my grandfather, were in the stage also. The coach was overturned, which caused great excitement; but, fortunately, no one was injured. This incident served to impress the journey on my memory. There was a perfect ovation to General Jackson all along the route. In one town where we stopped, a wreath of laurel leaves was brought and placed upon his head. During the journey he gave away one hundred and fifty silver half-dollars to namesakes, saying to many of the mothers who presented their children to him, as he gave the pieces, "This is our country's eagle. It will do for the little one to cut his teeth on now, but teach him to love and defend it." In those days it took nearly a month to travel from Washington to the Hermitage.
I have mentioned Colonel Earl as being entrusted with the care of us children on the homeward journey. He was the artist who painted so many portraits of General Jackson. He had married a niece of Mrs. Jackson, and was a warm admirer and devoted friend of General Jackson, and he was in every respect worthy of the great attachment my grandfather and all our family had for him. He lived but a few months after our return to the Hermitage.
He was ill only a few hours, and died at dawn. I believe he had been out too much in the hot sun, engaged in laying off the lawn in front of the Hermitage. My mother suggested it, and he drew the plan in the shape of a guitar. He also drew the plan for flower beds in the center of the garden and around Mrs. Jackson's tomb; in all of which grandfather took great interest and was constantly present. The large cedar trees that now form an avenue from the Hermitage to the front gate and around all the walks and drives, were set out then.
I have a small portrait by Colonel Earl, taken at Washington in the spring of 1837. Grandfather is standing on the back porch of the White House, with cane in hand, and his hat on a chair near by. His military cloak is thrown across his shoulders. My brother, Colonel Jackson, has a portrait by Colonel Earl of General Jackson in uniform, on his old white horse, "Sam Patch." I always admired that picture very much. It recalls such delightful associations and remembrances. It was on this old horse, after our return from Washington, that my grandfather took me, every morning after breakfast, and rode around the farm to seethe stock. He would stop and talk awhile with old Dunwoody, at the negro's cabin, about the colts; then to the fields, where the servants were at work picking out cotton; and as soon as he came up and spoke to them, always kindly and gently, they would give three loud cheers for "old master." At first I rode before him, but when larger I rode behind him. When the old horse died at the Hermitage, he was buried there with military honors.
Although none of General Jackson's blood flows in my veins, he is in my heart, and ever will be, my revered and beloved grandfather. Sweet memories of his loving kindness rise up constantly before me. Especially do I love to think of him as he appeared at night. After he had conducted family prayers—first reading a chapter from the Bible, then giving out a hymn, two lines at a time, which all joined in singing, and then kneeling in prayer—we went into my mother's room, adjoining his, while my father, with the general's old servant, George, who always slept in his room, assisted him to bed. Then my mother and I would go into his room to bid him good-night. His bedstead was very high, with tall, solid mahogany posts. Three steps covered with carpet stood alongside, and, as I stood on the top, and, on tip-toe, leaned over to kiss him, he would place his hand most tenderly on my head as he kissed me, saying, "Bless my baby, bless my little Rachel. Goodnight." I turned away from him always impressed with his tenderness and love for me.
He grew very feeble toward the end of his days, although he would walk several times up and down the long porch every afternoon, with his tall ebony cane in his right hand, and my mother, his beloved daughter-in-law, on his left. I can hear now in my imagination the ring of his cane as it struck the stone flagging. Just before sunset he always walked alone to the tomb of his wife in the garden at the Hermitage.
At last the end came, and that great and wonderful man's spirit left earth for heaven. I returned from school Friday evening, and he died on Sunday, June 8th, at a little past six o'clock in the evening. We were all around him, and the evening's sun-rays shone in the windows, illuminating the sad room. My father had his arm about him, supporting his head, while faithful George held the pillows behind his back. My mother stood next, holding his hand, and her sister, Aunt Adams, next to her. Our family physician, Dr. Esselman,
