It is what cricketers call an "all-rounder," good in every point for wall, arcade, pillar, standard, dwarf - en masse, or as a single tree. It is easy to cultivate, out of doors and in. It forces admirably, and you may have it, almost in its summer beauty, when Christmas snows are on the ground. With half-a-dozen pots of it, carefully treated, and half-a-dozen trees in your garden, you may enjoy it all the year round; and if ever, for some heinous crime, I were miserably sentenced, for the rest of my life, to possess but a single Rose-tree, I should desire to be supplied, on leaving the dock, with a strong plant of Gloire de Dijon.

As to treatment, although this Rose, like some thoroughbred horse, will do its work with little grooming and scanty fare, it well repays that generous diet which I have previously prescribed. In pruning, take away all weakly wood, and you may then deal with the strong as you please. If you want to increase the height of your tree, "cut boldly," said the Augur, and low. If you desire short flowering laterals, you may have them, a dozen on a shoot.

I am inclined to award to Climbing Devoniensis the second prize in its class. To this offspring of, or, as we technically term it, "sport" from, the lovely Tea-scented Rose, Devoniensis, we may truly say, 0 matre pulchra Filia pulchrior ! for it has all the beauty of the mother, form, complexion, sweetness, without that tendency to rapid decline which the parent exhibits in our chilly climate. A tree kindly sent to me by Mr Curtis, of the Devon Nursery, Torquay, made shoots 10 feet in length the first summer after planting, and now covers a large space on a wall 18 feet high. It blooms here even earlier than Gloire de Dijon, and I gathered perfect flowers from it during the month of November last.

Keep a sharp look-out, when pruning, for wood diseased or decayed, because, although the Rose gave ample proof of its hardihood by surviving the trying wdnter and spring of 1866-7, the ends of its shoots and its young laterals are liable to be injured by frost; and all crippled limbs and unhealthy flesh should, of course, be amputated.

There are two Roses, I am well aware - two sisters of this same "most divinely tall" family - more beautiful than those which I have preferred before them. When we held our third National Rose Show in the Crystal Palace at Sydenham, the first of those exhibitions which have since been so popular in that grand creation of a gardener's genius, I remember that some of us were made almost angry by the excessive share of admiration received by one of these Roses. An anxious eager crowd jumped and jostled to get a view of it, reckless of each other's corns. I heard a remark from one visitor to another, a short man behind him, who seemed, I must say, about to clamber up the speaker's back, - "Pardon me, sir, but may I remind you that we are not playing at leap-frog?" What were they all struggling to see? There were long lines of lovely Roses - why this pressure always at this special spot? It was just as when, in our Royal Academy, and on the first days of exhibition, the visitors all make for one particular corner, because there hangs, so the 'Times' has told them, the picture of the year. And what was the Rose? It was Cloth of Gold Noisette - a box of it, sent by Mr W. Cant, from the neighbourhood of Colchester. Well, the most jealous could not dispute its supreme beauty.

It was certainly the belle of the ball. In its integrity, it is, I believe, the most glorious of all Roses. No true rosarian ever forgets the first perfect bloom he sees of it. "Even at this distance of time," writes Mr Rivers in 1867, "I have not forgotten the delight I felt on seeing this R,ose in full bloom at Angers in 1843. Its flowers were like large golden bells." Why, then, have I not given it precedence 1 Simply because, were such a compliment offered, the Rose would scarcely ever be there to receive it. Because in this climate it is so rarely realised, that I do not remember to have seen it, full grown, more than three or four times in my life. Puny personifications and dreadful imbecilities arrogating the name I have met with frequently, but the grand gold goblet, to hold nectar for the gods, is seen but on state occasions - a chalice for the coronation of kings. It is "a shy bloomer," "wants a warm wall," "good for the conservatory," they tell us who know it best. And yet (so capricious is beauty) I have seen noble specimens of this flower upon the walls of a cottage five miles from my home, and the gentleman to whom the cottage belonged was never, I believe, more happy than when he came to dine with me, wearing in his coat a huge bud which he had begged from his tenant, and which resembled in size the egg of a turkey, or rather, in my eyes, of a roc.

Alas ! this tree perished years ago. Its fate was the common lot of its race - to be cut down by cruel frost. And yet I would advise amateurs to do as I do, persevere in growing it. One year's harvest will be recompense enough for the ploughing and sowing of a decade. If other Roses boast of their fecundity, this may answer, as the queen of beasts to the fox, "My children are few, but they are lions." Try it on a south wall; try it on verandah and arcade (I have seen it flowering freely on the latter); try it budded on the Celine Hybrid Bourbon, which is also most congenial for Climbing Devoniensis; try it on the Banksian and Manetti Stocks; try it on its own roots, protecting it during the winter months with some good thick surface-dressing. I do not recommend matting, or other material, which keeps light and air from the plant. A sickly unnatural gowth is often caused thereby, which renders the plant more powerless than ever to resist its enemies - insects and vernal frost.

The other Rose referred to is Marechal Niel. Since the time when, a baby in floriculture, I first began to "take notice" of Roses, more than twenty years ago, three new stars of special brightness have glittered in our firmament - Gloire de Dijon, Charles Lefebvre, and Marechal Niel. The latter is, I think, the greatest acquisition, because we had, previous to its introduction, no hardy Yellow Rose, realising, as this does - in the wonderful beauty of its flowers, their size, shape, colour, fragrance, longevity, abundance, in the amplitude of its glossy leaves, and the general habit of the plant - our every desire and hope. We possessed some approximations to Grloire de Dijon in our Tea and Bourbon Roses. Charles Lefebvre was a development of General Jacqueminot; but of a hardy Golden Rose, more precious and more welcome a thousand times than those Golden Roses which popes have sent to favoured kings, we saw no harbinger. The beautiful old Yellow Provence was all but extinct. I have never seen it, except in the gardens of Burleigh - "Burleigh House by Stamford town." The few splendid petals of the Persian Yellow only increased our sacra fames aurl - the egg-cup made us long for the tankard of gold.