The Healy portrait, however, good as it is, can hardly be considered a better likeness than one other picture made during these last days of the General’s life—a daguerreotype made by a Nashville man, Dan Adams, who had lately become a practitioner of the newly discovered art. To gratify the ambition of Mr. Adams to hand down to posterity an actual likeness of General Jackson, the sick old man was carried in his chair out onto the back porch and there the exposure was made. It is a tradition in the family that the General was displeased with the likeness when it was shown to him, expressing his disapproval of it in characteristic language; but it is entirely likely that this is, in fact, the most faithful image of Andrew Jackson that now exists, even though the pain-wracked old man growled when they showed it to him: “Humph! Looks like a monkey!”
Not only was the master of the Hermitage persecuted by visitors during his last eight years, but during this time he was also bombarded with correspondence pouring in on him from friends and strangers, persons seeking political favors, inviting him to celebrations and barbecues, asking for autographs or locks of his hair, or merely expressing their admiration. A recent article in a New York paper reproduced a letter from one of the impressionable young ladies of 1842 who wanted a lock of the old hero’s hair, and this letter is fairly typical of those that poured in on him. After a florid and flattering introductory paragraph the young lady says:
“To behold the hoary head and time-honored frame of one who fearlessly bared his breast to the shafts of the enemy of his country, both in time of peace as well as in war—to clasp his hand, to receive a blessing from his lips—would be a delight which nothing on earth could equal. But this joy I dare not hope to experience. I trust you will pardon the liberty I take in the request which I am about to make. Do not refuse to make a young heart happy. A few months ago I saw in a newspaper an account of a visit of some young people to whom you gave some locks of your hair. I read my Bible every night and morning and endeavor to follow the precepts contained in that sacred volume. It warns me of the sin and danger of envy and uncharitableness. But I confess to you that ever since reading that account I have envied those young countrymen of mine. As you are the cause of this sorrow and sadness, so does the cure rest with you. The struggle has been great ere I could summon courage to address you, but may I not supplicate for a similar favor? This gift will be more precious to me than threads of fine gold. I shall prize it through life as my choicest earthly possession, and when the hour of death comes and I must surrender my spirit into the hands of Him who gave it, I shall bequeath this lock of hair to the one whom my heart shall then prize most.”
Then, after a fulsome concluding paragraph, the young lady signs her name “with sentiments of gratitude and affection too deep for utterance.” And on the back of this gushing epistle Old Hickory has laconically endorsed: “Answered and returned a lock of my hair, this 28th of October, 1842.—A.J.”
This flowery application for a lock of the Jacksonian hair was by no means an isolated or unusual request. In fact, so insistent was the demand that the General formed the habit of carefully saving for this purpose the trimmings whenever he had his hair cut, and out of this little bag of hoarded locks came the souvenirs sent to correspondents and presented to admiring visitors.
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But, despite his wonderful vitality and determined resistance to the inroads of disease; the sands of the old man’s life were running out their allotted time. It was on a quiet Sunday in June that the summons came for him. The end was not unexpected, either by him or by the household. Two Sundays before he had partaken of the Communion, and had taken that occasion to speak feelingly on the consolation of religion and to declare that he was ready to go. “Death,” he said stoutly, “has no terrors for me.” And this was doubtless no mere figure of speech after the suffering he experienced during the last four months of his life, during which time he found it impossible to lie down in bed unless lulled by opiates.
Sunday morning he was lifted from his bed and placed in his big chair by the window. The warm June sun was sifting down onto the Hermitage lawn through the sheltering cedars and hollies. The diseased-wracked old man, as he looked out on the scene he loved so well, doubtless sensed that it was close to the last time he would ever see it. Dr. Esselman when he entered the room that morning, to use his own words, “immediately perceived that the hand of death was upon him.” Andrew, junior, was notified that the end was at hand, and a messenger was sent for Major Lewis whom Jackson had expressed a wish to have by his side when death approached. A servant was dispatched post-haste to the church to recall the children of the household who were attending Sunday School. The sad news traveled quickly over the plantation and the servants gathered on the broad front porch, fearfully looking in at the windows.
The old General maintained his consciousness to the very end. When his old crony, Major Lewis, arrived he greeted him with: “Major, I am glad to see you. You like to have been too late,” and then carefully and methodically he gave him messages to some of his closest friends, like Colonel Benton and General Houston, who were unable to be at his bedside. Sadly but calmly he bade farewell to each member of the family, and mustered his failing strength to speak a kindly word of comfort to the weeping and wailing servants whose tear-stained black faces darkened the front windows. “Don’t cry,” he said gently to them, “Be good and we shall meet—” And then, with just a little gasp to mark its passing, his unconquerable spirit left his frail body. His little granddaughter, Rachel, was standing at the foot of his bed, her hand on the covering, and she felt the tremor that passed over his body as he expired.
General Jackson had expressed the wish that his funeral services be simple and without pomp or ostentation; but such a funeral was hardly possible for the most distinguished private citizen of his day. The military company marched out from Nashville to attend the services, held two days later, and accompanied his body to the grave; and a great multitude of people, estimated at three thousand, gathered to pay their last tribute. The funeral was preached by Dr. Edgar, the minister who had received him into the church, the services being conducted from the front porch owing to the inability of the large crowd to get inside the house.