One of the most picturesque adjuncts to the Hermitage is the little
Presbyterian church, known far and wide as the Hermitage Church,
although in the formal Presbyterian records it was officially designated
Ephesus. The visitor coming out from Nashville sees it in a grove of
trees on the right-hand side of the present road just before he turns
off to the left into the lane that leads down to the Hermitage. It is a
severely plain and simple little brick structure, the homeliest sort of
example of ecclesiastical architecture, without steeple or tower or
portico. Inside there are stiff pews of sturdy oak (the one in which
Jackson sat is marked with a silver plate) facing a plain and unadorned
pulpit, and there is a fireplace at each end. It is floored with bricks,
and originally the only lighting fixtures were candlesticks; but in late
years Mrs. Sarah York Jackson presented the church with the handsome
bronze lamps which are still in use.
There is a graveyard facing the road in front of the church, but this is
not the familiar churchyard burying-ground so often seen in connection
with country churches. It is the cemetery of the near-by Confederate
Soldiers' Home. The Hermitage church's members all had family
burying-grounds on their farms, and the church had no need for such
facilities. It is said, as a matter of fact, that there was never but
one funeral ceremony held at the church and this was in 1906 when the
remains of Colonel Andrew Jackson, III, were brought from Knoxville
where he died to be buried in the garden at the Hermitage. The Hermitage
church had little to do with funerals, although it was draped in crepe
for three years in honor of General Jackson when he died.
The traditional story is that General Jackson built this church for his
wife, but this is hardly accurate, although the General himself
customarily referred to it as "Mrs. Jackson's church." The fact is that
the church was built in 1823 by popular subscription by the people of
the neighborhood. The cost of the building was $800, but when the
subscription paper was circulated it raised only $120. The remaining
$680 was subscribed by seven men; and Jackson, being about the
wealthiest and most prominent resident of the community, naturally
contributed most liberally. Active with him in promoting the church was
Colonel Edward Ward, the neighbor who bought the Hunter's Hill place
from him; the various members of the Donelson family paid a share of the
expense; and all the other neighbors contributed more or less. The money
was not raised without difficulty, however; and in December, 1823,
Jackson wrote to his wife asking how the work of building progressed and
bidding her to see Colonel Ward and urge him to push the work along.
"Tell him," wrote the General, "that it must be finished, if him and
myself pay for it."
Earlier in the year Colonel Ward had written General Jackson at some
length about the new church, particularly about the best method of
raising the money for the minister's salary. It had been proposed that
they follow the plan of renting pews, but Colonel Ward expressed doubt
as to the practicability of this plan. "I can not think of more than 12
or 15 persons that would purchase seats," he wrote, "and from the very
good neighborhood feelings that prevail with us there would be no
competition excited in the sale of them. The consequence would be that
the seats would sell for just as little as each person would think
proper to bid for them. I am fearful that a plan of this sort is not
well calculated for the country, particularly in a thinly populated
neighborhood like ours; furthermore, I should fear that it would not be
generally pleasing and might frequently operate against the attendance
of persons not immediately interested in or connected with the church."
The Colonel closed by saying that he would "with promptitude" subscribe
to whatever plan was decided on for the church's support. General
Jackson also evidently did not take to the idea of selling pews--it is
easy to believe that he wouldn't--and the record shows that this idea
was dropped.
As originally built, the entrance to the church was on the eastern side
of the building, facing the old Sanders Ferry Road, traces of which may
still be seen today; but in 1838 when that road was abandoned and the
Lebanon Turnpike was built, it was considered necessary to move the
doors to their present location in the south end so as to avoid having
the church present its back to the new road. To defray the expense of
this remodeling work another subscription list was passed among the
congregation; and, as usual, General Jackson's name headed the list.
Jackson also instilled some of his characteristic energy into the
remodeling work; and when it was suggested that a committee be appointed
to look after it he promptly and vigorously dissented, emphatically
voicing the view that responsibility for getting the work done should be
vested in one man rather than in a committee. "When the Lord wanted the
Ark built," he told the astonished elders, "He gave the job to one man.
If He had appointed a committee to attend to it, the Ark wouldn't have
been built yet." Jackson at this time, it will be recalled, was just
back from eight years in Washington with all its red tape and
circumlocutionary delays.
