_Ancestry—Picture of Pioneer Life—Imprisonment and Release
of Pompey Smash—Little Jack’s Short Cut in the Study of
Astronomy—The Fate of his First Pair of Breeches._
Once upon a time, so long ago that the chronology of it has become hidden
in the mists of historical uncertainties, a man with his family emigrated
from the hill section of northern Ireland to the vicinity of Dublin. What
his real name was also belongs to the realm of the unknown, but among
the unsophisticated rural inhabitants with whom he had cast his lot he
was characterized simply as the “new gentleman.” In course of time, the
somewhat cumbersome title became abbreviated to “new gent,” the original
appellation finally passing from common usage entirely. That this new
gentleman was a person of some force of character may be inferred from
the distinction he seems to have achieved among his new neighbors and the
fact that the name has been honored by men of rank and eminence among his
descendants, a conspicuous example being Lord Robert Newgent (or Nugent),
the celebrated Irish scholar and statesman.
Among the later descendants were three brothers who decided to cast their
fortunes with the land of dreams and fancies across the Atlantic. Their
names were Edward, William, and Thomas Newgent. On reaching America
Edward directed his course toward the sunny South, William remained
somewhere in the East, while Thomas struck out toward the vast region of
unbroken forests on the western slopes of the Alleghenies. His pilgrimage
terminated somewhere in the bounds of Kentucky. He secured a tract of
land near Cincinnati, and in process of time met, wooed, and won a
wealthy daughter of Virginia. He was contemporary with the Boones in
reclaiming this great region of possibilities for civilization; helped
to survey the State; taught school on both sides of the Ohio River,
winning for himself the title of “Irish Schoolmaster,” which, in this
case, carried with it no small degree of distinction. He was a soldier in
three wars, that of the Revolution, of 1812, and the Blackhawk War, for
which services he received a pension from the Government. He professed
religion at the ripe age of eighty, and was spared to redeem in part his
long neglected opportunities by spending almost a quarter of a century in
active Christian service, his long and eventful life closing, according
to an uncertain tradition, in the 103d year of his age. He was the father
of Charles Newgent, who was the father of Andrew Jackson Newgent, the
hero of this simple narrative.
In Charles Newgent the elements of character peculiar to his race were
exceptionally strong. A most marked propensity was his fondness for a
joke. He would take more interest in concocting some new trick to be
played on a neighbor or in devising a scheme for merrymaking than in a
critical study of the Sermon on the Mount, or in solving an intricate
theological problem. But while the religious faculty remained somewhat
dormant, he was warm-hearted and generous, a good neighbor and citizen,
according to the simple requirements of the times. In educational
attainments he was far above the average. He was a prominent figure
in local political circles, being a Jeffersonian Democrat of a rather
emphatic type. His ever ready wit and fluency of speech made him a
master on the stump and a formidable antagonist in political debates.
The ability to give a humorous turn to any remark or incident served
him well upon such occasions. His peculiar temperament gave him special
aptitude as an auctioneer, in which capacity he had no superior. People
would attend his sales as much to be entertained by his witticisms as for
the bargains he might have to offer, and those who came to laugh often
remained to settle a bill for something they had no thought of purchasing.
At the age of nineteen, in the year 1825, he was married to Mary Pugh,
of Shelby County, Kentucky, his native county. Her parents had come from
Scotland and were substantial citizens.
Soon after their marriage they moved to Parke County, Indiana, and
settled on a tract of land which the wife had received as a dower from
her father.
Pioneer life in Indiana need not here be enlarged upon. A solitary
dwelling in the interminable and trackless forest; the building
consisting of a single room built of unhewn logs, roofed with hand-split
clapboards; the chimney covering one entire end of the building; the
rough doors swung on wooden hinges; the small windows with greased paper
or the tanned skins of animals through which a bit of daylight finds its
way with difficulty; the huge fireplace used for both cooking and heating
purposes; the few pieces of hand-made furniture—these were some of the
outward aspects of domestic life out on the ragged edge of civilization.
The cabin of the Newgents was typical of those of their neighbors, the
nearest of whom lived some fifteen miles distant. The larger wild animals
were frequent visitors and the war whoop of the Indian had scarcely died
away.
After a brief residence at this place they moved to Sullivan County.
