“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.