CHAPTER XLVIII.

OLD HOMES AND HAUNTS OF WASHINGTON—MEMORIES OF OTHER DAYS.

The Oldest Home in Washington—The Cottage of David Burns—David Burns’s Daughter—Singing a Lady’s Praises—The Attractions of a Cottage—“Tom Moore” the Poet Pays Homage to Fair Marcia—The Favored Suitor—How the Lady was Wooed and Won—Mother and Daughter—The Offering to God—The City Orphan Asylum—A Costly Mausoleum—The Assassination Conspiracy—Persecuting the Innocent—A Suggestion for the Board of Works—The Octagon House—A Comfortable Income—The Pleasures of Property—A Haunted House—Apple-Stealing—“Departed Joys and Stomach-Aches”—The Jackson Monument—The Tragedy of the Decatur House—A Fatal Duel—The Stockton-Sickles House—A Spot of Frightful Interest—The Club-House—Assassination of Mr. Seward—Scenes of Festivity—The Madison House—Mrs. Madison’s Popularity—Her Turbans and Her Snuff—The Exploit of Commodore Welkes—Arlington Hotel—The House of Charles Sumner—Corcoran Castle—The Finest Picture-Gallery in America—Powers’ Greek Slave—“Maggie Beck”—Kalaroma—During the War—Rock Creek—The Romantic Story of Mr. Barlow’s Niece—Francis P. Blair—Doddington House—The Brother of Lord Ellenborough—Forgetting His Own Name—Locking Up a Wife—The “Ten Buildings”—The Retreat of Louis Phillippe—Old Capitol Prison—The Temporary Capitol—The Deeds of Ann Royal and Sally Brass—“Paul Pry”—Blackmailing—Feared by all Mankind—An Unpleasant Sort of Woman—Arrested on Suspicion—A Small American Bastile—Where Wirz was Hung.

The oldest home in Washington is the cottage of David Burns.

You remember _him_, he was Washington’s “obstinate Mr. Burns.” Well, he owned nearly the entire site of the future Federal city, an estate which had descended to him, through several generations of Scottish ancestors. It was perfectly human and right that he should make the most and best of his precious paternal acres. Long before quarrelling Congresses had even thought of the District of Columbia as a site to contend over as the future Capitol, the cottage of David Burns had gathered on its lowly roof the moss of time.

After the lapse of nearly a century it stands to-day as it stood then, only the moss on its roof is deeper, and the trees which arch above it, cast a longer and deeper shadow. It was a mansion in that day of small beginnings. Yet it is but a low, sharp-roofed cottage, one story high, with a garret; its doors facing north and south, one opening upon the river, with no steps, but one broad flag-stone, now settled deep within its grassy borders. Besides the garret, there cannot be more than four rooms in the house; a dining-room, sitting-room, and two sleeping-rooms; the kitchen, after the Maryland and Virginia fashion of the present day, was probably a detached building. The farm-house no doubt equalled its average neighbors, scattered miles apart across the wide domain of open country.

Before Washington came to negotiate for the future site of the Federal city, the society of Davy Burns was probably composed of plain farmer folk like himself. It was at a later time, when the farmer was transformed into a millionaire, and his only daughter had grown into the fairest _belle_ and richest heiress in all the country round, that the long, low rooms of the one-story farm-house were filled with the most illustrious men of their generation. David Burns’ only daughter was not more than twelve or thirteen years of age.

With a prescience of her future lot, he proceeded to give her every advantage of education and society at that period accessible to a gentlewoman of fortune. The Rector of St. John’s Church, who preached her funeral sermon in 1832, said: “She was placed by her parents in the family of Luther Martin, Esq., of Baltimore, who was then at the height of his fame as the most distinguished jurist and advocate in the State of Maryland, and with his daughters and family she had the best opportunity of education and society.”

At eighteen, Marcia Burns returned to the home of her parents—the lowly farm-house on the banks of the Potomac. Then, and at a later day, when the flush and enchantment of youth had fled, the vision of Marcia Burns is altogether lovely. Beside the attractions of fortune, she seemed to possess in an eminent degree the highest qualities of the feminine nature. It was of Marcia Burns that Horatio Greenough wrote:

“’Mid rank and wealth and worldly pride, From every snare she turned aside. · · · · · · · · · · · · She sought the low, the humble shed, Where gaunt disease and famine tread; And from that time, in youthful pride, She stood Van Ness’s blooming bride, No day her blameless head o’erpast, But saw her dearer than the last.”

The return of the only child and heiress of David Burns, in the first beauty of young womanhood, soon filled the paternal cottage with illustrious society, and with many suitors for her hand and heart. The Keys, the Lloyds, the Peters, the Lows, the Tayloes, the Calverts, the Carrols, all visited here. Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, Burr, with many other famous then, not forgotten now, were guests at the Burns cottage. Thomas Moore was entertained beneath its roof, and slept in one of the little rooms “off” the large one on the ground floor.

The favored suitor was John P. Van Ness, the son of Judge Peter Van Ness of New York, celebrated as an anti-Federalist, a Revolutionary officer, and a supporter of Aaron Burr against the Clinton and Livingston feud.

When John Van Ness wooed and won Marcia Burns, he was thirty years of age, a Member of Congress from New York, “well-fed, well-bred, well-read,” elegant, popular and handsome enough to win his way to any maiden’s heart, unassisted by the accessories of fortune, which, in addition, were bountifully his. In Gilbert Stuart’s picture we see him with powdered wig and _toupee_, light-brown hair and side whiskers, perceptive forehead, aquiline nose, finely-curved lips and chin, a small mouth, with clear, hazel eyes, which could look their way straight to many hearts.

