Chapter XVI: Twilight Triumphs (1)

I

Jackson returned to the White House after the election in a serious physical condition. The exertions of the hot summer, the long and wearisome journey, the keen disappointment over the loss of Tennessee, and his humiliation over his defeat in the Hermitage precinct, had greatly weakened the old lion. The return journey to the capital had increased his debility, and soon after reaching the White House he was driven to his bed by a hemorrhage of the lungs. Ill almost to death, no word of sympathy reached him from his foes, and from his bed he grimly directed and encouraged the counter-attacks with the spirit of the Jackson of New Orleans. In his final Message to Congress, he paid tribute to the fidelity and integrity of his subordinates, and in ordinary times this would have been permitted to pass unchallenged in view of his early relinquishment of power. But the times were not ordinary. The last short session was to be one of extraordinary bitterness, with personal altercations commonplace, and with statesmen of prominence toying all too lightly with their pistols.

Thus the tribute to the subordinates of the Executive departments was eagerly seized upon by Henry A. Wise, the brilliant and impassioned young Whig of Virginia, as a pretext for a bitter personal attack--one of the most severe, satiric, sarcastic philippics to be found in the records of Congress from the first session to the present hour. The way was paved for it through the presentation of a resolution providing for the appointment of a special committee to deal with that portion of the Message to which Wise took exception. He summoned to his purpose all the accumulated charges of eight years of rancorous party warfare, marched them with a militant swing before the House, and demanded an investigation to determine, on the eve of the stricken President’s departure from public life, whether he had been falsely accused. Had Jackson actually made such claims for his subordinates? he asked. No, he had not even written the Message because physically unfit. “It comes to us and the country reeking with the fumes of the Kitchen Cabinet.”

The excited Representatives gathered about the young orator were not kept long in doubt as to the particular object of his attack. Describing Jackson’s electioneering activities in Tennessee, Wise dropped the veil: “I am told,” he said, “that they carried him around like a lion for show, and made him roar like a lion. They had catechisms prepared for him, and the negotiations of the mission were conducted by pre-concerted questions and answers. A crowd would collect on the highway, or in the bar-rooms, and some village politician of the party would inquire, ‘What think you, General, of such a man?’ In a loud tone, much too stentorian for those lungs which are now lacerated, the answer rang, ‘He is a traitor, sir.’ ‘There, there,’ repeated the demagogues in the crowd, ‘did you not hear that?’ ‘What think you of another, General?’ ‘He is a liar, sir.’ ‘What of another?’ ‘He made a speech for which he paid a stenographer five dollars.’ And another was ‘on the fence sir, on the fence.’ ‘But, General, what think you of Mr. [the first time that Reuben was ever called ‘Mister’] Reuben M. Whitney?’ ‘There is no just cause of complaint against Mr. Whitney, sir; he is as true a patriot as ever was; they are all liars who accuse him of aught of wrong.’”[926] Thus it was evident from the speech of Wise that the attack was aimed at Whitney, erroneously described by some historians as a member of the Kitchen Cabinet,[927] but nevertheless entrusted with the public money. Little can be said in defense of Jackson’s confidence in this man, who had been ferociously assailed in the House in the preceding spring by Wise and Balie Peyton, a hot-headed Whig from Tennessee. With the clever support of the Democrats, the resolution was adopted and Wise was made chairman of the investigating committee. This investigation, probably intended merely as a peg on which to hang partisan harangues against the stricken President, to whose physical condition Wise had made sneering reference, accomplished nothing.

Before the committee had got fairly started, it struck a snag in a personal altercation in the committee room between Peyton and Wise on one side, and Whitney on the other, resulting in the refusal of the latter to appear again unless assured that members of the committee would attend unarmed! The balking witness was thereupon cited for contempt and dragged to the bar of the House; and the clever Administration leaders quickly grasped the opportunity to divert attention from the main question to the arrogant, violent methods of the hot-headed young Whigs in charge. Thus Whitney set himself to the task of proving that he could not appear before the committee without serious danger of assassination. Witnesses to the altercation, on which he based his conclusion, were summoned, and a week was consumed in the hearing of evidence and the cross-examination of witnesses.

