the United States, through whom statistics of quality and quantity of
crops, and other facts, are forwarded to Washington, to be there
distributed by means of the monthly and yearly reports. Specialists are
also employed to prepare for these reports instructive articles on
suitable topics. Questions from agriculturists are freely answered and
the fullest possible information afforded. The purchaser of a farm
situated in a region with which he is unacquainted, has only to inquire,
and the department will tell him the crops likely to prove remunerative
in the special locality, advise him regarding cultivation, and warn him
of obstacles to be surmounted, and the best means of overcoming them. A
chemist will analyze the soil, report as to its properties and the value
of fertilizers to be used thereon; a botanist will give every particular
regarding the natures and diseases of plants, and will point out in what
families to seek needed products, and what effect a change of soil will
have upon them. An entomologist will give advice regarding the insects
which destroy vegetation, and as to the best mode for their
extermination.
As compared with the other national bureaux, the expense of this
department is remarkably small. The cost of the library and museum was
$140,000, and the conservatories were built at an expense of but $52,000
more. The library contains a valuable collection of agricultural
literature in several languages. Volumes of rare pictures are arranged
on long tables; one work, a present from Francis Joseph I., Emperor of
Austria, entitled “Nature-Printing,” containing representations of ferns
so exquisitely printed that it is difficult to believe them unreal.
[Illustration:
THE DOME AND SPIRAL STAIR CASE, RARE PLANTS AND FLOWERS.
INSIDE THE GOVERNMENT CONSERVATORY.—WASHINGTON.
]
In the museum are specimens of fibrous products, cereals of this and
other countries, stuffed birds and plaster-casts of fruits from all the
different sections of the United States, arranged so as to show at a
glance the products of each region and the specific changes caused by
transportation. On the walls of the fruit-cabinet are hung diagrams
showing the character and habits of the different insects that prey upon
fruit and fruit trees; and in glass cases are preserved the native birds
that feed upon destructive insects, and should be protected by the kind
treatment of the agriculturist.
The halls of this beautiful building are laid with imported tiles, its
ceilings are exquisitely frescoed, and many of its walls hung with
wood-paper in rich blending tints. The museum filling the main hall of
the second floor is furnished with lofty, air-tight walnut cases.
The great California plank which once stood in one of the underground
halls of the Patent-Office, has been wrought into a massive table which
stands in the Museum. It is seven feet by twelve, and looks like a
billiard-table without the cloth, and is finely polished. The legs and
frame are made of Florida cedar. The top of the table is composed of the
plank; it looks like solid mahogany without knot or blemish. Much
attention has been given to the cultivation of the fibrous grasses
which, in China, are woven into fine and durable cloth. Specimens of
these grasses, and of the cloth which they make, in its various stages
of manufacture, are on exhibition in the cases of the museum. A number
of acres have been set apart in the grounds for the cultivation of these
grasses. The shade-trees of our entire country are to be represented in
these grounds. Already over one thousand four hundred native varieties
have been planted.
Through the Smithsonian Institute the Department has been put into
communication with leading foreign agricultural societies, and the
result has been, not only an exchange of reports, but of almost every
known specimen of flower-seeds, seeds of shrubs, vegetables and fruits.
The display of flowers in the agricultural grounds is already something
wonderful, and soon will equal any like display in the world.
[Illustration:
TROPICAL PLANTS AND FLOWERS.
INSIDE THE GOVERNMENT CONSERVATORY.—WASHINGTON.
]
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.
[Illustration:
THE NATIONAL CAPITOL,
As seen from Pennsylvania Avenue.
]
[Illustration:
THE VAN NESS MANSION, AND DAVY BURNS’ COTTAGE.
At the time of the sale of his estate to President Washington.
]
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.
CHAPTER XLIX.
MOUNT VERNON—MEMORIAL DAY—ARLINGTON.
The Tomb of Washington—The Pilgrims Who Visit it—Where George and
Martha Washington Rest—The American Mecca—The Thought of Other
Graves—The Defenders of the Republic—Eating Boiled Eggs—A
Butterfly Visit—The Old Mansion-House—Patriarchal Dogs—Remembering
a Feast—The Room in which Washington Died—The Great Key of the
Bastile—The Gift of Lafayette—The Harpsichord of Eleanor
Custis—The _Belle_ of Mount Vernon—Moralizing—Inside the
Mansion—Uncle Tom’s _Bouquets_—Beautiful Scenery—Memorial Day at
Arlington—The Soldiers’ Orphans—The Grave of Forty Soldiers—The
Sacrifice of a Widow’s Son—The Children’s Offering—The Record of
the Brave—A National Prayer for the Dead.
We have newer and dearer shrines, even, than the tomb of Washington;
yet, in these soft, summer mornings, many pilgrims turn their faces
toward Mount Vernon.
Every morning a large company, including the young and the old, the
refined and the vulgar, land at the little wharf below the home of
Washington. Fathers and mothers come with their children and their
lunch-baskets. Pretty girls come with venerable duennas, and young men
come to look at them in spite of their keepers. Lovers come and go,
maundering along the lanes, as lovers will. Relic-hunters come to break
off twigs and pilfer pansies; newspaper people come, agog for an item;
and, for the climax, we will believe that a few come solely to do
reverence at the tomb of the Father of their country.
Passing up a wooded lane that winds over the hill, we reached the famed
sarcophagus, which engravings have made familiar to many eyes that have
never beheld it. Here, on their marble couch, amid the grassy slopes and
tutelary trees of their ancient domain, rest the bodies of George and
Martha Washington. Full of years and full of honors they laid down, and
their tomb has been the Mecca of this continent. It never can be other
than it is. Who would rob it of one hallowed memory? Yet, as I looked at
its sculptured marble, I thought of many and many a nameless grave that
I had seen by the roadside, and on the scathed fields of Virginia,
parched by summer’s sun, covered by winter’s snow, unturfed,
uncared-for—the grave of the volunteer. Dear to me as this sepulchre of
the great, is the grave of the lowliest soldier who perished for his
country.