The portrait of the heiress of David Burns may be seen to-day in Washington, not in any hall of wealth or fashion, but in the Orphan Asylum, which she founded and endowed, to whose children she was a mother. It looks down upon us, a Madonna face, with intellectual, spiritual brow, dewy eyes, and a tender mouth.

Marcia Burns married John P. Van Ness at the age of twenty. Her only brother dying in early youth, she inherited the whole of her father’s vast estate. For a few years after her marriage she lived at the old cottage. Her husband then built a two-story house on the corner of Twelfth and D streets. Later, he began the house, which, still standing in the centre of Mansion Square, is one of the most unique of all the historic houses of Washington. It was designed, as were so many famous Washington houses, by Latrobe, and cost between $50,000 and $60,000 more than half a century ago. Its marble mantel-pieces, wrought in Italy, with their sculptured Loves and Vestas, still remain, models of exquisite art. It is finished with costly woods, and about its door-knobs are set tiles inlaid with Mosaics. Its great portico, facing north, is modelled after that of the President’s house. This stately brick mansion, amid the trees, standing a few rods back from the Burns’ cottage, presents to it an absolute contrast.

This costly home was ready for the family when the only daughter and child of General and Mrs. Van Ness returned, in 1820, from school in Philadelphia. Thither Marcia Burns brought _her_ daughter. The bond between the two is said to have been more intimate and profound than that of simply mother and daughter. The daughter was the cherished companion of the mother, who cultivated an intelligent interest in public affairs, who loved poetry, and wrote it, and who, amid all the pomp of wealth and state, never forgot, or allowed her child to forget, that the fashion of this world passeth away.

Ann Elbertina Van Ness married Arthur Middleton of South Carolina, son of a signer of the Declaration of Independence. But, in November, 1822, in less than two years from her return from school, this only child, this youthful bride, this heiress of untold wealth, with her babe in her arms, was carried to the grave.

From that hour, her mother, Marcia Burns, who, in the world, had never been of it, renounced its vanities entirely. The cottage in which she was born, in which her parents lived and died, nestling under the patriarchal trees, just outside the windows of her stately home, had ever remained the object of her veneration and affection. In this humble dwelling, over whose venerable roof waved the branches of trees planted by her dear parents, she selected a secluded apartment, with appropriate arrangements for solemn meditation, to which she often retired, and spent hours in quiet solitude and holy communion.

The offering to God which she made beside the grave of her daughter, was the City Orphan Asylum of Washington. She became a mother to the children, saved, sheltered, and trained for heaven beneath its roof. She did not wait for these orphans to come to her door. Night and day she sought them out. In her portrait, still hanging in this asylum, she is sitting with three little girls, clinging to her for protection, one with its head in her lap.

Her last sickness was long and painful. A few days before her death, with a few Christian friends gathered about her bed, she celebrated the holy Sacrament; then, with perfect serenity, awaited the final call. Her last words to her husband, placing her hand upon his head, were: “Heaven bless and protect you. Never mind me.” She died September 9, 1832, aged fifty years.

She was the first American woman buried with public honors. At the time of her death, General Van Ness was Mayor of Washington. Meetings of condolence were held by citizens in different places. As the funeral procession began to move, a committee of citizens placed a second silver plate upon her coffin, inscribed:—

“The Citizens of Washington, in testimony of their veneration for departed worth, dedicate this plate to the memory of Marcia Van Ness, the excellent consort of D. P. Van Ness. If piety, charity, high principle and exalted worth could have averted the shafts of fate, she would still have remained among us, a bright example of every virtue. The hand of death has removed her to a purer and happier state of existence; and, while we lament her loss, let us endeavor to emulate her virtues.”

The procession passed between the little girls of the Orphan Asylum, who stood in lines, till the coffin was placed at the door of the vault, when they came forward, strewing the bier with branches of weeping-willows, and singing a farewell hymn.

The last earthly house which received the body of Marcia Burns was more magnificent than any she had ever inhabited. Years before, General Van Ness had reared a Mausoleum, which still remains, one of the purest examples of monumental art on this continent. It is a copy of the Temple of Vesta, and could not be built at the present time for a sum less than thirty-four or thirty-five thousand dollars. In the vault, beneath its open dome, Marcia Burns was laid beside her child. This magnificent temple of the dead was recently removed and rebuilt, precisely as it was in the Oak Hill Cemetery, Georgetown. The cells of its deep vault now hold nearly all of the dust left of the Burns and Van Ness alliance.

General Van Ness lived to the period of the Mexican war, passing away at the age of seventy-six, after having enjoyed every honor which the citizens of Washington could bestow upon him. He sued the Government of the United States for violating its contract with the original proprietors of Washington in selling to private purchasers lots near the Mall. Roger B. Taney was his lawyer, and yet he lost his suit. He gave an entertainment to Congress every year up to the time of his death, and wonder-heads declare that his six horses, headless, still gallop around the Van Ness Mansion, in Mansion square, annually, on the anniversary of that event.

Some twenty-five years ago, this old mansion and estate was bought by its present proprietor, Thomas Green, Esq., a Virginia gentleman. The last time that it came prominently before the public, was during the assassination conspiracy, when an irresponsible newspaper sent the report flying, that its great wine-vault was to have been used as a place of incarceration for Mr. Lincoln, before he was conveyed across the river. In those mad days no magnate waited for proof, and the result was that Mr. Green and his gentle wife, who,—as her husband remarked—“was as innocent as an angel,” were shut up in our small bastile, the old Capitol prison. Here both were held for more than thirty days, when after having vindicated their honor beyond the possibility of reproach, the Government somewhat ashamed of itself, let them depart to the shelter of their patriarchal home.