Although a leading spirit in the building of the church and a strict
attendant at its services, Jackson was not a regularly enrolled member
until late in life. By the time the church was built he was deeply
enmeshed in politics, and he feared that any formal religious
declaration at that time would be misconstrued by his political enemies.
But, although he remained outside the fold of the church, there is every
evidence that he was deeply and sincerely religious. He attended
services regularly in Washington while he was President, not
infrequently walking alone on Sunday morning from the White House to the
Presbyterian or Episcopal church to hear the morning sermon. He
regularly paid pew rent during his Presidential terms to both the First
Presbyterian and St. John's churches.
His private letters are replete with references to the Deity and to the
future life, and these pious references are so habitual and so
unaffected that there seems to be no reason to doubt his utmost
sincerity. In writing of his victory over Pakenham at New Orleans he
humbly attributed his triumph to the interposition of God on his side;
and while this alone might be dismissed as a mere conformity with what
might be the currently popular idea of proper modesty in such matters,
his letters are too strongly characterized by expressions of his faith
in an omnipotent God to leave room for questioning his expressed
convictions.
For instance, while in Washington in January, 1825, awaiting the action
of the House of Representatives in the election of the President, he
wrote to John Coffee: "I am still in the habit of ascribing the lot of
man to the will of an all-wise providence, and should I be brought into
the Presidential chair it must be by His influence counteracting the
intrigues of men and the union of interests here." That was no mere
pious pose. He was always frank with Coffee.
Nor was his religious faith of the fair-weather variety. In the summer
of 1828, during an unprecedented drouth, he wrote in the contrite spirit
of the psalmist who said: "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him:"
"We have a very doleful prospect here. We have not had rain enough to
wet the earth one inch for three months, every vegetable is burnt up,
our cattle starving, the springs in many places dried up, and still no
prospects of rain. The earth is so parched that we can sow no fall crop;
no turnips, no potatoes, no cabbages. Our crops of cotton and corn are
only a half crop. Still I trust in a kind Providence 'who doeth all
things well,' that he will not scourge us with famine." And when, later
in the same year, that major tragedy of his life befell him in the death
of his adored wife, he met his bereavement in a similar spirit of
contrition and resignation. Writing John Coffee on January 18th, the day
he left the Hermitage for Washington he said: "As rational beings it
behooves us so to live as to be prepared for death when it comes, with a
reasonable hope of happiness hereafter through the atonement of our
blessed Saviour on the cross." But later in this letter there is a
poignant paragraph, where human grief breaks through the shell of
resignation, and his soul cries out: "My mind is so disturbed and I am
even now so perplexed with company that I can scarcely write. In short,
my dear friend, my heart is nearly broke. I try to summon up my usual
fortitude, but it is vain."
A singular manifestation of Jackson's deep-seated piety is to be found
in his frequent inclination to volunteer religious admonitions to his
close friends and relatives. Soon after the death of his wife he wrote
to his brother-in-law, Captain John Donelson, telling him that "my dear
wife had your future state much at heart" and urging him to "withdraw
from the busy cares of this world and put your house in order for the
next." Early in 1828 he had written to John Coffee to say: "Mrs. Jackson
has rejoiced greatly on hearing that Polly has joined the church. I
rejoice also. It is what we all ought to do, but men in public business
has too much on their minds to conform to the rules of the church, which
has prevented me hitherto." Similar evidences of his concern for the
piety of his friends and connections continually crop up in his letters.
Rachel, who was profoundly--almost fanatically--religious, had the
General's spiritual well-being much at heart; and when the little
meeting-house was built he gave her his solemn promise that as soon as
he was out of politics he would make a public declaration of his faith
and ally himself with the church. He was reminded of his promise in
1838, after he had returned to the Hermitage from Washington, at which
time he said: "I would long since have made this solemn public
dedication to Almighty God, but knowing the wretchedness of this world
and how prone many are to evil, that the scoffer of religion would have
cried out 'Hypocrisy! he has joined the church for political effect,' I
thought it best to postpone this public act until my retirement to the
shades of private life, when no false imputation could be made that
might be injurious to religion." The records of the church show,
however, that promptly upon his return to private life in 1837 he took
the step of public declaration of faith, following a "protracted
meeting" at the Hermitage church. His son's wife joined the church at
the same time and Parton thus describes the scene:
"The Hermitage church was crowded to the utmost of its small capacity;
the very windows were darkened with the eager faces of the servants.
