Chapter XXV: The White House Now

After the War—The Home of President Johnson—Shut Up in the Mountains—Two
Years of Exile—A Contrast—Suffering for their Country—Secretly
Burying the Dead—A Wife of Seventeen Years—Midnight Studies—Broken
Down—A Party of Grandchildren—“My Dears, I am an Invalid”—“God’s
Best Gift to Man”—The Woman Who Taught the President—A “Lady of
Benign Countenance”—Doing the Honors at the White House—“We are
Plain People”—The East Room Filled with Vermin—Traces of the
Soldiers—A State of Dirt and Ruin—Mrs. Patterson’s Calico Dress—In
the Dairy—A Nineteenth Century Wonder—How the Old Carpets were
Patched—The Greenbacks are Forthcoming—How $30,000 were Spent—Buying
the Furniture—Working in Hot Weather—“Wrestling with Rags and
Ruins”—“Renovated from Top to Bottom”—What the Ladies Wore, and What
They Didn’t—The Memory of Elegant Attire—Impressing the Public
Mind—How Unperverted Minds are Affected—“Bare-necked Dowagers”—“A
Large Crowd of Bare Busts”—Elderly Ladies with Raven Locks—The
Opinion of a Woman of Fashion—Very Good Dinners—Obsequious to the
Will of “the People”—Doors Open to the Mob—Sketching a
Banquet—Sentimental Reflections on the Dining Room—The Portraits of
the Presidents—The Impeachment Trial—Peace in the Family—The Grant
Dynasty—Looking Home-like—Mrs. Grant at Home—What Might Be Done,
if—What Won’t Work a Reformation—A Pity for Miss Nellie Grant—How
She Suddenly “Came Out”—“A Full Fledged Woman of Fashion”—A “Shoal
of Pretty Girls”—How a Certain Young Lady was Spoilt—Brushing Away
“the Dew of Innocence”—Need of a Centripetal Soul—Society in the
Season—Rare Women with no Tastes—The Wives of the Presidents Summed
Up.

Mrs. Lincoln was succeeded in the White House by three women, who entered its portals through the fiery baptism of suffering for their country’s sake.

While President Johnson was performing his duties as Senator in Washington, his family were shut up in the mountains of East Tennessee, where the ravages of war were most dreadful. For more than two years he was unable to set eyes on either wife or child. While many of the mushroom aristocracy, who afterwards looked upon them so superciliously, were coining their ill-gotten dollars out of the blood of their country, these brave, loyal women were being “hunted from point to point, driven to seek refuge in the wilderness, forced to subsist on coarse and insufficient food, and more than once called to bury with secret and stolen sepulture those, whom they loved, murdered because they would not join in deeds of odious treason to union and liberty.”

President Johnson’s youngest daughter entered the White House a widow, recently bereaved of her husband, who fell a soldier in the Union cause. His wife, who at seventeen was his teacher, when “in the silent watches of the night the youthful couple studied together,” when their weary tasks were done, came to the White House broken in health and spirits, through the suffering and bereavements through which she had passed. She was never seen but on one public occasion at the White House, that of a children’s party, given to her grandchildren. At that time she was seated in one of the republican court-chairs of satin and ebony. She did not rise when the children or guests were presented, but simply said, “My dears, I am an invalid,” and her sad, pale face and sunken eyes proved the expression. She is an invalid now; but an observer would say, contemplating her, “A noble woman, God’s best gift to man.” It was that woman who taught the President, after she became his wife; and in all their early years she was his assistant counsellor and guide.

Liable to be arrested for the slightest offense; ofttimes insulted by the rabble, Mrs. Johnson performed the perilous journey from Greenville to Nashville. Few who were not actual participators in the civil war can form an estimate of the trials of this noble woman. Invalid, as she was, she yet endured exposure and anxiety, and passed through the extended lines of hostile armies, never uttering a hasty word, or, by her looks, betraying in the least degree her harrowed feelings. She is remembered by friend and foe as a lady of benign countenance and sweet and winning manners.

