Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1882-12-30
MIR. BANCROFr,s ROSES.
Attractions Of His Garden I'm washing
Correspondents. Of the chicaro Tribune.

Correspondent Of the Chicago Tribune.
WASHINGTON, Dec. 90.-Mr Bancroft's hobby
is rose-culture. Fancy this OF man who spends
his days in setting up the dry bones Of facts and
breathing into them the life OF history His
winter home is a double brown stone, and had
originally small strip of ground on each side Of
the entrance. There was one blaze Of color
from February to June. Such hyacinths surely
never bloomed outside Of poem; and the
tulips looked as IL some tropical bird had been
plucked near by and its plumage scattered
broadcast over the beds. Every shade and
color in natures paint-boX was represented: and
under the wooing sun and soft air OF mdwlnter
they thrust up from the mold long before the
leaves were out or the Spring Prince had kissed
the sleeping world to life; and In the SHOWS and
storms that always follow such a weather-trucA
they would stand erect and glowing and hold
their ground until the green was washed into
the hills and the cat-tails began to frisk on the
trees.
But all Of this was only q prelude to his rose
garden. Hebought a large lot which Joined his
property at right angles. facing on 18th street;
OF course he paid fancy price for It. as il was
in the heart of the West End. Straightway he
planted 1t all In roses
Such flowers!
They ranged in color from the palest bloom Of
Provence to the passionate heart of the JacQue-
minot: Marechal Mel bends In stately courtesy
Marie elliot and signs In perfume for the Cloth
of-Gold and the memories of the Malmaison;
Madame Mesh shakes her petals at the White
Coquet, the Altar rose the pale Safrona and the
Damask Blush; the Micrafills lifts up its white
cups to the sun, and Maria Cook falnts In the
glow of a sisterhood whose very names have
forgotten The garden is like a temple where Q
thousand spices are burning in flames of as many
colors, and the venerable historian Is the wor-
shipper
He is an early riser and many morning I
have been awakened by cries and comments
incoherent as to words, but ringing with pleas
ure. l would GO to my window and there,
bending over rose after rose. would be the
slight, elastic figure Of their adorer-his white
beard and hair sweeping the frshness from their
chaiices and getting the first perfumes OF the
young day. He carried a book i'm one hand and
"a three legged stool in the other and spent
two or three hours just wandering from bush to
bush In an ecStacy Of content-sometimes kiss
Ing the flowers, sometimes caressing them with
his fingers, and frequently dropping on his stool
under some specially odorous cluster to read
his book to the accompanlment-sound sense
and sweet scents,
His house at Newport is surrounded by a sea
or bloom and fragrance, and he makes his roses
the calendar by which he tells off his seasons
He stays In Washington until June and the
Jacqueminots die together; then he flies to HE
northern garden, where he fingers until the hard
lest OF Its denizens are dead and the ghosts Of
their petals fall in snow from the clouds OF No
vember. His house In Washington is stored
with interesting things the speciality being that
there is one of everything and that one of tho
very best. His hospitality is lavish and elegant
and his library what Ruskin would call "A tomb
of the kings" In build the historian is, as I
have said. slight. his hair and beard are like
cream-colored silk. his dark eyes tender with
the fres OF 80, and his movements are quick and
graceful He rides every day on a fiery black
horse. and can tire out his young COMPANIONS in
hard trOt every time.