The incident on which Whitney based his fears is graphically described in the testimony of John Fairfield, a Representative from Maine.[928] The picture painted of the committee room scene is not inspiring. Whitney had declined to answer a question because of reflections on his integrity by Peyton, and it seems that he had gone so far as to scowl at the Tennessee Hotspur in explaining his refusal. It was a day when honor was a sensitive plant, and Peyton sprang to his feet with a promise to “take his life upon the spot.” The equally fiery Wise, ever ready for a combat, rose to the occasion, and took his position beside his irate colleague with the comment that “this damned insolence is intolerable.” Encouraged by the open sympathy of Wise, the Tennesseean began to meditate aloud, as on the stage, on the enormity of the insult, and to mutter that he would not be insulted “by a damned thief and robber.” His passion, feeding on his hot meditations, and his excitement growing greater, he wheeled upon Whitney, who, alarmed, sprang to his feet and claimed the protection of the committee. “Damn you--damn you!” shouted the white-faced Peyton, “you shan’t say a word while in this room--if you do I will put you to death.” With these words he put his hand to his bosom and moved toward the object of his fury, and Wise and other members of the committee tried to calm the infuriated statesman. “Don’t, Peyton,” cried Wise, “damn him, he is not worth your notice.” Somewhat mollified by this assurance, the insulted Representative sank into his chair--but his blood still boiled. “Damn him, his eyes are upon me!” he cried as in a melodrama. “Damn him, he is looking at me--he shan’t do it!” By this time it was thought possible to calm the nerves of the jumpy Peyton if the witness, whose eyes were so offensive, could be removed from the room; and as he passed out, Wise requested the committee to remain seated to prevent an encounter in the corridor.[929] Thus far the impulsive Virginian appeared in the favorable light of a peace-maker, but, finding pleasure in the narration of the manner in which the hated minion of the Administration had been frightened out of his wits, he began to boast that his purpose in getting close to Whitney had been to shoot him at the slightest provocation, and he was thus drawn into the controversy along with Peyton.

Nothing could have been more pleasing to the political managers of the Administration. Before the galleries, packed to hear the eye-witnesses, the two Whigs began to appear more and more as quarrelsome, pistol-toting bullies taking advantage of their position to browbeat and intimidate an unprotected witness. The Democratic press, under the inspiration of Blair and Kendall, devoted columns to the evidence, and sentiment was turned against the Whig leaders until they began to complain that they, and not Whitney, were apparently at the bar. “Sir,” Wise declared, “it is I who am on trial and not Reuben M. Whitney. I have no doubt of the contrivance to make this issue before the country.... I wish to know, sir, if there are not other officers of the Government who have issued the order that the power of this House, and the Executive power of the country, are both to be brought to bear upon two humble and inexperienced members of the House. Sir, I have felt it.”

The affair had now worked around to the distinct advantage of the Administration, and Wise and Peyton, and not Jackson, were in distress. The psychological hour had struck to end the farce. The motion to dismiss Whitney was made and carried, and when the name of Wise was called, he solemnly rose:

“Mr. Speaker,” he said, “I shall not vote until I ascertain whether I am discharged from prosecution or not.”

As the smiling House offered no information, his name is not recorded among those voting. Thus the one offensive against Jackson, launched by his enemies on the eve of his relinquishment of power, ended in a riproaring farce.