On buying the estate, Mr. Green with that veneration for old, sacred associations which pre-eminently marks the Virginian,—instead of tearing down the old Burns’ cottage as “nothing to him” or as a blot upon his fair estate, went immediately to work to preserve it. Without changing it in any way, he re-roofed it, made it rain-proof, whitewashed it, and left it with its trees and memories. What Mr. Green has preserved, let not the Board of Public Works destroy! In this case, gentlemen, let your “grade” go—and the cottage of “the obstinate Mr. Burns,” the first owner of this great Capital, and the oldest house in it—remain.

It was a June evening that we last passed the gate and the lodge of the old Van Ness estate, at the foot of Seventeenth street. The high brick-wall which shut in this historic garden, is mantled with ivy and honeysuckle. Old fruit trees, apple, pear, peach, apricot, plum, cherry, nectarine, and fig trees, all in their season, lift their crowns of fruitage to the sun within these old walls. Following a winding avenue, we pass through grounds above which gigantic aspen, maple, walnut, holly, and yew trees cast deep, cool shadows in the hottest summer days. As we approach the house we see that the drive before the northern portico is encircled with an immense growth of box. Before the low windows of the eastern drawing-room, stretch wide _parterres_ of roses of every known variety. In June it is literally a garden of roses—and the early snow falls upon them, budding and blooming still in the delicious air. Oranges ripen on the sunshiny lawn which surrounds the house, and masses of honeysuckle which climb the balustrades of the southern portico pervade the air with sweetness, acres away.

This southern portico used as a conservatory in the winter, is a counterpart, on a smaller plan, of the south veranda of the President’s house. It has the same outlook only nearer the river. To the right, the dome of the observatory swells into the blue air, and, before it, the Potomac runs up and kisses the grasses at its feet. Lovers’ walk, shaded by murmuring pines, as such a walk should be, runs on through the grove down to a mimic lake, where, in mid-water, is a tiny island with shadowy trees and restful seats.

I stray down this walk with Alice,—golden-haired and poet-eyed. We wander across under the patriarchal trees and come out on the river-side of the old Burns cottage. Its sunken door-stone, its antique door-latch, its minute window-panes, all are just the same as when Marcia Burns, beautiful and young, received within its walls her courtly worshippers; just the same as when Marcia Burns, smitten and childless, knelt alone by its desolate hearth, to commune with the God and Father of her spirit, and to dedicate herself to His service for ever.

Beside us, eight lofty Kentucky coffee-trees soar palm-like towards the sky. Through their clustering crowns the full moon peers down upon us; upon the cottage, so fraught with the memories of buried generations; upon the white walls of the mansion, so rich in recollections of the illustrious dead of a later past,—and she transfigures both cottage and hall in her hallowing radiance, as, with lingering steps, I say to gentle host and hostess, and to Alice,—golden-haired and poet-eyed,—“Farewell.”

* * * * *

The Octagon House, now used as an office by the Navy Department, stands on the corner of Eighteenth street and New York avenue. It was built near the close of the last century by Colonel John Tayloe, one of the most famous men of his time, and is still owned by his descendents. Colonel Tayloe was a friend of Washington, who persuaded him to invest some of his immense fortune in the new Federal city. He was educated at Cambridge, England, and during his life in Washington, four of his former class-mates were sent as Ministers to the United States.

Colonel Tayloe had an income of seventy-five thousand dollars a year. He had an immense country estate at Mount Airy, Virginia, and both there and in Octagon House, entertained his friends in princely state. He kept race-horses, and expended about thirty-three thousand dollars every year in new purchases. He owned five hundred slaves, built brigs and schooners, worked iron-mines, converted the iron into ploughshares,—and all was done by the hands of his own subjects. After the burning of the White House, Mr. and Mrs. Madison lived in the Octagon House for a year, and held these elegant drawing-rooms and gave costly dinners. The Octagon House has long had the reputation of being haunted. “It is an authenticated fact, that every night, at the same hour, all the bells would ring at once. One gentleman, dining with Colonel Tayloe, when this mysterious ringing began, being an unbeliever in mysteries, and a very powerful man, jumped up and caught the bell wires in his hand, but only to be lifted bodily from the floor, while he was unsuccessful in stopping the ringing. Some declare that it was discovered, after a time, that rats were the ghosts who rung the bells; others, that the cause was never discovered, and that finally the family, to secure peace, were compelled to take the bells down and hang them in different fashion. Among other remedies, had been previously tried that of exorcism, but the prayers of the priest who was summoned availed nought.”

In 1805, Washington city was an old field, covered everywhere with green grass and many original trees of the forest. There were no streets made. The President’s house was unfinished, and Lafayette square, opposite, was still called the “Burns Orchard.” One corner of it was used as a burial-ground of St. John’s Church. Where General Jackson’s statue is now rearing in the air on a frantic horse, then stood a clump of cherry trees, under which John Gardner’s school-boys used to make themselves sick eating green cherries. As the boys of this school never allowed the green apples or any other fruit in this orchard to ripen, and for that reason were in a perpetually griped condition all summer, their school-master, much against their wishes, and that of the militia who paraded under the trees, obtained permission of President Jefferson to cut the orchard down.

