Stephen A. Douglas is now remembered in history principally on account of the series of political debates preceding his victorious contest with Abraham Lincoln for a seat in the United States Senate; but he also is recalled by Jacksonian students as the man who delivered the leading speech in the House of Representatives in 1834 on the resolution to refund the fine paid by General Jackson under the order of Judge Hall in New Orleans following his declaration of martial law there after his victory over Pakenham. Some time after the passage of this resolution there was a political convention in Nashville and the delegates visited the Hermitage to pay their respects to the venerable ex-President. When Judge Douglas was presented to Jackson, according to an account of the episode in Harper’s Weekly in 1857, the old General exclaimed:
“Are you the Mr. Douglas who delivered a speech in Congress showing that I did not violate the Constitution at New Orleans?”
“I did deliver a speech on that subject,” modestly replied Mr. Douglas.
“Then sit down here beside me,” said General Jackson with enthusiasm, “I desire to return you my thanks for that speech. You are the first man I know who has done me justice. You have relieved my mind from a weight that has lain upon it for thirty years. Let me thank you, sir.”
The account concludes: “Senator Douglas’s heart was too full to speak. He pressed the veteran’s hand, and withdrew from the room to conceal his emotions.”
In a diary kept by an old resident of Nashville, Mr. James M. Hamilton, there is displayed an evidence of the cordiality of the master of the Hermitage in receiving the kind of a visitor who generally is not a very welcome guest to the most hospitable of hosts.
Mr. Hamilton was a youth, working in a store in Nashville, and after General Jackson’s return from Washington in 1837 he was sent out to the Hermitage to collect an account amounting to more than $3,000 which Andrew, junior, had run up while the General was President. Mr. Hamilton had been brought up a Clay Whig, and he was admittedly terrified at the prospect of bearding the fire-eating General Jackson in his den and trying to collect a bill. But he swallowed his fears, mounted his horse and rode out to the Hermitage, entered the General’s office and proffered the bill to him. Colonel A. S. Colyar, in his Life and Times of Andrew Jackson quotes from the Hamilton diary:
“‘Let me see it, my son,’ said the General; and he reached forth his long slender hand. As his eyes rested on item after item, I eagerly watched the expression of his countenance. No frown of displeasure was there, but simply attention. Folding the paper, he slowly said: ‘This is a large bill. My son Andrew is a good man, but a very extravagant one. I see many things here he could have done without. But, my son, I will pay this bill on one condition. It is that your employers will correct mistakes, should there be any.’ I assured him that they would certainly do so, and he requested me to write a check on the Planters’ Bank, adding: ‘My son, I came home from Washington with but 75 cents of my salary left, and had it not been for the kindness of my friend, Francis Blair, in lending me money, I would not be able to meet these obligations.’ I had never written a check and had no form with me, but I did the best I could and he signed it. He then requested me to write a receipt. Again I was puzzled, but I did the best I could and he accepted it.
“I arose to go. He invited me most cordially to remain to dinner. I was too much delighted, too happy, too much relieved to think of such a thing. I longed to get back to the store and show them my check and tell them of my success. I felt a wild, boyish admiration for the great man before me, and I wondered how anyone could be so wicked as to say aught disagreeable of him.
“‘If you will not stay, then you must see something of the Hermitage,’ he said, leading the way. I walked beside him about the grounds, the feeling of admiration and enthusiasm all the while in my heart for the great, tender-souled man whose guest I was. As we neared the tomb he raised his hand and, pointing, said: ‘My son, there lies the best woman that ever lived.’ A cloud of sadness spread over his face, and the expression was in keeping with the crepe on his hat—that crepe was worn the rest of his life.