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PAGES I RO Pl ffl SCRAP ‘BOOK I
WHERE ANDREW JACKSON
LIVED.
By Elizabeth Davis Fielder.
A dozen miles from Nashville, in
the midst of the most beautiful rural
scenery in the State cf Tennessee, is
the Hermitage, so long the home of
General Andrew Jackson. We were
happy in having an ideal day for our
drive to this historic spot —an ideal
autumn day, with a light haze across
the sky, through which the sunshine
sifted, and a floating silver mist over
the distant landscape. In the fields
close by the roadside were far-reach
ing acres of ripened corn, with yel
low pumpkins lying like balls of dull
gold among the dried weeds and corn
blades. Along the low stone fence
ran riotously a tangle of vines, drop
ping here and there a cluster of scar
let harries, while beyond the wall
tall, feathery heads of dried weeds
and grasses made soft, rustling music
in the wind.
The principal "difference between
the Hermitage and other houses which
we pass on the way is the portico,
with tall, fluted columns, which gives
grace and dignity to the place. As
we halt before the wide Colonial
doorway an old gray-haired negro
comes out to meet us. It is “Uncle
Alfred,” the last surviving member
of General Jackson’s retinue of ser
vants. When the house and grounds
passed into the hands of the Ladies’
Hermitage Association it seemed a
very fitting thing that Uncle Alfred
should “go with the place.” He lives
in a little log cabin back of “the
big house,” which has been his home
for almost half a century, and it is
his duty and delight to show visitors
over the place, and discourse in his
own peculiar way about “Miss Rach
el” and “de Gen’l.”
We follow him through the
hall, the walls of which are still hung
with odd-looking paper selected by
General Jackson himself; through the
parlors and dining-room, in which
some of the original furnishings are
still preserved; into the General’s
bedroom, which remains intact, with
its arm-chair and four-poster bed;
then to the library, with its many
paned windows looking out on the
lawn and admitting the yellow au
tumn sunshine to the farthest corner
of the room. Through a side entrance
we pass to the garden, down the
walks bordered with old-fashioned
roses, and we find ourselves at the
tomb.
“It’s right ovah yondah,” Uncle
Alfred said, resting one hand on the
iron railing and pointing across the
garden fence toward a clump of trees
down in the meadovy. “Dcwn dar is
de log house whar Miss Rachel an*
de Gen’l fus’ went ter honsekeepin’.
I’se bawn down dar ninety five years
agn. Mistis — a long long time dat—
en es dai’s enny sign in er pusson’s
feelin’s, I ain’t or gwine to be heah
bery much longei. I’se had de rheu
matiz mighty bad already, ea winter
ain’t sot in yit . . ' i
“Yessum,” Uncle Alfred resumed,
recalling his waadermg atteatien,
“my mammy wuz Miss Rachel’s own
maid, en de fus’ thing 1 ebber done
wuz ter hoi’ de Gen’l’s boss. 1
’members when de new house wuz
built. De Gen’l wanted it right dar,
whar you see dat open space ’foie
you gits ter de house, but Miss Rachel
say no, she want it dar, en de Gen’l
say, ‘Berry well, my deah, whar eb
ber you say, kaze you got ter stay in
it mo’ en enybody else.’ So dar dey
built it. Miss Rachel nad dis gyarden.
laid out herse’f. 1 dun de wuk, en
Miss Rachel stood by en tol, me how
ter do it. 1 planted dem rose-bushes,
en she held ’em wid her own hands
while 1 put de dirt erroun’ ’em. Yes
sum, you kin had cne er de roses.
Co’se, co’se I’ll cut it es you likes.
Dey don’t b’ar so many blossoms ez
dey use ter when Miss Rachel tended
’em, an’ ebbiy yeah 1 wonders es
ole Alfred’ll be heah ter tend ’em
next yeah. Yessum, 1 ’members when
Miss Rachel died. She was tucK
mighty sudden-like, en mos’ ’fore en
nybody know she sick she wuz dead.
I ’members when we cyared her out
head in de gyarden ter berry her.
De baggage-wagon en de trabbelin-’
kerrige wuz er stan’in right dar ’fore
de house, kaze de Gen’l wuz gittin’
redy to go ter Wash’n’tun to git his
’naugeration. He stood right dar
while we wuz er kiverin’ her up, en
den he walk ovah yondah ’long er de
gyarden fence en broke some sprouts
oif’n er willer-tree. He fotch ’em
back en plant ’em at dem four corn
el's, en when he come back ag’in dey
all four growin’. No, dey ain’t dar
now, kaze de folks dat come heah af
ter de Gen’l wuz berried dene broke
’em up so bad they die, en we could
n’t nebber git no mo’ ter grow.
“Did I ebber see de Gen’l angry?”
and a broad grin spread over his
wrinkled, grizzled visage. “Yessum;
but I didn't nebber see him git mad
at me. Gen’l Jackson nevah got mad
at his serbants ner his family. He
wuz good ter us, and nebber bodder
hisss’f much ’bout what we done.
Miss Rachel she keep us at wmk. De
only folks I /sbber see Gen’l Jackson
mad at wuz dem perlitercal gen’le
men what come out head en git ter
argyfyin’ wid him. Mad! Well, you
ought ter see him fer yerse’f. When
he say, ‘By the Eternal!’ he jes be
ginnin’ ter git mad. De har rize up
on his head like bristks, en dem eyes
er his’n —well, I alters rudder b° sum
mers else when de Gen’l’d happen ter
get real good en mad. Does I ’mem
ber when de Gen’l died? Yessum.