As an open “reservation,” the square was long a landmark of the departed joys and stomachaches of the boys of a former generation. In course of time Dowing laid out the graceful walks and grassy plats which make it now a perfect _bijou_ of beauty. He planted the trees which to-day arch high in mid-air, and spread so deep and grateful a shade above the weary multitudes who seek rest and a touch of nature’s healing upon its wayside seats. It is altogether beautiful and soul and sense-reviving, in the spring, when its many-flowering shrubs pervade the air with fragrance, and no less delicious in the autumn, when it flames a mosaic of gorgeous landscape set in the dusty square, its many tinted leaves warm and red as gems raining, about your feet.

August 11, 1848, a resolution of Congress authorized the Jackson Monument Committee to receive the brass guns captured by Jackson at Pensacola, to be used as material for the construction of a monument to that distinguished patriot. Clark Mills was appointed to execute the statue. President Fillmore chose its site in the centre of the square, opposite the President’s House, where it was inaugurated January 8, 1853, the anniversary of Jackson’s victory at New Orleans, in 1815. As I am inadequate to describe such a work of art, I give the guide-book description:—

“General Jackson is represented in the exact military costume worn by him, with cocked-hat in hand, saluting his troops. The charger, a noble specimen of the animal, with all the fire and spirit of a Bucephalus, is in a rearing posture, poised upon his hind feet, with no other stay than the balance of gravity, and the bolts pinning the feet to the pedestal. The work is colossal, the figure of Jackson being eight feet in height, and that of the horse in proportion. The whole stands upon a pyramidal pedestal of white marble, seven feet in height, at the base of which are planted four brass six-pound guns, taken by the hero at New Orleans. The cost of the statue to the Government, including the pedestal and iron railing, was $28,500.”

Around this peaceful spot, where the militia beat their _reveille_, and the school-boys munched green apples and cherries, and gathered nuts in days of yore, human life in all its passion of pleasure, tragedy and pain, now pressed close. One of the saddest tragedies of the square is associated with the Decatur House. It is said that three powers rule the world—Intellect, Wealth, and Fame. Wearing this triple crown, Stephen Decatur came home to the wife whom he worshipped, saying: “I have gained a small sprig of laurel, which I hasten to lay at your feet.” He bought the lot on the corner of Sixteenth and H streets, and employed Latrobe to design a commodious and elegant mansion. In this house the home-life of Decatur begun with the most dazzling auguries. Its walls were hung with the trophies of his glory: the sword presented by Congress for burning the _Philadelphia_; another from Congress for the attack on Tripoli; a medal from Congress for the capture of the _Macedonian_; a box containing the freedom of New York; the medal of the Order of Cincinnati; swords from the States of Pennsylvania and Virginia, and the City of Philadelphia; and services of plate from the cities of Baltimore and Philadelphia. All these were but leaves on the sprig of laurel which he laid at the feet of the beloved one.

Mrs. Decatur was accomplished, intellectual, and passionately devoted to her heroic husband. Not yet forty-two years of age, he had scaled the very summit of fame, and already rested after the toilsome ascent. His mornings were given to the fulfilment of his duties as Navy Commissioner, and his leisure was spent with the best in the society of Washington, made up of the highest in the land for station, character, and intelligence.

The _salon_ of Mrs. Decatur, which, to-day, is larger than can be found in any other private house in Washington, was a focal point for all that was dazzling in the social life of the capital. There are those still living who remember the brilliant assembly gathered here only the night before his death. Mrs. Decatur, who had no prescience of the anguish awaiting her, at the request of friends, played on the harp, on which she was a skilful performer. Commodore Decatur, conscious of the portentous appointment which awaited him the coming morning, abated not one jot of the wonted charm of his manner, staying in the parlors till the last guest had gone.

At dawn of the next day he arose, left the sleeping wife and household, crossed Lafayette Square, walked to Beale’s Tavern, near the Capitol, breakfasted, proceeded to Bladensburg, where the duel was fought at nine o’clock. Mortally wounded, he was brought back to his happy home, where he died the night of the same day. He tried to avert the duel, saying to Commodore Barron: “I have not challenged you, nor do I intend to challenge you; your life depends on yourself.”

He was followed to the grave by the President of the United States and the most illustrious men of his time. “The same cannon which had so often announced the splendid achievements of Decatur now marked the periods in bearing him to the tomb. Their reverberating thunder mournfully echoed through the metropolis, and also vibrated through a heart tortured to agony.” A vast concourse of citizens, marching to a funeral dirge, followed the dead hero to Kalorama.

Mrs. Decatur, within the walls of her home, for three years shut herself away from all the world. Afterwards the Decatur house was rented to Edward Livingston, then Secretary-of-State. Here Cora Livingston was married to Dr. Barton, who is remembered not only as a diplomat, but as the editor of an extensive and valuable collection of Shakespeare’s works. Here Sir Charles Vaughan, the British Ambassador, lived, and by his wit and affable manners and hospitality, made the house again a centre of elegant society. Martin Van Buren, while Secretary-of-State, occupied the Decatur House. The brothers King, both Members of Congress from New York, lived here. One was the father of the much-admired Mrs. Bancroft Davis, a portion of whose girlhood was passed under its roof. Mr. Orr, while Speaker of the House, was its tenant, and dispensed hospitalities to thousands in its grand _salon_. From Madison to Grant, every President has been entertained within its walls.

Madame de Staël says: “The homes and haunts of the great ever bear impress of their individuality.” Jean Paul Richter declares: “No thought is lost.” If this be true, how affluent of eloquence, wit and mirth these historic halls must be! They are ready to revive more than the splendor of past days. For a number of years the house, rented to the Government, has been used for offices. But within twelve months it has been purchased by General Edward Fitzgerald Beale, who has rehabilitated it, without remodelling it, for his own family residence. The ample halls and grand _salon_ remain unchanged in proportions, while fresh frescoes, historic devices, French windows and marble vestibule, give to the antique mansion the aspect of modern elegance.

