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would now, in bodily presence as he is in spirit, be in the midst of this assembly, praying that what may be uttered this day, shall be blessed to your good.

He of whom we speak began life a poor boy. He wrought out his fortune and fame by his owņ valiant right arm, unaided by aught else save the kind providence of God. He was the son of poor Irish emigrants, who in the wilderness of America sought a home and refuge from the grinding exactions of an oppressor, whose iron heel had trodden down their own Erin Isle, and made it, for many generations, a land of violence and blood.

Andrew, the youngest of three sons, was born on the adopted soil of his father. But he never knew the value of a father's care. While he was yet an infant, his widowed mother, left alone in a strange land, had devolved on her the care of three helpless children.

At the age of thirteen, Andrew Jackson was not, like the boys of our day, engaged in some school or academy, learning Greek and Latin, and mathematics, storing his mind with knowledge, and preparing himself for future usefulness. He was in the field, not the corn-field or wheat-field, reaping the fruits of honest industry, but in the battle-field, fighting in defence of his country.

The boy of thirteen, with sword and gun, rode by the side of Marion, and Davie, and Sumter, renowned leaders, whose deeds of daring are familiar to the youngest child that hears me. Those heroic men, by their valour and fortitude, filled the world with admiration, and called back in imagination the age of chivalry and romance, yet they did not surpass the heroism and fortitude of their youthful companion. It was no common war in which he was called to engage, in the Waxhaw Settlement. It was a civil war, indeed—a war of extermination, in which neighbour practised on neighbour such deeds of cruelty as would have put the Creeks or Cherokees to shame. Those who in former days had set in the shadow of his mother's door, broken bread at her hospitable board, and spoken words of neighbourly kindness to her widowed heart, now sought to wrap her humble dwelling in flames, and to take the life of her fatherless children. The patriot soldier dared not visit his own home, and seek an hour's repose in the bosom of his family, without a body-guard to protect him from the assault of his tory neighbours. On one such occasion, Andrew Jackson and his brother Robert, with four or five others, volunteered to stand guard for Captain Lands, while he sought a night's repose with his family. At midnight, when all were asleep, having no immediate apprehension of an attack, a party of tories, divided into platoons, approached the house in front and rear. One wakeful soldier, hearing a noise, went out and saw the party approaching in front. Run

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ning back in terror, he seized Andrew Jackson by the hair, exclaiming, “The tories are upon us!"

Jackson sprang up, ran out to the front door, and challenged the approaching party. Again he challenged--but no answer-he fired—his fire was returned by a volley from the whole platoon. The soldier by his side fell dead—he retreated to the door, and with two others defended it to the last extremity. Both his companions fell; but he stood unhurt, fighting to the last. A fortunate circumstance caused the enemy to retreat, and the young

hero had the satisfaction to know that his promptness and valour had saved his friend from assassination, and the family and property of his friend from insult and destruction. Delightful foretaste of that greater bliss which was to fill his joyful heart, when in his triumphal march he trod upon the roses scattered in his path by the rescued maidens of New Orleans !

On another occasion, when a band of patriots were waiting at the Waxhaw meeting-house for some of their companions, they saw a party approaching that they took to be friends; but, on a nearer view, discovered them to be tories in citizen's dress, with a body of British dragoons in rear. Many by this stratagem were captured. But Robert and Andrew Jackson, light boys with brave hearts, on fleet horses made their escape through the woods and swamps. They stayed out all night, and on entering a house next day, in search of something to eat, were surrounded by the dragoons and taken prisoners. While there, a British officer, a disgrace to his name and profession, demanded of Andrew Jackson to perform an ignominious office, which he indignantly refused. Boys! what would you have done in his situation? A helpless captive, in the hands of ruthless soldiers an insolent officer, with bent brows and uplifted sword, demanding of you to clean his boots -what would you have done? In such helplessness, and with such threatening danger overhanging you, would you not have slunk away, and quietly cleaned the mud from the boots of your insolent captor ? Not so Andrew Jackson! Boy as he was-defenceless as he was, he scornfully refused ; demanding to be treated with the respect due to a prisoner of war and a gentleman. Did the British officer receive with admiration that act of heroism, and extend a hand of forgiveness to the youthful hero? He struck a violent blow at his head! Jackson, throwing up his left arm, received the stroke that was aimed at his life. The arm was broken, but the heroic life was saved, to chastise, in after years, that act of British tyranny and insolence.

The same ignominious task was now required of Robert. He with equal spirit refused, and received a sabre-stroke on his head, which not many weeks afterwards proved fatal to his life. Those two wounded boys were marched to Camden; not a mouthful of

food or drop of water was given them by the way. The brutal savages, with British uniform on their backs, refused them even the privilege of slaking their fevered thirst by scooping up water in their hands as they rode across the river! Arriving at Camden, they with a multitude of others were thrust into prison. No attention was paid to their wounds or their wants. They had no beds, nor any substitute—their only food was a scanty supply of bad bread. They were robbed of their clothing, taunted by tories with being rebels, and assured that they would be hanged. Andrew Jackson was stripped of his jacket and shoes, and separated from his brother so soon as their relationship was known. The smallpox made its appearance among the prisoners. No step was taken to stay its progress or mitigate its ravages. Denied the attentions of physician or nurse, they were left to perish without sympathy or compassion. In this state of things, Andrew Jackson fell into conversation with the officer of the guard, described the condition of the prisoners, and remonstrated against the treatment they had received. A boy not yet fourteen years of age, who had proven that he neither feared the sword nor the insolence of power, now dared, in a dungeon surrounded with disease, squalor, and death, to confront his stern keepers, and in the honest and simple eloquence of youth, tell the truth to ears most unwilling to hear it. Heroic lad! how my soul yearns over thee! and even in sadness rejoiceth that human nature, with all its vileness, is endowed with so much of the Godlike! How I long, bold youth! to take thee in my arms, and from the light of thine eyes and the proud swell of thy bosom, draw some inspiration of the divine nature that fills thee!