II

In the Senate the offensive was taken by Jackson’s supporters when Benton served notice that he would demand a vote on his motion to expunge the vote of censure from the records. Much water had passed over the dam since the persistent Missourian had first offered his resolution. With the aid of the Kitchen Cabinet, he had made it a national issue. The fight had been carried into the States of the Senators who had voted for the censure, and, in numerous instances, the offending member had either been defeated for reëlection, or the legislature had been prevailed upon to instruct him to vote to expunge. One of the opponents of the Benton resolution had died and been succeeded by a Jackson sympathizer. Through defeat, or resignations forced by instructions from legislatures, enemies had given place to friends from Connecticut, New Jersey, North Carolina, Illinois, Mississippi, and Virginia. New Senators, friends of Jackson, had entered from the new States of Arkansas and Michigan. A private poll convinced Benton that the triumph was at hand, all the sweeter because coming on the eve of Jackson’s retirement. The day after Christmas he reintroduced his original resolution, and on January 12th supported it in a speech laudatory of Jackson--a pæan of anticipated triumph. The old man, always a trifle pompous and stilted in his style, was never more so, but in his most extravagant praise he unquestionably spoke the language of his heart. Beginning by recalling the discouraging circumstances under which he first offered his resolution, he gloatingly declared that the Opposition had become “more and more odious to the public mind and musters now but a slender phalanx of friends.” The people had been passing on the censure; had passed upon it in the triumph of Van Buren, who had publicly proclaimed his adherence to the plans of Benton. He would not rehash the constitutional arguments. The debate had ended and the verdict had been rendered, but the occasion called for some reference to the achievements and triumphs of the Administration. Then he hastily sketched its battles, claiming in the aftermath of each the vindication of events--the destruction of the Bank, the removal of the deposits, the triumphant termination of the controversy with the French.

“And now, sir,” he concluded, as we may imagine with his chest thrown out, “I finish the task which, three years ago, I imposed upon myself. Solitary and alone, and amidst the taunts and jeers of my opponents, I put this ball in motion. The people have taken it up and rolled it forward, and I am no longer anything but a unit in the vast mass which now propels it. In the name of that mass, I speak. I demand the execution of the edict of the people; I demand the expurgation of that sentence which the voice of a few Senators and the power of their confederate, the Bank of the United States, has caused to be placed upon the journal of the Senate, and which the voice of millions of freemen has ordered to be expunged from it.”

Thus spoke the champion of Jackson in the tones and manner of a conqueror. As he resumed his seat, John J. Crittenden of Kentucky rose to protest against the “party desecration” of the record, and after a few words from Senator Dana, who favored the expunging record, the Senate adjourned. On the following day some of the great orators of the Opposition were put forward to oppose the resolution.

We are told by an eye-witness that the eloquent Preston “spoke in a strain of eloquence inspired by his feelings of great aversion.”[930] If Benton was theatrical, as has been justly charged by historians, the Whigs were even more so, as we shall see. Beginning with great solemnity, and describing his shock and sorrow, Preston proceeded:

“Execution is demanded--aye, sir, the executioners are here with ready hands. Exercise your function, gentlemen.... The axe is in your hand--perform that which is so loudly called for. Execution, sir, of what, of whom? Is the axe aimed at men who voted for the resolution you are about to expunge? Is it us you strike at? If so, ... in God’s name let the blow come, and as the fatal edge fell upon my neck, I would declare with honest sincerity that I would rather be the criminal of 1834 than the executioner of 1837.” More: the names of the Senators refusing to expunge would in the future “be familiar as household words” and be “taught to children as the names of Washington and Adams and Hancock and Lee and Lafayette are now taught to our children.”

A moment later the orator’s pensive melancholy had turned to rage.

“Why not expunge those who made the record?” he thundered, forgetting how many had been “expunged.” “If the proceedings had a guilt so monstrous as to render necessary this novel and extraordinary course, the men themselves who perpetrated the deed--it is they who should be expunged. Men who entered so foul a page upon the journal cannot be worthy of a seat here. Remove us! Turn us out! Expel us from the Senate! Would to God you could! Call in the pretorian guard! Take us--apprehend us--march us off!”[931]

After Rives and Niles had spoken in support of the resolution, Calhoun mournfully rose, and with funereal sadness, not unmixed with scorn, pointed out the resemblance of the proceedings to the degenerate days of Rome. “But why do I waste my breath?” he asked, in conclusion. “I know it is all utterly vain. The day is gone; night approaches, and night is suitable to the dark deed we meditate. There is a sort of destiny in this thing. The act must be performed; and it is an act that will tell on the political history of this country forever.... It is a melancholy evidence of a broken spirit, ready to bow at the feet of power. The former act[932] was such a one as might have been perpetrated in the days of Pompey and Cæsar; but an act like this could never have been consummated by a Roman Senate until the times of Caligula and Nero.”

