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[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.”