General Beale is the grandson of Commodore Thomas Truxton, one of the first six captains appointed by General Washington in the early navy to guard the commerce of the United States. Commodore Decatur was a favorite midshipman and lieutenant under Truxton; and the grandson of his early commander, in this home of Decatur’s heart, is now preserving every possible souvenir of the sea. The Decatur mansion has passed into fitting hands. Its present owner made his gallant record under Commodore Stockton, and, in imperilling his life for others, has maintained the illustrious escutcheon transmitted him by his ancestors. When the gay season begins, light and music, warmth and cheer, wisdom, beauty and grace will again make these old halls glad. “Memnon-like, the old walls will again give forth sweet sounds.” A new generation will repeat the festivities of the generation gone to dust.

A few rods further on we came to the famous Stockton-Sickles House. Just now it shrinks, shabby and small, below its lofty modern neighbors. It is a white stuccoed house, two stories, with basement and attic, with high steps and square central hall, after the fashion of old times. It was called the Stockton House because Purser Stockton, who married a relative of Commodore Decatur, owned and lived in it. Afterwards, it was occupied by Levi Woodbury, the father of Mrs. Montgomery Blair, who lived here both while Secretary of the Treasury and of the Navy. It was also rented by Mr. Southard, of Georgia, the father of Mrs. Ogden Hoffman. When Mr. and Mrs. Sickles lived in it, it is said that the trees in Lafayette square were so small that the waving of a handkerchief from one of the windows could be distinctly seen at the club house opposite, on the other side of the square. This was the signal used between the first betrayed, then tempted and ruined wife, and the man of the world, to whom seduction was at once a pastime and a profession.

The trunk of the tree against which Key fell when shot by Sickles, may still be seen near the corner of Madison place and Pennsylvania avenue.

A few steps further on, in the middle of the block, stands the famous club-house which has witnessed more of the vicissitudes and tragedy of human life than any other house on the square, excepting, perhaps, the White House. The Club-House is a large, square, three-storied red brick house, built for his own use by Commodore Rogers, of the Navy. After his death, it became a fashionable boarding-house, then a club-house. To one of its rooms Barton Key was borne after being wounded by Sickles. While Secretary-of-State, Mr. Seward occupied the house for eight years, and during that time it was the centre of most elegant hospitality. In the assassination of Mr. Seward, it witnessed its crowning tragedy. In its rooms Mr. Seward and his son languished for months, while slowly recovering from the almost death-blows dealt by Payne.

After their recovery, the lovely and only daughter of Mr. Seward here slowly faded from earth. This young lady was, in a very remarkable degree, the chosen companion and confidante of her father. She not only sympathized profoundly in his pursuits, she shared them with him. I believe she witnessed, with unavailing cries, the attempted assassination of her father. At least, she never recovered from the shock received at that time. With her, passed from earth one of the loveliest spirits which ever shed its pure light upon the social life of the Capital. Her death left Mr. Seward wifeless and daughterless. With everything to live for, she met death with perfect faith and resignation. Her beautiful life, with her triumphant passage through death to a life still more perfect, remained with him to his last moment the most precious memory of her illustrious father.

With all its burden of tragedy and pathetic death, with the departure of the Sewards, the old house did not take on the shadow of gloom. Its parlors never witnessed gayer or more crowded assemblies than thronged them the next winter, when occupied by General Belknap, the Secretary-of-War. This was but for a single season. Another winter dropped its earliest snows on the new-made grave of the young wife and mother, the memory of whose gentle face and graceful presence and tender spirit, will only fade from the Capital with the present generation. It was the last flaming up of festivity in the old house. It has never been gay since Mrs. Belknap died.

The next year it waned into a boarding-house. Even that was not successful. People of sensibility do not wish even to board in a house so haunted with tragic memories of human lives. The house is now used for Government purposes. Its site is so superlative; central to the most interesting objects of Washington, and facing the waving sea of summer-green in Lafayette square. In the march of change its place will soon be filled by some soaring Mansard mansion of the future. But when every brick has vanished, the memories of the old club-house and Seward mansion will survive while any chronicle of Washington endures.

Next to it stands the house of Mr. Benjamin Ogle Tayloe, a descendant of Mr. Tayloe, of Octagon House memory. Mr. and Mrs. Tayloe have occupied this stately house for many years. The reminiscences of Washington published by Mr. Tayloe for private circulation are among the most entertaining records ever written of the Capital.

Next to the Tayloe House, on the corner of Fifteenth and H street, stands the Madison House, in which, as a widow, Mrs. Madison so long held her court. No eminent man retired from service of the state ever had more public recognition and honor bestowed upon him by the Government he had served than did this popular and ever-beloved woman. On New Year’s day, after paying their respects to the President, all the high officers of the Government always adjourned to the house of Mrs. Madison, to pay their respects to _her_. In her drawing-room political foes met on equal ground, and for the time, public and private animosities were forgotten or ignored.

