“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.[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!”