THROUGH the mist of years I recall a Merry Christmas in my childhood’s home long ago, and sweeter than music across still waters come memories of the blessed influences voicing in that historic mansion on that memorable occasion the glad tidings from Bethlehem: “Peace on earth, good will towards men.” The White House, always an ideal domestic center, was, during President Jackson’s occupancy, the model American home—love, kindness and charity guarding it like sentries, happiness and content overshadowing it like angel wings. Known to the world as the man whose iron will and fierce, ungovernable temper defied opposition and courted antagonism, he was the gentlest, tenderest, most patient of men at his own fireside. His household included the families of his adopted son and private secretary, and Mrs. Donelson and Mrs. Jackson, handsome, accomplished, refined; Major Donelson and Mr. Jackson, brave, cultured, public-spirited, ably assisted him in discharging his high duties, and by their tact and grace obtained for his administration its unequaled social prestige. Loving, enjoying children as childless old people often do, and never so happy as when giving happiness to others, he made life for us little ones,—Donelsons, four; Jacksons, two—clustering around his knee as around a doting grandfather’s, well worth living.

Among the many bright incidents associated with the special Christmas so pleasantly remembered to-day were an East Room frolic and an unforgetable visit from Sancta Claus. The invitations for the former, which was probably the most enjoyable and successful juvenile fête ever given at the National Capital, read: “The children of President Jackson’s family request you to join them on Christmas Day, at four o’clock P. M., in a frolic in the East Room. Washington, December 19, 1835.”

Delivering them, receiving the acceptances,—there were few regrets,—selecting the games to be played and arranging other matters relating thereto, proved inexhaustible sources of fun, subordinate only to curiosity as to Sancta Claus and his mysterious movements. His generosity on former occasions tempted us to expect great results from his next visit, and, wondering whether he would come, if so, what he would bring us, how he looked and where he lived, we questioned the house servants and attendants, with whom we were privileged pets and among whom were some most interesting personalities; their answers, however, unlike the enchanted oracle in fairy lore, neither removing doubt nor confirming hope.

Mammy, a large, handsome mulatto, saucy and good-natured, fussy and domineering, as nursery autocrats generally are, and whom we both loved and feared, said: “I wish to goodness you children would stop talking about old Sindy Klaws. I’d laugh if, tired of roaming ’round nights, filling stockings, he’d stay at home and roast chestnuts by his own fire.”

Jimmy O’Neil, our favorite usher and a typical son of Erin, said: “I could tell you lots about Saint Patrick, but mighty little about Sindy Klaws. I think, however, he and I must look alike, for Mammy always says when I make her a present, ‘Go away, Jimmy, you’re as big a fool as Sindy Klaws, always giving people things.’” We shook our heads. “No, no, Jimmy; you are thin as a rail, have black, scraggly hair, a long, sharp nose and no beard, and everybody knows Sancta Claus to be fat, squatty, with a red face, long white beard and wearing a baggy coat crammed with toys and goodies.”

Vivart, the French cook, whose toothsome sweets invested him with great importance in our hungry eyes and whom we waylaid on his morning visit to my mother, said: “I no acquaint with Monsieur Sancta Claus; he no live in Paris. In my beautiful France across the blue sea les petits enfans never ask questions, speak only when spoken to, then with modest curtsies and downcast eyes.”

“Ah, ha!” chuckled Mammy, “Mr. Vivart gives you a lesson in manners.”

Hans, the German gardener, whose stories about Rhine castles and Black Forest witches and fairies were even more relished than the fruit and flowers he brought upstairs every morning, said: “I’m sure Kris Kringle will come; he might forget some children, but not White House ones, though I think it strange he does not hang his pretty things on a green tree instead of stuffing them in ugly stockings. How I wish you could see the beautiful trees which the boys and girls in Germany trim and light on Christmas Eve, and where they gather to sing songs, play games and exchange presents. Heaven seems very near at those times.”

“Your German trees may be lovely, Hans,” said Carita, a Mexican embroideress occasionally employed by my mother, “but they can’t compare with the fancy lamps which the Rio Grande ninitos hang on poles and bushes near their homes on Christmas Eve, and beneath which they find the next morning the beautiful gifts left for them by the Infant Jesus on His way from heaven to the Virgin’s arms.”