After Calhoun concluded, unsuccessful efforts to adjourn were made, until Clay announced his intention to speak at length, and his request for delay was granted. Had his supporters realized how far from absolute certainty of success Benton felt, they would have favored, instead of fought, an adjournment. The following day was Saturday, and a careful poll disclosed the disconcerting diversity of opinion as to details which threatened the success of the project, and Benton gladly agreed to a postponement of the discussion until Monday. That night the then famous restaurant of Boulanger found all the Jacksonian Senators seated about the banquet board. The clever host had loaded the table with his choicest offerings, and as soon as the statesmen had reached the mellow, accommodating mood, they settled down to the real purpose of the feast. Realizing that he lacked the deftness and finesse required for ironing out all differences as to details, Benton had assigned the work of conciliation to Silas Wright, Allen of Ohio, and Linn of Missouri. Even so, it “required all the moderation, tact, and skill of the prime movers to obtain and maintain the union upon details, on the success of which the measure depended.”[933] But when, at midnight, the Senators dispersed, all conflicting views had been reconciled, and for the first time an actual majority was pledged to a single programme. It was decided to call the resolution up on Monday, and to keep it constantly before the Senate, without adjournment, until the “deed” was done.

To prevent any of his flock from wandering afield in search of refreshments, Benton had made ample preparations, and a tourist, wandering into Benton’s committee room at four o’clock on Monday afternoon, would have assumed, in view of the vast quantities of cold ham, turkey, rounds of beef, pickles, wines, and coffee, that he had stumbled into a senatorial café. That day, Clay appeared in the Senate ostentatiously garbed in black as though in mourning for the murdered Constitution. So ugly was his mood that he even refused snuff offered by a Democratic Senator he knew was going to vote to expunge. The galleries were packed to witness the drama, or melodrama, and impatiently sat through the preliminary work of the Senate. At length the hour came for the consideration of the resolution, and all eyes turned to Clay, who thoroughly enjoyed his rôle in the play. As his tall form slowly rose, there was a rustling in the galleries as the spectators shifted their position to get a better view of the great enemy of Jackson. On his feet, he stood a moment in silence, as though weighed down by the importance of his task, if not by its hopelessness. Then he began in subdued tones, albeit his silvery voice was heard distinctly over the chamber. Such a hardened observer of historical incidents as Sargent describes the scene as “grand, impressive, and imposing,” and “even solemn,” as though “some terrible rite was to be performed, some bloody sacrifice to be made upon the altar of Moloch.”[934]

“What object?” he demanded. Was it necessary because of the President? “In one hand,” he continued, “he holds the purse, and in the other he brandishes the sword of the country. Myriads of dependents and partisans, scattered all over the land, are ever ready to sing hosannas to him, and to laud to the skies whatever he does. He has swept over the Government during the last eight years like a tropical tornado. Every department exhibits traces of the ravages of the storm.... What object of his ambition is unsatisfied? When, disabled from age any longer to hold the scepter of power, he designates his successor, and transmits it to his favorite, what more does he want? Must we blot, deface, and mutilate the records of the country, to punish the presumptuousness of expressing any opinion contrary to his own?

“What object?” demanded Clay. “Do you intend to thrust your hands into our hearts and pluck out the deeply rooted convictions which are there? Or is it your design merely to stigmatize us? Standing securely upon our conscious rectitude, and bearing aloft the Constitution of our country, your puny efforts are impotent; and we defy all your power.

“What object?” reiterated the orator. “To please the President? He would reject, with scorn and contempt as unworthy of his fame, your black scratches and your baby lines in the fair records of his country. Black lines. Black lines.... And hereafter, when we shall lose the forms of our free institutions, all that now remain to us, some future American monarch, in gratitude to those by whose means he has been enabled, upon the ruins of civil liberty, to erect a throne, and to commemorate especially this expunging resolution, may institute a new order of knighthood, and confer on it the appropriate name of the ‘Knights of the Black Lines.’”

