A Portrait of Old George Town

by Grace Dunlop Peter

This house was, for more than a generation, the home of Colonel and Mrs. John Addison.

At that time it was a two-story house, with quite a different roof. It was a big, merry household with four sons and four daughters. The daughters were reigning belles in those days, and the old custom of serenading was much in vogue. One lovely moonlight night four swains with their guitars stationed themselves under the windows of the handsome old house and sang plaintive love songs for an hour or more. Finally a shutter was pushed open very gently, and the four hearts went pitter-patter, anticipating the sight of a lovely young girl's face. Instead, appeared an old, black one, capped by a snowy turban, and these words floated down: "I'se sorrie, gen'le-men, but de young ladies is all gone out—but I sure is pleased wid you-all's music!" The quartet was composed of Summerfield McKenney, Frank Steele, and a young Noyes, of the family now for many years identified with The Evening Star, and another whose name I do not know.

It was while the Addisons were living here that Commodore Kennon was so tragically killed on the Princeton.

One afternoon the youngest member of the Addison family, a little girl, was swinging in the yard when a carriage came up the street and turned in at the gate of Tudor Place, across the street. In it she saw her older brother, John. Much mystified, she ran to her mother, telling her how strange it seemed for "brother John" to be coming up the hill in a carriage, and not coming home. It turned out that he had been sent to notify Mrs. Thomas Peter of the sudden death of her son-in-law.

In later years Brooke Williams, junior, lived here and, still later, George W. Cissel. The chapel of the Presbyterian Church on West (P) Street is named for this family. The house is now the home of Mr. Alfred Friendly, the well-known newspaper man.

Next door, where there is now a big apartment house, used to be a large, double brick house, which was for many years the home of Abraham Herr, who with the Cissels conducted an important flour-milling business in Georgetown. His son, Austin Herr, was a fine figure of a man, and was, I think, a promoter. I distinctly remember as a little girl his return from a trip to China and the tales of all the treasures he had brought back with him—not so common then as now.

At No. 1669, in the eighties lived one of the oddest characters—Mrs. Dall. She had come from Massachusetts many years before to teach at Miss English's Seminary. While there she received frequent visits from young Mr. Dall who was an assistant at Christ Church while finishing his course at the Episcopal Seminary near Alexandria. The gentleman stayed so late sometimes—probably until eleven o'clock—that Miss English had to ask him to mend his ways. The courtship resulted in a marriage, but before long the bridegroom went off to India as a missionary to convert the heathen. After some years the news came that, instead, he had been converted to Hinduism. At last he was coming home. It was in the spring and, of course, there had to be a spring cleaning, which took several days. One night about twelve o'clock, when the peace of the old-time world, minus the automobile and blaring radio, lay over old Georgetown, the clop-clop of horses' hoofs was heard coming up Congress Street, stopping in front of Mrs. Dall's. Then there was a great knocking on the door—a window was raised and a voice called: "Who is that?" "It's Henry." Came back from the wife: "Well, I'm in the midst of house-cleaning. Go on down to the Willard and stay until I send for you." A warm welcome, and one not approved of by the neighbors who had heard the conversation through their windows.

Mrs. Dall was not very popular in Georgetown, it being overwhelmingly Southern in its sympathies and she being an abolitionist. I can dimly remember her padding down 31st Street, for so her progress might be called from the form of footwear she wore, it had no form—the queerest, high, shapeless boots. She wore a little close-fitting bonnet and a long, loose, grayish cape. She was a most particular person in some ways. A lady who lived there as a housekeeper said she was never allowed to leave her thimble on the window sill for a few moments; and it was well known that when a caller rang the front door bell the maid who answered had orders to scan the costume closely. If there was "bugle trimming" among its adornments the caller was shown into the parlor on the right side, where the furniture was all stuffed and no harm could be done, but if the clothes were devoid of the shiny, scratchy gear, she might safely be allowed to enter and sit upon the polished mahogany of the room on the left of the hall. She used to have a sort of salon for long-haired scientists and exponents of all sorts of "isms."

Another story I've heard was about her going out to Normanstone to stay for a rest. One morning after breakfast, having had a plentiful helping of oatmeal with lots of cream, her hostess remarked to Mrs. Dall how well she looked. "Yes," she said, she "felt well," and ended up with "a little starvation is always good for one." Is it a wonder she wasn't greatly beloved?