The New England Magazine/Volume 4/Number 3/The Oldest House in Washington

by Milton Tate Adkins

The Oldest House in Washington.

THE OLDEST HOUSE IN WASINGTON.

By Milton T. Adkins.

DOWN at the foot of Seventeenth Street, away from the usual route of the guide-book sightseer, stands the oldest house in Washington. The moss had grown thick upon its humble roof long before quarrelling Congresses wrangled and disputed over the location of the future "Federal City," and when at last the dispute was ended, and a definite site selected, it was found that the unpretentious home and paternal acres of a sturdy old Scotchman, David Burns by name, occupied a large portion of the proposed situation.

Of the previous history of the Burns family little is known or recorded beyond the statement that the estate had de scended to David, through several generations of Scottish ancestors; all, probably, farmer folk like himself. They were, no doubt, a part of the same thrifty Scotch element that had contributed so much to the colonial prosperity of Maryland and Virginia, and which had borne so large a share in the founding and building of Georgetown and Alexandria.

The homestead itself was located almost upon the immediate bank of the Potomac, here a mile or more in width, and only a little distance away from the beautiful hill upon which the Observatory now stands the hill upon which, it is related, Braddock's forces camped on their first night out from Alexandria, in that ill-starred march into the wilderness, and the enthusiast has even drawn a beautiful though doubtless imaginary picture of the youthful Virginia captain looking out from that historic camping ground, and, with prophetic vision, locating here the unborn metropolis of an unborn Republic.

The Van Ness Mansion.

The farm itself stretched away from the river front northwardly, to include the ground upon which are now the White House, the Treasury, the State, War, and Navy Departments, Lafayette Square, and a large part of what is now known as the "West End." A barn stood near where the White House was after wards built, and down to 1805, Lafayette Square was known as the "Burns Orchard"; in one corner of it was the parish burial-ground of St. John's Church.

The original land patent of the Burns holding bears date 1681, and in the quaint phraseology of that day describes the property as "the Widow's Mite, lying on the cast side of the Anacostin River, on the north side of a branch or inlet in the said river, called Tyber."

The chronicles are silent as to whether David Burns were of Whig or Tory proclivities during the Revolutionary troubles, but it is certain that his patriotism did not extend to the point of willingly surrendering his ancestral acres to the furtherance of a scheme which doubtless seemed visionary and unpromising to his practical Scotch judgment.

In this day, after a century's growth. and prosperity, it is well-nigh impossible for us to conceive just how uncertain, unreal, and intangible must have seemed the personality of the new "Government," with whose fortunes the candy, cautious Scotsman was invited to cast in his worldly all. Notwithstanding Maryland had surrendered him to the new and stranger power, he utterly refused to acquiesce, and so sturdily stood out against the great Washington himself, as to cause the latter to write him down for future history as "the obstinate Mr. Burns." The doctrine of eminent domain was doubtless new to poor David, and although in this instance it brought golden fortune to his door, it quite failed to assimilate with his ingrained ideas of meum and teum. At last the patience of Washington was exhausted, and he intimated to the testy freeholder that the government would take his farm whether he consented or not, and concluded his emphatic remarks by inquiring, "On what terms will you surrender your plantation?" And the humbled Scotchman, seeing he had reached the end of his tether, replied: "Any that your excellency may choose to name."

The Burns deed was the first recorded in the new city, and it was provided therein that the streets should be so laid off as not to interfere with the cottage—a provision that was religiously regarded by the commissioners when they came to survey the streets and lots. It was further provided that when the property should be laid off into town lets, every alternate lot should be and remain the absolute property in fee of the original owner. This provision speedily made David Burns a rich man—as rich men were counted in those days. But his improved fortunes made no change in his worldly surroundings, though with a fatherly forethought that did honor to his heart he took immediate steps to prepare and educate his only daughter, Marcia Burns, in fit manner for the station he believed she was destined to oссuру.

She was at this time some twelve or thirteen years of age, and was at once placed at school in Baltimore, and a home was provided for the young heiress and future belle in the elegant and refined household of Luther Martin, Esq., the celebrated Maryland lawyer of that day. After several years' sojourn here, she returned to her father's humble cottage, at the age of eighteen or twenty, and not very far from the time when the government was removed from Philadelphia to the embryo Capital prepared for it in the wilderness. She is described as being at this time "lovely in person, and gracious and winning in manners," and to the end of a life that was altogether lovely there was never a moment when these attributes were not justly hers.

With such attractions of mind, person and fortune, it is small wonder that the humble cottage by the river side speedily became the resort of brave company, representative alike of the resident "First Families" and of the sojourning element drawn to the new capital by the exigencies of public life. It is recorded that during the first years of the new city, many eminent persons were guests beneath the Scotchman's lowly roof. It is said that the poet Thomas Moore, during his visit to this country, was received here, and spent a night in the little spare bedchamber of the ground floor. The Carrols of "Duddington Manor," the bluest of Maryland's blue blood, drove their stately carriage across the marshy waste lying behind the unfinished "President's House," to claim the acquaintance of "the beautiful Washington heiress." The Laws, with their prestige from half a million dollars of East Indian gold, and their alliance by marriage with the great Washington himself, did not disdain such friendship as the "Crusty Davie" would accord them.