The nation will reverence always the grave of Washington. But to this
generation, and to the generations which shall come after, are committed
many graves which cannot be held less dear. Let every city and every
village in the land gather, as most precious jewels, the names of its
dead who died for liberty. Set them in enduring marble; blazon them in
the public places; let them greet the traveller on silent hill-tops, and
in the peaceful vales; the names of our heroes, that we, our children,
our children’s children, to remotest time, may never forget the
defenders of the republic, what they suffered and what they gained.
We ate boiled eggs and other good things within sight of the tomb of the
Father of our Country—a very necessary proceeding before essaying to
climb the hill. While we were eating, a bright blue butterfly came and
paid us a visit. It looked just as if one of the myrtles had danced up
from the bank before us, and was palpitating in the sunshiny air. Miss
Butterfly was the loveliest “blue” I ever saw.
[Illustration:
VIEW OF “THE CITY OF THE SLAIN.”—ARLINGTON.
The remains of over 8,000 soldiers, killed during the war, lie buried
in this Cemetery;—the name, regiment, and date of death of each is
painted on a wooden head-board.
]
From the tomb to the old mansion house is a pleasant walk over upland
lawns and under sheltering trees. A few patriarchal dogs came forth to
meet us, and that was all the welcome we received. Their tails were very
limp, their ears very droopy, their legs very shaky, but they did their
best to seem glad to see us, and that was more than anybody else did.
One emaciated quadruped, I am sure, will remember to his dying hour the
luncheon of beef and eggs of which he partook so peacefully yesterday,
under an old tree within sight of Washington’s dining-room.
I am thankful that Congress appropriated thousands of dollars to repair
the Mount Vernon mansion. A mansion in its day, its rooms can bear no
comparison with those of modern houses which make no pretensions. The
dining-hall is the only one that can claim anything like stateliness or
elegance of proportion. The parlors are the merest boxes, each
containing one high window. The chamber in which Washington died
commands an exquisite view, through the vistas of the grounds, down the
Potomac. But, oh! what a cell, compared with the spacious apartments
inhabited by the great generals of our own day. Mrs. Washington never
occupied this room after the death of her husband. It was closed, and
all in it kept sacred to his memory. She removed to the chamber above,
and occupied it till her death. We went up. It is a mere garret. One
little attic-window gives a meagre glimpse of the lovely landscape
below. But in its best estate the room must have been very contracted,
dreary, and without a convenience. No modern “Bridget” would be content
to occupy for a week such a room as this in which Martha Washington
lived and died.
The home of Washington, now the home of the nation, at last is open,
kindly and genial. Here, in the hall, in its glass case, hangs the great
key of the Bastile, presented to Washington by Lafayette, at the
destruction of that prison in 1789.
Here what an opportunity to stand and gaze and moralize over the history
of the brave men and beautiful women whose faces it shut into darkness!
So thick gather the celebrated names, I must not mention one.
Here, in the grand dining-room, stands the quaint old harpsichord which
General Washington presented as a wedding gift to his adopted daughter,
the beautiful Eleanor Custis. It was made in Cheapside, Haymarket,
London, and old ocean tossed it over to delight the heart of the _belle_
of Mount Vernon. Here what another fine opportunity to “reflect” over
the broken and rusty keys that once thrilled to the touch of beauty, and
stirred with melody in the presence of the great, and made the old halls
ring with the music of festivals! Only my reflections, like many other
people’s, have all come to me afterward, sitting here in my chair,
thinking of that old harpsichord. When I looked at it, I doubt if I had
a reflection at all. Staring at relics in the midst of a jostling crowd
is not particularly conducive to reflection—at least not to emotion.
Even the bedstead on which Washington died seems to lose half its
sacredness being handled and commented on by a careless crowd.
In the dining-room, we see the famous marble mantel, carved in Italy,
and presented to General Washington by Samuel Vaugh. Its proportions are
not grand, but its carving is exquisite, and it still retains its
whiteness and polish.
The dining-room is a noble apartment of lofty proportions, extending
through the depth of the house, its windows on front, back and sides
overlooking the loveliest portion of the grounds. It is a sunshiny room,
fit for family cheer. And (reflection third) what illustrious men and
famous women have broken bread and tasted wine within its carved and
mouldy walls in the days that are no more!
The east and west parlors, leading from the dining-room, are meagre,
high-windowed rooms. Indeed, the whole house of the Father of his
Country, though, doubtless, a princely mansion in its day, reminds a
denizen of the present generation of the growth of architecture, and of
modern convenience and elegance, quite as much as of anything else. Out
on the veranda, where a venerable Uncle Tom drives a thrifty trade in
the _bouquet_ line, we find the real beauty of Mount Vernon—its
prospect. Here, looking out upon terraced lawns and forest trees, and
down the gentlest of slopes to the wide Potomac, flecked with milky
sails, steamboats plying its waves, and pleasure-barques drifting and
dozing with the spring-time gales, we see one of the softest and fairest
of landscapes. A gentle sky, the blue air goldened with daffodils and
fragrant with hyacinths, pleasant friends by my side. Thus I think of
Mount Vernon.
Last Saturday was Memorial Day. With banners and bands, music and speech
under the softest of May skies, and in its serenest airs tens of
thousands of our soldiers’ graves were decorated with flowers. Most
lovely was Arlington that day! No words could have been more eloquently
fitting than those which were spoken; no music tenderer, nor fuller of
precious memories, nor sweeter with suggestions of Heaven, than that
sung under those patriarchal trees by fifty orphan children. And no
sight could have been more touching than when these soldiers’ orphans
laid their flower-wreaths down upon ten thousand soldiers’ graves. Yet
the magnetism of the multitude was there. The tide followed the banners
and the bands, the blooming maidens, the eloquent speech.