But why continue, he inquired, as he closed his fierce philippic. “Proceed then with your noble work.... And when you have perpetrated it, go home to the people, and tell them what glorious honors you have achieved for our common country. Tell them that you have extinguished one of the brightest and purest lights that ever burned on the altar of civil liberty. Tell them that you have silenced one of the noblest batteries that ever thundered in defense of the Constitution, and bravely spiked the cannon. Tell them that henceforth, no matter what daring or outrageous act any President may perform, you have forever hermetically sealed the mouth of the Senate. Tell them that he may fearlessly assume what powers he pleases, snatch from its lawful custody the public purse, and command a military detachment to enter the halls of the Capitol, overawe Congress, trample down the Constitution, and raze every bulwark of freedom; but that the Senate must stand mute, in silent submission, and not dare to raise its opposing voice.”

Such the theatrical strain of a speech which the schoolboys of well-regulated Whig families were to declaim for the delight of their elders for a generation, and to call forth a fulsome note from the sober-minded Kent.

As Clay sat down, James Buchanan rose to reply, admitting that it was the part of prudence to remain silent after the Whig orator had “enchanted the attention of his audience.” Fluent, logical, if not eloquent, he followed Clay’s speech point by point, rehashing with him the Bank controversy--leading up to the removal of the deposits and the vote of censure--defending Jackson at every step. If Jackson’s act was one of tyranny, unconstitutional, aimed at civil liberty, why, he demanded, “had the Whigs merely censured him without giving him the opportunity to reply? Why had they not done their duty and instituted impeachment proceedings? True, they insisted that they had not imputed any criminal motive to the President--”

Clay was instantly on his feet, hotly insisting that “personally he had never acquitted the President of improper intentions.” To which the courtly Buchanan replied with a compliment to the Kentuckian’s “frank and manly nature,” and passed on.

The Whigs now attempted to adjourn, but Benton’s drilled forces were on hand to vote down Bayard’s motion, and the debate proceeded. Other speakers followed, men of lesser light, while the Senators themselves, satiated with the arguments, began to pass out in twos and threes to regale and refresh themselves in Benton’s room. Such of the Whigs as were not too bitter were cordially invited to partake of the feast, and some accepted. Clay sent some of his friends to the committee room to ascertain the nature of the attraction, and the emissaries lingered too long over the meat, and especially the drink, and he became furious. With the coming of night the curious packed the corridors and lobbies, and the great chandelier which lighted the little chamber shed its glow on the gay dresses of the ladies of fashion, many of whom had been admitted to the floor.

As the hour grew late, and there was a pause in the debate, the eyes of all were fixed on Webster, who sat gloomily in his seat. He glanced around to see if others proposed to speak, then rose to make the final protest. An eye-witness tells us that “his dark visage assumed a darker hue”; that “his deep-toned voice seemed almost sepulchral.”[935] As was his custom, he spoke with more moderation than Clay, Calhoun, or Preston, and was all the more impressive on that account. He refrained from hysterical denunciations, and from comparisons with the degenerate days of Rome. “But,” he said, “we make up our minds to behold the spectacle which is to ensue. We collect ourselves to look on in silence while a scene is exhibited which, if we do not regard it as a ruthless violation of a sacred instrument, would appear to us to be but little elevated above the character of a contemptible farce. This scene we shall behold, and hundreds of American citizens--as many as may crowd into these lobbies and galleries--will behold it also--with what feelings I do not undertake to say.”

Reiterating, then, his protest, he concluded: “Having made this protest, our duty is performed. We rescue our own names, characters, and honor from all participation in this matter; and whatever the wayward character of the times, the headlong and plunging spirit of party devotion, or the fear or the love of power, may have been able to bring about elsewhere, we desire to thank God that we have not, as yet, overcome the love of liberty, fidelity to true republican principles, and a sacred regard for the Constitution, in that State whose soil was drenched to a mire by the first and best blood of the Revolution.”

