the gentle work of all his life tending and caring for his plants-seemed to have left its impress on his character. With pride he pointed to the well-grown fruit trees, bushes, and plants, and then to his two hands, which, he said, had done it all. We begged the old gardener to go back to his meal, which, like the patriarchs of old, he was taking in common with the whole household, handmaidens and working-boys included. We wandered on, and, in the midst of all the beauty of strong plants and blossoming trees, came upon a poor idiot child, the grandchild of the patriarch. The poor little fellow, with his straitened fore-head, was crawling and hobbling along, and at times uttering inarticulate sounds like some wild animal. He eyed us furtively, and then started away on all fours, disappearing amongst the trees. So sad and jarring was this encounter, that we were glad to hurry on, seeking new beauties. Presently a charming little girl, also of Jewish lineage, met us, bringing a message from the old gardener. My friend could not keep his eyes off the little Jewess- such a perfect type she was. The kindly old man now led us to his garden-end, the bank of which was brightly coloured with yellow turnip-blossom, which rippled in the breeze. Down the bank grew some exposed roots of horse-radish, ready to be gathered into bundles as required for the market. Blossoming pear-trees grew, trained against the wall, while on a rising bed were picturesque old bell-jars, and frames protecting delicate seedlings of melon and tomato.

We had given the old man one of our cigars, which he smoked with all the ease and enjoyment of an old hand, and when he had finished, he sat down on a low wooden seat and began to pot out a few plants, filling the red pots with rich loamy soil from a rough wooden box. Beside him stood another box full of roots, ready to be potted and go forth on their peaceful and beautiful missions. The young girl, his right hand, as Abraham informed us, stood patiently with her arms full of flower-pots, handing him a frosh one each time he had filled that on which he was employed. There seemed something mystic in the ceremony. Here was this tired old man, at the and of his long life, still working on and setting new plants, destined to live and put forth flowers, and in their turn too to fade and die; sadly he worked, but not complainingly, although he well knew, in all likelihood, he would be dead long before the flowers he was now tending.

A gentle breeze was stirring, ruffing the tops of the trees and blowing about the girl’s apron. Although evening was falling, it was with difficulty the veteran could be induced to leave his work; but his daughter-in-law persuaded him at last, and as we also were about to return home, he took us warmly by the hand and expressed a hope that he had helped us as we wished. Kind old soul! though he died that summer, he yet lives on, ministering to man’s pleasure; by his help to us that day he lives on, still, as he always lived, working to beautify the work-a-day world. The best study of the old man is that in our picture of  “The Grafter,” published elsewhere. We afterwards sent his portrait to his son, the only portrait the old man had ever had done, and received in return a letter of deeply-felt gratitude.” pp. 134-5