Here, on Saturday, September 15, 1838, the subject of this sketch was
born. He was the youngest of seven sons. Subsequently the family circle
was enlarged by the addition of two daughters. The father’s political
bias was again asserted in the name, Andrew Jackson, assigned to this
youngest son, after the great hero of early Democracy. The name often has
given occasion for humorous touches by the owner, especially in referring
to his early life. By the neighbors and older members of the family, he
says, he was dubbed General Andrew Jackson. Later the military title was
dropped and he became plain Andrew Jackson, and by successive stages the
name was further abbreviated until the boy was doomed to answer to the
simple cognomen of “Jack.” Whether this was a process of evolution or of
degeneration, he was destined to win for himself a title that would stand
for real worth and attainment; that would represent the love of little
children, as well as the esteem of men and women, when the affectionate
appellation of “Uncle Jack” would become a household term in multitudes
of homes.
Perhaps it is to the Scotch blood of his mother that he owes the more
solid elements of his character. The Scotch character stands for thrift,
energy, and integrity, so that wherever the hardy Scotchman goes he
carries with him the best elements of citizenship. These combined with
the quick wit and genial temperament of the sons of Erin produced in our
subject a personality rich in depth and resourcefulness.
The emigration instinct, always strong in the pioneer, again became
active, and the family set out for a new destination. This time it was
Paw Paw Bend in Knox County, Indiana, so named because of its location in
a bend of White River, and the prolific growth of paw paw trees for which
the fertile lands were especially adapted. Our subject was then about
eighteen months old. Here he spent the years of early childhood. Some
incidents numbered among his earliest recollections and which serve to
illustrate the home life and social conditions in which these years were
passed, will not be out of place in this connection.
During this period religious services were practically unknown in Paw
Paw Bend. The chief diversions were such social functions as shooting
matches, wood choppings, log rollings, husking bees, and dances. The
spelling bee was still of too intellectual a character to win popularity.
At all such gatherings the familiar demijohn of corn whiskey was
considered an indispensable adjunct.
Hence, the announcement of a preaching service to be held at the Newgent
home on a following Sunday morning was hailed throughout the settlement
as a new thing under the sun. Of course everybody would go. The preacher
was to be Rev. Nathan Hinkle, a Methodist itinerant. It was out of no
particular religious scruples that the host, Charles Newgent, volunteered
to entertain the assemblage on this occasion, yet he had no aversion to
preachers or churches, and in common with his neighbors, he was always
ready to encourage anything that would break the monotony and afford
social diversion.
It so happened that on Saturday evening before this memorable day, Pompey
Smash, a negro fiddler, was passing through the neighborhood and asked
to stay over night at Mr. Newgent’s. He was informed by the head of the
house that he would be furnished lodging on condition that he dispense
music for a family dance. The terms were accepted and there was a sound
of revelry by night as the little company beat time on the puncheon floor
to the droll tunes of their musical guest.
Early next morning the congregation began to assemble for worship. The
presence of the fiddler led to the suggestion that the time spent in
waiting for the arrival of the preacher be used to the best possible
advantage. Accordingly the Ethiopian turned his fiddle—for it was before
the violin was invented; the familiar demijohn was set in a conspicuous
place, and the gentlemen chose their partners. Lest the preacher’s sudden
arrival in the midst of such hilarious scenes be the occasion of a shock
or an offense to his ecclesiastical dignity, a member of the party was
dispatched to do picket service. The watchman, having imbibed too freely
of the contents of the jug, fell asleep at his post. The dance had gone
on merrily for some time in its rapturous excitement; the preacher and
church service were utterly forgotten. When, lo! the alarm was sounded.
The faithless watchman had allowed the company to be taken by surprise.
The approach of the reverend was discovered in the nick of time; the
dance came to an abrupt stop. To prevent the minister from “smelling a
rat,” a puncheon was removed hastily from the floor, and the fiddler,
the fiddle, and the whiskey jug were thrust unceremoniously through the
opening into the cellar excavation below. And the people put on their
Sunday faces for church.
After the services a part of the congregation, including the shepherd
of the flock, remained for dinner. This necessarily prolonged the
imprisonment of the negro, but when it is recalled that the whiskey
jug was a prison companion, we may surmise that the hours were not
so “tedious and tasteless” as otherwise they might have been. The
solemnities of the day came to an end with the departure of the minister;
the prison was then opened and the prisoner released. An “after service”
followed, which, it may be conjectured, was more in harmony with the
tastes of the congregation.
