This section is from the book "The Florist And Garden Miscellany". Also see: All New Square Foot Gardening: Grow More in Less Space!.
In our April Number of last year we announced to our readers the decease of our valued friend and coadjutor, of the loss of whom we are continually reminded at every turn. We miss him as a most able assistant, upon whose judgment we had been taught to rely by a long experience of his ability and integrity, who shared our labours in the attempt to establish the Florist and Garden Miscellany, and with whom we should have rejoiced indeed had he lived to share our feelings of congratulation on seeing our little work in so flourishing a condition.
But his decease, brightened as it was by the consolations of Christian belief, has left us nothing to regret upon his account; and much as we miss and long for him, we can say with the poet Cowper,
" But, no - what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That we should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again".
Nor are we singular in this regard for the memory of our departed friend; and we embrace the opportunity of giving the subscribers a copy of the inscription placed upon the stone which marks the spot in Brompton Cemetery, where, by his express wish, his remains were interred.
"A Man greatly beloved".
HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF
CHARLES FOX, Esq., Artist,
LONG RESIDENT IN THIS NEIGHBOURHOOD,
BORN AT COSSEY IN NORFOLK, MAY 17, 1795;
DIED AT LEYTON IN ESSEX, FEBRUARY 28, 1849.
A LARGE CIRCLE OF ACQUAINTANCE AND FRIENDS, MANY OF THEM IN HUMBLE LIFE, UNITEDLY AND BY SMALL SUBSCRIPTIONS
ERECT THIS STONE AS THEIR LAST ACT OF SINCERE RESPECT AND AFFECTION.
In his lifetime we had often planned together a visit to Cossey Park near Norwich, where he was born, his father having been the respected steward of the Jerningham family; but it was never carried into execution, and with his decease the idea was, of course, abandoned. But since that event, we were led into Norfolk by the removal from this life of another valued friend; and on the afternoon of a fine day in June we reached the neighbourhood of the place to which we were bound. Our walk from the railway-station was through a flat, uninviting country, speaking of it as a rural district; but with our varied associations it was deeply interesting. The stillness, after the bustle and noise of the great metropolis, was inexpressibly delightful, unbroken as it was, except by the song of the lark, or the voices of the boys urging their horses on, as the haymakers rapidly loaded up, one after another, the cocks of well-made hay, which filled the air with its fragrance.
On arriving at the place of our destination, finding that we had a day to spare, we gladly embraced the opportunity for visiting Cossey. Our late friend's sister accompanied us into the park, and pointed out spots he had often mentioned to us in his lifetime. The old family house is overshadowed with the unfinished portion of a magnificent pile, which has remained in that state for a number of years. We found the gardens, which are separated from the park by a light iron fence, very pretty, simply laid out, and well kept up. The grounds gradually ascend from the house, and terminate in hanging woods, through which paths are cut, affording the most delightfully shaded walks, furnished with seats in suitable places. Near the mansion, and in its rear, a small stream expands into a long and wide sheet of water; on the opposite bank of which is the house in which our friend was born. There his love of nature grew with his growth. His attachment for the spot strengthened with years and absence, and his recollections of it formed the subject of one of his latest conversations with those who were privileged to perform the last offices of friendship for him.
On our return, we stopped our horse in the stream where it crosses the road, a point from which one of the most striking views of the mansion is obtained through the railing of a rustic bridge.
We remarked as we rode along, that we have passed through no part of England where the farm-houses and cottages are so prettily covered with Roses, Honeysuckles, and other flowering climbers. Some of them were really models of the beauty which may be conferred upon buildings otherwise unsightly. A couple of tumbledown cottages, in particular, were so overrun with a selection of Roses of various hues, loading the air with their fragrance, that they became perfect studies for the artist; and we cannot forbear presenting our readers with a sketch of the picturesque dwelling to which we returned after our day's ramble through the Norfolk lanes, believing that a fairer specimen of an old English farm-house could not be found, and knowing that some of our Norfolk readers will, with ourselves, long remember many agreeable hours spent in that hospitable abode.