After the usual services, the General rose to make the required public
declaration of his concurrence with the doctrines, and his resolve to
obey the precepts, of the church. He leaned heavily upon his stick with
both hands; tears rolled down his cheeks. His daughter, the fair, young
matron, stood beside him. Amid a silence the most profound, the General
answered the questions proposed to him. When he was formally pronounced
a member of the church, and the clergyman was about to continue the
services, the long restrained feeling of the congregation burst forth in
sobs and exclamations, which compelled him to pause for several minutes.
The clergyman himself was speechless with emotion, and abandoned himself
to the exultation of the hour."
Joining the church is not usually an intricate or difficult process, but
in General Jackson's case an unexpected obstacle arose when Dr. Edgar
(the minister in charge of the proceedings and, incidentally a
pronounced Whig in his political views) asked the prospective church
member: "Can you forgive all your enemies?" This unexpected question was
a poser for a man like General Jackson, a strong personality who made
staunch friends and violent enemies. We can picture his memory flashing
back through the long roster of his antagonists: Dickinson and Clay and
Adams and Calhoun--he had lived a long life and it was a sizable list.
There must have been a painful pause before he answered the minister's
question. Jackson was a sincere man at heart and undoubtedly wanted to
be honest with himself and with his God. At length he replied: "My
political enemies I can freely forgive; but as for those who abused me
when I was serving my country in the field, and those who attacked me
for serving my country--Doctor, that is a different case." Doctor Edgar,
however, insisted that forgiveness of all enemies was a fundamental and
indispensable condition of reception into the Christian faith. So the
candidate for membership in the church gave himself over to another
period of reflection and at length stated that "he thought he could
forgive all who injured him," even those who had criticised him while he
was in the field; and upon this rather equivocal assurance the
ceremonies proceeded.
The General's conversion, in connection with the protracted meeting,
served to breathe new breath into the little church at the Hermitage,
which had been having a struggle for life after the death of Mrs.
Jackson and the General's absence of eight years in Washington. Now the
church began actively to function again, and its new and distinguished
convert was promptly nominated a "ruling elder." But he declined the
nomination. "My countrymen have given me high honors," he said, "but I
should esteem the office of ruling elder in the church of Christ a far
higher honor than any I have ever received. But I am too young in the
church for such an office. The Bible says 'Be not hasty in laying on of
hands.'" And then he nominated two elderly neighbors as elders.
Jackson, however, despite his unwillingness to hold office in the
church, entered actively and whole-heartedly into its work. One of its
pastors, reminiscing in later years, said that in the winter-time, when
the ground was covered with snow, it was no unusual thing for him to
arrive at the church and find no one there but the General and his man
servant. Jackson would have the servant busy keeping up the fires in the
two fireplaces and making preparations so that the rest of the
congregation would be comfortable when they arrived. No matter how bad
the weather, his attendance at services could be counted on; and he was
particularly punctilious about attending on Communion Sundays, always
advancing to the Communion table on the arm of his daughter-in-law.
The Hermitage church was dedicated by Dr. William Hume, one of the
famous figures in the Presbyterian ministry in the South. Other
distinguished divines have occupied the pulpit during the years since
then; and on one occasion a "mysterious stranger" appeared and
volunteered to preach and did so for three months before he disappeared
as suddenly and mysteriously as he came, it being discovered later that
he was a convict escaped from a Northern prison. Another volunteer
preacher appeared one Sunday and delivered a sermon, a conspicuous
feature of his performance being that he refused to preach from the
pulpit, but talked from behind a table placed in the aisle. A short
while after he left Jesse James was killed in Missouri, and a tradition
sprang up that the mysterious preacher was none other than the
redoubtable outlaw, a color of plausibility being lent this legend by
the fact that the James brothers used Nashville as a hide-out during
their days of outlawry.
References to Jackson's religious views and his church affiliations may
seem discordant with the familiar picture of a swearing, gambling,
brawling frontiersman; but the rough, free-and-easy side of Jackson's
life has been somewhat over-emphasized in popular history to the
exclusion of the gentler side of his character.
General Jackson, despite popular beliefs to the contrary, had a
deeply-rooted religious background and a strongly developed sense of
reverence. He was taught the scripture by his mother when a boy, and was
made familiar with the stern old Westminster Catechism before her death.