She often told us stories descriptive of Mexican customs, and had just commenced one about the Alcalde’s daughter when Mammy called us to put on our wraps to go riding with the President, who wished us to meet him at the front door. Something like the “Divinity that doth hedge a king” invested him in our eyes, and always granting, often anticipating, his wishes, we never dared oppose or disobey his orders. While waiting, George, the coachman, told us of some bad children who found in their Christmas stockings a bundle of peach tree switches wrapped in paper labeled: “To be applied when spanking has proved insufficient,” and said he hoped we would fare better. Now we had on several occasions come in close contact with peach tree switches, but we did not thank George for reminding us of the stinging experiences.

“To the Orphan Asylum,” said the President on entering the carriage, in which were several packages, and up in front was a basket of good things. He often drove there, taking me, cousin Rachel (his adopted son’s daughter and the apple of his eye), and John along. It was at that time a small, modest structure with a limited number of patients, but its foundress, Mrs. Van Ness, had secured for it some influential patrons, among whom President Jackson, to whom all orphans were objects of tender solicitude, was not the least zealous. The following conversation enlivened the ride:

John: “Uncle” (the name affectionately applied to him by his wife’s nieces and nephews), “did you ever see Sancta Claus?”

The President, eyeing John curiously over his spectacles: “No, my boy; I never did.”

John: “Mammy thinks he’ll not come to-night. Did you ever know him to behave that way?”

The President: “We can only wait and see. I once knew a little boy who not only never heard of Christmas or Sancta Claus, but never had a toy in his life; and after the death of his mother, a pure, saintly woman, had neither home nor friends.”

Chorus of children: “Poor little fellow! Had he come to the White House we would have shared our playthings with him.”

The children, quick to detect emotion, felt that some sad memory stirred the old man’s heart, though we little suspected he was referring to his own desolate childhood.

The President, after some moments’ silence: “The best way to secure happiness is to bestow it on others, and we’ll begin our holiday by remembering the little ones who have no mothers or fathers to brighten life for them.” To the sweet-faced matron who welcomed us he said: “Here I am with some Christmas cheer for your young charges.” The children gathered in the reception room, and it was gratifying to see their faces light up as, greeting each one, he distributed his gifts, and even more gratifying was it to note his pleasure at their grateful surprise. Raising in his arms a crippled boy, who replied to his inquiry, “Better, General; but, oh! so tired,” he gave him a jumping-jack, saying: “Let’s see how this works,” and the delighted child cried: “Ain’t that cute? Hopping up and down just like an organ grinder’s monkey.”

The day, warm and bright, was more like May than December; the parks, then only grassy commons shaded by native trees, were still green, and the roses in the grounds adjoining all buildings were still in full bloom.

Returning home we called at several houses to leave Christmas souvenirs sent by my mother and Mrs. Jackson: a package of snuff for Mrs. Madison, then visiting Washington relatives; a hand-painted mirror for Mr. Van Buren, who was reputed to be on very good terms with his looking-glass, and some embroidered handkerchiefs (Carita’s handiwork) for intimate friends.

During President Jackson’s incumbency the White House family, children included, except on state occasions, met at meal time, breakfast being at eight o’clock, dinner at two, and supper at half-past six. Mrs. Donelson sat at the head of the table, the President at the foot; we stood at our chairs until he asked a blessing, and at the close of meals were excused by a signal—smile or gesture—from my mother. Always serving the children first, saying they have better appetites, less patience, and should not be required to wait until their elders are helped, he encouraged us to talk and ask questions, evidently enjoying our remarks. He often rose early and went with us to Jackson (now La Fayette) Square for a game of mumble-the-peg, and occasionally, when supposed to be wrestling with state problems, hurling anathemas at Clay, Biddle, Adams, and other opponents, he might have been found in our play-room soothing some childish grievance or joining in some impromptu romp.

After supper we began preparations for the all-important, eagerly-anticipated event, hanging up our stockings. Uncle had invited us, overruling my mother’s protest that we might disturb him, to use his room, and thither we merrily trooped, he leading and apparently deeply interested. My brothers, Jackson and John, cousin Rachel and I borrowed Mammy’s stockings, which, as she tipped the beam at 200, were as capacious as the Galilee fishermen’s nets she often referred to. Cousin Rachel and brother Jackson hung theirs to side hooks on the mantel, I mine to the fancy hearth broom, and John, who was a born artist, his to a boot-jack carelessly left on Uncle’s green leather arm chair; two smaller stockings for the babies, my little sister and young cousin, dangled from curtain rings at the foot of the bed. In the center of a large, airy, handsomely-furnished room stood a writing table at which the President and his Private Secretary often sat until the “wee sma” hours, discussing state matters and examining documents relating to them. Amid the papers promiscuously piled up thereon was an Old Testament that had belonged to his mother, his wife’s Bible and a frame holding her miniature.