During her husband’s administration, the heavy duties and dubious honors of the White House were performed by her oldest daughter, Martha Patterson, the wife of Senator Patterson of Tennessee. That lady’s utterance, soon after entering the White House, was a key to her character, yet scarcely a promise of her own distinguished management of the President’s house. She said: “We are plain people from the mountains of Tennessee, called here for a short time by a national calamity. I trust too much will not be expected of us.” The career of Mrs. Lincoln had chilled the people to expect little from the feminine administrator of the White House; but from Martha Patterson they received much, and that of the most unobtrusive and noble service.

The family of the new President arrived in June. Here was a new field entirely for the diffident woman who was compelled to do the honors, in lieu of her mother—a confirmed invalid. The house looked anything but inviting. Soldiers had wandered unchallenged through the entire _suites_ of parlors. The East Room, dirty and soiled, was filled with vermin. Guards had slept upon the sofas and carpets till they were ruined, and the immense crowds who, during the preceding years of war, filled the President’s house continually had worn out the already ancient furniture. No sign of neatness or comfort greeted their appearance, but evidences of neglect and decay everywhere met their eyes. To put aside all ceremony and work incessantly, was the portion of Mrs. Patterson from the beginning. It was her practice to rise very early, don a calico dress and spotless apron, and then descend to skim the milk and attend to the dairy before breakfast. Remembering this fact, of a President’s daughter, in the President’s house, in the nineteenth century, for a brief moment, let us cease to bemoan the homely virtues of our grandmothers as forever dead and buried.

At the first reception of President Johnson, held January 1, 1866, the White House had not been renovated. Dingy and destitute of ornament Martha Patterson had by dint of covering its old carpets with pure linen, and hiding its wounds with fresh flowers, and letting her beautiful children loose in its rooms, given it an aspect of purity, beauty and cheer, to which it had long been a stranger.

THE BLUE ROOM.

INSIDE THE WHITE HOUSE.—WASHINGTON.
]

In the spring, Congress appropriated thirty thousand dollars to the renovation of the White House. After consulting various firms, Mrs. Patterson found that it would take the whole amount to furnish simply the parlors. Feeling a personal responsibility to the government for the expenditure of the money, unlike her predecessor, she determined not to surpass it. She made herself its agent, and superintended the purchases for the dismantled house herself. Instead of seeking pleasure by the sea, or ease in her own mountain home, the hot summer waxed and waned only to leave the brave woman where it found her, wrestling with rags and ruins that were to be reset, repolished, “made over as good as new.” For herself? No, for her country; and all this in addition to caring for husband, children and invalid mother.

The result of this ceaseless industry and self-denial was, the President’s house in perfect order and thoroughly renovated from top to bottom. When it was opened for the winter season, the change was apparent and marvelous, even to the dullest eyes, but very few knew that the fresh, bright face of the historic house was all due to the energy, industry, taste and tact of one woman, the President’s daughter. The warm comfort of the dining room, the exquisite tints of the Blue Room, the restful neutral hues meeting and blending in carpets and furniture in many rooms of the White House still remain harmonious witnesses of the pure taste of Martha Patterson. The dress of the ladies of the White House was equally remarkable. The public had grown to expect loud display in the costume of its occupants. But all who went to see the “plain people from Tennessee” overloaded with new ornaments, were disappointed. Instead, they saw beside the President a young, golden-haired woman, dressed in full mourning,—the sad badge still worn for the gallant husband slain by war,—and a slender woman with a single white flower in her dark hair. Instead of the bare bosom and arms, the pronounced hues and glittering jewels which had so long obtained in that place, they saw soft laces about the throat ending the high corsage; a robe of soft tints and a shawl of lace veiling the slender figure. It was like a picture in half tints, soothing to the sight; yet the dark hair, broad brow and large eyes were full of silent force and reserved power. Little was expected, even in dress, of these “plain people from Tennessee,” yet the chaste elegance of their attire was never surpassed by any ladies of the White House, and its memory remains an example which it is a pity that ladies of society are so slow to imitate.