“Never” says “Uncle Paul” her colored servant, who had lived with her from boyhood, and who still lives, “never was a more gracefuller lady in a drawing-room. We always had our Wednesday-evening receptions in the old Madison House, and we had them in style.” Mrs. Madison’s turbans are as famous in Washington to-day as her snuff box. It is said that she expended $1,000 a year in turbans. She wore one as long as she lived—long after it had ceased to be fashionable. “These turbans were made of the finest materials and trimmed to match her various dresses.” Uncle Paul tells of one of her dresses of purple velvet with a long train trimmed with wide gold-lace with which she wore a turban trimmed with gold-lace and a pair of gold shoes. With a white satin dress, she wore a turban spangled with silver, and silver shoes. She sent to Paris for all her grand costumes. Her tea-parties and her “loo” parties are still dwelt upon with loving accents by her admiring contemporaries who still linger on the borders of a later generation.

After the death of Mrs. Madison, her house was purchased and occupied for many years by Commodore Wilkes, who captured Mason and Slidell. It still stands in perfect preservation and is rented year by year to chance tenants. Two years ago, it was occupied by the Secretary-of-War and its drawing-rooms again thronged with brilliant crowds.

On an opposite corner facing Vermont avenue we see the brown walls, floating flag and gay equipages of Arlington Hotel. Beside it, on the corner, is the red-brick house with white shades, and Mansard roof, where, amid rare pictures, books, works of art, and choice friends, lives Charles Sumner.

A few rods further on, on the corner of H and Sixteenth streets, facing Lafayette square and peering out toward the old Decatur mansion, we came to “Corcoran Castle.” It is an imposing house, built of red-brick with brown facings, divided from the street by an iron railing, painted green, tipped with gilt, with an immense garden at the back, covering an entire square. The house is now owned and has been greatly beautified by W. W. Corcoran, the famous Washington banker, but has had many other occupants. It was once owned by Daniel Webster to whom it was presented by leaders of the party whom he had served. Great astonishment was expressed when he afterwards sold it. But as Daniel Webster was ever an impecunious man, he probably was compelled to part with his palace as Sheridan was so often compelled to part with his.

Before and during the Mexican war, the British Minister, Mr. Packingham resided in it, kept open house and made his parlors the rendezvous of the young people. A lady tells “of the young officers she saw taking part in those brilliant life-pictures, who in a few short weeks were lying with rigid, upturned faces, on Mexican battle-fields.” The house was at one time occupied by General Gratios, whose daughter married Count Montholon. During the war, when Mr. Corcoran resided abroad, he gave his house in charge of the successive French Ministers. During that time Madame de Montholon came back to the former home of her father. Within, the house is a delight to the eyes. Its picture-gallery is one of the finest in America, and holds amid many other treasures of art, Powers’ Greek Slave. The whole house is a gallery of costly furniture and works of art.

In this home of grace, “Maggie Beck” a Kentucky _belle_ of three seasons ago, who married a nephew of Mr. Corcoran, “received” her friends for the last time. The bride of a month, she was already the bride of death, and in her marriage robe, and veil and gleaming jewels, white, cold, and silent, she received the tears and lamentations poured upon her by agonized hearts. After an absence of years, hither Mr. Corcoran bore the dead body of his only child, and here, widowed and childless, shut himself in alone with his dead. The children of this daughter now make music in these stately halls. Age and childhood make the family life of Corcoran Castle.

A high brick wall shuts in this garden from the city. Its inner side is completely hung with ivy. Immense _parterres_ of roses and flowers of every tint, conservatories, a _croquet_-ground, rustic summer-houses, fountains, a fish-pond, forest trees shading a closely-shorn lawn, all these make a garden perfect in seclusion and beauty in the very heart of the Capital.

One of the most famous of suburban Washington haunts is Kalorama, literally like Bellevue—“beautiful view.” The ruins of Kalorama stand on a forest-shaded slope, a little more than a mile, perhaps, from the President’s house. From Twenty-first street it is approached by an avenue planted closely on either side by locust trees. Under their green arch the titled and famous of an earlier generation passed; but in our own memory it is associated with the pestilence-laden ambulance, for during the war beautiful Kalorama was a small-pox hospital.

Below Kalorama, Rock Creek winds its shining thread between the hills. Looking up the creek, we see grassy glades, along which cattle feed, and a picturesque valley walled by embowering woods. Climbing a green, tree-shaded slope, we reach a _plateau_ from which we look down upon two cities, Rock Creek still winding its silvery thread between. Opposite is Analoston Island, beyond the Virginia shore, and Arlington House peering through the trees of its crowning hill.

To the left lies Washington, guarded by the Capitol; before us, crumbling amid its guardian oaks, the ruins of Kalorama. It was built by Joel Barlow, once of “Columbiad” fame, in 1805. After spending several years abroad, where he espoused the cause of the French Republic, he returned to his own country and built a castle for himself overlooking its Capital. Before this, his “Columbiad” had been published with fine engravings, whose execution was superintended by Robert Fulton. On this poem he had spent the labor of the best years of his life. He believed without a doubt that it would be the national poem of the future. A copy of it graced every drawing-room. In what drawing-room is it visible now! Alas! for “Fame!”

Joel Barlow and Robert Fulton were intimate friends. In 1810 Fulton visited Kalorama, and it is declared that some of his first ventures in navigation were launched upon Rock Creek. History records that Fulton tested his torpedoes during this visit to Washington, and persuaded Congress to consider his navigation schemes. Mr. Barlow went to France as American Minister in 1812. He was taken ill while on his way to meet Napoleon, who had invited the American Minister to an interview with him at Wilna. Mr. Barlow died at Cracow, in Poland, where he solaced his death-bed by dictating a poem full of withering expression of resentment toward Napoleon for the hopes he had disappointed.