Miles out Seventh street, beyond Fort Stevens, there is a little
cemetery where forty soldiers lie alone, who fell in defence of
Washington. One of these was a poor widow’s son. She had three; and this
was the last that she gave to her country. She, a poor widow, living far
in northern Vermont, has never even seen the graves of her three soldier
sons, whom she gave up, one by one, as they came to man’s estate; and
who went forth from her love to return to it living no more.
To this little grave-yard on Seventh street one woman went alone with
her children, carrying forty wreaths of May’s loveliest flowers, and
laid one on every grave. Forty mother’s sons slept under the green turf;
and one mother, in her large love, remembered and consecrated them all.
She chose these because, with more than thirty thousand others in the
larger cemeteries to be decorated, she feared the forty, in their
isolation, might be forgotten. No others followed her; and this mother,
alone with her children, scattering flowers in the silence of love upon
those unremembered graves, some way wears a halo which does not shine
about the multitude.
[Illustration:
THE TOMB OF “THE UNKNOWN.”—ARLINGTON.
Erected by the Government to the memory of Unknown Soldiers killed
during the War.
]
We look on Arlington through softest airs. How beautiful it is! how sad
it is! how holy! Again the tender spring grasses have crept over its
sixteen thousand graves. The innocents, the violets of the woods, are
blooming over the heads of our brave. In the rear of the house a granite
obelisk has been raised to the two thousand who sleep in one grave. Four
cannon point from its summit, and on its face it bears this
inscription:—
“Beneath this stone repose the bones of two thousand one hundred and
eleven unknown soldiers, gathered after the war from the fields of
Bull Run, and the route to the Rappahannock. Their bodies could not be
identified, but their names and deaths are recorded in the archives of
their country, and its grateful citizens honor them as their noble
army of martyrs. May they rest in peace.”
The rooms and conservatories of the house are filled with luxurious
plants, soon to be set out on the graves of this cemetery. Beauty and
silence reign through this domain of the dead. There is a hush in the
air, and a hush in the heart, as you walk through it, reading its names,
pausing by the graves of its “unknown,” thinking of the past. Far as the
sight reaches, stretch the long columns of immortal dead. The beauty of
their sleeping-place, the reverent care covering it everywhere, tells
how dear to the Nation’s heart is the dust of its heroes, how sacred the
spot where they lie. In this let us not forget the still higher love
which we owe them; let us attest it by a deeper devotion to the
principles for which they died.
CHAPTER L.
THE LIFE AND CAREER OF JAMES A. GARFIELD, THE MARTYRED PRESIDENT.
The National Republican Convention of 1880—Nomination of James A.
Garfield as President Hayes’s Successor—The History of His Life—His
Humble Home—Death of His Father—Hardships and Privations of Pioneer
Life—Struggles of His Mother to Support the Family—Splitting Fence
Rails with her own Hands—The Future President’s Early School
Days—Working as a Carpenter—Chopping Wood for a Living—Leaving
Home—Life as a Canal Boat Boy—Narrow Escapes—Beginning His Education
in Earnest—School Life at Chester—How He Paid His Own Way—First
Meeting with his Future Wife—Early Religious Experience—Enters
Williams College—Professor and President—His First Appearance in
Politics—His Brilliant Military Record—His Services at Shiloh,
Corinth, and Chickamauga—His Congressional Career—Republican Leader
of the House of Representatives—He is Elected to the United States
Senate—His Appearance as the Leader of the Sherman Forces at the
Chicago Convention—He is Himself Nominated amid the Wildest
Enthusiasm—An Exciting Campaign—His Triumphant Election.
The occupants of the White House, from March, 1877, to March, 1881, were
Rutherford B. and Lucy Webb Hayes, of Ohio. Mr. Hayes’s nomination by
the Republican National Convention, at Cincinnati, was a surprise to his
party and the country, and his election was for a long time in doubt.
Both the Republicans and the Democrats claimed the electoral votes of
Florida, South Carolina, and Louisiana, and at one time civil war seemed
a not remote possibility, so intense was the partisan excitement, and so
inflammable the state of the public mind. But better and wiser counsels
prevailed, and by the efforts of leading men of both parties an
electoral commission was established to which all doubtful matters were
referred, and Mr. Hayes was declared elected by a majority of one
electoral vote over Samuel J. Tilden, of New York. Many of Mr. Tilden’s
friends and party supporters, and some of those who had opposed his
election, questioned the legality of Mr. Hayes’s election, and contended
that Mr. Tilden should have had the position. Mr. Hayes’s administration
was generally quiet and uneventful, save that it marked the resumption
of specie payments, and witnessed the transition from almost
unprecedented business depression and industrial inactivity to a period
of almost unexampled industrial activity and business prosperity. Mrs.
Hayes was perhaps the most popular President’s wife who had ever
occupied the White House, and more of the people of the United States
saw the inside of the Executive Mansion during her residence there than
during any previous administration, or perhaps all of them combined. No
one of the many excursion parties that visited Washington while Mrs.
Hayes was there was allowed to go away without seeing the “blue room,”
the “red room,” and the famous White House conservatory, if any wish to
that effect was expressed; and besides opening the White House freely to
the people, Mrs. Hayes received her multitude of visitors no less
gracefully and cordially than if they had been neighbors who had
“dropped in” of an afternoon or evening.
[Illustration:
JAMES A. GARFIELD. THE MARTYRED PRESIDENT.
(Engraved from a photograph, expressly for this work.)
]
The National Republican Convention, which met at Chicago, in 1880, to
select a candidate to succeed Mr. Hayes, nominated James Abram Garfield.
That Ohio should carry off the first honor of the Republican party for
two successive Presidential terms was an extraordinary circumstance, but
Gen. Garfield’s nomination, while it pleased Ohio men, electrified the
country, and awoke great enthusiasm.
