132 THE FLORIST. 



never once, this winter, in my exposed garden, has it ever been other- 

 wise than a beautiful evergreen plant ; its flavour I know not. 

 Rushton, April 13. W. F. Radclyffe. 



P.S. April 20. — Mr. Cranston gives me a melancholy account of the 

 frost in Herefordshire. He says " all " the wall fruit is gone. M. Gloede 

 says in a letter of the 18th of April — " The frost last night froze my 

 Kidney Potatoes under bell glasses. My early Strawberry blooms are 

 destroyed. [My old Carolinas are well bloomed, also Creinont's 

 Perpetual and Carolina superba, and are covered every night with 

 sheets. — W. F. R.] The frost last night did also a great deal of 

 mischief to the Vines — (April 17). Pears, Plums, Apricots, Peaches, 

 and Nectarines, look as if they were safe. Apples being in bloom may 

 suffer from such untoward state of things." He adds, " I followed 

 your advice, and potted a kw of Lecoq Pine (Ananias Lecoq) ; they 

 seem doing very well indeed, and have easily set their fruit. General 

 Havelock, under glass, seems to be good ; fruit large, well shaped, and 

 of good colour." 



PANSIES. 



The tide of civilisation has, we are told, flowed westwards. Assyria 

 and Egypt gave way to Greece, and Greece to Rome ; and now its seat 

 is not to be found in the city of the seven hills, but on the banks of the 

 Seine and of dear dirty Father Thames ; while already others are 

 pointing to the far-off shores of the Atlantic as the future seat of its 

 triumphs. Somewhat different has been the course of Pans// civilisa- 

 tion ; it seems to be rapidly retiring northwards, and our friends on 

 " t'other side of Tweed " must, I fear, now be looked upon as the 

 " leaders of progress," as far as it is concerned. Time was when its 

 historians, and it may be its poets, lived " down south ;" but alas, some 

 of those who thus chronicled its beauties and its victories have been 

 deserted by their own children ; they have transferred their affection, 

 and their presence too, to those who will certainly take care of them, 

 but who are not their own legitimate papas. In the north of England, 

 too, as well as Scotland, there are still eminent growers, but certainly 

 in the southern parts of the kingdom we have but little evidence of our 

 former attention to this beautiful spring flower. 



As I stood opposite my small frame of four or five dozen plants (not 

 the worst sorts out, let me inform you, my good friend), and saw Lord 

 Derby, with his two black eyes (I suppose given him by his next 

 neighbour, little Lord John), and Sir Colin Campbell looking rather 

 whiter than I fear he does now, after his Oude campaign, and John 

 Gough, ready for a lecture on temperance, I wondered whether, as they 

 looked so hard at me, there was anything on their minds, for they are 

 a contemplative race, as their name Pansy (pensee) implies — and 

 whether they would enlighten me on the subject. I asked them whether 

 I had bestowed care enough on them, or whether they could point to 

 any neglect of which I had been guilty ? No, they gave me credit for 



