Jackson truly loved all his horses, and was especially fond of Truxton; and, so tradition goes, Truxton returned his affection. Not a night went by that the General did not go himself to the stables before retiring for the night to see that Truxton was all right; and when Truxton grew old and unruly, there was never a time when Jackson could not control him, no matter how ugly his mood.

And, tragically enough, it was Truxton who was the indirect cause of placing the General in one of the most unfortunate crises of his life; for it was the race between Truxton and Ploughboy in 1805 which was the ostensible cause of the fatal duel in which Jackson killed young Charles Dickinson.

* * * *

In the Presidential campaign of 1828 General Jackson was referred to by the friendly press as “The Farmer of Tennessee;” but this phrase was not used in a spirit of praise by all the newspapers of the day. For instance, a typically partisan editorial in the New York American said:

Let us see what is the Farmer of Tennessee? Possessing a fine and extensive domain with a vast mansion, not a farm-house but The Hermitage, surrounded by a host of slaves—this farmer of Tennessee eats the bread of idleness and luxury. The whip of the overseer quickens the servile labors whereby he—one of those priviliged beings born to consume the fruits of the earth—is sustained; and men, immortal as himself, are daily “driven a-field” like oxen and their strength taxed to the uttermost, perhaps, that he, their master, may add another race-horse to his stud or stake an additional bet upon a favorite game-cock. Of personal labor the hands of this “farmer” are innocent; for, where slavery exists, labor is held to degrade the white man.

Andrew Jackson had his faults, and he was open to criticism from many angles; but to hold him up as an example of the cruel and heartless type of Southern slaveholder was to confess an utter ignorance of his attitude towards his slaves. The records tell of a slave named Sam at the Hermitage whom Jackson freed in 1816 but who refused to leave the place.

Nowhere in his public writings or in his private correspondence does Jackson give any evidence of ever questioning the legitimacy of the institution of slavery; but throughout all his letters there are innumerable indications of his inflexible determination to see that his slaves were treated humanely and fairly. Upon learning of the death of one of them in 1829, for instance, he immediately wrote to Andrew instructing him “to examine minutely into this matter, and if the death was produced by the cruelty of Mr. Steel have him forthwith discharged.” Going on, he says: “When I employed Mr. Steel I charged him upon this subject and had expressed in our agreement that he was to treat them with great humanity, feed and clothe them well and work them in moderation. If he has deviated from this rule he must be discharged.” Later, following Andrew’s report of his investigation, the General wrote expressing great gratification that the death had not resulted from the overseer’s cruelty.

In 1833, while he was still in Washington, two more slaves died, and William Donelson wrote the General expressing the opinion that the deaths had grown out of lack of proper medical attention. Immediately Jackson was on the warpath again. He wrote Andrew strongly urging him to investigate the charges of neglect; and, to make doubly sure of getting the facts, he wrote to his old and trusted friend Major William B. Lewis, asking him to look into the matter and let him know what was going on. Major Lewis made a typically thorough and painstaking investigation and his letter, reporting conditions as he found them, gives such a clear and interesting detailed account of life on a Tennessee plantation of a century ago that it is worth preserving in its entirety:

I have this moment returned from a visit to the Hermitage. I left home after an early breakfast and got up there between ten and eleven o’clock, where I remained until after breakfast this morning.

It is with pleasure I inform you that I found every individual, big and little, well, except Hannah, Sally’s eldest child, and she, I was told by the overseer and her mother, was getting better. I had her brought to the house so that I might see her myself and ascertain, if I could, the nature of her complaint. I was apprehensive from what Mr. Holtzclaw told me that she was afflicted with the hip complaint, such as Major Barry’s son had; but on interrogating her and her mother as to the origin of the disease I am inclined to think it is something else. Mr. Holtzclaw and some of the black people think it is the white swelling. Her mother told me when she first complained of a pain in the hip she examined her and found a large lump in her groin having the appearance of what is called a waxen kernel. She also told me she complained not only of pain in the hip but also in the thick or muscular part of the thigh, and particularly the knee. As I do not know how those who have the hip complaint are affected, I can not say whether these are synptoms of that disease or not. When she was first taken, Sally tells me, she could not walk at all and suffered much pain. She can now walk a little, and her pains are not so distressing. Indeed she told me she suffered little or no pain except of nights. I thought this was owing probably to her taking too much exercise in the day, and I told her she must walk very little on her leg until it got better. I also charged her mother to keep her from exercising too much. She is a very pretty little girl, and as she will no doubt make a valuable servant if she lives and gets well I have some thought of getting Dr. Hogg to ride up and see her, for I am apprehensive Dr. McCorkle does not understand the nature of her complaint. If she should require any personal attention afterwards she might be brought down (to Nashville) and left with her grandmother who lives on Parson’s lot, College Hill, and would take good care of her. The old woman (old Aunt Nanny, you know) was up to see her not long since, the overseer informed me, and was very anxious to take her down with her, but that he did not feel authorized to let her go. When next you write to me let me know your wishes with regard to this matter and Hannah will be treated in all respects as you may direct.