James Abram Garfield was born in a log cabin at Orange, Ohio, November
19, 1831. His father, Abram Garfield, was born in New York from
Massachusetts ancestry, the founder of the Garfield family in the United
States, Edward, having emigrated from England in 1736, and settled at
Watertown, Mass. Two of Edward Garfield’s sons, Abraham and Solomon,
took part in the revolutionary war, and when that war was over Solomon
left New England, and fixed his residence in Otsego county, New York. It
was there that Abram Garfield was born, and after his marriage with
Eliza Ballou, a New Hampshire girl, and a connection of Hosea Ballou,
one of the great apostles of Universalism in this country, the young
couple went to Ohio and wrested a farm from the primeval forest.
The dwelling of the Garfields was built after the standard pattern of
the houses of poor Ohio farmers in that day. Its walls were of logs, its
roof was of shingles split with an axe, and its floor of rude thick
planking split out of tree-trunks with a wedge and maul. It had only one
room, at one end of which was the big cavernous chimney, where the
cooking was done, and at the other a bed. The younger children slept in
a trundle-bed, which was pushed under the bedstead of their parents in
the daytime to get it out of the way, for there was no room to spare;
the older ones climbed a ladder to the loft under the steep roof.
The father worked hard early and late to clear his land and plant and
gather his crops. No man in all the region around could wield an axe
like him. Fenced fields soon took the place of the forest; an orchard
was planted, a barn built, and the family was full of hope for the
future when death removed its strong support. Just before he died,
pointing to his children, he said to his wife: “Eliza, I have planted
four saplings in these woods. I leave them to your care.” He was buried
in a corner of a wheat-field on his farm. James, the baby, was eighteen
months old at the time.
The eldest of Mrs. Garfield’s four children was a daughter, aged eleven;
then came Thomas, aged nine; then a daughter of seven, and the baby boy
of two summers. A part of the farm was sold to pay off the debt, and
Mrs. Garfield and Thomas cultivated the rest, and kept the family
together. Mrs. Garfield split rails for fencing with her own hands,
slight and delicate woman though she was. Some of her neighbors
undertook to give her a “bee” to help her get out rails for fencing, but
went home when she declined to treat them with rum, and the brave little
woman split her own rails. Mrs. Garfield’s anxiety that her children,
and especially James, should have educational advantages was so great
that the first school house in that region was built on land which she
gave for that purpose.
There, at the age of three, James began his life of study, and that he
was enabled to pursue his studies after he reached the age when he could
work was largely due to the self-denial of his mother and his brother
Thomas. The first pair of shoes which the little fellow had were bought
with money which Thomas had earned, and it was the pleasure of this
elder brother, who is now living near Grand Rapids, Mich., to do
everything in his power to help James along. For that he gave up his own
desire for an education, and he always rejoiced in his brother’s
advancement and renown as though it had been his own.
James was a precocious boy, both physically and mentally. At four, he
received at the district school the prize of a New Testament as the best
reader in the primary class. At eight he had read all the books
contained in the little log farm-house, and began to borrow from the
neighbors such works as “Robinson Crusoe,” Josephus’s “History and Wars
of the Jews,” Goodrich’s “United States,” and Pollock’s “Course of
Time.” These were read and re-read, until he could relate whole chapters
from memory. At the district school James was known as a fighting boy.
He found that the larger boys were disposed to insult and abuse a little
fellow who had no father or big brother to protect him, and he resented
such imposition with all the force of a sensitive nature backed by a hot
temper, great physical courage, and a strength unusual for his age. Many
stories are told of the pluck shown in his encounters with the rough
country lads in defence of his boyish rights and honor. They say he
never began a fight and never cherished malice, but when enraged by
taunts or insults would attack boys of twice his size with the fury and
tenacity of a bull-dog. When he was twelve years old his brother
returned from Michigan, where he had been employed by a farmer to make
clearings, with money enough to build a frame house for his mother.
James assisted him, and did so well that one of the joiners advised him
to follow carpentering as a trade. During the next two years he worked
regularly as a carpenter, going to school only at intervals, but
studying diligently in spare hours at home.
He was as ready to work as he was to study or defend himself. He often
got employment in the haying and harvesting season from the farmers of
Orange. When he was sixteen he walked ten miles to Aurora, in company
with a boy older than himself, looking for work. They offered their
services to a farmer who had a good deal of hay to cut. “What wages do
you expect?” asked the man. “Man’s wages—a dollar a day,” replied young
Garfield. The farmer thought they were not old enough to earn full
wages. “Then let us mow that field by the acre,” said the young man. The
farmer agreed; the customary price per acre was 50 cents. By four
o’clock in the afternoon the hay was down and the boys earned a dollar
apiece. Then the farmer engaged them for a fortnight. James’s first
wages were earned from a merchant who had an ashery where he leached
ashes and made black salts, which were shipped by lake and canal to New
York. He got $9 a month and his board, and stuck to the business for two
months, at the end of which his hair below his cap was bleached and
colored by the fumes until it assumed a lively red hue. About that time
he took a job of cutting 100 cords of oak wood at 50 cents a cord, and
put up his two cords a day without any trouble.
Like most active and restless boys he wanted to become a sailor, and
went to Cleveland to ship on a lake schooner. The first captain to whom
he applied greeted him with such a torrent of profanity that he turned
about to go home, but afterwards accepted an offer from his cousin, Amos
Setcher, to drive horses on the canal boat tow path for “$10 a month and
found,” a dazzling offer in those days. A few months of association with
the rough canal boatmen dispelled much of the romance with which his
fancy had invested an aquatic life, and after falling into the canal no
less than 14 times, the last time barely escaping with his life, he made
up his mind that Providence might have something better in store for him
than driving a canal boat. His brief canal experience was followed by a
long fit of sickness, and after his recovery he took his savings, and
with some assistance from his brother Thomas, began his education in
earnest.
