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.