While Webster was speaking, two Whig Senators, realizing that the contest had degenerated into a trial of nerves and muscle, went to Benton with the suggestion that nothing could be gained by delaying the vote.[936] When no one rose to continue the argument at the conclusion, there was a moment of silence and then the cry of “Question” rose. The roll was called, with forty-three Senators in their seats, five absent, and the resolution was passed by a vote of 24 to 19.

Benton instantly demanded the execution of the order of the Senate. While the clerk was out to get the original journal, Benton, in perfect ecstasy, ostentatiously congratulated persons in the lower gallery, until the glowering countenance of Balie Peyton warned him of a possible explosion.[937] But the Tennessee firebrand was not the only person in the gallery, or, for that matter, on the floor, with a deadly hate of Benton in the heart. The galleries remained true to the Bank and Biddle, and some of the Senators, having freely indulged themselves, were in a quarrelsome mood. Fear was entertained for Benton’s life by some of his friends, including his wife. Just previous to the vote, Senator Linn had brought in pistols for the defense, if required, and Mrs. Benton, seriously alarmed, took her place by her husband’s side on the floor. As the clerk returned with the record, the defeated statesmen, pretending to a patriotism that could not look upon the “deed,” filed out of the chamber--all but Hugh Lawson White who never deserted his post. As the President _pro tem_ announced that the “deed” was done, the hitherto sullen and silent gallery broke into groans, hisses, imprecations. Enraged and excited, Benton sprang to his feet with the demand that the “ruffians” that caused the disturbance be apprehended and brought to the bar. “I hope the sergeant-at-arms will be directed to enter the gallery, and seize the ruffians.... Let him seize the Bank ruffians. I hope they will not be suffered to insult the Senate as they did when it was under the power of the Bank of the United States when ruffians, with arms upon them, insulted us with impunity.... Here is one just above me that may easily be identified--the Bank ruffians!”

Thus the ringleader was dragged to the bar. But here was a diversion that had not entered into the agreement as to details at Boulanger’s on Saturday night, and the wrangle that followed ended in the discharge of the culprit from custody. As the vote to discharge was announced, the person in custody demanded to be heard. “Begone!” cried King, in the chair--and the incident was closed. But Benton’s blood was hot, and on leaving the Capitol he encountered Clay, whom he suspected of having instigated the gallery disturbance, and a bitter altercation resulted. But after the two men, personally not unfriendly and related by marriage, had exercised their vituperative vocabulary, Benton insisted on seeing Clay home, and did not leave until three in the morning when Clay had sought his couch. Thus ended a dramatic episode--so dramatic and historic that on the following morning Webster requested Henry A. Wise to prepare a description which was afterwards given in an address at Norfolk.[938]

The triumph, we may be sure, was sweet to the stricken veteran in the White House. Within a week he invited all his senatorial friends and their wives to an elaborate dinner. Hovering on the verge of the grave, he dragged himself from his bed to greet his guests, accompanied them to the dining-room, seated Benton in his place at the head of the table, and retired to his couch, while the celebration below continued until a late hour.

III

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]