But it was to the young and bachelor members of Congress, for removed from the society and influences of home, adrift as it were in the dreary boarding-house life of the raw embryo city, that the society of the beautiful Marcia Burns must have seemed a very lodestar of attraction. Among the many suitors for her hand, the favored one was John P. Van Ness, a representative in Congress from New York state, and a son of one of its oldest and most influential Dutch families. He was at this time about thirty years of age, and has been tersely described by an early writer as "well-fed, well-bred, and well-read." He was educated at Columbia College, and had afterward studied for the law, but on account of ill-health had given up the practice. He was possessed of fair abilities, an ample fortune, a handsome and pleasing address, and claimed for his political friend no less a personage than Aaron Burr, then the Vice-President of the United States, and in the very zenith of his power and influence.

To this gallant suitor, the fair heiress gave her heart, but before she bestowed her hand, crusty David died, and she was left the sole possessor of the wealth which fortune had thrust upon the humble household. The only other heir, a brother, had died some years before, while still only a child. The mother also had been dead some years. On the 9th of May, 1802, her twentieth birthday, she bestowed her hand and fortune where her heart had already been given. At the end of his term, her husband gave up his residence in New York, and became fully identified with the community which in after years bestowed upon him its highest honors. But notwithstanding the change in her circumstances, and the broader life opening before her, she still clung to the cottage of her childhood. For some years after the marriage, they continued to reside beneath its humble roof; then the new proprietor proceeded to erect the stately mansion only a few yards away, which still bears his name, and in its forlorn grandeur forms one of the most unique landmarks of old Washington. It is said that at the time of its erection it was the most expensive private mansion in the United States. It was designed and built by the famous architect Latrobe, at a cost of $60,000, and here for many years its owner dispensed a hospitality, the fame of which has come down to the present day. The wine vaults in its buse ment were something wonderful for that time, and were destined more than a half century later to become strangely in volved with the history of the world's greatest tragedy.

When President Lincoln was assassinated, a wild rumor was started that it had been the original intention of the conspirators to abduct the president, and conceal him within the strong walls of these vaults until he could be carried farther. There was not a scintilla of foundation for the story, but in the excitement of that supreme hour of the outraged nation's anguish the authorities did not stop for proof, but forthwith arrested the gentleman then owning the property, and incarcerated him, together with his wife, in the old Capitol prison.

One of the loveliest traits in the gentle heart of Marcia Van Ness is revealed in the fact that during all the years of her reign in the stately mansion reared by her husband, she never forgot or neglected the lowly cottage of her father. The moss gathered thicker upon the roof, but threshold and hearthstone were as carefully and tenderly kept as they had ever been in the days of her girlhood. And when, after a few short years, the hand of affliction was laid upon her, in the death of her only daughter, the stricken heart seemed to turn with increased affection to the hallowed spot. One of its most secluded apartments was set apart,—a place for solitude and meditation,—of communion with the God to whose service her pure life was dedicated.

It was in 1820, just eighteen years after her own marriage, that this daughter returned from attending school in Philadelphia, and it may well be supposed that her return was an additional attraction to the brilliant and fashionable circles wont to gather in the Van Ness salon. The relationship between mother and daughter was of the most tender description; they were companions and friends in the fullets and truest sense of those sacred words.

But the sweet companionship of mother and daughter was of short duration. Within a year from her return from school, the latter was given in marriage to Arthur Middleton of South Carolina, and within another short year she became the bride of death. She and her babe, the grandchild and great grandchild of "crusty David," were laid in the same grave. And in that tomb was laid the heart of Marcia Van Ness. Thenceforth, though she walked in this world, her life was not of it. Deprived of her own child, her heart went out to the children of others to the orphans of the city which had grown upon her father's ancestral acres. In memory of the daughter cut down in the bloom of her youth, she founded and nurtured the Orphan Asylum of Washington. Her portrait may be seen there to-day,—a picture with a sweet sad face, and a little child's head nestling in her lap.

In ten years, she followed her daughter, dying in 1832, at the age of fifty years. It has been said that she was the first American woman buried with public honors. Her husband was mayor of the city at the time of her death, and before the funeral a delegation of citizens placed upon the coffin a silver plate bearing the following inscription:

"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 J. P. Van Ness. If piety, high principles, and exalted worth could have arrested 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."

She was laid in rest beside her child and grandchild, in the magnificent mausoleum which had been erected by her husband, some years before, for the reception of the family dead. This structure was said to be a perfect copy of the Temple of Vesta, and was at that time the most expensive and magnificent specimen of monumental architecture in the new world. It has since been removed from its original location within the city, and rebuilt in Oak Hill Cemetery, near Georgetown; and there repose to day the ashes of the famous Washington heiress and her loved ones.

General Van Ness survived his wife fifteen years, dying March 7, 1847, at the age of seventy-six years. From the time of its first occupation, his mansion was celebrated for the hospitality there dispensed, and this reputation was kept up to the very year of his death. It can probably be truly said of it, that more famous men have been entertained within its walls than in any other private house in America. Several of the earlier presidents were guests here, and every year the owner gave a dinner to the Congress of the United States.

After his death the property passed into the hands of strangers; and the two buildings may be seen to-day, cottage and mansion alike standing, time-beaten and forlorn, half hidden by wild masses of untrained shrubbery, and deeply shadowed by over-arching trees. The grounds are still enclosed by the high and substantial brick wall erected by the original proprietor, but the gate stands ever open, and no porter challenges the few strolling footsteps of the occasional sight-seer. And verily Ichabod is written over all—mansion, cottage, and grounds. Truly the glory has departed. The place is now used as a summer picnic ground by the colored folk of the vicinity, and the basement of the grand mansion is a beer saloon. A rifle target rests against the front door of the Burns cottage, and a dancing platform is erected beneath the trees that sheltered the heiress in her girlhood and her sweeter womanhood.