on his personal courage and spirit. A gigantic ruffian, indicted for some atrocity, resists the sheriff, and will not be arrested. The timid officer accordingly makes out his return, "Russell Bean refuses to be taken." Judge Jackson replies, "Such a return is a legal absurdity. Bean must be taken. If needful, call to your aid the posse comitatus!" The sheriff waits till the judges are on their way to dinner, and then summons them, as part of the posse, to his aid. Judge Jackson responds to the summons, “Yes, sir, I will attend you, and see that you do your duty." Bean, armed with dirk and pistols, awaits their movements. Jackson calls for a loaded pistol and advances. Bean retires. The judge commands him to stop and submit to the law. Bean hesitates, throws down his weapons, and declares, "I will surrender to you, judge, but to no one else!"

The honesty and fidelity of his judicial conduct excites the wrath of a multitude of fraudulent land speculators. As he is approaching Jonesborough to hold his court, he is informed that a mob has assembled, resolved to tar and feather him on his arrival. Half sick at the time, and scarce able to keep in his saddle, he hastens his advance, and reaches his hotel so exhausted that he is lifted from his horse to a bed. The mob arrive also, under the direction of a Colonel Harrison. General Jackson arises at once, throws wide open the door of his room, and forwards a message, "Tell Colonel Harrison my door is open to receive him and his regiment, whenever they choose to wait upon me, and that I hope the colonel's chivalry will induce him to lead his men, and not follow them!"

On receiving this significant message, the crowd dispersed. Not one of them was ambitious of the honour of first entering the sick man's room!

Before leaving the bench, Judge Jackson was appointed majorgeneral of the militia of Tennessee. He vacated his judicial office and retired to private life in 1804, engaging with his own hands in the cultivation of his farm, after manufacturing his own farming utensils, and glorying in his stock, especially of horses, in the rearing of which he took peculiar pleasure. His house was the favourite resort of the most prominent men both of Tennessee and of other states. He was of that "prompt, frank, and ardent soul," as Burr described him; of that genial and hearty temper and disposition, which secure most effectually the good will of man; and all who came into his presence were convinced that a rising career of distinction lay yet before him.

The eight years thus spent in comparative seclusion were not entirely without incidents which illustrate the sterling qualities of the man. It was during this interval that he became involved in the bankruptcy of a friend and partner at Nashville. The moment he became aware of the condition of the partnership, he dissolved

it, sold his house and plantation, paid off every debt, and, removing into a log-cabin, patiently began the world anew. Nor was it long before his energy, industry, and frugality brought around him once more the comforts so nobly sacrificed to maintain his integrity.

During this same period his business requiring him to visit Mississippi, he is obliged to pass through the country of the Chickasaw and Choctaw Indians. At the Indian agent's station he finds a large party of American emigrants detained under the pretence of a want of passports. He is indignant that American citizens should be thus waylaid by a government officer and compelled to purchase of him their food and forage at enormous prices. He advises them to harness their horses, proceed on their journey, and shoot as a highwayman any one that shall attempt to detain them. The agent then inquires if he himself has a passport. "Yes, sir," replies the general, "I always carry mine with me. I am a freeborn American citizen, and that, under the constitution and laws, is my passport to go wherever my business calls me." He proceeds upon his journey. Returning, he is told that the agent, with a party of one hundred and fifty whites and Indians, is resolved to prevent his passage until he will produce a passport. He hurries forward with his party of negroes-sends word to the agent that he must interfere only at the peril of his life, and then presents himself, rifle in hand, at the agency. The Indians recognise their old acquaintance "Pointed Arrow," and welcome his arrival; the agent is cowed into sullen hospitality, invites the general to pay him a visit, and is wholly silent on the subject of passports. Jackson informs the secretary of war of the occurrence, and the agent is dismissed from office.

In 1812, war is declared between Great Britain and the United States. The news has scarcely reached Nashville when General Jackson is in the field, and, through the governor, tenders to the president the services of two thousand five hundred volunteers of his division, headed by himself. Admirable promptness! He had long anticipated that very day. He had noted, with growing impatience, every new aggression of Great Britain upon our commerce, and every new impressment of our seamen. The seven thousand American sailors, torn from their country's flag, and their own firesides, had, every one, a voice in Jackson's heart. The old scar on Jackson's arm throbbed and tingled at each fresh English insult; the boy of fourteen was born again, and lived again, in the man of forty-five-and at the first whisper of war his impatient sword leaped, lightning-like, from its scabbard!

