exquisite ones too, if cut too close back, will :
produce nothing but leaves, year after year,
Fearfully numerous instances of this wanton
ill-treatment may be seen in the suburban
villas that swarm round large cities, where
simple people get ignorant jobbing gardeners
to prune their roses by the year. But rose-
pruning is a fascinating amusement, which
grows upon you, like billiards or chess ; and I
had as soon engage a fellow to eat my dinner,
take my walks, or perform any other pleasurable
action for me by the year, as prune my
roses. It is true, different roses require different
pruning, and you say you know nothing of
the art. Never mind. Try. By entering
thus into intimacy with your roses, you will
become acquainted with every phase and
condition of their existence. You will learn
to distinguish one from another by the look
of the twig, as well as by the aspect of the
flower. Your humble servant could readily
name a hundred varieties of roses, on being
shown a handful of leaflets, trimmings, and
prunings. That, however, is nothing. Doubtless,
Rivers, Paul, or Mitchell, have men in
their employ whose more practised eye would
extend the list further. One of the great
hyacinth rearers in old times, in Holland, has
asserted that he could recognise, by the bulb,
almost every variety out of a collection of
two thousand !

The sports of roses deserve to be
mentioned, because several beautiful varieties
have resulted from their antics. The York
and Lancaster will now and then bear
blossoms one half side of which is white,
the other half red. The common Provins
took it into its head to send forth a branch
bearing the crested Provins, which the art
of budding has rendered more or less per-
manent. The darling little moss Pompone
metamorphosed itself out of the common
Pompone (itself a miniature beauty of the
highest merit), some say in the neighbourhood
of Bristol, others in the garden of a
Swiss clergyman. The caprices of roses
must be complied with, if you would have
them smile upon you. The coal-smoke of
cities disgusts them utterly; the most tolerant
of a highly-carbonated atmosphere
being perhaps the maiden's blush and the old
double white. It is of little use to plant
yellow roses within I don't know how many
miles of Temple Bar. I have never seen that
admirable rarity, the old double yellow
cabbage, blossom well, except when growing at
the foot of a low wall, over the top of which
it could straggle as it pleased. Nor has any
good been done with it by budding, that I am
aware. Perhaps we have no stocks on which
to bud it, but must ransack the wilds of
Persia to find them. The enemies of roses
are legion. Of insect vermin the host is
fearful. The maggots and worms and
caterpillars and grubs which attack your heart's
delight in spring must be picked out patiently
with finger and thumb. Aphides, " our little
green cousin who lives on the rose," are
comparatively harmless. A thunderstorm proves
an excellent preventive ; but thunderstorms
are not always to be had at command. I take
the tip of each twig in my hand, and brush
off the clustering parasites with a painter's
brush. An amateur (who deserves to be
looked upon favourably), has invented a
double aphis-brush, closing with a spring
handle, which, says the advertisement, in a
very simple and easy manner, instantly
cleanses the rose from that destructive insect
the green fly, without causing the slightest
injury to the bud or foliage. Finally, encourage
lady-birds and the sightless grubs of
lace-wing flies, which latter, though blind,
find out the succulent aphides, and instead of
reserving them to act as milch-cows, pump
them dry at once and throw away the empty
husk, exactly as you would treat a St.
Michael's orange.

There are roses which ought to make more
way than they do — they are too shy, retiring,
and perhaps fastidious in their habits. The
microphylla, or small-leaved rose, bears most
voluptuous flowers amidst delicate foliage;
yet it is, like the cuckoo bird, seldom seen
though often heard of. The multifloras, a
charming family, comprising the seven sisters,
would gratify us by making more frequent
public appearances. The white Chinese
anemone-flowered rose is all that is simple,
and pure. It is clear that certain roses
have suffered somewhat, both from evil
tongues as well as evil eyes. Listen to the
indignant complaint of that high-spirited
horticultural traveller, Robert Fortune. " In
the first volume of the Journal of the Horticultural
Society I noticed the discovery and
introduction of a very beautiful yellow or salmon-
coloured rose. I had been much struck with
the effects produced by it in the gardens of
Northern China, where it was greatly prized,
and I had no doubt that it would succeed
equally well in this country. But from some
cause — probably ignorance as to its habits or
to the treatment required — my favourite
wang-jan-ve, as the Chinese call it, was cried
down. It had been planted in situations
where it was either starved or burnt up; and
in return for such unkind treatment, the
pretty exotic obstinately refused to produce
any but poor miserable flowers. Then the
learned in such matters pronounced it quite
unworthy of a place in our gardens amongst
English roses; and I believe in many instances
it was either allowed to die or was dug up and
thrown away. Five or six years had elapsed
since the introduction of this fine climber,
and it had never been seen in its proper garb.
But the results in two places proved it to be
a rose nearly as rampant as the old Ayrshire,
quite hardy, and covered from the middle of
May, with hundreds of large, loose flowers,
of every shade, between a rich reddish-buff
and a full copper-pink. The old standard
plants in the open ground were one mass of