Accompanied by a cousin and another young man from the neighborhood, and
supplied by his mother with a few pots, frying pans and dinner plates,
he set out for Chester, where the academy was located. The three young
men rented a room in an old, unpainted building near the academy, and,
with their cooking utensils, a few dilapidated chairs, loaned by a
kindly neighbor, and some straw ticks, which they spread upon the floor
to sleep on, they set up housekeeping—for they were too poor to pay
board as well as tuition. Garfield paid his own way by taking odd jobs
from carpenters Saturdays and evenings. During the summer he made enough
by chopping wood to pay his board for the next academy term, the price
for his board, washing, and lodging being $1.06 a week.
He now thought himself competent to teach a country school, but in two
days’ tramping through Cuyahoga county failed to find employment. Some
schools had already engaged teachers, and where there was still a
vacancy the trustees thought him too young. He returned home completely
discouraged and greatly humiliated by the rebuffs he had met with. He
made a resolution that he would never again ask for a position of any
sort, and the resolution was kept, for every public place he has since
had has come to him unsought.
Next morning, while still in the depths of despondency, he heard a man
call to his mother from the road, “Widow Gaffield” (a local corruption
of the name Garfield), “where’s your boy Jim? I wonder if he wouldn’t
like to teach our school at the Ledge.” James went out and found a
neighbor from a district a mile away, where the school had been broken
up for two winters by the rowdyism of the big boys. He said he would
like to try the school, but before deciding must consult his uncle, Amos
Boynton. That evening there was a family council. Uncle Amos pondered
over the matter, and finally said, “You go and try it. You will go into
that school as the boy, ‘Jim Gaffield,’ see that you come out as Mr.
Garfield, the school-master.” The young man mastered the school, after a
hard tussle in the school-room with the bully of the district, who
resented a flogging and tried to brain the teacher with a billet of
wood. His wages were $12 a month and board, and he “boarded around” in
the families of the pupils.
In the fall of this term he first met Lucretia Rudolph, whom the whole
world now honors as Mrs. Garfield. English grammar, natural philosophy,
arithmetic and algebra were his principal studies, and he soon had
sufficient knowledge of them to teach in a district school. For three
years he continued his work at the academy, at the school, and in the
carpenters’ shops in autumn and winter, and in the woods in the summer,
thus managing not only to pay his expenses at the academy, but to save
something toward the expenses of his college education. It was while he
was teaching during his academy life that he became personally
interested in religion and joined the Christian Disciples, or
Campbellites as they are often called from their founder. Of this
denomination he was ever after a consistent and active member. In the
fall of 1851 he went to Hiram and asked of the trustees of the
institution there the privilege of making the fires and sweeping to pay
a portion of his expenses. He soon became a teacher, and in 1854, was
ready to enter college in advance and had $350 saved toward meeting his
expenses. His decided anti-slavery opinions led him to seek admission to
some New England college, and a friendly reply from President Mark
Hopkins, of Williams College, to a letter of inquiry, secured for
Williams her most illustrious alumnus. He graduated at Williams in 1856,
returned to Hiram as professor of Greek and Latin, and two years later
was married and elected president of Hiram College.
Up to 1856 Mr. Garfield had taken but little interest in public affairs,
but with the Kansas-Nebraska legislation his political pulses began to
stir. He then became an active Republican, and entered into politics
with the same ardor that characterized his efforts as an educator. His
first political speech was made at Williamstown in 1856, just before he
left college, in behalf of Fremont, the first Republican candidate for
the Presidency. His first vote was cast at the Presidential election
that fall. In 1859 he was elected by a large majority to the Senate of
Ohio from the counties of Portage and Summit, and though yet scarcely
28, at once took high rank as a man unusually well informed on the
subjects of legislation, and effective and powerful in debate. His most
intimate friend in the Senate, Jacob D. Cox, afterward became a
Major-General, Governor of the State, and Secretary of the Interior.
Garfield pushed his law studies forward, and early in the winter of 1860
was admitted to the bar of the supreme court. He was serving in the
State Senate when the war broke out, and when the President’s call for
75,000 men was read in the chamber, amidst the tumultuous acclamations
of the assemblage, he moved that 20,000 troops and $3,000,000 at once be
voted as the quota of the State. When the time came for appointing the
officers for the Ohio troops, Gov. Dennison offered him command of the
Forty-Second Infantry, but he modestly declined, on account of his lack
of military experience, and, resigning the Presidency of Hiram College,
he accepted a position as Lieutenant-Colonel. A few weeks later, when
the Forty-Second was organized, he yielded to the universal desire of
its officers, and accepted the Colonelcy. His first military duty was
the conduct of an expedition against Humphrey Marshall, in Eastern
Kentucky, by which he won a Brigadier-Generalship. He was at Shiloh, at
Corinth, and at Chickamauga, where he wrote every order but one, and for
his gallant bravery at Chickamauga he was made a Major-General. While he
was in camp, after the battle of Shiloh, a fugitive slave took refuge
with the Union soldiers. A few moments later the owner rode up and
demanded his property. Gen. Garfield was not present, and the
slaveholder passed on to the division commander, who ordered Garfield,
by written order, to deliver the fugitive. Garfield answered by simply
endorsing on the order: “I respectfully but positively decline to allow
my command to search for or deliver up any fugitive slaves. I conceive
that they are here for quite another purpose.” This position was
sustained by a general order subsequently issued by the war department.
In 1862 Ohio Republicans of the 19th Ohio District elected Gen. Garfield
to succeed Joshua R. Giddings in the House of Representatives. At
President Lincoln’s suggestion he reluctantly resigned his commission in
December, 1863, to enter Congress, where he was the youngest member.
From that time until 1880 he represented his district in the House, and
came to be the Republican leader of that body and the party candidate
for Speaker. It is impossible to detail here his congressional services,
but he did most faithful and valuable work as chairman of the important
committees on military affairs, banking and currency, and
appropriations. In the winter of 1880 he was elected U. S. Senator to
succeed Allen G. Thurman, receiving the vote of every Republican member
of the Ohio Legislature in the nominating caucus, an honor never before
accorded to any politician in the Buckeye State. Gen. Garfield went to
the Chicago convention as the leader of the Ohio delegation, and when
the nominations were made he presented the name of John Sherman,
Secretary of the Treasury, in a most eloquent speech.
