The party battles of the Jackson period

by Claude G. Bowers

The last days of Jackson in the White House could not have been other than days of joyous thanksgiving. Entering the White House the most popular of all Americans, eight years of the most bitter controversies in the Nation’s history had only tended to strengthen the affections of the people. Through the greater part of his Presidency he had been constantly harassed by a hostile Senate, and his enemies had been defeated or otherwise retired, until now both branches of the Congress were devoted to his policies. His most powerful enemies had been humiliated. The prize of the Presidency dangling before Calhoun in the beginning was now forever beyond his reach. Clay had been defeated in his ambition and shamefully set aside by his ungrateful party. The man of his own choice had been elected to succeed him, and the hated censure of the Senate had been expunged by the order of the people. Few Presidents have ever departed from the scene of their power with more for which to be grateful and less to regret.

But the old man had run his race and been surfeited with the sweets of personal triumphs, and was eager to return to the calm of his beloved Hermitage, among his old and cherished friends and faithful slaves, and near to the tomb of his idolized Rachel. By sheer will power he had fought back the specter which had hovered by his sick-bed, to this end. Confined to his room most of the time, debilitated by age and disease, the old man’s mind was not free from anxieties for the future of his country. He knew too well the temper of public men, and comprehended too keenly the delicate problems pressing for solution, not to know that there were dangers ahead. It was his desire to give some parting advice to the people in his final Message, but he was persuaded to convey his last word in the form of a “Farewell,” like Washington. To the preparation of this paper he devoted much time and thought during the last two months, and, while he had the assistance of Roger B. Taney in the phrasing of his thoughts, all the ideas, and much of the language, originated with him. Strangely enough, the “Farewell” of Jackson is scarcely known, and some historians are prone to smile upon it as an unworthy imitation of the Washington paper. It was nothing of the sort. It smacks, in large part, of prophecy. The man who wrote it saw, in fancy, the swaying columns of the blue and gray, and he strove to avert the clash. The old hero of the Nullification fight, feeble and sick, bending over his desk in the White House of 1837, was writing and pleading in the spirit of the Lincoln of 1861 as he wrote his touching inaugural appeal for peace.[939] Having finished his “Farewell,” to be given out on the day of leaving office, the old man impatiently awaited his release. His friends, he knew, would not suffer by the change. The Jackson Cabinet was to be continued, with the exception of Cass, who was to be sent to France, thus making way for Joel Poinsett, who had been Jackson’s right hand in the Nullification struggle.

On Washington’s birthday he received the public in a farewell reception, famous because of the mammoth cheese donated by admirers, greater in circumference than a hogs-head. Two men with knives made from saw blades cut into the enormous mass, giving each guest a piece weighing from two to three pounds. Some, who had provided themselves with paper, wrapped their portion and bore it away as a souvenir; others, not so thoughtful, carried theirs in their hands. Much of it crumbled in the hands of the bearers and was trampled on the floor. It was Jackson’s farewell, and thousands pushed their way into the White House, and, after getting their portion of the cheese, pressed on into the Blue Room, where the President, much too feeble to stand, received and greeted his visitors from his chair. Beside him stood the cordial Mrs. Donelson, while just behind him Martin Van Buren greeted all with a smile and a courtly bow.[940]

IV

The Jackson of the White House would have commanded attention in any assembly, even to the last. More than six feet in height and slender to attenuation, his limbs long and straight, and his shoulders slightly stooped, he carried himself proudly, and not without grace. His white hair stood erect, giving a full view of a forehead that indicated intellectual power. His eyes, deep-set, clear but small, were blue in color and noticeably penetrating, and the great spectacles he wore accentuated their boring quality. These eyes, flashing with the fierceness of the fight, could easily melt, in tenderness, to tears. His strong cheek-bones and lantern jaws denoted the warrior. His strongly chiseled chin and firm mouth told of his inflexibility. His chest was flat, and indicated his most pronounced physical weakness. Seen upon his walks about Washington, wearing his high white beaver hat, with his widower’s weed, and carrying a stout cane adorned with a silken tassel, he looked the part of the patriarch who could either bestow a benediction or a blow. Throughout his two terms his health was wretched, and time and again, stricken with disease, his death had seemed only a matter of days, but the iron will prevailed over the failing flesh. His hair grew whiter. The lines in his face deepened. His step lost some of its spring. He was forced to abandon his long walks and the pleasures of the saddle, and remain more and more in the White House. But the eye retained its fire, his voice its fervor, and his spirit never flagged. In moments of relaxation, toward the close, there was a softened expression, but in his fighting moments he differed little from the grim old man who entered the mansion of the Presidents as Adams took his departure.