While unlimited resources lay at the very doors of these pioneer cabins,
the backwoodsmen lacked the facilities for developing them. Their tastes
were not so exacting as in later days, and beyond the sheer necessities
and comforts of the household, ambition did not spur them on. While
ordinarily the family dined on homely fare, the industrious housewife
often became so proficient in the culinary art as to be able to concoct
most tempting dishes with the raw products that nature placed in easy
reach. The sap of the maple tree, wild grapes, paw paws, and persimmons,
as well as the products of garden, orchard, and field were utilized
in providing for their physical wants. Persimmons ripened with the
early frosts, and when put up in maple syrup, became a staple and most
delicious article of diet. By the addition of the proper quantity of
whiskey, the standard remedy for most of the ills the flesh is heir to,
the mixture afforded in addition to its other virtues, a sure cure for
ague, commonly called “ager.” This led to an episode in which little
Jack and three older brothers were the leading figures, and which he
facetiously labeled “a short cut in the study of astronomy.”
The children were left alone one afternoon. The oldest of the quartet
was familiar with the process of preparing the common ague antidote. The
necessary ingredients were, as usual, within easy reach. So he proceeded
to administer the remedy to his younger brothers on the principle that
“if a little did good, more would do better.” The bearing of this
procedure upon the science of astronomy becomes apparent when we
remember that among the unschooled of that day it was a mooted question
as to whether or not the world is round and revolves upon its axis, as
the geographies teach. Jack declared that after taking a few doses it
was painfully evident to him that the world did turn round and turned at
such a rapid rate that he found it difficult to keep from falling off.
When the mother returned she found the three younger boys lying on the
floor unconscious, and the author of the mischief sitting astride a joist
overhead the unceiled room in a hilarious condition. By the free use of
sweet milk the younger boys were restored to consciousness, but a special
treatment was reserved for the one who led them into temptation. However,
Jack found this short course in astronomy sufficient for all practical
purposes, and he has never had the occasion or inclination to extend it.
His early years were as happy and free from care amid these primitive
surroundings, as childhood life could well be, even in what might be
considered more favorable circumstances. Life was simple in the extreme,
even crude, but it was the best he knew. There was nothing in the lives
of his associates calculated to excite envy or cause discontent with his
own lot. But in this connection one incident stands out in bold relief to
mar the picture of boyish contentment.
A single garment of homespun, or “tow linen,” was all that was considered
necessary in the way of clothing under ordinary circumstances for a boy
of that age. It marked a new era in his life when the loose garment which
covered the anatomy down to the knees was supplemented by a pair of
breeches of the same material. Upon one occasion as Jack stood watching
his mother as she was measuring the material for the older boys’ winter
suits, he heard her remark that there would probably be enough scraps
left over to make him a pair of breeches. With emotions alternating
between hope and fear, he waited impatiently for the outcome. His joy was
unbounded when he found that his hopes were to be realized. His mother
laid him on the floor and thus marked the pattern. It was seen that the
closest economy had to be used to make the goods hold out; so instead of
the regulation number of two suspenders which were one piece with the
breeches, the material would only warrant the making of one. By extending
it from one side on the back diagonally across the shoulder, making
connection on the opposite side in front, the new habiliment maintained
its balance and no special inconvenience was suffered.
But alas! his rejoicing was soon to be turned into mourning. A few days
later, clad in his new outfit, he went with his brothers to the woods
to gather pecans. It was a warm autumn afternoon, and in climbing and
clubbing the trees and picking up the nuts, the boys found it convenient
to cast off unnecessary articles of clothing. As Jack had scarcely become
accustomed to more than one garment, he could easily dispense with the
breeches for the time. Accordingly they were removed and hung on a bush
near by, and for a time forgotten in the fascination of nut hunting. When
the party was ready to start home with the fruits of their toil, he was
alarmed to find that his cherished breeches had disappeared. The boys
searched diligently but found them not. When about ready to give up in
despair, they chanced to observe, a short distance away, a mellow-eyed,
crinkly-horned, brindle cow making a meal off the lad’s wearing apparel,
or perhaps using it for dessert, as though it were a dainty morsel. And
the last Jack saw of his first pair of breeches was the lone suspender
dangling from the innocent old brindle’s mouth, the major part of them
having been engulfed in her capacious maw. And to the sorrow of his
heart, his wardrobe for another year was limited to the single piece of
homespun.