At the time he was a judge in Tennessee, while still a young man, he was
known to entertain strongly religious views. One who knew him then
states that "Judge Jackson freely and frequently averred his full and
unwavering confidence in the divine authority of the Bible and the truth
of the gospel declaration that Jesus Christ is the only Saviour of lost
men, and that we must repent of sin and obey the gospel of Christ or our
souls can not be saved." A 100% Fundamentalist! Jackson himself stated,
in commenting on some of the unfounded criticism of him during the 1828
campaign, that for 35 years before his election to the Presidency he
never failed to read at least three chapters of the Bible every day.
This side of Jackson's character, however, it must be admitted, was not
generally known; and when he joined the church it attracted attention
all over the country. A prominent citizen of Missouri, writing about it
at the time, said: "In my early days the palpable and notorious
infidelity of Thomas Jefferson spread a desolation that was mournful
over the entire face of the western country. The enemies of religion
took courage and threw up their blasphemy in the face of heaven. But now
here is a man, raised up by the hand of God to the possession of an
influence far beyond all that Jefferson ever possessed, for Jefferson
never was able to wield public opinion in this great nation as General
Jackson has done; and yet this man publicly prostrates himself before
the cross and calls on the crucified Redeemer as his Lord and his God.
The American church should not suffer this important testimony of
General Jackson to be overlooked or forgotten."
Jackson was a consistent church-goer all his life, even before he
contributed so much of his influence and means to the establishment of
the Hermitage church; and an amusing episode, and one typical of the
times, took place in October, 1818, when the Reverend Peter Cartright,
the famous backwoods preacher, was holding services in a Methodist
church in Nashville, preaching on the text: "What shall it profit a man
if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?"
Parson Cartright, who was a sort of pioneer Billy Sunday, had hardly
more than announced his text than General Jackson entered the church and
stood for a moment in the aisle looking for a seat. The resident
minister seated behind the Reverend Cartright pulled at his coat-tails
and said in a stage whisper: "General Jackson has come in! General
Jackson has come in!" This interruption aroused the indignation of the
fiery parson and so he retorted in a voice loud enough to be heard by
all: "Who is General Jackson? If he don't get his soul converted, God
will damn him as quick as he would a Guinea nigger!" General Jackson, so
it is told, joined in the mirth aroused by this spirited retort (a
near-blasphemy in those days of Jackson's transcendent popularity), and
the preaching proceeded without further untoward incident. But the
pastor of the church was fearful that the General might have been
offended by the outspoken visiting clergyman, and he set out early the
next morning to make an apology for the incident. It happened, however,
that General Jackson met Mr. Cartright on the street face to face that
morning and, reaching out his hand, said: "Mr. Cartright, you are a man
after my own heart. I am very much surprised at Mr. Mac (the local
pastor) to think he would suppose that I would be offended at you. No,
sir, I told him that I highly approved of your independence; that a
minister of Jesus Christ ought to love everybody and fear no mortal man.
I told him that if I had a few thousand such fearless, independent
officers as you were, and a well-drilled army, I could take old
England."
This episode comes down to us in Parson Cartright's own memoirs, and it
may be that it has gained something in the telling. It does not,
however, appear out of character for either of them. Mr. Cartright was
the kind of man who would not hesitate to say what he thought, in the
pulpit or out; and Jackson was an admirer of spunk wherever he found it.
The parson's credibility, however, is somewhat damaged by another
Jackson anecdote he tells.
Mr. Cartright, according to this story, had preached one day near the
Hermitage and had been invited to dine with the General. As usual the
Hermitage was full of company, including a young lawyer from Nashville
who was enjoying the attention he was attracting by declaring himself an
infidel. The parson endeavored not to be drawn into a theological
discussion with the young man, but the latter was determined to have a
dispute with him and said: "Mr. Cartright, do you really believe there
is any such place as hell, as a place of torment?" The parson replied in
the affirmative, whereupon the lawyer said: "Well I thank God I have too
much good sense to believe any such thing." Before Mr. Cartright could
reply, so he relates, General Jackson interrupted to say: "Well, sir, I
thank God there is such a place of torment as hell;" and when the
surprised young man asked him why, he went on. "To put in it such damned
rascals as you, that oppose and villify the Christian religion!" It is
hard to believe that General Jackson would ever speak thus brusquely to
a guest in his home; but, anyhow, it makes a good story.