The farm is in pretty good order. The fences all look strong and good, and particularly the outer ones. I was told by the negroes that nearly all the fencing on the Donelson lands had been repaired—most of it, also, round the caney field. I did not see them but I have no doubt it is so. Some of the fences around the lots and stables have also been repaired, as well as the outer fence north of your brick negro houses. I think there is no fault to be found with any portion of the fencing—some few of the fences about the lots which need it have not yet been repaired; but the overseer says he intends giving his attention to them the first wet spell. He has made you some ten or twelve new gates and hung them. They are well made and well hung.

The house looks, I presume, pretty much as it did when you were here last summer. I thought that perhaps it had not been sufficiently aired, and I directed Hannah, who seems to have charge of it, to open the doors and windows whenever the weather is dry and pleasant. The yard and garden look badly—neither is attended to as they should be. This, however, is more Dick’s fault than the overseer’s, as he has necessarily been much and constantly engaged in getting in his crop and withal I suspect he has very little taste for gardening. I told Dick he must put the garden in order forthwith and keep it so; that the walks, borders and squares must all be cleaned and kept so. The overseer promised me that in future he would pay more attention to Dick and the garden and yard.

Finding the yard pretty much grown up with weeds, indeed the back part of it entirely taken with the green plantain, I directed the overseer to take his hoes into it the first rain that fell and scrape the whole of it over, not leaving a weed or spear of grass inside of the paling in front or rear of the house, and to keep it so until the last of September when he must chop it over lightly and sow it down thickly with good blue grass seed unmixed with any other. These orders were given because I did not calculate on your visiting the Hermitage this summer; and by the next, if the blue grass seed comes up well, it will look much better than it now does or ever has done.

As you requested, I looked also at the monument in the garden. Its appearance is very good, but I do not think it is finished entirely as it should be. The circular stones which rest upon the columns should also be plastered in the interior as is the case with the dome above. This is necessary in order to hide the joints and rough appearance of the stonework. There are also many rough places and little holes in the columns themselves, owing to defects in the stones, which should be filled up and nicely painted over. In addition to this, I would suggest that neat little iron railing be thrown around it at the distance of four feet from the base of the monument and paved all around with nicely dressed flagstones similar to those which cover the tombs. This would not cost very much and would give a handsome finish to the monument, which I think quite tasty and appropriate.

I sent for old Aunt Hannah, who has charge of the poultry, and told her that you had been very mortified at finding on your return to the Hermitage no fowls or poultry of any kind for the use of the table, and that you wished me to say to her that you hoped it would never be the case again. She assured me that she would do her best to raise a plentiful supply, but said that her chickens and turkeys died very much with the gapes which, with everything she could do, she could not prevent. The overseer, she said, had built her a good house and she expected now she would be able to take better care of them. She has a very good stock of turkeys to raise from. I counted twelve hens and four gobblers; and, as I understood from her, she has a pretty good supply of chickens, etc.

I inquired of the overseer with regard to your horses, cattle, hogs and sheep. He told me his work horses were in very good order and were sufficient to tend his crop. He runs at this time 17 plows, but says that if necessary he can run 19. I sent also for Ben who, I was told, had charge of the plow horses, and inquired of him as to their condition. He said they all were in pretty good order and were thriving. He informed me that they had lost a young mule but did not seem to think that blame should attach to anyone. I saw some of the plow horses myself and if the balance are in as good order they will do very well. The overseer informed me that he had 60 grown cows and yearlings and 22 young calves, making altogether of all descriptions 82. The cattle look as well as is usual for this season of the year. He has about 300 head of hogs; of this number there will be, he thinks, about 80 or 90 large enough to kill next fall, which he hopes will be sufficient or nearly so for the use of the farm. He further informed me that of the 300 head, 100 of them were pigs not more than a month old. Your flock of sheep look very well. I inquired of Mr. Holtzclaw the number. He told me there were 92 old sheep and 59 lambs.

I paid Dunn a visit at his stables and looked at all his horses and colts, and I assure you that I was much pleased and gratified at their appearance. The horse Citizen is in fine order and condition; he is really a beautiful animal. The two three-year old fillies are also in fine condition. I think the one by Stockholder much the finest of the two, but the other is also a fine animal. His colts too (three in number) are in good order and very playful. Indeed, all of his horses are quite fat, as much so as there is any use for. One of your mares, the overseer informed me, was in Williamson (County) and as he would have soon to send for her he wishes me to say to you that he would want some money—$40 I think he said—to pay for her season and keeping.

