l64 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



hate anterooms. They remind me of disagreeable epochs — of 

 waiting in custom-houses for luggage, which was not, perhaps, 

 quite what moral luggage should be ; of dreary dining-rooms be- 

 longing to dentists, where, surveying with nervous rapidity the 

 photographic album, and wondering over the portrait of Mrs. 

 Dentist, how that pretty face could have wed with forceps, lancet, 

 and file, I have heard kicks and groans from the '■'drawing-room 

 above," "oh-ohs!" from the chair which I was about to fill. 

 They recall to memory rooms scholastic, in which I listened for 

 the approach of lictor and fasces, and from which, though mounted 

 and with my back turned to, the enemy, I had no power to flee. 

 They bring to recollection rooms collegiate, sombre, walled with 

 books, where with other rebels I have waited to see that proctor, 

 who hardly knew in the meek, respectful, gown-clad undergrad- 

 uate of the morn, the hilarious Jehu he met yester-eve in a tandem 

 and a scarlet coat. Again, sir, I repeat that I hate anterooms, I 

 hate waiting, I hate crowds, I hate black-silk stockings, and I am 

 yours irascibly. Rose Rampant. 



I hasten at once, with many apologies, to the 

 pacification and relief of my disciple ; and seeing 

 that he is much too hot and ruffled — I don't mean 

 about the wrists, but inwardly — for immediate 

 presentation, I propose to cool him a little in the 

 fresh pure air, taking him with me to the summit 

 of a breezy slope, which he, being of a rampant 

 nature, will rejoice to ascend, and then showing 

 him, when pleasantly and kindly '* we've climbed 

 the hill together," all the Roses I 



Just out of Interlachen, the tourist on his wa}- 

 to Lauterbrunnen Vv^as invited, when I was there. 



