The most attractive feature of the Hermitage grounds, aside from the
mansion house itself and the garden, is the guitar-shaped driveway
leading up to the front door from the entrance gate. All along both
sides of the drive the General planted cedar seedlings, brought in from
the near-by glades, and most of these original cedars, now grown into
stately trees, still remain. The few that have succumbed to the stress
of the years and the storms have been replaced with younger brothers,
thus preserving the General's original plan. The wood of the old trees
uprooted by storms has been carefully preserved and is used for the
manufacture of souvenirs and novelties which are sold to visitors.
Until very recently the front drive was still used as the visitors'
approach to the house; but it was feared that the continued every-day
use of the drive might shorten the life of the old cedar trees, and so
entrance and exit are now afforded by a modernly built driveway on the
western edge of the front lawn. This drive is lined with young hardwood
trees of historical significance, they having been transplanted from the
historic battlefields of New Orleans and Alabama where Jackson made
himself a world figure. There are thrifty young oaks here from Chalmette
Plain, and from The Horseshoe, Fort Jackson, and Talladega--names
indelibly associated in history with General Jackson's ever-victorious
combats with the British and with the Creek Indians. This step in the
beautification of the grounds was made possible through the liberality
of Mrs. B. F. Wilson of Nashville, when she was regent of the
association.
Just to the rear of the dining-room wing of the house is the
semi-detached brick kitchen, with its big open fireplace, where all the
family's meals were prepared during the years of the old house's
occupancy. The kitchen separate from the house served to eliminate the
noise and heat and odors of cooking, so far as the family and guests
were concerned. It multiplied the task of serving the meals, but of what
importance was that when labor was so plentiful? In the kitchen may be
seen the cooking appliances used in the early days when there were fowls
and huge roasts on the spits in front of the fire, potatoes boiling in
the big pot on the crane, and doubtless hoecakes on the griddle and hot
biscuits in the oven. Aunt Betty was the cook during the early days and
up until the time she died in 1852; and in those days the cook ruled the
kitchen with an iron hand. There were swarms of little black girls to
keep the fire going and turn the spits and sweep the ashes and bring
water from the springhouse and carry dishes to the dining room--and Aunt
Betty was their boss. Housewives of today, accustomed to the culinary
conveniences afforded by electric ranges and other modern trappings,
wonder how Aunt Betty, cooking on an open fireplace, could prepare the
food for a big family and a house generally full of guests. But those
were the days of simple fare, simply prepared; and Aunt Betty was a
master of that art.
Behind the kitchen is the big brick smokehouse--empty now, but a century
ago filled with the great supply of hams and bacon needed for the
feeding of a large household and a hundred slaves--not to mention the
numerous guests. A normal supply of meat when hogs were killed and the
hams and sides salted down and smoked was from 20,000 to 25,000 pounds.
Today only its dark, smoke-stained rafters remain to tell of all the
succulent country hams that once hung there, but there still clings
about it an elusive and entrancing aroma reminiscent of the days when it
was stocked with the plantation's supply of meat. At hog-killing
time--the first freezing weather in the early winter--a big fireplace in
the cellar of the big house was used to heat water to scald the hogs and
also for rendering the lard in the big black iron kettles.
The carriage house, to the rear of the smokehouse, is not the original
building used for this purpose. It was put there during comparatively
recent years for the purpose of conveniently displaying the old Jackson
family carriage. This old family carriage looks rusty and faded now, but
a century ago it was the vehicular equivalent of the finest
eight-cylindered limousine available today. Nothing but the best was
good enough for General Jackson, whether he was buying a broadcloth suit
or a horse or a carriage. Even before he was President he had an eye for
style and a modest display of pomp. Old residents of Nashville used to
tell of how the General would drive into town "in a carriage drawn by
four handsome iron-gray horses, attended by servants in blue livery with
brass buttons, glazed hats and silver bands." These carriage horses were
the apple of the old man's eye, and whenever he referred to "my grays"
it was with a note of real pride.
In the carriage house is also to be seen the framework, all that now
remains of the handsome phaeton presented to General Jackson by the
admiring citizens of New York. Unfortunately this vehicle was burned
while Colonel Andrew Jackson, III, was living in Cincinnati, before he
had sold all the family relics to the association. The wooden parts of
this phaeton were made from timbers taken from the historic old ship
_Constitution_, and it was very highly cherished by the General. It was
in this phaeton that he and Martin Van Buren rode to the Capitol
together for the inauguration March 4, 1837; and when he left Washington
for Nashville he took the most elaborate pains to see that it was
properly crated and shipped to him at home. It was carried across the
river to Alexandria and thence by boat to Philadelphia. There it was
shipped on a coastwise vessel to New Orleans, and thence by river boats
to the Hermitage.