Upon the whole, if Mr. Holtzclaw will hold out as he has begun I think he will make you a good crop, if he has a good stand of cotton and the season suits, and take very good care of your stock. He feels, however, considerable uneasiness with regard to his cotton crop—he is afraid his stand will not be a good one. His seed, he says, were not good, nor could he get those that were good anywhere. He finished planting yesterday, the 20th of April, while I was at the Hermitage. He says he could have planted a week earlier, but not having confidence in the soundness of his seed he did not like to risk them sooner. He will finish planting his corn tomorrow. He tells me he has 200 acres in cotton, considerably upwards of 300 acres in corn, and something like 120 or 130 acres in oats. He has his sweet potatoes planted, and in the piece of fresh land on the left hand of the gate as you approach the house. I enquired of him particularly about your meadows and timothy. He says no hay, he is afraid, can be made off them. Indeed, he says one piece (adjoining the lot Dunn’s stables are in) was so taken with weeds that he found it necessary to plow it up and put it in corn. He thinks that by tending it well this summer the weeds may be killed; and then, by sowing it down again in timothy, it might bring good grass. I looked at the ground, and by its appearance I have no doubt he done right in ploughing it up—it must have been very much taken by weeds. He has not ploughed up the other, but he is afraid it will not make hay. He say it was badly rooted up by the pigs and hogs last fall, and has now more weeds than grass in it. Your two fields of clover look very well, and a good deal of hay can be made off one of them (the one opposite the cotton gin) as Mr. Holtzclaw intends mowing it. The other, he says, he is obliged to pasture.

I enquired of Mr. Holtzclaw about the sickness on the place in the early part of the spring and the cause of so many negroes dying. He told me that he thought the cholera had visited that neighborhood, and that some of your negroes had died of that disease, particularly Titus, whose death he seemed very much to regret as he was a fine hand and a most valuable servant. He did not seem, however, to be satisfied in his own mind that either the girl or the two Samsons died of that disease. He says Dr. McCorkle saw Titus on the Sunday evening before his death and said he was well again and would be able to go to work on Monday morning. At 11 o’clock Sunday night he was a corpse. Now, my dear sir. I doubt very much whether the cholera has ever been at the Hermitage or its neighborhood. I heard of its being nowhere else, except a reported case on Major Donelson’s farm. Mr. Donelson’s negro, who was supposed to be attacked with the cholera, recovered and is now well. I think Titus must have died of some other disease.

I had heard at Nashville that Mr. Holtzclaw was very severe with the negroes, but from my own observation and what the negroes themselves told me while there I think probably he is not more so than is necessary. Where there are so many negroes there must be a pretty rigid police. I told him that I had heard of his severity, but I hoped he had given no foundation for such reports about him. I added that you knew the necessity of keeping order on the place and among the negroes, but that I was sure that you did not wish nor would you permit your negroes knowingly to be treated with cruelty. I hoped therefore that he would not use towards them an unnecessary severity. He assured me that he had not and would not. I told him if an overseer would be constantly himself with his hands very little whipping would be required. The best way of managing negroes, according to my experience, was to treat them kindly when they done well, and to punish them reasonably when they misbehaved; but that he might be assured that no negroes would conduct themselves well who were left too much to themselves—that someone for whom they had either respect or fear should always be near at hand. He concurred with me in this opinion and said that he scarcely ever was off the place unless obliged by business.

Your negroes evidently are better clad than they were under Mr. Steele’s administration. They informed me that they all got their quantum of winter clothing, and most of them have already been furnished with their summer clothing. I did not see a single child even on the place that was not well clad, and Mr. Holtzclaw informed me that there were 58 of them. He keeps his wheel constantly going, and he informed me that it spins six or seven yards every day—besides the spinning ginney that he says he keeps constantly going.

I believe, my dear General, I have given you all the information I have with regard to the Hermitage, its culture and management. If there should be anything else you wish me to attend to, let me know and it shall be done.

The old General was mollified by Major Lewis’s painstaking report of conditions at the Hermitage, and wrote him thanking him for relieving him of the “great anxiety and pain” under which he had been laboring as a result of the reports he had been receiving of the overseer’s excessive severity. Regarding Hannah, the little girl with the sore hip, he wrote:

I will thank you to get Dr. Hogg to see Hannah. I would be sorry she would become a cripple. You may say to Dr. Hogg that her lameness was occasioned by a stroke from Betty, or jumping over a rope in which her feet became entangled and she fell and hurt her hip. I will thank you to say to the overseer to prevent Betty from beating or cruelly using the little negroes that are under her about the kitchen. A small switch only ought to be used, but sometimes she uses any weapon she can get, and chokes and abuses them and brings on disease. Give such directions about the negro girl as though she was your own.