Mr. Barlow bequeathed Kalorama to his niece Mrs. Bomford. A romantic story is told of this lady. While with her first husband (whose name has deservedly perished) on the frontier, he being an officer in the United States Army, she was captured by Indians. For some reason known only to himself, her husband did not take the trouble to pursue her; but Lieutenant Bomford did. He organized a force of citizens and soldiers, and sallied forth in quest of the lady. He found her, and she rewarded him by marrying him after she had obtained a divorce from her indifferent lord.

Colonel and Mrs. Bomford resided at Kalorama for many years. During their residence here the Decatur-Barron duel took place, and the body of Decatur found a temporary resting-place in the tomb of the Barlows. This vault is still visible at the top of a small hill near the main entrance to the Kalorama grounds. With its low sharp roof and its plastered walls, it looks like an old spring-house. It bears an inscription to the memory of Joel Barlow, “poet, patriot, and philosopher,” although he was buried, when he died, at Cracow, Poland.

When Mrs. Decatur left the Decatur mansion, she retired to Kalorama. And years after her husband’s death she made it famous by the elegant entertainments which she gave there. There are gentlemen still in public life in Washington, who recall the elegant and costly dinners given by this lady at Kalorama.

This beautiful historic spot is now owned by a family named Lovett, who, it is said, intend in time to rebuild it.

Following Seventh street a mile or two beyond the city limits, we come to an unpretending country house, at some distance back from the road, surrounded by lawns, gardens and groves. It is a long, low house, before which runs a piazza, and behind which bubbles a famous spring. If it is morning, a pair of saddle-horses stand waiting their riders before the door. Presently they come out together, an ancient knight and lady, ready for a ten-mile ride on horseback. Eighty years and more have set their seal on the brows of each. The gentleman’s frame bears the marks of extreme age; it is attenuated, yet shows few signs of decrepitude. His skin may look like parchment, but the eyes burn with unabated fires. The lady is tall, straight, and stately, with dark, keen eyes, and head erect, as befits the mother of the Blairs. She has a son more than sixty years of age, and yet she seems not to have lived so many years herself. More than fifty years ago, this couple, by wagons and on horseback, came through the woods from far Kentucky to seek their fortune in the new capital city. The struggling village has grown into a metropolis; sons and daughters to the fourth generation have blessed them; they have done their share in the making and unmaking of presidents and men in power; they have received their full meed of honor as well as of blame; their name has grown to fame; they have long outstripped the allotted years of man, and here they are, ready for their eight or ten miles’ horseback ride this morning. This is Francis P. Blair, Senior, and his wife, and this their country home. Honored among suburban Washington haunts is “Silver Spring.”

Almost any sunny day this ancient knight and lady; mounted on their two solid steeds, with a green bough in their hands in lieu of riding whips, she with a stately calash upon her head, may be seen jogging along Pennsylvania avenue toward the stately home of Montgomery Blair, which faces the War-Department. For more than two generations Mr. Blair has been a power in the land. He has had more or less to do with the making and unmaking of every president since the days of Jackson. The Nestor of the Washington Press, he was a powerful supporter of “old Hickory,” and to-day retains, undiminished, the living love now bestowed upon the friend so long buried in the past. Mr. Blair, leaning on his long staff, may often be seen wandering through the unbowered ways of Lafayette square, which he so well remembers as the Burns’ orchard. Here he never fails to gaze upon the bronze equestrian statue of his friend. Others may laugh at the pivoted horse, but “old Frank Blair” pronounces the statue to be the best likeness of Jackson now extant.

With the exception of the Burns’ house, the oldest houses in the city are found on Capitol Hill. Here are houses whose antiquity alone make them remarkable amid the houses of America. For example, here is the old Duddington house, built by Daniel Carroll, who you may remember was so angry with Major L’Enfant for tearing down his first abode, in the way of a beloved street. The present house, built at that time, stands just in front of the old site. Going south-east from the Capitol, the tall forest trees of Duddington are soon visible. So completely do they screen the house, nothing is seen of it until the visitor comes to the large entrance gate, directly in front of the dwelling. It is a double house, built of red brick, with wings stretching out on either side. The grounds are beautiful in their very wildness, presenting all the attributes of a primitive forest. Outside is a spring with an ancient covering of brick. “This spring was once a well-known resort, on the Duddington farm, for the school-boys of the neighborhood, one of whom, an aged man now, told me how pleasantly he used to pass his noon recess there.”

Nearly all the buildings in this part of the city can lay claim to antiquity. Many of them were built by Thomas Low, of brick brought from England. Thomas Low is an historic name in Washington. The brother of Lord Ellenborough, he belonged to one of the most distinguished families in England. He amassed a large fortune in India, at the time that Warren Hastings was Governor-General. He was a friend of Hastings, and warmly defended him. Low brought with him to this country five hundred thousand dollars in gold. Soon after his arrival he became acquainted with General Washington, who induced him to invest largely in the wilderness which was to be transformed into the capital of the nation. The investment was not profitable to Mr. Low. The high price set upon property caused the city to go up far in the rear of his many new buildings. He married Miss Custis, the granddaughter of Mrs. Washington, and sister of George W. Parke Custis. His matrimonial venture was not more satisfactory than his landed one. He parted from his wife, and at his death his five hundred thousand dollars had dwindled down to one hundred thousand. Mr. Low was so absent-minded, it is said he would forget his name when inquiring for letters at the post-office, and once locked his wife in a room, and not knowing what he had done, half a day passed before she obtained her liberty.

