was there. I stood at the foot of grandfather's bed, an old-fashioned one without any foot-board, with my hand near his feet, but looking intently into his face, with the only anguish my child's heart had ever felt or known. I noticed the slightest tremor pass to his feet; but did not understand it until Dr. Esselman said, "All is over." He had taken leave of us shortly before, calmly and affectionately. His last consecutive words were, "My dear children and friends and servants, I hope and trust to meet you all in heaven, both white and black," looking at all with the tenderest solicitude. He ceased to speak, but fixed his eyes intently on me, and looked, Dr. Esselman said, as though he was invoking the choicest blessing of heaven to rest upon me, the namesake of his cherished wife.
As showing the nature of General Jackson's heart and the fine quality of his love better than any words of mine can possibly do, I will add here some passages from his letters written to my mother at intervals when she was separated from him. Often at night, when his labors and duties forbade the leisure in the day time, he would write; he could not sleep without first writing at least a few lines to her.
April 23, 1832.—"I have this moment rec'd your kind, affectionate letter from Wheeling. It was a balm to my anxious mind, for I began to fear that some accident must have happened and your silence was lest the information might give me pain. I rejoice at your safe arrival at Wheeling, and I hope soon to hear of your safe arrival at the Hermitage. I am truly glad to hear that Andrew has got safely on his fine dog. I was uneasy, as I knew his anxiety to have him lest he might be lost on the way. A dog is one of the most affectionate of all the animal species, and is worthy of regard, and Andrew's attachment for his dog is an evidence of the goodness of his heart. You must write me when you reach the Hermitage, on the farm, the garden, the colts, etc., how the servants are, and how clothed and fed, and, my dear Sarah, drop a kind tear over the tomb of my dear wife in the garden for me."
July 11, 1832.—"I regret to learn that Andrew has been sick. I am fearful he has exposed himself to some dissipation, hunting or fishing. You must control him, by your affectionate admonitions, from everything that may injure his health. My health is not good. My labor has been too great. I send you enclosed my veto of the bank bill. It has given me much labor. It was delivered to me on the 4th instant, and my message delivered at 10 o'clock a.m. yesterday. With my sincere prayer to an over-ruling Providence that He may take you all under His holy keeping and bless you with health and contentment, believe me your affectionate father. P. S.—Present me to all my servants, and tell them I send my prayers for their health and happiness."
July 17, 1832.—"Congress rose yester- day, and in a few days I shall set out on my way to the Hermitage, where, if health permit, I hope to reach by the 10th or 12th of next month. I rejoice to hear of your health and that of my son and the family, but regret to find your alarm about the cholera. This is not right, my dear child. We ought not to fear death; we know we have all to die, and we ought to live to learn to die well. The cholera is said to be here at Gadsby's. This I don't believe; still it may be true, and I feel myself just as safe as [if] it was 1,000 miles distance, for whenever Providence wills it death must come."
December 22, 1833.—"I wish you and Andrew and my dear little pet Rachel the joys of the season. This I shall ever be deprived of, for on this night five years gone by I was bereaved of my dear wife, and with that bereavement forever after the joys of Christmas in a temporal sense."
September 6, 1833.—"I nave had a continual headache until yesterday evening since you left. Am now clear of it. You have not said when you will leave for Washington. I am anxious to see my dear little ones. I appeared to be lost for some time not hearing Andrew in the night, until Mrs. Call, with her child, arrived and I put Mary in your room, whose little one, about the same hour in the night, wakes as Andrew did and appears to be company to me. I do not wish to hurry you, my dear Sarah, but only to say, I would, when it meets your convenience, be glad to see you all home."