This was not the first time he had had cause to complain to the conduct of Betty, the cook. Back in 1821, while he was in Florida at grips with the Spanish officials, word reached him from the Hermitage that this same Betty, then Mrs. Jackson’s maid, had been misbehaving; and he set aside his dispute with Señor Calava long enough to write to A. J. Donelson:

Mrs. Jackson informs me that her maid Betty has been putting on some airs and has been guilty of a great deal of impudence. On this subject I have wrote Dr. Brunaugh and Mr. Blair. I have said to Mr. Blair that I hold him responsible for the control of the servants, and I have directed that the first impertinence she uses or the first disobedience of orders that she is to be publicly whipped. It is humiliating to me to have to resort to this, but I have to request of you to observe her conduct and the first disobedience or impudence order Mr. Blair to give her fifty lashes. If he does not perform it, dismiss him, and as soon as I get possession I will order a corporal to give it to her publicly. I am determined to cure her.

This evidence of firmness on General Jackson’s part in the discipline of the slaves was very unusual, and indicates that the offending Betty must have worn out his patience with her incorrigibility. Seldom indeed was whipping resorted to on the Hermitage plantation. In fact, the principal criticism of Jackson around Nashville, regarding his treatment of his slaves, was that he was too lenient with them; and out of this leniency grew a tragedy in 1827 that became one of the minor controversial issues of the 1828 Presidential campaign.

One of Jackson’s slaves, a man named Gilbert, was a chronic and incurable runaway; but upon every such offense he was always forgiven by the General upon his promise of better behavior. This went on until at length Jackson’s patience was exhausted and when Gilbert was recaptured after running away in 1827 the General ordered him taken to Nashville and sold, with the stipulation that he must be sold as a runaway so that any purchaser would know of that defect. The overseer, Ira Walton, however, gave it as his opinion that this would not do, inasmuch as it was the prevailing idea that the Hermitage negroes had been detrimentally affected by their master’s indulgence and that one of them would be correspondingly hard to sell. Walton further said that if some example were not made of an habitual offender like Gilbert he could not promise to keep the slaves under control, and that Gilbert was a fit subject for punishment inasmuch as he was the most insolent slave on the place.

Jackson, over-persuaded, reluctantly instructed Walton to take Gilbert away from the house to a near-by woods lot that adjoined a cotton field where other negroes were working and there to “whip him moderately with switches.” Arriving at the woods lot, Gilbert who was described as “a very stout, strong man, possessed of a most violent and ungovernable temper,” suddenly turned on the overseer and knocked him to the ground. Walton hastily drew a knife from his pocket, but it was only after a long and bloody struggle that he succeeded in stabbing the negro sufficiently to free himself. Jackson was quickly summoned from the house, and he ordered the wounded slave carried back there where he was given attention by the family doctor. In spite of this attention, however, he died the next day.

Jackson was very much upset by the tragic episode and, for some reason, did not believe the overseer’s story of the affray. He not only discharged the overseer summarily the next morning, but went to Nashville and swore out a warrant for his arrest on a charge of murder. The grand jury, however, after hearing all the evidence including the testimony of a negro eye-witness, discharged Walton on the grounds of self-defense.

It is characteristic of the nature of the Presidential campaign of 1828 that this incident was taken up by Jackson’s political enemies and tortured into the charge that he had deliberately and heartlessly encouraged and condoned the murder of one of his defenseless slaves; but this charge was quickly exploded when Walton, who certainly had no reason to distort the facts in Jackson’s favor, made a sworn public statement telling just what took place.

Jackson’s benevolent attitude toward his slaves was strikingly illustrated early in 1839 when four of them, including his personal servant, George, were prosecuted for the alleged murder of another negro, a slave named Frank belonging to Stockley Donelson. Donelson had Jackson’s four negroes indicted for the murder, but the General rushed to their defense and successfully engineered their case. The best legal talent was employed and the General attended court in person every day while the trial lasted. The affair cost him $1,500 in money, in addition to his loss of time and injury to his then feeble health, but his negroes were acquitted and he felt amply repaid.

During Jackson’s lifetime, and long afterwards, in Tennessee his kindness and indulgence in his relations with his slaves were proverbial. It was a standing joke with the overseers during the days when he was active in politics and spending much of his time away from home that whenever he returned and spent much time at the Hermitage he spoiled the slaves by his leniency to such an extent that it took a good while to get them back into working shape after he had left. He would brook no imposition on any of them, and it is recorded that he one day made a special trip to Lebanon to seek out and thrash a man named Grayson who had had the temerity to strike with a whip Truxton’s black groom, Ephriam. No wonder the slaves all crowded around him and literally wept with joy when he returned to the Hermitage in the summer of 1830, his first visit home after his election to the Presidency.

IX: CHURCH AND RELIGION, AND FINAL DAYS

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.