Although he would not join the church while he was actively in politics,
Jackson was shrewd enough to know that a man in the public eye must
carefully watch his personal conduct and avoid even the appearance of
evil. So, despite his known fondness for the current sports of the
frontier while he was a young man, after he became a statesman he was
most punctilious about his conduct. In 1824, while a candidate for
President, he sat down and wrote out a specific and categorical denial
of various campaign charges, in the course of which he said: "It is a
positive falsehood that General Jackson has been either at a cockfight
or sports of a similar nature for the last thirteen years," and then
entered into a detailed disclaimer of any sympathy with or actively in
the "wild" activities of the day.
He was at this time especially careful of his reputation in connection
with the breeding and racing of thoroughbred horses. There was then, as
now, a nice social distinction between the stock breeder and the man who
operates a string of race horses on the tracks; and although Jackson in
his youth was not above riding his own horse in a race in an emergency,
when he became President he wanted it distinctly understood that he was
primarily the owner of a stock farm and that he had no part nor parcel
in their actual racing or training.
There was an amusing example of this hair-splitting distinction during
his first Presidential term. His correspondence with his adopted son and
with his overseer, early in 1832, indicated that the current crop of
colts was very promising, and Andrew, junior, was planning to enter one
of them in the sweepstakes in the East. The colts, in charge of the
grooms, had actually been started on their way to the East for
preliminary training when the adopted son, apparently inspired by the
irrepressible young Hutchings, sent after them and had them returned to
the Hermitage for training on the private track there. The old General
suspected that Hutchings was also having his own colt trained there, and
he wrote his son a sharp letter expressing astonishment at his
"unaccountable conduct." Hutchings and Steele (the overseer), he wrote,
knew very well that he was opposed to having any horses trained on the
track on his plantation. "It might have been construed that I was
encouraging racing," he said virtuously, pointing out that such a
criticism could not justly be made of him when he was giving the colts
to his son and Hutchings "and having them sent away and run elsewhere."
So incensed did the General become at the possibility of having his
position misunderstood (although, at this writing, it seems to have been
equivocal to say the least of it) that he instructed his son to "Have
the turf closed, plowed up, and permit not a horse to be galloped upon
it." It appears that no such drastic action was taken; but it is plain
to see that Jackson had a very exalted idea of the position he held and
a keen understanding of the desirability of keeping the occupant of the
President's chair entirely disassociated with the sordid business of
horse racing.
This very appreciation of the political value of a reputation for piety
renders all the more admirable his firm determination not to join the
church during his active days in politics when it might have been
suspected that he was using membership in the church for political
effect. General Jackson had his faults and he had his share of the vices
of the day; but he was not a hypocrite. Fundamentally he was a firm
believer in the tenets of the Christian religion, but so long as he felt
any question as to his ability to adhere strictly to the creed of the
church without in any way drawing discredit on it or attracting
suspicion to his motives, just so long did he choose to follow his
religious beliefs outside the fold.
Although he had been slow about joining the church, Jackson enjoyed his
association with it during his declining years and was a regular
attendant at its services, joining lustily in the singing of his
favorite hymns and listening attentively to the expounding of the
gospel. But at last there came a day when he was no longer physically
able to make even the short journey from the Hermitage to the little
church down the road. The multiplied infirmities of old age at last
forced him to capitulate.
It is a fact not sufficiently emphasized in most of the published
biographies of Andrew Jackson that during almost his entire life he was
in bad health--not merely debilitated, but actually tortured with pain.
His constitution, never particularly robust, was undermined by the
grueling hardships of the early campaigns against the Indians from which
he returned afflicted with chronic dysentery. Throughout his life he was
a victim of severe, nerve-racking headaches, of which there is passing
mention in many of his letters. During his last years he fell a victim
of tuberculosis which, according to one of his biographers, entirely
destroyed one of his lungs; and, as though that were not sufficient
bodily ailments, dropsy attacked him during the last six months of his
life and caused him such agony as to make his existence a burden to him.
