We must grow, of course, the blushing, fresh, fragrant Provence. It was to many of us the Rose of our childhood, and its delicious perfume passes through the outer sense into our hearts, gladdening them with bright and happy dreams, saddening them with lone and chill awakings. It brings more to us than the fairness and sweet smell of a Rose. We paused in our play to gaze on it, with the touch of a vanished hand in ours, with a father's blessing on our heads, and a mother's prayer that we might never lose our love of the pure and beautiful. Happy they who retain or regain that love, and thankful I am that, with regard to Roses, the child was father to the man. Yes, I was a RosarianThe Rose Garden Roses 30011 IV, and in my seventh summer I presided at a "Flower Show" - for thus we designated a few petals of this Provence Rose or of some other flower placed behind apiece of broken glass, furtively appropriated when the glazier was at dinner, and cutting, not seldom, our small fingers (retribution swift upon the track of crime), which we backed with newspaper turned over the front as a frame or edging, and fastened from the resources of our natural gums.

And now, can any of my readers appease indignation and satisfy curiosity by informing me who first called the Provence Rose "Old Cabbage," and why? For myself, "I should as soon have thought of calling an earthquake genteel," as Dr Maitland remarked, when an old lady near to him during an Oratorio declared the Hallelujah Chorus to be "very pretty." It must have been a tailor who substituted the name of his beloved esculent for a word so full-fraught with sweetness, so suggestive of the brave and the beautiful, of romance and poesy, sweet minstrelsy and trumpet tones. The origin of the title Provence is, I am aware, somewhat obscure. Mr Rivers thinks that it cannot have been given because the Rose was indigenous to Provence in France, or our French brethren would have proudly claimed it, instead of knowing it only by its specific name, rose a cent feuilles; but we may have received it, nevertheless, from Provence, as Provence, when Provincia, received it - Rosa centifolia - from her Roman masters, and may have named it accordingly.

Be this as it may, we have rhyme on our side if we have not reason, and I vote "Old Cabbage" to the pigs.

The Rosarian should devote a small bed of rich soil, well manured, to the cultivation of this charming flower, growing it on its own roots, and pruning closely.

The Double Yellow Provence Rose, of a rich, glowing, buttercup yellow as to complexion, and prettily cupped as to form, full of petal, but of medium size, has almost disappeared from our gardens, and I have only seen it at the Stamford Shows, sent there from beautiful Burleigh. Although common at one time in this country, it seems never to have been happy or acclimatised. "In many seasons," writes the Rev. Mr Hanbury, in his elaborate work upon Gardening, published just a century ago, "these Roses do not blow fair. Sometimes they appear as if the sides had been eaten by a worm when in bud; at other times the petals are all withered before they expand themselves, and form the flower. For this purpose, many have recommended to plant them against north walls, and in the coldest and moistest part of the garden, because, as the contexture of their petals is so delicate, they will be then in less danger of suffering by the heats of the sun, which seem to wither and burn them as often as they expand themselves.

But I could not observe without wonder what I never saw before - i.e., in the parching and dry summer of 1762, all my Double Yellow Roses, both in the nursery-lines and elsewhere, in the hottest of the most southern exposures and dry banks, everywhere all over my whole plantation, flowered clear and fair." Here, in my opinion, the latter paragraph contradicts and disproves the former, showing us that so far from the Yellow Provence Rose being burned and withered by the sun, we have only now and then in an exceptional season sunshine sufficient to bring it to perfection. And for this reason we will leave it "If she be not fair for me, What care I how fair she be?"

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 possession of another Liliputian treasure, the Banksian Rose, commended to him when we 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 infrequent, being of healthful habit, and growing well either as dwarfs or standards. Blanchefleur is a very pretty Rose, of the colour commonly 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 rara avis in terris, 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 spending 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 (whereupon 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 the swell I spoke of would have considered offal - a Moss-Rosebud, with a bit of Fern attached.