A good description of this historic vehicle is embraced in the account
of the Van Buren inauguration written for the _New York Mirror_ by
Nathaniel P. Willis. Mr. Willis, who speaks of it as "the elegant
phaeton made of the wood of the old frigate _Constitution_," describes
it in these words: "it has a seat for two, with a driver's box, covered
with a superb hammercloth, and set up rather high in front; the wheels
and body are low, and there are bars for baggage behind; altogether, for
lightness and elegance, it would be a creditable turn-out for Long Acre.
The material is excessively beautiful--a fine-grained oak, polished to a
very high degree, with its colours delicately brought out by a coat of
varnish. The wheels are very slender and light, but strong; and, with
all its finish, it looks a vehicle capable of a great deal of service. A
portrait of the _Constitution_, under full sail, is painted on the
pannels." In this article Mr. Willis refers to another vehicle presented
to the retiring President by "an eccentrick mechanick"--a sulky made
entirely of rough-cut hickory with the bark on, with some curiously
twisted and gnarled branches ingeniously turned into handles and
whip-box. It must have been a vehicular monstrosity. At any rate, Old
Hickory avoided bringing such an outlandish rig back to the Hermitage by
generously presenting it to his successor, Mr. Van Buren.
Behind the present carriage house is the brick house in which the
caretaker lives, this also being of modern construction. The stable
standing back of the caretaker's house was built a few years ago when
the log and frame stable burned. This building had replaced the original
old brick stable which was built in 1832 and which stood much nearer to
the house, about where the carriage house is now located. The old
driveway leading back to the stable may still be seen in the lawn to the
west of the mansion house. The brick house where souvenirs are now sold
is a replica of the original carriage house, being built on its old
foundations.
Just to the right of the back door of the house is a deep, rock-lined
well, with an old-fashioned cedar windlass and oak bucket. In the early
days, however, the water supply was obtained from a never-failing spring
which is reached by the long brick walk now leading from the Hermitage's
back door. This gushing spring helped fix the location of the original
log Hermitage near by, as a convenient water supply was a primary
essential in the pioneer days. One of Jackson's first acts, after
building the log house to live in when he moved from Hunter's Hill, was
to enclose the spring in a stone springhouse which Mrs. Jackson could
use for keeping her milk and butter cold. Mrs. Jackson, who took a
lively interest in the farm affairs, was especially proud of this spring
which was and is an exceptionally good one.
The brick walk down to the springhouse is now shaded by a grove of
trees; but originally this was the "colt lot," the trees having been
planted after the house was reclaimed. On the way down to the spring
there may be seen close on the other side of the fence to the left the
sole remaining relic of Hunter's Hill--a log cabin which stood there
after the old house was burned, and which was in recent years taken down
and removed to this location on the Hermitage property where it might be
preserved.
There are no slave quarters to be seen at the Hermitage, for in
Jackson's day the slaves who worked in the fields were scattered in
their cabins about the plantation and did not all live in one long row
of houses as was the prevailing custom in the South generally. There
remains, however, a two-roomed log cabin just to the north of the garden
which was the home of Uncle Alfred to the day of his death.
Uncle Alfred was born on the Hermitage plantation just about the time
Jackson moved there from Hunter's Hill and lived there all of his days.
Living a long lifetime of almost a complete century, the span of his
existence covered the years of Andrew Jackson's whole life after his
rise to distinction. He saw the building of the Hermitage, he saw it
burned and rebuilt, he witnessed its decline and its rescue and its
development into a magnet for visitors from all over the country. As a
shiny-eyed boy of twelve he stood with the other slaves, young and old,
at the big gate that never-to-be-forgotten day in 1815 when the General
returned triumphant from his great victory at New Orleans; and thirty
years later it was his strong arms that helped support the emaciated
body of the old statesman as he sat up in his bed and gasped out his
dying breath.
Born and living sixty years a slave, he was too old to change his ways
when the state of Tennessee enacted the emancipation amendment to its
Constitution in January, 1865. Freedom meant nothing to him then; he
just went on living with the Jacksons until he could get his
bearings--and then, in a few weeks, his master died and he stayed on
with his old mistress because he felt that she needed him. When the
state turned the property over to the Ladies' Hermitage Association and
the next generation of Jacksons moved out, he still went on living there
in his same old cabin. Nobody ever seemed to consider the possibility of
his moving away. Through the years he seemed to have become an integral
part of the property, just as much a fixture as the stout log cabin in
which he lived.
Alfred's mother was Betty the cook; and in his youth his duties were
those of a hostler and attendant at the stables. In the caste system of
slavery he was undeniably of a higher stratum than the field hands; but
the house servants, the real elite, always referred to him
contemptuously as being from "across the yard"--their aloof designation
of the stable area. At times Alfred rode the General's horses in some of
their important races, drove teams on the farm when needed for that
duty, and occasionally served as driver of the family carriage. In all
these duties he was noted for the way he had with horses and for his
careful manner of handling them. When little Andrew, the adopted son,
grew too old to be tied to the apron strings of his black mammy-nurse,
Aunt Hannah, he was turned over to the tender care of Alfred--six years
his senior--who served him faithfully in the complex rôle of nurse,
companion, bodyguard, mentor, valet, and chum--that indescribable
relationship known now only as a memory lingering in the recollections
of those old men whose youthful days were spent in the loving care and
companionship of slaves who were not merely servants but guardians and
tutors--and friends.