There is a row of two-story brick dwellings near Duddington which were built by Mr. Low, in one of which he lived. These houses bear the name of the “Ten Buildings.” During Mr. Low’s residence there, Louis Phillippe, then an exile, was his guest. In one of these the first copy of the _National Intelligencer_ was printed, October 31, 1800. Another row of houses on New Jersey avenue, one block south of the Capitol, was also built by Thomas Low. Originally they were fashionable boarding-houses, and such men as Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Dallas and Louis Phillippe were entertained beneath their roof. They are now occupied by the Coast Survey. In this house the bill was drawn up and prepared for presentation to Congress, authorizing the establishment of a United States Bank. A house a little nearer to the Capitol, long occupied by John W. Forney, was built for the Bank of Washington, but never occupied for that purpose. Instead, the United States Supreme Court held its sessions in it for several years, and a house opposite was used as the Bank of Washington.

Opposite the eastern front of the Capitol may be seen a block of three houses, which for modern elegance will bear comparison with any in Washington. Any one who recalls the forbidding-looking edifice which used to occupy this site will find it difficult to identify this elegant block of private dwelling-houses with the Old Capitol Prison. Nevertheless the walls which once enclosed Wirz, Belle Boyd, “rebels” and sinners of every phase and degree beside no inconsiderable number of perfectly innocent prisoners, now surround the luxurious drawing-rooms of a supreme judge, a senator, and an advocate-general. This building which will ever remain most memorable as the Old Capitol Prison, was built for the temporary accommodation of Congress in 1815. Niles, _Register_ of November 4, 1815 in an article entitled:—“The Capitol Rising from Its Ashes” thus speaks of this building:

“The new building on Capitol Hill preparing for the accommodation of Congress, is in such a state of forwardness, that it is expected to be finished early in November. The spacious room for the House of Representatives has been finished for several weeks. The Senate-room has been _plaistered_ for some time.”

Congress took possession of the new house, December 4, 1815. The first day a communication was received from the citizens who voluntarily erected the building for the temporary accommodation of Congress. The building cost $30,000; $5,000 of which had been expended on objects necessary for the accommodation of Congress, which would be useless when they vacated the house. Therefore the proprietors declared they would be satisfied with $5,000 in money, and a rent of $1,650 per annum with cost of insurance. Niles’ _Register_ went on to say:

“The spot where this large and commodious building was erected was a garden on the fourth of July last; the bricks of which it is built were clay, and the timber used in its construction was growing in the woods on that day.”

The building thus expeditiously erected, was used as the Capitol for several years. In front of this building, James Monroe was inaugurated with great brilliancy, March 4, 1817. In the winter of 1833-4, Luigi Persico occupied a room in this house as a studio. There in plaster stood the group, which now in marble occupies the south block in front of the main entrance to the Rotunda known as “Columbus and the Indian.” Says the Hon. B. B. French:

“How well I remember the _artistic_ enthusiasm with which he described to me his conception of Columbus holding up, with his right hand, the new world which he had discovered!

There he stands, in marble, to-day, with that same “new world,” in the form of a huge nine-pin ball, or bomb-shell, elevated in his right hand, to the vast apparent admiration or fear of the crouching squaw at his side! What the squaw is there for, or what she is doing, has never yet been satisfactorily decided!”

The next mutation of this historic house was into the eminently Washingtonian one of a fashionable boarding-house. It was first kept by a Mrs. Lindenberger, afterwards by a Mr. Henry Hill, and was always a favorite abode of Southern Members of Congress. John C. Calhoun, while a Senator from South Carolina, died in this house. It was at one time occupied by the famous Ann Royal, who with her factotum Sally Brass used it as the publishing house of her feared and famous publications “The Huntress” and “Paul Pry.”

Mrs. Royal inaugurated black-mailing journalism at an early day. She was the widow of a Revolutionary officer, who, reduced to the necessity of earning her living, chose a very malicious way of doing it. She kept what she called the Black Book, in which she recorded descriptions of the persons and characters of conspicuous residents of the city. She canvassed the city for subscribers to her publications, and whoever refused was threatened with a place in the Black Book. So fearfully and effectually was this threat carried out, but few had the temerity to refuse her requests. If such a daring mortal was found, the breakfast-tables of Washington were, the next morning, regaled with a portrayal whose impudence and audacity was only equalled by its shrewdness and sharpness. All who gave her money were sure of adulation, while those who refused it were equally sure of being defamed, without regard to truth.

She was feared by all mankind, from the highest functionary in the Government to the remotest clerk in the departments. “Few refused to comply with her demands, and clerks, who saw her approach, would not disdain to seek a friendly hiding-place.” I believe she printed her papers with her own hands, and they were afterwards peddled about the town by her female man, Sally Brass.

During the War of the Rebellion this building perfectly swarmed with prisoners. Not only soldiers from the Rebel army, and undoubted culprits, but also hundreds of citizens, arrested on the faintest suspicion, were incarcerated within its walls. Any one suspected of having given comfort to the enemy, of having interfered with military discipline, or of having defrauded the Government in the remotest way, was hurried off to the Old Capitol Prison. It was a small American Bastile, and it is well, perhaps, that its walls cannot tell all or aught of the oppression and outrage which transpired within them. In its yard stood the just gallows whereon Wirz was hung for the tortures which he inflicted on Union prisoners at Andersonville. Others were also executed here during the war.

Soon after the close of the war, Mr. George T. Brown, then Sergeant-at-Arms of the Senate, bought the property and proceeded to transmute the Old Capitol Prison into the three elegant mansions which now occupy its ground.

With this famous house must close my chapter on the Historic Homes and Haunts of Washington. To write minutely of them all would require a volume. Full detail is here impossible, but no one of the most famous has been omitted.