The impression made upon the public mind by the tone and spirit of their attire is significant as gathered from the utterance of contemporaneous newspapers. It betrays how dress of an opposite character always affects unperverted minds. A journal of the day says: “Mrs. Patterson, who stood at the right of the President, wore a black Lyons velvet, a shawl of white thread lace falling over her dress. The simple, unaffected grace of this lady, and her entire freedom from pretension, either in garb or manner, attracted highly favorable comment. Mrs. Patterson is quite a young lady, and when some of the bare-necked would-be juvenile dowagers were presented to her, the contrast was entirely in favor of the President’s daughter.”

“Mrs. Stover assisted the President, and won golden opinions from
sensible people for her faultless taste, and high-necked costume in a
large crowd of bare busts. Elderly ladies, whose truthful wrinkles,
despite their raven locks, betrayed their years, stood about her in
low bodices, exposing to view shoulders long ago bereft of beauty and
symmetry. Mothers, whose daughters walked beside them, in similar
attire, gathered about her in their flashing diamonds and expensive
apparel, but no peer of hers eclipsed her rich simplicity. Alone she
stood, so tastefully arrayed that the poor who came were not abashed
by her presence, nor the rich offended by her rarer _toilette_. The
perfect harmony of her appearance pleased the eyes of all.”

The spirit of these comments redeems them from the faintest touch of Jenkinsism. In this connection, it is easy to understand the comment of a woman of fashion, on Mrs. Stover. She said: “She has very fine points, which would make any woman a _belle_, if she knew how to make the most of them.”

The state dinners given by President Johnson, were never surpassed in any administration. They were conducted on a generous, almost princely scale, and reflected lasting honor upon his daughter, to whom was committed the entire care and arrangement of every social entertainment. Simple and democratic in her own personal tastes, Mrs. Patterson had a high sense of what was due to the position, and to the people, from the family of the President of a great Nation. This sense of duty and justice led her to spare no pains in her management of official entertainments, and the same high qualities made her keep the White House parlors and conservatories open and ready for the crowds of people who daily visited them, at any cost to her own taste or comfort.

The following sketch of the last state dinner given by President Johnson, written by a personal friend, is so vivid and life-like, bringing the historic house so near, in the closing hours of an administration, I am constrained to give it to you:

“Late in the afternoon, I was sitting in the cheerful room occupied by
the invalid mother, when Mrs. Patterson came for me to go and see the
table. The last state dinner was to be given this night, and the
preparation for the occasion had been commensurate with those of
former occasions.

“I looked at the invalid, whose feet had never crossed the apartment
to which we were going, and by whom the elegant entertainments, over
which her daughters presided, were totally unenjoyed. Through the
hall, and down the stairway, I followed my hostess, and stood beside
her in the grand old room.

“It was a beautiful, and altogether a rare scene, which I viewed in
the quiet light of that closing winter day. The table was arranged for
forty persons, each guest’s name being upon the plate designated on
the invitation list. In the centre stood three magnificent _ormolu_
ornaments, filled with fadeless French flowers, while, beside each
plate, was a _bouquet_ of odorous greenhouse exotics. It was not the
color or design of the Sévres China, of green and gold, the fragile
glass, nor yet the massive plate, which attracted my admiration, but
the harmony of the whole, which satisfied and refreshed. From the
heavy curtains, depending from the lofty windows, to the smallest
ornament in the room, all was ornate and consistent. I could not but
contrast this vision of grandeur with the delicate, child-like form of
the woman who watched me with a quiet smile, as I enjoyed this
evidence of her taste, and appreciation of the beautiful. All day she
had watched over the movements of those engaged in the arrangement of
this room, and yet so unobtrusive had been her presence, and so
systematically had she planned, that no confusion occurred in the
complicated domestic machinery. For the pleasure it would give her
children, hereafter, she had an artist photograph the interior of the
apartment, and he was just leaving with his trophy, as we entered. All
was ready and complete, and when we passed from the room, there was
still time for rest before the hour named in the cards of invitation.