The libels of his enemies of the Whig aristocracy notwithstanding, he had not been unworthy, socially, of the stately traditions of his environment, and had impressed all visitors with his fine courtesy, courtliness, ability, and graciousness.[941] Never before or afterwards were there such incongruous crowds at the receptions, but this disclosed less the taste of the master of the Mansion than his political principles; and his dinners in tone and taste commanded the admiration of his enemies.[942] These receptions and dinners had drawn heavily on his resources, and toward the close left him seriously embarrassed. He himself could have lived on monastic fare. A weak stomach forced him to eat sparingly, and he often dined on bread, milk, and vegetables; but there were always guests at the table, which was invariably ladened as for a feast.[943]

Perhaps it was not without regret that he passed through the rooms of the historic house in those last days, for he had converted the White House into a home, and it was rich in memories of the sort that tug at the heart. Fond of his family, and especially of the young women members, this “home” had been the scene of several marriages and christenings. The beautiful Emily Donelson, the wife of his secretary and niece, the mistress of the mansion, had presided with grace and dignity and brightened the days and nights. In a physical sense she was an exquisite woman, of medium height, her figure slender and symmetrical, her hands and feet as tiny as a child’s. Her hair and eyes were a dark brown, her lips beautifully moulded, her complexion fair. Many found in her a striking resemblance to Mary, Queen of Scots, as she appears in her pictures. Her taste in dress was beyond reproach, and soon after entering the White House her toilette was “the envy and admiration of the fashionable circles.”[944] Her judgment in social matters was infallible, and Jackson depended upon her advice. “You know best, my dear, do as you please,” was his only suggestion when delicate problems were submitted to him. Fond of society, vivacious, dignified, and always gracious, she not only commanded admiration, but affection. An excellent conversationalist, she possessed the art, so seldom found in good talkers, of being an ingratiating listener. In contact with the brightest minds of the capital, she lost nothing by the comparison. “Madame, you dance with the grace of a Parisian,” remarked a condescending foreign minister. “I can hardly realize that you were born in Tennessee.” “Count,” she retorted, “you forget that grace is a cosmopolite, and, like a wild flower, is much oftener found in the woods than in the streets of a city.” During her days in the White House her four children were born, and Jackson, who was delighted to have childhood about him, took a keen interest in their christenings. He was godfather for two, Van Buren for one, and Polk—all Presidents—for the other.

Another of the White House women was Sarah Yorke Jackson, daughter of Peter Yorke, of Philadelphia, and wife of another nephew. She was much younger than Mrs. Donelson, having been married but a short time before the inauguration, but Jackson, fearing some misunderstanding as to precedence, called them together and announced his will. “You, my dear,” he said to Mrs. Jackson, “are mistress of the Hermitage, and Emily is hostess of the White House.” The arrangement was satisfactory to both, and no misunderstandings marred their relations. Mrs. Jackson was happily indifferent to social prestige, but in the spirit of helpfulness did her part. Highly accomplished and beautiful, graceful, and possessed of wonderful poise in one so young, she was intensely devoted to Jackson, and the old man reciprocated the affection in full measure.

Usually, in the evening, Jackson gathered his family about him, and if Senators, diplomats, or Cabinet Ministers appeared, they were drawn into the family circle. If the business which brought them happened to be of importance, he would, perhaps, draw them into a distant part of the simply furnished parlor which was lighted from above by a chandelier. In the winter the fire blazed in the grate, and, arranging their chairs about the fireplace, the women applied themselves to their sewing while gossiping of the events of the day. Here would be found Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Donelson, perhaps Mrs. Livingston, possibly Mrs. McLane, or some other woman of the White House circle. Playing about the room would be five or six children in irreverent disregard of the old man in the long loose coat, seated in an armchair, smoking his long reed-stem pipe with a red clay bowl. Mayhap Livingston or Van Buren or Forsyth would be reading him an important dispatch from a foreign minister, while the children, with their shouts and screams, would all but drown the voice of the visitor. Nothing disturbed by the clamor, the old man would bend forward and listen more intently. Perhaps he would wave his long-stemmed pipe toward the rowdies, with an apologetic smile. But never a cross word.

The hour for retirement would come. The children would withdraw and be tucked in their beds. The President would go to his room. There he would sit awhile at the table, and, by the light of a single candle, would read a chapter from the Bible that had belonged to Rachel, and then gaze awhile at her picture propped up before him. The light would be snuffed. The old man would retire, and the negro bodyguard would lie down on the floor and join his master in sleep. Suddenly a child’s cry would penetrate the President’s chamber, and he would awaken—and listen. Then he would get up, go to the room of the little one, and, brushing objections aside, take it in his arms and walk the floor with it until it slept. This was not an unusual occurrence.[945]