When the balloting began, a single delegate from Pennsylvania voted for
Garfield. No attention was paid to this vote, which was thought to be a
mere eccentricity on the part of the man who cast it. Later on a second
Pennsylvania delegate joined the solitary Garfield man. So the balloting
continued, the fight being between Grant, Blaine, and Sherman, with
Washburne, Edmunds, and Windom in the field.
Some unsuccessful efforts were made on the second day’s voting to rally
on Edmunds and Washburne. Finally, on the thirty-fourth ballot, the
Wisconsin men determined to make an effort in an entirely new direction
to break the deadlock. They threw their seventeen votes for Garfield.
General Garfield sprang to his feet and protested against this
proceeding, making the point of order that nobody had a right to vote
for any member of the Convention without his consent, and that consent,
he said, “I refuse to give.” The chairman declared that the point of
order was not well taken, and ordered the Wisconsin vote to be counted.
On the next ballot nearly the whole Indiana delegation swung over to
Garfield, and a few scattering votes were changed to him from other
States, making a total of fifty votes cast for him in all. Now it became
plain that, by a happy inspiration, a way out of the difficulty had been
found. On the thirty-sixth ballot, State after State swung over to
Garfield amid intense excitement, and Gen. Garfield was finally
nominated on the tenth day of the convention, in a whirlwind of
enthusiasm. His election followed by a large majority, the Electoral
College standing 214 for Gen. Garfield to 155 for Gen. Hancock.
CHAPTER LI.
THE HISTORY OF THE ASSASSINATION AND DEATH OF PRESIDENT
JAMES A. GARFIELD—THE GREAT
TRAGEDY OF THE AGE.
Inauguration of President Garfield—Kissing His Venerable Mother—Chief
Magistrate of Fifty Million People—Illness of Mrs. President
Garfield—Tender Solicitude of the President for the Welfare of His
Wife—She goes to Long Branch—The President’s Plans to Meet Her—His
Arrival at the Depot of the Baltimore and Potomac R. R. at
Washington—His Buoyant Spirits—Joyous Anticipation of Meeting His
Wife—The Assassin Lying in Wait—The Fatal Shot—Tremendous
Excitement—The Wounded President—His Assassin, Charles J.
Guiteau—Who He is—His Infamous Appearance and Character—His Cool
Deliberation—His Capture and Imprisonment—A Thrill of Horror
Throughout the Country—Removal of the President to the White
House—Arrival of Mrs. Garfield—Her Courage and Devotion—The Fight
for Life—Anxious Days—Removal of the Wounded President to Long
Branch—A Remarkable Ride—Great Anxiety throughout the
Country—Fighting Death—Slowly Sinking—After Eighty Days of
Unparalleled Suffering the President Breathes His Last—Grief and
Gloom throughout the Land—The Whole Civilized World in
Tears—Unprecedented Funeral and Memorial Honors—His Burial at
Cleveland—Attendance of Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand People—His
Life and Character Reviewed.
No President was ever inaugurated under happier and more favorable
auspices than was President Garfield. From the day that the electric
wires flashed over the country the unexpected news of his nomination up
to his inauguration, his popularity had steadily increased. Of the
hundreds of speeches which he was called upon to make under all possible
circumstances during the campaign and after his election, every one was
appropriate to the occasion, and gave a new revelation of his
versatility and capability. His first act after taking the oath of
office at Washington, March 4, was to turn and kiss his venerable
mother, who had lived to see her “baby” inaugurated as chief magistrate
of a nation of 50,000,000 people. His inaugural message was eloquent,
patriotic, and courageous, and was cordially indorsed. The people
everywhere felt that it was one of their own number whom they had placed
in the White House, and they knew that he would not forget them, but
would sympathize with their toils and trials. Everything went on
smoothly until the President’s appointment of William H. Robertson to
the New York collectorship antagonized Senator Conkling, who endeavored
to have the nomination withdrawn. President Garfield adhered to his
nomination, and Senator Conkling and his colleague, Mr. Pratt, resigned.
The Senate then confirmed Mr. Robertson’s nomination without opposition,
and the President’s quiet and dignified bearing throughout the whole
contest rather strengthened him than otherwise with the country at
large, though many politicians of his own party regarded the alienation
of Mr. Conkling as something that had better been avoided than
precipitated.
[Illustration:
MRS. JAMES A. GARFIELD.
(Engraved from a photograph, expressly for this work.)
]
Very early in President Garfield’s administration Mrs. Garfield was
prostrated by illness, the result of overwork and anxiety, and for a
time her life was despaired of. The social demands made upon her during
the campaign and after the election at their Ohio home were continuous
and exacting, and she went to the White House weary and worn.
Mrs. Garfield is a lady of refinement, devoted to her family and averse
to display, although thoroughly at home in the best society. Her home
life and quiet has always been more pleasure to her than the attractions
of fashionable society. But from the nomination of General Garfield
until he left his delightful home for the last time there was no quiet
at Mentor. The quiet country house was turned at once into a hotel,
crowded with political workers of aspirants for office from morning to
night, all of whom had to be courteously received while many had to be
entertained with meals and lodgings.
An intimate friend of General Garfield, who assisted him during the
campaign, asserts that during a large portion of the time Mrs. Garfield
and “Mother” Garfield were compelled to dine or lunch from forty to
sixty persons every day, while the children were sent away at night to
make room for the guests who had to be entertained. Many of these were
persons without claims of any kind upon such hospitality except that
they were engaged in political work.
Then came the excitement incident to the removal to the White house, the
inauguration, and the daily necessity of giving receptions for the
thousands of sight-seers and office-seekers. The break-down came at
last, and for weeks the President’s wife was prostrated with severe
illness, her life for a time hanging by a thread.