.... “It was almost twilight, as we entered the East Room, and its
sombreness and wondrous size struck me forcibly. The hour for
strangers and visitors had passed, and we felt at liberty to wander,
in our old-fashioned way, up and down its great length.”

“It was softly raining, we discovered, as we peered through the
window, and a light fringe of mist hung over the trees in the grounds.
The feeling of balmy comfort one feels in watching it rain, from the
window of a cozy room, was intensified by the associations of this
historic place, and the sadness of time was lost in the outreachings
of eternity. Its spectral appearance, as we turned from the window and
looked down its shadowy outlines, the quickly succeeding thoughts of
the many who had crowded into its now deserted space, and the
remembrance of some who would no more come, were fast crowding out the
practical, and leaving in its place mental excitement, and
spiritualized nervous influences. Mrs. Patterson was the first to note
the flight of time, and, as we turned, to leave with the past the hour
it claimed, her grave face lighted up with a genuinely happy
expression, as she said: ‘I am glad this is the last entertainment; it
suits me better to be quiet, and in my own home. Mother is not able to
enjoy these things. Belle is too young, and I am indifferent to
them—so it is well it is almost over.’

“As she ceased speaking, the curtains over the main entrance parted,
and the President peered in, ‘to see,’ he said, ‘if Martha had shown
me the portraits of the Presidents.’ Joining him in his promenade, we
passed before them, as they were hanging in the main hall, he dwelling
on the life and character of each, we listening to his descriptions,
and personal recollections.

“At the dinner, afterwards, not the display of beautiful _toilettes_,
nor the faces of lovely women, could draw from my mind the memory of
that afternoon. More than ever, I was convinced that the best of our
natures is entirely out of the reach of ordinary events, and the
finest fibres are rarely, if ever, made to thrill in sympathy with
outward influences. Grave statesmen, and white-haired dignitaries
chatted merrily with fair young ladies, or sedate matrons; but turn
where I would, the burden of my thoughts were the remarks of Mrs.
Patterson, whose unselfish devotion to her father, deserves a more
fitting memorial than this insignificant mention. With her opposite
him, and by her proximity, relieving him of much of the necessity of
entertaining, he enjoyed and bestowed pleasure, and won for these
social entertainments a national reputation.

“During the impeachment trial of her father, unflinchingly Mrs.
Patterson bent every energy to entertain, as usual, as became her
position, wearing always a patient, suffering look. Through the long
weeks of the trial, she listened to every request, saw every caller,
and served every petitioner, (and only those who have filled this
position, know how arduous is this duty,) hiding from all eyes the
anxious weight of care oppressing herself. That she was sick after the
acquittal, astonished nobody who had seen her struggling to keep up
before.”

But no matter what the accusations against Andrew Johnson, they died into silence without touching his family. If corruption crossed the outer portals of the White House, the whole land knew that they never penetrated into the pure recesses of the President’s home. Whatever Andrew Johnson was or was not, no partisan foe was bitter or false enough to throw a shadow of reproach against the noble characters of his wife and daughters. There was no insinuation, no charge against them. There was no furniture or ornaments gone; nor could any one say that they had received costly presents:—no expensive plate, no houses, horses, or carriages. No family ever left Washington more respected by the powerful, more bewept by the poor. From the Nation’s House, which they had redeemed and honored, they went back empty-handed to their own dismantled home, followed by the esteem and affection of all who knew them. The White House holds the record of their spotless fame. Generations will pass before, from its grand old rooms, will fade out the healing and saving touches of one President’s daughter.