He had been dangerously wounded with pistol balls twice--in his duel
with Dickinson and his brawl with the Bentons--and from the effects of
these wounds he never entirely recovered. He was confined to his room in
the White House during almost the whole of his last four months of his
administration, and during that time he suffered a hemorrhage of the
lungs so severe that attending physicians despaired of his life. He
rallied all his strength and bravely rode to the inauguration with his
successor, Martin Van Buren; but he returned to the Hermitage in 1837 a
broken-down and seriously ill old man. At the time he frankly expressed
doubt whether he would long survive; but the return home exerted a
beneficial influence on his health, and he improved to such an extent
that it was eight years before the end came.
During this entire eight-year span, up almost to the very moment of his
death, he never relaxed his active interest and participation in public
affairs. Tennessee's gubernatorial campaign of 1838 almost immediately
engaged his attention, and he worked with all that was left of his
old-time energy to elect his newest political protege, James K. Polk.
Following the election all the Democratic big-wigs of Tennessee,
including Jackson and Felix Grundy, repaired to Tyree Springs for a
vacation and celebration of Polk's victory.
Again in 1840, despite his age and the enfeebled state of his health, he
left the quiet shades of the Hermitage and went on an ill-advised
stump-speaking trip through West Tennessee in support of Martin Van
Buren who had been re-nominated for the Presidency by the Democrats. It
was a bitter blow to the old man when, in spite of his active support of
his favorite, the Whigs carried Tennessee for Harrison by a majority of
more than 12,000 votes; but he accepted the blow philosophically,
stating that his belief in the soundness of the republic was so great
that he felt that it would survive even the terrible experience of four
years under Harrison's rule.
Jackson conscientiously believed that Harrison was unfitted for the
Presidency--so much so that he frankly expressed the belief that
Harrison's early death was a direct interposition of God to save the
country from misrule. The Democratic defeat of 1840 only served to
stimulate the old General to extra efforts to retrieve the loss in 1844.
The selection of a standard bearer in this campaign was the subject of
much intra-party deliberation and negotiation. General Jackson favored
James K. Polk, and he was finally made the nominee. The General,
although now 77 years old, buckled on his armor and actively engaged
himself in the campaign for his young fellow Tennesseean. Too old and
ill to take the stump again he resorted to a ceaseless campaign of
letter writing, and the work he did from the Hermitage was largely
instrumental in placing the relatively unknown Polk in the White House.
So elated was he at the success of his hand-picked candidate that he
gave a stupendous garden party and barbecue at the Hermitage in
celebration of Polk's election; and in the afternoon he tottered out on
the upstairs portico and, leaning over the railing, harangued his
several hundred guests with an old-time, fiery political speech. It was
a gala occasion.
He took an intense interest in the developments of Polk's
administration, particularly the annexation of Texas, and he followed
this closely through correspondence with his old friend, Sam Houston,
and with Andrew Jackson Donelson who was then representing the United
States in the Republic of Texas. Houston visited the Hermitage during
this period, and on one of these visits Jackson entertained with a big
dinner at which the piece de resistance was a haunch of bear meat. Some
admirer of the General's in Arkansas had sent him a live bear cub as a
token of his esteem, and for a while the animal was kept on the front
lawn of the Hermitage tied to one of the big holly trees. When Houston
came to town Jackson decided that the bear should be a sacrifice to the
distinguished visitor, and so the political leaders and neighbors were
invited to come and partake of the bear-meat dinner.
These closing years of the old statesman's life were complicated by the
stream of visitors at the Hermitage--office seekers and hero worshipers.
The General tried to see them all, even up to the last few weeks before
his death, lying propped up on a sofa in his room, with a black boy
fanning him with a bush to keep the flies away. Patiently he received
them: wrote his name in autograph albums, patted the heads of small boys
brought to look on his countenance, heard the pleas of those seeking his
support in their efforts to get political appointments. Generally he was
patient; but, on at least one occasion, he blurted out: "I am dying as
fast as I can and they all know it; but they will keep swarming upon me
in crowds, seeking for office--intriguing for office."
One distinguished visitor of this period was G. P. A. Healy, the
celebrated artist commissioned by Louis Phillipe to paint a portrait of
Jackson to hang beside that of Washington in the king's gallery at
Paris. The story of Healy's arrival at the Hermitage is a dramatic one.
Arriving unannounced at the house, he found no one there but the
desperately ill old man and the servants. Ushered into Jackson's room,
where he was sitting propped up in his big chair by the window, Healy,
impressed by the fame of the distinguished citizen in whose presence he
stood, fell on his knee before him and exclaimed: "I have come to paint
your picture." This obsequiousness did not suit the old democrat, and he
sternly bade him to rise, saying: "Kneel to no one but your Maker!"