When Andrew reached young manhood and was old enough to travel about the
country, Alfred sometimes was called upon to go with him as his body
servant; and the members of the family for years enjoyed telling of how
Alfred saw to it that the young master had the best of the available
accommodations whenever they went together.
On the occasion of Alfred's first service in the unfamiliar rôle of
valet, young Andrew was setting out on a steamboat trip to New Orleans.
His body servant was taken sick just on the eve of their departure, so
Alfred was called in from the fields to take his place--not, however,
without some misgiving on the master's part. Alfred was given some
superficial coaching in his new duties and off they started. The next
morning young Jackson was aroused from his slumbers by the noise of a
disturbance on deck, and emerged from his stateroom to find Alfred in
bellicose possession of the washbasin, soap, and towels, defying the
early-rising passengers who desired to make use of the steamboat's
primitive toilet facilities. "Can't nobody wash hisself till Massa
Andrew's used these things," he was declaring stoutly. "Reckon I knows
my business better'n dat."
When Andrew, junior, married in 1831 and brought his bride to the White
House, President Jackson presented to his new daughter-in-law a young
slave woman named Gracey to act as her personal maid. When the young
couple came on to the Hermitage in the spring of 1832 Gracey came with
them, and the young maid from Virginia soon attracted Alfred's favorable
attention. The master and mistress looked with favor on the match, and
so they were married in the fall of 1837. Mrs. Jackson made a gala
affair of the wedding, having the ceremony performed in the large
central hall of the Hermitage and giving the couple a handsome wedding
supper.
The story of the fidelity of Alfred and Gracey to their white folk is
the familiar idyl of the Old South--the faithful slaves' devotion to
their former masters in the time of the latter's adversities. Gracey and
Alfred had been with the Jacksons when they were in the White House, the
first family of the land, they had enjoyed the flush days of the old
General's successes and popularity. And when the evil days came--when
Alfred's young master, now no longer young, cast off the burden of life
and was laid to rest in the corner of the garden, and Gracey's mistress
faced life lonely and impoverished, with no farm left to work and no
slaves left to work it--then Alfred and Gracey did not go off to set up
homes of their own, in their new-found freedom, as did all of the other
Hermitage black folks, but stayed there in their cabin to serve the
mistress they loved as long as she lived.
Gracey died in 1887, shortly before the death of Mrs. Sarah York
Jackson; but Alfred lived until 1901, and played no small part in making
the Hermitage a place of interest to visitors. As long as he was
physically able he served as a guide, and those who came from afar to
visit the Jackson shrine deemed it a rare privilege--as indeed it
was--to be shown through the house and garden by one who had been there
when the spark of his old master's vibrant personality made the
Hermitage a place alive with his presence.
Alfred was fully conscious of the fact that he was a living connecting
link between the departed great man and his living admirers, and he
never tired of telling visitors stories illustrative of the greatness of
the old General. To Uncle Alfred there was no flaw or blemish in his old
master's character or fame. His idolatrous veneration was well
illustrated by his often quoted reply to a visitor who asked him if he
thought General Jackson went to Heaven. "Co'se he went to Heaven," Uncle
Alfred answered with vigor, "if he want to. If he want to go dere, who
gwine stop him?"
After he grew too feeble to act as a guide he kept to his cabin, and
though the ills of his accumulating years bore heavily on him he always
enjoyed chatting with visitors who stopped to talk with him as he sat on
his doorstep in the summer or by the blazing logs in his big fireplace
in the winter. Although never bedridden, his strength slowly faded away
and at last he died quietly on September 4, 1901.
Not only was he given the boon of being buried in the garden, near the
tomb of his deeply venerated old master, but the added honor was given
him of having his funeral held in the hall of the Hermitage, his casket
resting on the same spot where he and Gracey had stood to be married
more than sixty years before. His funeral was attended by large numbers
of his friends, both black and white, and ministers of both races
participated in the burial services. Both Alfred and Gracey had
originally been members of the little Hermitage church, but after
Gracey's death, Alfred transferred his membership to a near-by church of
his own people.
In typically weird cadences Uncle Alfred's black-skinned friends raised
their quavering voices to sing his old favorite:
On Jordan's stormy banks I stand and cast a wistful eye;
On Canaan's bright and happy shore where my possessions lie.
And so he was borne through the broad front door of the Hermitage and
laid to rest in his long home in the garden. "Faithful servant of Andrew
Jackson" it says on his modest tombstone; and all those who read the
Scripture know of the reward in Heaven promised to the good and faithful
servant.