After this sad event in Mrs. Adams’ life, she lived uninterruptedly at her home in Quincy, enjoying the society of her children and relations. Mr. Charles Francis Adams thus closes a letter regarding his mother:
“I should be very glad to be of service to you if I were possessed of the material which you desire in connection with the life of my mother. But I fear they are not to be found among the papers left by her. She wrote much and read a great deal, both of French and English literature, and translated from the former for the amusement of her friends. She also wrote verses frequently in the same way. But all these accomplishments of hers, including a nice taste in music and a well-cultivated voice, are matters of little moment in a publication, however much they may contribute to the refinement of the social circle at home. Although she lived to quite an advanced age, her health was always delicate and variable, so as to interrupt the even tenor of her life and disincline her to the efforts required for general society, especially during her twelve years spent at different courts in Europe.”
Mrs. Adams died the 14th of May, 1852, and was buried by the side of her husband, in the family burying-ground at Quincy, Massachusetts.
VII.
RACHEL JACKSON.
The cruel misrepresentations of political opponents had crushed the heart of Rachel Jackson, and ended her days before her husband took possession of the Home of the Presidents. She was denied the gratification of accompanying him to Washington, and of gracing the White House, but she was even in death the President’s wife, and as such is ranked. In his heart she lived there, the object of the most deathless and exalted affection, the spiritual comforter and companion of his lonely hours. The friends and visitors of the new President saw her not, nor was she mentioned by the throng; but to him she was ever present in the form of memory and eternal, undying love.
The day of party strife and bitterness toward General Jackson has passed away forever, and the nobility and refined sensibility of his nature are at last appreciated. The slanders and falsehoods which embittered his earthly life, have been eclipsed by the sunlight of truth, and over the lapse of years comes ringing the prophetic assertion of the immutability of right. He is avenged. Once it was the fashion to revile him, and multitudes in this country who had no independent judgments of their own, took up the gossip of the day and pursued their congenial calling, even after death had taken him from their sight forever.
Mrs. ANDREW JACKSON.
Down from the canvas beams his speaking eye upon us, and its meaning seems to say, justice to her is honor to me. With feelings an American only can appreciate, the task is undertaken, and whatever its defects may be, its merit is its truthfulness.
In 1779 Colonel John Donelson, a brave and wealthy old Virginia surveyor, started to the banks of the Cumberland with a party of emigrants. He had been preceded by Captain James Robertson and his companions, nine sturdy pioneers, who had engaged to build huts, plant corn, and make as comfortable a home as possible for the band that was to follow. This consisted of families, and among them the families of several of those adventurous pioneers.