1869.] THE ROSE. 199 



More kindly and gracious is the Miniature or Pompon Provence, 

 always bringing us an early but too transient supply of those lovely 

 little flowers which were the " baby Roses " and the " pony Roses " 

 of our childhood. They may be grown on their own roots in clumps 

 among other Roses, or as edgings to beds, De Meaux and Spong being 

 the best varieties. The amateur is supposed to be already in posses- 

 sion of another Liliputian treasure, the Banksian Rose, commended to 

 him when Ave discussed the Climbers ; and I must here appropriately 

 introduce him to one more tiny belle, Miss Ernestine de Barente, 

 Hybrid Perpetual Rose, a darling little maid, with bright pink cheek 

 and quite *' the mould of form." The Miniature China (Rosa Law- 

 renceana or Fairy Rose) is more adapted for pot cultivation. 



A few varieties from the Hybrid Provence section are valuable in 

 the general collection, having those lighter tints which are still infre- 

 quent, being of healthful habit, and growing well either as dwarfs or 

 standards. Blanchefleur is a very pretty Rose, of the colour com- 

 monly termed French white — i.e., English white with a slight suffusion 

 of pink ; Comte Plater and Comtesse de Segur are of a soft buff 

 or cream colour, the latter a well-shaped Rose ; Princesse Clementine 

 is a vara avis in ter7'is, but not a bit like unto a black swan, being one 

 of our best white Roses ; and Rose Devigne is large and beautiful 

 and blushing. These Roses, having long and vigorous shoots, should 

 not be severely cut, or they will resent the insult by " running to 

 wood " — excessive lignification, as I once heard it termed, and burst 

 out laughing, to the intense digust of the speaker. 



And now I am not entirely exempt from the fear, that with some 

 such similar derision the reader may receive a fact which I propose to 

 submit to him. It is, nevertheless, as true an incident in my history 

 as it is a strange statement in his ears, that, once upon a time, some 

 nine or ten summers since I was driven out of London by a Rose ! 

 And thus it came to pass : Early in June, that period of the year 

 which tries, I think, more than any other, the patience of the rosarian 

 waiting in his garden like some lover for his Maud, and vexing his 

 fond heart with idle fears, I was glad to have a valid excuse for spend- 

 ing a few days in town. To town I went, transacted my business, saw 

 the pictures, heard an opera, wept my annual tear at a tragedy (where- 

 upon a Swell in the contiguous stall looked at me as though I were 

 going to drown him), roared at Buckstone, rode in the Park, met old 

 friends — and I was beginning to think that life in the country was 

 not so very much " more sweet than that of painted pomp," when, 

 engaged to a dinner-party, on the third day of my visit, and to enliven 

 my scenery, I bought a Rose. Only a common Rose, one from a 

 hundred which a ragged girl was hawking in the streets, and which 



