Mrs. Emily Donelson
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.
Rachel Donelson
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.