Millheim Journal. [volume] (Millheim, Pa.) 1876-1984, 1883-02-22
MIR. BancrOit's Roses.

Mr. Bancroft the historian, who resides
In Washington has a hobby. 1t is rose
culture. Fancy tins OF a 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 t'cbru-
ary to June. Such hyaclnths surely never
bloomed outside of a poem; and the tulips
looked as if some tropical bird Lad beeu
plucked near by, and It's plumage scattered
broadcast over the over the beds. Every
shade and color IN natures paint-box was
represented and under the woong sun
and soft air of mldwmter they thrust up
from the mold long before the leaves were
out or the spring prince had kissed the
sleeping world to hfe; and in the SHOWS
and storms that follow such weather.
truce they would stand erec! and glowing
ana hold their ground until the green was
washed into the hills, and the cat-taIls he.
gan to frisk on the trees.
But all of this Was only a prelude TO his
rose garden. He bought large lot which
Joined his property at right angles, facing
on Seventeenth street; OF course he paid q
fancy price for il, as il was in the heart oil
the West End. Straightway he planted II
all in roses.
Such flowers They ranged in color
from the palest bloom of Provence TO the
passionate heart Of the JaCqueminOt /;
Marechal Mel bends IN stately courtesy to
Marie elliot, and slghs in perfume for the
Ia NJ a nf hn
MamaIson Madame Melsh shakes her
petals at the White Croquet, the Altar
rose, the pale SafrOna, and the Damask
Blush, the Mlcratilla lifts up It's white cups
to the sun, and Maria Cook Iaints IN the
glow of a sisterhood whose very names |
have forgotten. The garden is like a tenn
pie where thousand spices are burning in
flames Of as many colors, and the venera-
bic historlsn is the worshipper.
He is an early riser, and many morn
ing | have been awakened by cries and
comments, incoherent AS Co words, but
ringing with plcasurcl ~r,0.1 90 to my
window, and there, bending ,-v=I rose a1Uer
rose, would be the Slight, elastic figure OF
their adorer his white beard and hair
sweeping the freshness from their chalices,
and getting the first perfumes OF the young
day. He carried book IL 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 kissing the flowers, sometimes
caressng them with his fingers, and fire.
quently dropping on his stool under some
specially odorous cluster to read his book
to the c1mpaniment-sound sense and
sweet scents!
His house at Newport is surrounded by
a sea et bloom and fragrance, and he makes
his roses the calendar by which he tells off
hls seasons. He stays in Washington until
June and the JaCquemlnots die together;
then he flies to his nOrtherH garden, where
he fingers unJIl the hardest of It's dcnlZens
are dead and the ghosts of their petals fall
IN snow from the clouds of November. HIS
house IN Washington is stored with luter-
esting things. the speciality being that
there is one of everything and that one of
the very best. lis hospitality is lavish
and elegant, and his library what RuskIn
would call GA tomb of the klugs." In
build the historian is, as have SAID, Sigh
hls hair and beard are like cream colore d
silk, his dark eyes tender with the fires of
thirty, and his movements are quick and
graceful. He rides every day on fiery
black horse, and can tire out his young
companions in hard trOt every time.