The life of the White House under the administration of President Grant is a purely domestic one. It is the remark of all who have known its past, that the White House never looked so home-like as at the present time. It took on this aspect under the reign of Martha Patterson. But since then, pictures and ornaments have been added, one by one, till all its old-time stiffness seems to have merged into a look of grand comfort. Its roof may leak occasionally, and it certainly was built before the day of “modern conveniences,” and may be altogether inadequate to be the President’s house of a great Nation; nevertheless, that Nation has no occasion to be ashamed of its order or adornment to-day.

As in the Johnson administration, the house is brightened by ever-blooming flowers, and the presence of happy children. Mr. Dent, the venerable father of Mrs. Grant, also makes a marked feature of its social life, and is the object not only of the ceaseless devotion of his family, but of the respect of all their visitors.

Mrs. Grant is now, as she always has been, devoted to her family. Her chief enjoyment is in it, in its cares and pleasures; the latter, however, in her present life, largely preponderating. Born without the natural gifts or graces which could have made her a leader of other minds, even in the surface realm of society, she is, nevertheless, very fond of social entertainments, and enters into them with a good nature, and visible enjoyment, which at times goes far to take the place of higher and more positive characteristics. If to the affectionate domestic life of the White House could be added a finer culture and higher intellectual quality as the highest social centre of the land, giving exclusive tone to the official society, it might do more than words could tell to redeem from frivolity and vicious dissipation the fashionable life of the capital. Mere good nature, good clothes, and unutterable commonplace are not forces sufficient to, in themselves, work out this reformation.

On the whole it is a sad sight to see a President’s daughter, an only daughter, at an age when any thoughtful mother would shield her from the allurements of pleasure, and shut her away in safety to study and grow to harmonious and beautiful womanhood, suddenly launched into the wild tide of frivolous pleasure. Thus, while the daughters of Senators and Cabinet ministers, far from Washington, under faithful teachers, were learning truly how to live, and acquiring the discipline and accomplishments which would fit them to adorn their high estate, Ellen Grant, a gentle girl of seventeen, with mind and manners unfed and unformed, suddenly “came out” a full-fledged young woman of fashion, spoken of almost exclusively as the driver of a phaeton, and the leader of the all-night “German.”

As a result, Washington is crowded with a shoal of pretty girls, bright and lovely as God had made them; by a false life, late hours, voluptuous dances, made already hard, old, _blasé_, often before their feet have touched the first verge of womanhood. I think of one, but one, amid hundreds, the daughter of a high officer, graceful, tasteful, the queen of dancers, and of all night revels, but empty of mind, hard of heart, brazen of manners! Who looking on her face can fail to see that the dew of innocence is brushed from it forever.

The prevailing lack of fashionable society in Washington, to-day, is high motive, purity of feeling, a more varied and brighter intelligence. These all exist, and in no meagre proportion, but as scattered elements, they wait the supreme social queen, the centripetal soul which shall draw them into one potent and prevailing power that shall lift the whole social life of the capital to a higher plane of æsthetic attire, culture, and amusement. Fortunately, Mrs. Grant has been surrounded by numerous ladies in official life of superior mental endowment and culture, and true social grace. This is especially true of a portion of “the ladies of the Cabinet,” of the Senators’ wives from several States, and of no small number among the wives of Representatives. Many ladies, whose husbands are in Congress, bring the most exquisite tastes in art, music and literature, and the loveliest of womanhood to grace the life of Washington. For what is termed its “society” in the “season,” the pity is these rare women have no taste, it is to them a burden, or an offence, and they have never yet combined in organized force (which alone is power) to uplift and redeem it.

Nevertheless, Washington is rapidly becoming an intellectual as well as social centre. The large and varied interests which concentrate in a national capital tend more and more to draw the highest intellectual as well as social forces into its life. These need but assimilation, fusion, unity and purpose to develop into the most superb manifestation of civilization. In looking back upon the wives of the Presidents, we discover, with but two or three exceptions, they were women of remarkable powers and exalted character.