Of the many elegant entertainments given by President Johnson, none surpassed the State dinners. They were conducted on a most generous and princely scale, and reflected lasting honor upon the taste and judgment of his daughter, to whom was left the entire arrangement of every social entertainment. The magnificent State dining-room, which had been closed during the last few years of President Lincoln’s administration, became again a scene of hospitality, and resounded once more with the voices of welcome guests and personal friends.
Nothing contributed more than these “affairs of State” to win for the family that popularity, apart from their lofty social position, which they enjoyed whilst in Washington. A letter written by a lady who was familiar with the home-life of Mrs. Patterson, may not prove uninteresting, pertaining, as it does, particularly to the subject of State dinners.
“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 preparations for the occurrence 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 rare scene which I viewed in the quiet light of this closing winter day, and the recollections and associations of the time linger most vividly in memory now. The table was arranged for forty persons, each guest’s name being upon the plate designated in 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 green-house exotics. It was not the color or design of the Sevres 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 household 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 when we entered.
“Long we lingered, enjoying the satisfaction one experiences in beholding a beautiful and finished task. All was ready and complete, and when we passed from the room, there was still a time for rest and repose before the hour named in the cards of invitation.
“Through the Red and Blue parlors we sauntered slowly, she recalling reminiscences of the past four years, and speaking with unreserved frankness of her feelings on her approaching departure. 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 past, and we felt secure 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, and added a shade of gloom to the cheerless view. The feeling of bodily comfort one has 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, not compatible with ordinary every-day life. Mrs. Patterson was first to note the flight of time, and as we turned to leave with the past the hour it claimed, her always grave face lighted up with a genuine happy expression, as she said, ‘I am glad this is the last of entertainments—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 you the portraits of the Presidents?’ Joining him in his promenade, we passed before them, as they were hanging in the main hall, he dwelling upon the life and character of each, and we listening to his descriptions, and personal recollections. The long shadows of twilight and deepening gloom disappeared before the brilliant glare of the gas, and we turned from this place of interest, reminded that the present was only ours, and with the past we could have no possible business when inexorable custom demanded of us speedy recognition and attention.”
On the morning of the 4th of March, 1869, President Johnson, accompanied by his family, bade adieu to the servants and employés of the Mansion, and were driven to the residence of Mr. Coyle, on Missouri Avenue. Mrs. Patterson accepted the hospitality of Secretary Wells, and reached there soon after twelve o’clock.
Thus closed the administration of President Johnson. The most perilous, stormy, and trying one ever known in the history of this country; a record of rude unpleasant contact with defiled revilers, and a continued struggle from first to last to maintain untarnished the oath too sacred to be violated. Not here, but in the annals of history will all its triumphs be written; not in this day or generation can its untainted and correct measures be fully estimated, but to the coming men of America it is bequeathed, a sad acknowledgment of the tyrannous oppression of a President, and a testimony of his undeviating course, moving onward, swerving neither to the right nor to the left, but forward to the cradles of posterity who will pass judgment and wreathe immortelles to the memory of the patriot, whose truth will not be doubted, whose honesty cannot be impeached.