Seems like dat’s ’bout de las’ thing
I does ’member. Mos’ ebberything
sence seems like er dream. Us nig
gers wuz in de room, en somebody
say, ‘Turn ’em out; deys too many,
en dey ain’t got no bizness in heah.’
De Gen’l heah ’em, er. he say, ‘No;
dey stay by me while I lib, let ’em
stay while I die.’ Toward de las’ he
wanter be hope up, en I got down on
de baid en put my abms erroun’ him
en nelt him dar tel he gone.”
Old Aunt Hannah, a house servant
at the Hermitage, who has long since
gone to her reward, delighted to tell
•f the advaat es the heir inte the
WATSON'S WEEKLY JEFFERSONIAN
Hermitage home. A few miles away
lived Mr. Severn Donelson, the
brother of Mrs. Jackson, and one
morning as the General and his wife
sat down in state to their lonely
breakfast in the great dining-room,
Hannah appeared with a grin of de
light on her face, and announced that
there was a new pair of twins over
at Mars Severn’s. Mrs. Jackson
looked meaningly at the General, and
said, “What will they do with two
babies?”
“I don’t know, my dear.” he an
swered. “Suppose I have Alfred sad
dle the herses, and we wi l ! gc over
and see.” Then he added, as if he
understood what was passing in her
mind, “You might taka Hannah
along, so if there is a baby to spare
she can bring it back.”
It was a cold day, but the Gener
al and Mrs. Jackson rode over to
see the twin boys, while Hannah
“walked through.” Mrs. Jackson
must have succeeded in persuading
her brother that there was “a baby
to spare,” for when they started
home Hannah carried a great bundle
of shawls and blankets, in which
reposed Andrew Jackson, Jr. To her
dying day Hannah showed a stump
in the woods where she put the baby
down a moment to rest.
Another epoch in this household
was the arrival of the son and his
bride. Much curiosity and uncer
tainty was felt by the servants and
the simple country folk in the neigh
borhood concerning the “Northern
lady” who was coming to be mistress
of the old place. General Jackson
never excluded himself from the
simple farmer folk who had been his
neighbors for so long. They had free
access to his home, and always found
a hearty welcome. He was able to
appreciate the value of their ster
ling virtues and strong common sense,
so he was anxious that the new
daughter-in-law should be well re
ceived by them. The daughter also
entered fully into this desire, and
when the neighbors dropped in for
an informal visit she exerted herself
as much to please them as she ever
did the most honored guest at the
White House. The situation was not
without embarrassment for the guests
themselves, and to show that they
were entirely at ease in her presence
one might frequently see a guest sit
ting in an easy attitude, with face
to the back of the chair, and bis cow
hide shoes or boots disposed at wide
angles on either side.
At the entrance to the lawn leading
off from the main road to the Her
mitage stands the little Presbyterian
church of which General Jackson was
a member. His pew is still known
by the name-plate, but unfortunate
ly the chuich has been remodeled un
til little remains to show what it
was like in the days when General
Jackson sat patiently in that pew
and listened to tue “Fifthly, my dear
brethren,” with an interest which
Bhaiued the professedly mure pious
of the congregation.
General Jackson’s private letters
to his w'ife show that he hud always
an unfaltering faith in an overruling
Providence, and the profoundest re
spect for the religion which she pro
fessed. After her death, one com
munion Sunday he drove to the lit
tle church, and in fulfillment of a
premise made to her united with the
church. It was not a mere form,
done in fulfillment of a promise, for
he w-as profoundly moved. On re
turning home, he led his daughter-in
law to his room, talked with her ten
derly of what w r as passing in his owm
heart, and then kneeling down prayed
humbly and impressively.
Whatever the public may have
thought of the life and character of
General Jackson, those who were
nearest to him were conscious of an
underlying tenderness in his nature.
The outer world only touched the
rough shell in which he encased him
self to meet it; but on the other side
was the kind master, the devoted hus
band, the tender father and the loy
al friend. His was a nature not
to be prejudiced by the opinions of
society, and to a marked degree he
possessed a charitable tolerance of
the) failings of others, whether they
were friend or foe.
Those who come in constant con
tact with the world, and especially
those who stand in the front ranks
combating old prejudices, leading the
way in the onward march of prog
ress, must turn to the world a very
different side of their nature from
that which they reserve for the pri
vacy of their own homes. If thia is
necessary now, how much more was
it so in those formative days when
General Jackson was fighting his
country’s battles as warrior and as
statesman?
For this reason it rarely happens
that a man in public life is viewed
in the same light by the public and
by his family and friends. One will
praise and the other blame; but no
matter how great his public achieve
ments, the glory of it is dimmed by
the knowledge that in his own home
he was little, mean and tyrannical.
All honor to the man who keeps the
best of his nature for his own fire
side I
Divorce, says Lillian Russell, is the
greatest blessing in the world today.
And it must be admitted that Lillian
has had her share of blessings.
At the St. Paul City Hospital a
strike was precipitated the other day
by a nurse named Miss Alvina Ham
mer. Alvina must be something of
a knocker.
From the West comes the news that
the price of cement has gone down.
No further evidence is needed that
cement is not one of the necessities
of life.
Now thnt the betting odds are
against his favorite candidate for
mayor of Cleveland, the President
may soon find occasion to point out
the evils of gambling.
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