Hearing in her loneliness of the capture and confinement of her sons, Mrs. Jackson hastened down to Camden to minister to their wants and rescue them from captivity. What a spectacle to a fond mother! Both infected with the small-por-both emaciated to skeletons, and almost naked! By the kind assistance of an American officer, she effected an exchange of prisoners, with her sons included in the number, and immediately started home with her melancholy charge.

There were but two horses for the whole company. Mrs. Jackson rode one-on the other Robert was held by his companions, while Andrew walked barefooted and half-clad. They journeyed forty miles through a desolate country, and before reaching home, a drenching rain drove in the small-pox on both the boys. In a few days, Robert breathed his last-Andrew became delirious, and remained for some time in a hopeless condition. By the constant care of a good Samaritan, he was at length restored—the only son of his widowed mother!

But this saint-like woman was not content with the rescue of her own children. No sooner was her now only son restored to life, than she hastened down to Charleston, to minister to the wants of her countrymen, confined in the prison-ships there—whose sufferings and privations were only surpassed by the poor wretches crammed into the middle passage of an African slave-ship. She went-accomplished her mission of mercy—but never returned. Seized with the prison-fever on her way back, she fell by the wayside, and was buried, no mortal knows where. Andrew Jackson never knew where to find his mother's grave

never knew where to pour out his orphan tears on the senseless clod that covered the remains of all that was dear to him on earth! Hapless was his fate! A father's care he never knew-his eldest brother long since gone -Robert murdered—and his mother now a victim to the cruelties of the same ruthless enemy. Like Logan, or “The ancient mariner” far out at sea with his companions all dead, could he exclaim

“ Alone! alone, all, all alone!

Alone on the wide, wide sea!" But he was not alone. There was a God that overruled his destiny—that set him apart and ordained him as a fit instrument to accomplish his divine purposes in the history of man. He had no father, like Hannibal, to lead him to the altar of his country and make him swear eternal hostility to Roman power. But in the silent depths of his orphan heart, and in the presence of the God that guided his footsteps, did he swear eternal vengeance against that modern Rome, whose iron heel for centuries had trodden out the spirit of his father-land, who had sought to subjugate the land of his birth, the refuge of the oppressed, and had steeped his murderous sword in the blood of his own kindred!

Bereft of the guardianship of father or mother, or friends, with the idle and dissolute habits contracted in times of confusion and civil war, he soon squandered the little patrimony that was left him. And to all discerning eyes, the lad, Andrew Jackson, was destined to wander a vagabond through the world, and doomed to a life of want and profligacy. But the divine fire that burned in his bosom, kindled up an energy that enabled him to make his greatest conquest—the conquest of himself. He fled from the country in which he was born-forsook the companions that led him astray; and in a strange land threw away his bad habits and commenced a new life.

In a retired part of North Carolina he devoted himself to the study of law—soon obtained license and removed to the western part of Tennessee, where he was appointed, by the government, district attorney. He grew up with the rapid growth of this new country: was a conspicuous member of the convention that framed the constitution of the state—was her first member in Congressthen senator—then judge of the Supreme Court of Tennessee,

from all these civil stations he voluntarily retired, the last, against the earnest remonstrances of the best men in the state, and of a large portion of the legislature, who entreated him to remain on the bench,“ that our common country may derive additional benefits from those powers of thought and that independence of mind,which nature never designed should be lost in retirement.” With only the nominal title of major-general of the Tennessee militia, he lived for many years on the banks of his own beautiful Cumberland, indulging in those blissful sweets of domestic life which he knew so well how to appreciate and enjoy.

But the time was now come when he had to fulfil that silent oath taken when an orphan boy standing alone amid the wreck of his family and his country. Like Moses called from the land of Jethro to deliver his people from bondage, Jackson had now to come from his retirement that he might avenge his family and his fatherland, and save his country from captivity.

England, striding the earth like a Colossus, and subjugating the nations beneath her iron yoke, turned once more her jealous eyes on these flourishing states, once her subject colonies. She plundered our commerce, captured our seamen, insulted our flag, and drove us into a war in defence of our honour and our independence.

War was declared in June, 1812. In the autumn of that year, after the treachery and disasters of the northern frontier, Jackson was called to the defence of the Mississippi and New Orleans. His proclamation rang through the hills and valleys of Tennessee ; and the brave sons of the pioneers of civilization flocked to the standard of their untried but beloved chief. Not fifteen hundred only, according to the requisition, but two thousand and more gathered around him on the 12th day of December, at Nashville, amidst sleet and cold and snow, ready to follow him to victory or death. In a few weeks they were encamped near Natchez, ready to march down to New Orleans, Mobile, or Pensacola, or anywhere that their country might call, or the enemy make his appearance.

While in this encampment, Jackson devoted himself to the most important duty of a commanding general—the organization and discipline of his army. Having none but volunteer troops around him-young men educated in unrestrained freedom, accustomed to no other words of authority but their own commands to their obedient slaves, his task was difficult indeed. But by his example, his persuasive eloquence appealing to their honour and patriotism-by his inflexible justice, and unwavering firmness, those young men were made cheerfully to submit to the privations of the camp, and the discipline of military life. They loved their general—they had faith in his capacity, his justice, and his bravery. By the magic of love and faith, a band of raw recruits were soon converted into an enthusiastic, well trained, and invincible army.