ted
and prepared an outfit for the occasion, more suitable for a young and
blooming bride than for a homely, withered looking old woman.

During the war of the rebellion, as the Fifth Division of the Army of
the Cumberland was marching from Gallatin to camp near Nashville, the
General in command arranged that myself and daughter, who were
visiting the army and keeping with them from day to day, should call
at the Hermitage, as the troops passed near. An escort was furnished
us, and we turned off in our ambulance at the nearest point. We soon
reached the great gate, and, passing up the avenue of dark, sombre
evergreens, to the broad piazza of the historic old mansion, were
received by the hostess, the wife of General Jackson's adopted son.
Our reception, while not uncivil, was certainly frigid, and we had
expected nothing more cordial from those who called us their enemies.
After a short, constrained conversation, we were shown the General's
room, and some portraits of distinguished people on the walls, and
were then conducted to the tomb at the foot of the garden, where
husband and wife lie side by side under a canopy supported by marble
pillars and shaded by magnolia trees, whose rich, glossy leaves and
royal white blossoms made the sacred spot a lovely resting place for
the old man and his beloved Rachel. On the tablet, which covers her
remains, we read the following inscription, prepared by her husband:

"Here lie the remains of Mrs. Rachel Jackson, wife of President
Jackson, who died the twenty-second of December, 1828, aged sixty-one.
Her face was fair; her person, pleasing; her temper, amiable; her
heart, kind; she delighted in relieving the wants of her fellow
creatures, and cultivated that divine pleasure by the most liberal and
unpretending methods. To the poor, she was a benefactor; to the rich,
an example; to the wretched, a comforter, to the prosperous, an
ornament; her piety went hand in hand with her benevolence; and she
thanked her Creator for being permitted to do good. A being so gentle
and so virtuous, slander might wound but could not dishonor. Even
death, when he tore her from the arms of her husband, could but
transport her to the bosom of her God."

At his own special request, the tablet which marks the spot where he
rests, has only this simple record:

"GENERAL ANDREW JACKSON.
_Born on the 15th of March, 1767;_
_Died on the 8th of June, 1845._"

Among the notable persons who