It was not difficult to choose a name for this little volume. Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage is neither new nor original, but it has had common usage for such a long period of years that it seems by far the most natural title for any work dealing with that historic old mansion which offered a haven of peace and contentment to “Old Hickory,” during both the storms and the calms of his eventful career. In every respect it is Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage. Its fertile fields sustained him, its trees sheltered him, and the friendly walls of the dwellings which he placed in the midst of its broad acres were not only his refuge in times of dissatisfaction with the outside world, but they formed the castle to which he welcomed his friends. It mattered little that the first Hermitage was an humble abode of logs. He was its master, and his guest, whether he happened to be the polished and elegant Aaron Burr or some uncouth backwoodsman, was given a royal welcome.

The mistress of the Hermitage—Rachel, the beloved and adored—was the raison d’Être of the whole establishment. She was, to Andrew Jackson, the center of the universe—the one fixed thing around which all of the affairs of his life revolved. Her happiness was his greatest concern and, in building a home, her comfort and pleasure were his first consideration. She was not the kind of a woman, however, to accept such adoration without repaying it in thought and in deed. She was an excellent housekeeper, a gracious hostess, and an efficient manager of the whole plantation. Like many women of the South, she was often left for months at a time in charge of the entire estate, for travel was difficult and tedious, and men who participated in public affairs were forced to endure long absences from home. During the early years of their marriage General Jackson, either as an attorney or as judge, traveled hundreds and hundreds of miles over wilderness trails. His mercantile business, as well as his legal and political activities, took him frequently to Philadelphia, Natchez, or other distant points. Later, the Creek campaigns and activities leading up to the Battle of New Orleans kept him away from the Hermitage for months at a time. After the victory in 1815 Mrs. Jackson accompanied him on trips to Washington, to Florida, New Orleans, and other places where his fame drew great crowds around them. There never was a time, however, when fame had any attraction for Rachel. All that she asked was that the lord and master of the Hermitage be freed to return to their peaceful fireside.

Of General Jackson’s devotion to his wife there are hundreds of evidences. From the time he killed Charles Dickinson in the duel provoked by a rash reference to the unfortunate circumstances of their marriage, until his dying day, he was known for his almost fanatical devotion to her, and his desire to punish anyone who might cast a slur upon her fair name. Only Rachel’s suffering after Dickinson’s death and her gentle restraint kept his fiery temper under control.

The Hermitage stands upon the spot which Rachel Jackson selected. The walls of its central portion sheltered her, and to-day they house many objects made sacred by her touch. In the long years which intervened between her death and that of her distinguished husband, her memory was kept green by his devotion. The young lovers who, during his last years, laughed and danced through the pleasant rooms and hallways of the old mansion and wandered in the moonlight to the magnolia-shaded tomb in the garden caught something of his immortal love story.

Both he and Rachel loved young people. They had no children, but in 1809 they adopted a baby—a nephew of Mrs. Jackson’s—and down through the years the Hermitage was enlivened by the happy laughter of children and of young people: sons and daughters of neighbors, of Mrs. Jackson’s kin, and of the General’s friends and associates. There have been many brides and many happy wedding parties at the old mansion, and the General himself was not averse to lending a helping hand in cases where Dan Cupid did not make progress rapidly enough to suit him.

Nothing reveals the gentle, human side of Andrew Jackson more completely than a study of the contacts made through various avenues of his home life. Nor can anything else as thoroughly prove his wisdom and good common sense. He had the greatest deference for women and a great tenderness for children. He was a compassionate master of slaves, a great lover of horses and fine cattle, and an excellent farmer. He was a shrewd trader and a meticulous observer of his own debts to others—and theirs to him. His only bad business deals, and they were not many, were those where his affection for a kinsman or a friend got the better of his cold reasoning power.

The picture which it is hoped that this little volume will create in the minds of the readers is that of Andrew Jackson, the husband and father, the host to friends and neighbors, and to such of the nation’s great as came to his doors; the farmer who delighted in the productivity of his broad acres; the merchant who rode each day to his store at Hunter’s Hill or Clover Bottom; the warrior who returned with the laurels of New Orleans to a log house; the statesman, weary with fame and the long, lonely years, who came back to his Hermitage to sit out the remainder of his days near the tomb of his beloved Rachel.

It is this conception of Jackson that the Hermitage perpetuates. The little museum which was once the nursery of his grandchildren houses relics of his military career and a rare collection of his state papers. Of this side of his life the nation is already well informed. The house itself speaks eloquently of the life which once vibrated its now quiet rooms. His office is filled with books which knew the frequent touch of his hands; his dressing gown lies across a chair in his bedchamber, and the miniature of Rachel is in its accustomed place on the table at his bedside. In the parlors the portraits of his “military family” look down upon silent rooms which, when they knew them, were full of music and laughter. The dining room, once the center of a lavish hospitality, is quiet, and the kitchen is no longer filled with negroes, bustling about and singing before a great open fire. It requires no great powers of imagination to people these rooms again. The inanimate objects are there. They have been carefully preserved by a patriotic group of women who realized their value in time to keep them in their original setting. Down through the years they will be guarded jealously by women who follow in the footsteps of the founders of the Ladies’ Hermitage Association, and so will be preserved the home of one of the greatest of all Americans and the setting of one of the most beautiful love stories of all times.

(From “The Hermitage,” Will Allen Dromgoole, Nashville Banner, Jan. 6, 1935.)