Surveying with delight the room after we had disposed of our stockings, we declared it reminded us of the Masonic Bazaar being held, which we had attended. Then brother Jackson had a bright idea. “Why not hang up a stocking for Uncle?” and running to the Bureau he took a sock from the bottom drawer, tied it to the tongs and cried: “Now let’s see how Sancta Claus will treat you, Mr. Uncle Jackson, President of all these United States!” Surprised and amazed, the old man said: “Well, well, to think I’ve waited nearly seventy years to hang up a Christmas stocking.” “Better late than never,” added brother Jackson.

We begged to be allowed to sit up to see Sancta Claus come down the chimney and pass through the fire without scorching his bundles, declaring we were not sleepy and promising never to be naughty again; then when Mammy hustled us off nolens volens to bed, we vowed we’d lie awake all night, and, still protesting, sank into tired childhood’s dreamless slumber. About daybreak Mammy’s shrill voice calling “Christmas gift, you sleepy heads!” awoke us, and amazed, indignant, to find we had slept soundly after all, we sprang from bed and darted in our bare feet, unheeding her cries, “Wait till you’re dressed, you’ll catch your death of cold,” across the hall to Uncle’s room and asked, “Did Sancta Claus come?” “See for yourselves,” said he, opening his door. He was up and dressed, had a bright fire, and watched us tenderly, as rushing in we seized our stockings, each one, his included, being well filled, and beneath them the presents we specially desired—for him a cob-pipe, pair of warm slippers and tobacco bag; for brother Jackson, then eight years old and very mannish, talking grandly about shooting on the fly and jumping the hurdle, a small gun, saddle and bridle; for John a hobby horse and drum, for me and cousin Rachel a doll and tea-set each, and for the babies toy rattles. Delighted we voted Sancta Claus to be the nicest old fellow in the world.

Had we known our real benefactor we would have felt some disappointment, dearly as we loved him, for the occult has indescribable fascination for children, who, though grasping, loving to hoard and accumulate, find in the mystery surrounding Sancta Claus a charm surpassing even his bounty. See a child spring from bed early Christmas morning, grasp and examine its stocking, finding in it long-coveted, unlooked-for treasures, meanwhile imagining the fat, white-bearded old man crossing, like “Puss in Boots,” hill and dale, sea and lake, to bring it presents, bending perchance over its sleeping form to imprint a kiss, then slipping away without waiting to be thanked. Can human fancy picture a more entrancing scene? When in after years does any moment yield more unalloyed bliss?

Mammy, often provoking with her strict notions of nursery discipline, outdid herself that morning, for though we implored her to let us empty our stockings just to see if that lump in the toe was a dime or quarter, she barbarously put them away, and rubbing, scrubbing, combing, curling, as if for dear life’s sake, dressed us for breakfast. Below stairs the halls, dining and sitting rooms decorated with cedar and holly, the vases filled with flowers on tables and mantels, and huge logs blazing on the hearths, made a cheery, comforting scene.

Though President Jackson had not for years used any intoxicants, a bowl of foaming egg-nog graced the side-board, and on tables near were presents for each member of the household. Mrs. Donelson occupied, while mistress of the White House, the second-story corner room facing Pennsylvania Avenue, using the one back of it as a nursery. In the former three of her children, Mary (myself), John and Rachel, credited at the time with being the first births in the Executive Mansion, were born, her eldest child, Jackson, having been born in Tennessee. The President’s adopted son and daughter occupied the two adjoining rooms, and he the central one, now known as the Prince of Wales’ room because used by his Royal Highness when President Buchanan’s guest in 1860. The play-room, belonging to-day to the official suite, was near the President’s. His bed, a high, four-post carved mahogany, with tester and heavy damask curtains, was reached by carpeted steps which we children dearly loved to scamper up and down. When ill we often carried him his meals, he reciprocating the attention when we were confined in bed. Suffering from painful respiration, he slept propped up by high pillows. Opposite his bed hung his wife’s portrait with pictures of the two Rachels on either side, a standing breakfast question being, “Which Rachel did you look at first this morning, uncle?” the lucky one being the morning belle. The author and sharer of most of our pleasures, he often shielded us from punishment when naughty, and my mother once bewailing his over-indulgence, quoted the Bible: “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” but he replied: “I think, Emily, with all due deference to the Good Book, that love and patience are better disciplinarians than rods.” Traveling, he generally took along a box of silver half-dollars for his namesakes, then both numerous and ubiquitous, saying to their mothers: “Baby can cut teeth on my gift now, later show him his country’s eagle thereon, and teach him to love and honor it.”