Healy apparently did not succeed in making himself clear as to his
purpose, and so he returned to Nashville where he found Andrew, junior,
and his wife, explained his intentions to them and returned to the
Hermitage with them. Then General Jackson would not consent to sit for
his picture unless young Mrs. Jackson would pose also. She consented,
and so Healy fell to work. He succeeded in his race with Death,
completing the portrait just ten days before the old man gave up the
ghost; and the portrait made under these trying circumstances (of which
a duplicate made by Healy now hangs in the Hermitage) is considered a
good likeness and an excellent piece of work.
The Healy portrait, however, good as it is, can hardly be considered a
better likeness than one other picture made during these last days of
the General's life--a daguerreotype made by a Nashville man, Dan Adams,
who had lately become a practitioner of the newly discovered art. To
gratify the ambition of Mr. Adams to hand down to posterity an actual
likeness of General Jackson, the sick old man was carried in his chair
out onto the back porch and there the exposure was made. It is a
tradition in the family that the General was displeased with the
likeness when it was shown to him, expressing his disapproval of it in
characteristic language; but it is entirely likely that this is, in
fact, the most faithful image of Andrew Jackson that now exists, even
though the pain-wracked old man growled when they showed it to him:
"Humph! Looks like a monkey!"
Not only was the master of the Hermitage persecuted by visitors during
his last eight years, but during this time he was also bombarded with
correspondence pouring in on him from friends and strangers, persons
seeking political favors, inviting him to celebrations and barbecues,
asking for autographs or locks of his hair, or merely expressing their
admiration. A recent article in a New York paper reproduced a letter
from one of the impressionable young ladies of 1842 who wanted a lock of
the old hero's hair, and this letter is fairly typical of those that
poured in on him. After a florid and flattering introductory paragraph
the young lady says:
"To behold the hoary head and time-honored frame of one who fearlessly
bared his breast to the shafts of the enemy of his country, both in time
of peace as well as in war--to clasp his hand, to receive a blessing
from his lips--would be a delight which nothing on earth could equal.
But this joy I dare not hope to experience. I trust you will pardon the
liberty I take in the request which I am about to make. Do not refuse to
make a young heart happy. A few months ago I saw in a newspaper an
account of a visit of some young people to whom you gave some locks of
your hair. I read my Bible every night and morning and endeavor to
follow the precepts contained in that sacred volume. It warns me of the
sin and danger of envy and uncharitableness. But I confess to you that
ever since reading that account I have envied those young countrymen of
mine. As you are the cause of this sorrow and sadness, so does the cure
rest with you. The struggle has been great ere I could summon courage to
address you, but may I not supplicate for a similar favor? This gift
will be more precious to me than threads of fine gold. I shall prize it
through life as my choicest earthly possession, and when the hour of
death comes and I must surrender my spirit into the hands of Him who
gave it, I shall bequeath this lock of hair to the one whom my heart
shall then prize most."
Then, after a fulsome concluding paragraph, the young lady signs her
name "with sentiments of gratitude and affection too deep for
utterance." And on the back of this gushing epistle Old Hickory has
laconically endorsed: "Answered and returned a lock of my hair, this
28th of October, 1842.--A.J."
This flowery application for a lock of the Jacksonian hair was by no
means an isolated or unusual request. In fact, so insistent was the
demand that the General formed the habit of carefully saving for this
purpose the trimmings whenever he had his hair cut, and out of this
little bag of hoarded locks came the souvenirs sent to correspondents
and presented to admiring visitors.
* * * *
But, despite his wonderful vitality and determined resistance to the
inroads of disease; the sands of the old man's life were running out
their allotted time. It was on a quiet Sunday in June that the summons
came for him. The end was not unexpected, either by him or by the
household. Two Sundays before he had partaken of the Communion, and had
taken that occasion to speak feelingly on the consolation of religion
and to declare that he was ready to go. "Death," he said stoutly, "has
no terrors for me." And this was doubtless no mere figure of speech
after the suffering he experienced during the last four months of his
life, during which time he found it impossible to lie down in bed unless
lulled by opiates.