As soon as she was able to bear the journey, the President took her from
Washington to Long Branch, and, when her condition warranted, returned
to Washington to prepare for a trip through the Eastern States, the
central object of which was attendance upon the exercises of
commencement week at Williams College, where the members of his class
were to celebrate the 25th anniversary of their graduation. Mrs.
Garfield’s rapidly improving health, the prospect of a week’s recreation
from public duties, and the anticipation of renewing the pleasant
associations of college life, all combined to give him great buoyancy of
spirits. He was to be accompanied from Washington by several members of
the Cabinet and their wives, was to meet Mrs. Garfield at Jersey City,
and arrangements had been made at the places included in his tour for
most cordial and hearty receptions.
Saturday, July 2, had been fixed upon for leaving Washington, and on the
morning of that day the President and those of the party who were in
Washington drove to the depot to take the special train which was to
convey them to Jersey City, where Mrs. Garfield was to join them. The
President walked into the waiting-room of the depot, arm-in-arm with
Secretary Blaine, toward the door leading to the train, when a man, who
had been lounging about the room, stepped forward and fired two shots at
the President from behind, one taking effect in the lower portion of the
body, the other inflicting a wound in the arm. The wounded man sank to
the floor, and was surrounded by an anxious and excited crowd. As soon
as possible he was removed to the railroad office in the building and
surgical aid summoned, and after the preliminary treatment of his
injuries he was taken to the White House, where his long and patient
suffering has become matter of history. The assassin was speedily
captured and conveyed to prison, where he was strongly guarded, as
threats of summary punishment were freely made by the angry and
horrified populace. His name was ascertained to be Charles J. Guiteau, a
man of notoriously bad reputation and ill-balanced mind, although he
possessed a certain amount of intelligence and shrewdness. He had long
been an applicant for office, and had greatly annoyed the President and
other officials by the persistence and impudence of his demands. Neither
then nor afterwards did the miserable assassin express any regret over
his murderous deed, the only sorrow which he expressed being that he did
not kill the President instantly, as he had hoped and intended. His
plans had all been made with cool deliberation, and his villainy stands
out without a parallel in history.
It is impossible to express in words the thrill of horror which the
country, and indeed the whole world, experienced as the news was flashed
abroad that the President had been shot. From that moment until the time
when his wasted form was carried to its burial on the beautiful shore of
Lake Erie, there were no distinctions of party and no fractional
dissensions in the United States. Everything was forgotten and hushed in
the absorbing hope and agonizing prayer that the President might recover
and live to complete the administration which had been so auspiciously
begun. With varying hopes and fears, the whole world watched at the
President’s bedside, and eagerly devoured every word of information sent
out from the sick room by the physicians and attendants. Mrs. Garfield,
rudely awakened on the day of the assassination from her dream of
recreation with her husband by the touchingly thoughtful message
dictated by the President, that he was hurt, he knew not how badly, and
sent her his love, and wished her to come to him at once, sped from Long
Branch to Washington as fast as steam could carry her, and, invalid
though she was, bravely took her place by her husband’s side, and
comforted and cheered him during his long and weary fight for life. How
grandly she rose to the occasion, how tenderly she endured the weary
weeks, always wearing a cheerful face, while her heart was breaking with
its cruel load, the whole world knows. Her heroic devotion to her
husband grandly typified the loyal and self-sacrificing spirit of
wifehood, which finds nowhere more conspicuous illustration than in our
American homes, and when one of the New York merchant princes proposed
the raising of a fund to testify the Nation’s appreciation of Mrs.
Garfield’s quiet heroism, money flowed in from every quarter until over
$300,000 had been subscribed.
July and August slowly wore away, the hopes aroused by one days’
favorable indications being dashed by the appearance of some new
complication, or the development of some alarming symptom, and early in
September the physicians were importuned by the President to take him
away from Washington. He wanted most of all to go to his Ohio home, but
being told that was impossible his next thought was Long Branch, where
he could see the ocean and breathe its life-giving air. The journey was
undertaken, and so complete were the arrangements and appliances for his
comfort that he endured the railroad ride of 250 miles with apparent
advantage, rather than discomfort. Weak as he was he enjoyed the ride,
and at one time said to Mrs. Garfield, “Well, Crete (his pet name for
Lucretia) this is a great ride, isn’t it.” It certainly was a great
ride, and the whole country stood with bated breath, watching the
telegraphic reports of the progress of the swift-moving train. Quartered
at Long Branch in a luxurious cottage tendered by a British subject, Mr.
Francklyn, of New York, the cool sea-breezes for a time seemed to send
life into his blood, and once or twice after his arrival he, at his own
request, was permitted to recline in an easy position by the window
where he could look out upon the ocean. One day while Mrs. Garfield was
in the adjoining room, love, hope, and gratitude filling her heart, she
sang the beautiful hymn commencing—
“Guide me, O thou Great Jehovah!”
As the soft and plaintive notes floated into the sick chamber the
President turned his eyes upon Dr. Bliss and asked:
“Is that Crete?”
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “it is Mrs. Garfield.”
“Quick, open the door a little,” anxiously responded the sick man.
Dr. Bliss opened the door, and after listening a few moments Mr.
Garfield exclaimed, as the large tears coursed down his sunken cheeks:
“Glorious, Bliss! isn’t it?”
But the hopes that were awakened were illusive and short-lived, and at
10.35, Monday evening, September 19, on the anniversary of the battle of
Chickamauga, in which he won great distinction for personal heroism and
cool, clear-headed generalship, the earthly life of James Abram Garfield
was ended.
The sad event was announced in many of the principal cities by the
tolling of the bells at midnight, and never did the death of a man cause
such general lamentation and inspire such a universal outburst of public
and private grief. Dispatches of condolence and sympathy were sent to
Mrs. Garfield and the State Department from every government in the old
world, and Queen Victoria, mindful of that dark hour when the noble
Prince Consort was taken from her side, sent touching messages of
womanly sympathy, and directed her ambassador at Washington to lay a
rich and costly floral offering upon the coffin of the dead President.