We were permitted to spend the morning, and a blissful one it proved, in the play-room, where Uncle, cousins Sarah and Andrew, my mother and father, and some playmates joined us and helped us unload our stockings, finding in each a silver quarter, fruit, candy, cakes and nuts. Many friends remembered us, White House children then, as now, exciting much public interest. Many of cousin Rachel’s presents were beautiful, and two of mine were so unique and pleasure-giving that after all these sad years they still loom up shining milestones in childhood’s sunny way. Madame Serrurier of the French Legation sent me a boy doll wearing the red, brass-button jacket, grey, gold-striped pants, plumed chapeau, spurs and sabre worn by French postilions. My god-father, the Vice-President, sent me a miniature cooking stove with spirit lamp ready to light. I had had many handsome dolls, but never a boy doll before, and like other foolish mothers welcoming a son after a succession of disappointing daughters I clasped him in my arms and crowned him lord and master of my heart. Wherever I went for some weeks some one would ask: “Mary, how’s your boy?” Lighting the lamp in the toy stove we boiled water in the tiny kettle and popped corn in the oven, shouting gleefully when the kettle sang and the corn executed its staccato dance, occasionally giving us a hot smack on the face or hands.

The etiquette forbidding ladies presiding over Executive Mansions from receiving or returning social calls was either non est or disregarded at that time, for Mrs. Donelson, who was many years the junior of any of her predecessors or successors, and who had that love of pleasure and desire to please natural to young, attractive women, had a large visiting list, including most of the ladies prominent in social and official circles. Among her intimates were Mrs. Macomb, Mrs. R. E. Lee, from Arlington, Mrs. Rives, Mrs. Blair, Miss Lizzie Blair, Mrs. Watson and her daughters, Misses Cora Livingston and Rebecca McLane. Miss Livingston, who was my god-mother and mother’s dearest friend, was for many years the acknowledged belle of Washington, many distinguished authors paying homage in familiar writings to her rare tact and personal charm and imparting to her social triumphs traditionary interest.

Not the least of that happy day’s diversions was making our toilettes for the afternoon fête, and it was amusing to see the high and mighty airs Mammy assumed on the occasion, changing a bow here, supplying a pin there, arranging plaits, ruffles and puffs, then when she had finished dressing us surveying her work as an artist might a completed chef d’œuvre. We wore the costumes presented to us by our parents as Christmas gifts—Cousin Rachel, who was pretty and graceful, a pink cashmere; I, a blue one; we both wore silk clock stockings with kid slippers. John was gorgeous in a Highland plaid suit, and brother Jackson, who was tall, erect and handsome, gave promise in a brass-button jacket of the gallant officer he afterwards became. Miss Cora Livingston, who kindly volunteered to chaperone the frolic, came about four and led the way to the East Room, which was tastefully decorated with evergreens and flowering plants. Our guests arrived promptly, and meeting them at the door, we kissed the girls and shook hands with the boys. The former wore light colors, the latter their smartest suits, all making a brave showing, though there were no elaborate costumes, styled Worth confections and suggesting Parisian ballet dancers, like those seen nowadays at juvenile gatherings. Among our guests were the Woodbury, Blake, Jones, Lee, Macomb, Carroll, Graham, Turnbull, Pleasanton, Taney, Corcoran, Peters, and Hobbie children, with all of whom we were well acquainted, having dancing-school, Sunday-school, picnic and play-room associations in common. A few older guests, Mrs. Madison bringing her grand-niece, Addie Cutts; Mrs. Lee with little Custis, Baroness Krudener, Mesdames Huygens and Serrurier and Sir Edward Vaughn, joined the President and members of his family in the Red Room and served as spectators of a novel and delightful entertainment.