After breakfasting in the morning, Jackson would go to his office, on the second floor, and, lighting his pipe, would settle down to the routine work of the day. Bookshelves lined the room. Busts of the President, the work of various sculptors, and a number of portraits, all by Earle, looked upon the original from shelves and tables. There flocked the politicians, Lewis with a report, Blair with a leader, Kendall with a programme. There he planned and fought his battles with the politicians, but when evening came he looked forward to the joys of domesticity, or the diversions of the company of women upon whom he looked “with the most romantic, pure, and poetic devotion.”[946] The accomplished Mrs. Livingston would enliven him with her vivacious conversation on all manner of topics, her daughter Cora would delight him with her animation and wit, and his eyes would fill when Mrs. Philip Hamilton, daughter of McLane, responded to his never-failing invitation to play and sing his favorite song from Burns. Mrs. McLane, an attractive and entertaining chatterbox, with interested motives for attempting to fascinate the old warrior, was always a welcome diversion, and Mrs. Rives, the stately wife of the Virginia Senator; Mrs. Macomb, wife of the General; and Sallie Coles Stevenson, who resembled Mrs. Livingston in intelligence and tact, were frequent guests. These had given to the White House something of the charm of the Hermitage; but at times, in the bitterness of the continual struggle, when the old man grew weary of the bauble of power, and felt his faith in mankind slipping, and homesickness for the Hermitage possessing him, he had often laid aside the cares of state, turned his back upon the scene of his struggle and the house of his triumphs, and walked across the Avenue to the home of the Blairs, where he knew he could find a haven of rest. There he knew he could appear, not as the head of the State, but as Andrew Jackson of the Hermitage. It became his second home. There he could forget his enemies, and, in the homey atmosphere of a house pervaded by the personality of a sincere and unaffected woman, he could revive his fainting spirits.

But he was surfeited with triumphs, and the Hermitage called him home to the tomb of Rachel. The twilight was closing in upon him. He knew it was time to go.

V

The dawn of inauguration day found him so ill and debilitated that he should have remained in bed, but the soldier spirit of the man refused to yield to the promptings of the flesh. He was up early, doing his full part. The day was ideal--as Van Buren had promised Clay. The clear sky, the bright, cheery sunshine, the balmy air could not have been better ordered for the distinguished invalid. A great throng stretched back from the east front of the Capitol to witness the historic scene, and the eastern windows were packed with the more favored spectators. It was plainly to be seen from the attitude of the multitude that the real reverence and enthusiasm was for the leader whose race was run, rather than for his successor. “For once,” observed Benton, “the rising was eclipsed by the setting sun.” The old man, feeble and bowed, sat listening to the inaugural address of the man he had elevated to the highest office in the world. Van Buren concluded. Jackson rose and began slowly to descend the steps of the portico to his carriage which was waiting to convey him back to the White House. At that moment, the pent-up feelings of the crowd burst forth in cheers and acclamations. “It was the acclaim of posterity breaking from the bosom of contemporaries,” wrote Benton. The old man, deeply touched to tenderness and humility, acknowledged his appreciation by mute signs. From one of the upper windows a rough fighting man witnessed the scene with an emotion he had never felt before. From thence, Benton looked down upon the close of a memorable “reign,” of which he was to become the historian as he had been its defender.

That night Jackson slept as usual in the White House as the guest of President Van Buren, who insisted that he remain in his old quarters until in May or June the trip back to the Hermitage could be made in greater comfort, but the journey held no terrors for the homesick statesman. The following afternoon he walked across the Avenue to the home of Frank Blair for a final visit with the family within whose bosom he had passed many joyous hours during the eight years of storm and stress. A little later, Benton called with William Allen, then Senator from Ohio, and for many years the world knew nothing of the nature of that final conference. Benton himself was mysteriously silent, nor did he furnish any enlightenment in his great history of the “Thirty Years.” But long after most of the participants in the politics of that day were mouldering in the grave, Blair and Allen told the story to one of the President’s biographers. Jackson talked, and the others listened. He told them of his two principal regrets--that he had never had an opportunity to shoot Clay or to hang Calhoun. He had no regrets because of his crushing of the Bank, nor because of his encouragement of the spoils system. But he left office feeling that his work would have been more nearly completed if Texas had been annexed and the Oregon boundary dispute had been settled at fifty-four-forty. To his loyal supporters he left one admonition that afternoon:

“Of all things, never once take your eyes off Texas, and never let go of fifty-four-forty.”

The following day witnessed his departure. He took with him the picture of Rachel which had been upon his desk through his eight years of trial, her Bible, to which he had been devoted, her protégé Earle, the artist, who was to remain with him at the Hermitage, and to be buried in its peaceful shade.

Thus ended the reign of Andrew Jackson.

THE END

BOOKS, PAPERS, AND MANUSCRIPTS CITED AND CONSULTED

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