Andrew Jackson
SANCTA CLAUS AT THE WHITE HOUSE IN OLD HICKORY’S DAY.
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.”