After funeral services at Long Branch the remains were borne back to
Washington over the same route which the President traversed on his way
to the sea, and after imposing funeral ceremonies in the Capitol
building the cortege once more pursued its mournful way to Cleveland,
where, on Monday, September 26, 250,000 people from all parts of the
country participated in the final obsequies. That day was also observed
throughout the United States, and in England and other countries as
well, as a general memorial day, and was marked by the total suspension
of ordinary business and the holding of public services in all the
cities and towns. These observances in this country were invited by
President Arthur and the State executives, but in truth no official
summons was needed to stimulate every possible tribute of respect. The
whole country was in mourning, and, as it was when the Prince of Orange
died, “the little children cried in the streets.”
President Garfield was large-framed, large-brained, and large-hearted.
He was six feet in height and was a splendid picture of a man. His
personal character and habits were clean and pure, and his home life at
Mentor or Washington was simply delightful. No husband and wife ever
lived happier together than President and Mrs. Garfield, and no man who
honored his mother as did President Garfield could fail to be idolized
by his children. Five of his seven children survived him, two of whom,
Harry and James A., entered Williams College as freshmen during their
father’s illness.
President Garfield was one of the closest students this country has ever
known. No man at Washington ever made so much use of the vast literary
treasures of the Congressional library as he, and when he was tired and
worn by committee and legislative work, he used to find recreation in
general literary study. At the close of a long and busy session of
Congress, a caller found him surrounded with every edition of the Latin
poet, Horace, which he could find in the library, and he was hard at
work “resting himself,” as he called it. It has been well said, since
his death, by one of our well-known scholars and public men: “The future
historian will declare Garfield the most thorough student of political
problems in the Presidential chair since John Quincy Adams; the man of
most scholarly breadth in statesmanship since James Madison; the most
eloquent parliamentarian since John Adams. His had been a life, a
career, a character which would have satisfied the highest hopes of
Washington and Jefferson for their successors in the chief magistracy.”
In a word, James A. Garfield was a man physically, intellectually, and
morally who was an honor to his country and to his race, and no more
imperishable name will ever adorn our country’s annals.
THE END.
(Whole number of pages with illustrations, 705.)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
The Table of Contents refers the reader to p. 92 for Chapter IX. The
chapter begins on p. 93 and the Table was amended.
President Fillmore’s name was spelled with a single ‘l’ in nearly all
appearances.
On p. 298, the author provides a list of Secretaries of the Treasury
which mis-names Walter Forward (as Howard) and George Bibb (as Beble).
The mistakes are retained but noted. The name of the last
Postmaster-General appointed by Washington was also corrupted being
Joseph Habersham, rather than Haloshan (p. 395).
Some compound words are hyphenated inconsistently. When the hyphenation
occurs on a line break, the hyphen is removed unless there is clear
evidence that it should be retained.
Other errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected,
and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the
original.
vii.32 “Poor Hallet[t]” and His Plan Removed.
viii.22 Bust of Koscius[c/k]o Replaced.
x.36 A Well-Regulated [A ]Lady Removed.
xv.45 “She’ll do it _Cheaper[]_” Added.
xx.25 The Tra[d/g]edy of the Decatur House Replaced.
21.27 but as a Capital he never entered it[.] Added.
23.11 Rhode Island, Newport; Maryland, An[n]apolis; Inserted.
27.22 in the State of Pennsylvania.[”] Added.
74.9 of a suddenly growing city[.] Added.
143.6 every Vice[ /-]President who reigned in the Replaced.
Senate
147.25 The gown worn by Judge Mc[C/L]lean still hangs Replaced.
109.9 Bust of Koscius[c/k]o Replaced.
123.2 where we witness a _teté-a-teté>_ _sic>_
tête-à-tête
157.19 to repeat the _Unter de[r/n] Lindens_ Replaced.
190.5 he is a poet after all.[”] Added.
203.6 Mr. John [O/A]gg’s Little “Poem” Replaced.
243.17 “Bare-necked Dowagers[”] Added.
256.11 [“]The Census of Spittoons” Added.
256.13 “More Than Shak[e]speare’s Women” Inserted.
273.18 The President looks decid[ed]ly cooler Inserted.
278.18 A Protest again[s]t “Shams” Inserted.
298.30 Walter [Howard], of Pennsylvania; _sic_
Forward
298.31 George M. [Beble], of Kentucky _sic_> Bibb
302.1 to succeed Vice[ /-]President Henry Wilson Replaced.
334.13 Such is its acknowle[d]ged value Inserted.
364.25 in the Dead[ /-]Letter Office Replaced.
365.13 for an entire State,[”] Removed.
381.1 Yet there was scar[c]ely a Member Inserted.
389.26 As early as the year [1792] _sic_ 1692
393.32 This experiment brought him in debt £9[0]0 Unclear.
394.23 at a salary of $100 per ann[n/u]m Inverted.
395.18 Joseph [Haloshan/Habersham] Replaced.
405.22 amounting to $33,658,740[,/.]27 Replaced.
406.3 any sum over $5 is sent by money[ /-]order Replaced.
452.12 [“]On the other side Added.
428.21 within their respective districts[.] Restored.
486.16 Fort Conch[a/o], Texas Replaced.
494.5 for its especial service at Al[la]toona, Ga. Inserted.
558.6 on the river[-]side of the old Burns cottage Probable.
502.23 the central office at Washington.[”] Added.
568.23 and silver shoes.[”] Removed.
575.1 stands jus[t] in front of the old site Added.
576.18 [“]The brother of Lord Ellenborough Removed.
578.15 [“]There he stands, in marble, Removed.
588.15 amid the Wildest Enthusia[s]m Inserted.
590.3 and awoke great enthusi[s]am. Inserted.