Sunday morning he was lifted from his bed and placed in his big chair by
the window. The warm June sun was sifting down onto the Hermitage lawn
through the sheltering cedars and hollies. The diseased-wracked old man,
as he looked out on the scene he loved so well, doubtless sensed that it
was close to the last time he would ever see it. Dr. Esselman when he
entered the room that morning, to use his own words, "immediately
perceived that the hand of death was upon him." Andrew, junior, was
notified that the end was at hand, and a messenger was sent for Major
Lewis whom Jackson had expressed a wish to have by his side when death
approached. A servant was dispatched post-haste to the church to recall
the children of the household who were attending Sunday School. The sad
news traveled quickly over the plantation and the servants gathered on
the broad front porch, fearfully looking in at the windows.
The old General maintained his consciousness to the very end. When his
old crony, Major Lewis, arrived he greeted him with: "Major, I am glad
to see you. You like to have been too late," and then carefully and
methodically he gave him messages to some of his closest friends, like
Colonel Benton and General Houston, who were unable to be at his
bedside. Sadly but calmly he bade farewell to each member of the family,
and mustered his failing strength to speak a kindly word of comfort to
the weeping and wailing servants whose tear-stained black faces darkened
the front windows. "Don't cry," he said gently to them, "Be good and we
shall meet--" And then, with just a little gasp to mark its passing, his
unconquerable spirit left his frail body. His little granddaughter,
Rachel, was standing at the foot of his bed, her hand on the covering,
and she felt the tremor that passed over his body as he expired.
General Jackson had expressed the wish that his funeral services be
simple and without pomp or ostentation; but such a funeral was hardly
possible for the most distinguished private citizen of his day. The
military company marched out from Nashville to attend the services, held
two days later, and accompanied his body to the grave; and a great
multitude of people, estimated at three thousand, gathered to pay their
last tribute. The funeral was preached by Dr. Edgar, the minister who
had received him into the church, the services being conducted from the
front porch owing to the inability of the large crowd to get inside the
house.
There was a moment of disturbance while the mourners were assembling,
caused by an untimely outburst of blistering profanity from old Poll,
the Hermitage parrot who had so long been a favorite pet of the
General's. The solemnity of the occasion was completely upset by the
sudden torrent of objurgation from the old bird on her perch on the
upper front gallery, but she was quickly banished to the servants'
quarters at the back of the house and Dr. Edgar stepped out on the
stone-paved portico and began to read the burial service.
The General's favorite hymns were sung; a prayer was said. The casket
was taken from its place in the great hall and carried to the tomb
awaiting him in the garden by Rachel's side. A firing squad raised their
muskets and a military salute shattered the hush of the warm summer
morning. The smoke from the guns floated upward through the heavy
foliage of the overhanging magnolias; the military company formed in
ranks and briskly marched off; the crowd dispersed; the sorrowing family
walked slowly back up the garden path to the house; a cloud of dust rose
over the road as the carriages of the notable citizens of Nashville
started back to town.
Andrew Jackson, after a tempestuous life of 77 years, was at rest by the
side of her of whom he had said: "Heaven will be no heaven for me if she
is not there." No more would his vivid personality leave its impress on
public affairs. No more would the parlors' walls reëcho his shrill voice
as he sang "Auld Lang Syne." No more would a crowd of guests about the
big table in the dining room listen attentively as he told of some
incident of the wars. No more would the papers on his office desk rattle
as he crashed down his fist and stormed "No! by the Eternal!" The spark
of his existence, which made the Hermitage a beacon of democracy, was
extinguished.
He has been gone now for nearly a century; his body still rests in the
stone vault in the garden where loving hands placed it that hot June day
in 1845. But, somehow, it is impossible to visit the Hermitage today,
standing just as it was when he left it, without experiencing a
mysterious feeling of his presence in the old house. Maintained though
it is as a public shrine, the visitor when crossing the threshold has
the sensation of entering into a living home; and it requires but little
sense of the mystic to feel that he might look up and see the tall,
angular form of the General come slowly down the sweeping circular
stairway to greet the wayfaring guest.
Throughout the life of Andrew Jackson he was like a part of the old
house which held so large a place in his heart; and today it is as
though that part of him had never died. Indefinably it seems as though
some elusive fragment of the spirit of Old Hickory is still there; and
few of those who come there go away without experiencing that feeling of
inspiration which arises from close contact with the deathless spirit of
a great man.