We played “Blind Man’s Buff,” “Hide and Seek,” “Puss-in-the-Corner,” and several juvenile forfeit games, all entered into with zest and thoroughly enjoyed, the East Room proving an ideal play-ground, and the players, free and unrestrained as if on a Texas prairie, romping, scampering, shouting, laughing, in all the exuberance of childish merry-making. Mr. Van Buren and Miss Cora joined in, rather led the games, and added greatly to their success. Several amusing incidents varied their usual routine. In “Hide and Seek” the switch, after numerous hot and cold signals, was discovered in a boy’s jacket pocket, where a mischievous girl had slipped it, and in “Puss-in-the-Corner,” Willie M——, provoked with Jennie T—— for eluding his grasp, called out: “You are no pussy, but a slippery old cat.”

Washington gossips accused Mrs. Donelson of heading a conspiracy to make a match between the Vice-President and Miss Cora, but as she married a Mr. Barton some years later, and as he never gave his children a step-mother, those gossips evidently erred then as they occasionally do to-day. The failure to catch them together beneath the mistletoe bough suspended from the central East Room chandelier was probably the only disappointment of the evening, all hoping that such a conjunction might have auspicious results. Mr. Van Buren, having incurred a penalty in a forfeit game, was sentenced to stand on one leg and say:

and no kiss being volunteered, he strutted like a game gobbler across the room, amid peals of laughter. With one exception, the penalties incurred by the children were bravely paid. Little Mary ——, known to have a sweet voice, when sentenced to sing “A Paper of Pins,” hung her head shyly, whispering: “I’d rather dance than sing,” then when led out to dance she burst out crying, sobbing: “I don’t want to sing or dance. Please let me alone,” and Miss Cora, taking her on her lap, said: “All right, Mary, I’ll pay your forfeit,” and sang very sweetly:

About six o’clock the dining-room was opened, displaying a picture of surpassing beauty, one that the four seasons and field, forest, and lake had united in embellishing. The band stationed in the corridor struck up the “President’s March,” and Miss Cora, forming us in line, the younger couples leading, marshaled us into supper. The scene of many historic banquets, commemorating great events and shared by world-wide celebrities, that famous room never witnessed one in which the decorator’s art, or the confectioner’s skill, achieved greater triumphs—Vivart, hailed as Napoleon of Cooks, Master Chef de Cuisine, Wizard, Magician, receiving hearty congratulations on all sides. In the center of a maltese-cross-shaped table towered a pyramid of snow-balls, interspersed with colored icicles and surmounted by a gilt game cock, head erect, wings outspread. At the upright ends of the cross were dishes of frozen marvels, at the top one representing iced fruits—oranges, apples, pears, peaches, grapes; at the bottom one representing iced vegetables—corn, carrots, beans, squashes. At one transverse end was a tiny frosted pine tree, beneath which huddled a group of toy animals; at the other a miniature rein-deer stood in a plateau of water in which disported a number of gold-fish. There were candies, cakes, confections of every conceivable design; delicious viands, relishes and beverages. Though almost transfixed with admiring delight, we did ample justice to the tempting repast and eagerly accepted the lovely ornaments given us as souvenirs.

After supper the central pyramid was demolished and the snow-balls, which were made of non-combustible starch-coated cotton, each one enclosing a French pop-kiss, were distributed to us, and we were invited to play snow-ball in the East Room, an invitation the more joyfully hailed because the winter having been exceptionally mild we had been debarred our usual snow-ball games. The balls striking exploded, and for some moments the East Room was the scene of an exciting snow flurry, with the startling addition of the thunder and lightning characteristic of summer storms. The President, Mrs. Madison, and other elderly guests, who had watched the game from the southern end of the room, heartily sharing and enjoying the children’s merriment, were spared, but the players, pelting each other unmercifully, looked like snow-entrapped wayfarers. It was great fun to see them dodging the balls and to hear them scream when struck, though the balls, being soft and light, caused no bruises and inflicted no damage on clothes or furniture. The game, exhilarating and inspiring, was provokingly brief, the supply of snow-balls being soon exhausted. Then the escorts sent for the children having arrived, Miss Cora, giving us quietly some instructions, reformed us in line as at supper, the band played a lively air and we marched several times around the room. The last time, bowing to the group at the upper end, we paused before the President, and kissing our hands to him said, “Good-night, General”; he smiling and bowing in return. “What a beautiful sight,” said Mrs. Madison. “It reminds me of the fairy procession in ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’” “It recalls to me, Madam,” said the President, “our Divine Master’s words: ‘Suffer little children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.’”