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.