Government accepts in part the offer of Jackson, and orders him to organize and equip a force of fifteen hundred volunteers, and march on New Orleans. On the 10th of December, General Jackson addresses the secretary of war-"I am now at the head of

two thousand and seventy volunteers-the choicest of our citizens. They will rejoice at the opportunity of placing the American eagle on the ramparts of Mobile, Pensacola, and St. Augustine." In the heart of winter these hardy sons of Tennessee embark upon their voyage of more than a thousand miles. The earth is buried in snow the rivers are full of running ice. How shall they overcome the dangers of the Cumberland, of the Ohio, of the Mississippi? Already they have answered this inquiry. A thousand miles of their voyage are accomplished-and on the 15th of February they bivouac at Natchez. All eyes and all hopes are directed towards New Orleans. But at Natchez their advance is countermanded by orders from the department at Washington. "Their services will not be needed at New Orleans; they may return to Tennessee!" "Let us then," wrote Jackson, "let us march to the lines of Canada, and wipe from our military character the stain of recent disasters." But no; a new secretary of war has adopted new policy; the cold, cruel order, more intolerable than winter march or the brunt of battle-the order is, "Discharge your troops; return to Tennessee!" What sorrow, what indignation, what rage, now filled the hearts of these brave volunteers and of their excited commander! The order of return will be obeyed. The order of discharge is disregarded. "I shall commence the line of march on Thursday the 25th instant," wrote Jackson; "should the contractor not feel himself justified in sending on provisions for my infantry, or the quartermaster wagons for the transportation of my sick, I shall dismount the cavalry and carry them on, providing the means for their support from my own private funds. If those fail, I thank God we have plenty of horses to feed my troops to the Tennessee, and there I know my country will meet me with ample supplies. These brave men, at the call of their country, voluntarily rallied around its insulted standard. They followed me to the field; I shall carefully march them back to their homes."

And he kept his word. On his own credit he borrowed $5000, which he expended in whatever would most contribute to the comfort of his returning troops. To those brave men he spoke in words of cheerful encouragement. "I will not leave one of the sick,” said he, 66 nor one of the detachment behind. I led you here: I will lead you back to your country and friends. The sick, as far as I have the power and means, shall be made comfortable. If any die, I will pay to them the last tribute of respect; they shall be buried with the honours of war!"

He gave up to the sick and weary soldier his own horses, and set his staff the example of marching on foot. One man is reported in a dying condition, whom it was useless to remove. "Not a

man shall be left," said he, "who has life in him!" And by that poor fellow, jolted in his rough cart, along those horrible roads,

does he walk with tender solicitude. The sick man opens his eyes, and asks, in half-uttered accents, "Where am I?" How did the voice of his commander recall him from the dead by the heartstirring answer, "On your way home, my good fellow!" From that moment he recovered, and before their homeward march was completed, he was in perfect health.

Thus ended Jackson's first campaign. Though indignant, he is not discouraged. Again he offers to march on Canada. "I have," wrote he, "a few standards, wearing the American eagle, that I should be happy to place on the ramparts of Malden!" "What would have been the result," says one of his eulogists, "if the command of the north-western army had, at the opening of the war, been intrusted to a man, who, in action, was ever so fortunate that his vehement will seemed to have made destiny capitulate to his designs?"

But the fortunes of Jackson were to lead him to glory in another direction. Southern Tennessee, Mississippi, Georgia, and the scattered settlements of the Alabama, were now panic-stricken, and bleeding under the tomahawks of the Creek or Muscogee warriors, more than four thousand of whom were let loose upon the devoted south-west, by their Christian and chivalric allies of Great Britain. Three hundred whites had been massacred at Fort Mims in a single day, and every post, and settlement, and cabin, on that frontier, was in danger. Under these circumstances, Jackson was again summoned to the field, with two thousand five hundred volunteers. He was then confined to his sick chamber, his left arm shattered by a pistol-ball, and supported in a sling. But he obeyed the call to arms! "It is surely high gratification," writes he to a friend, on the 7th of October, 1813, "to learn that the Creeks are so attentive to my situation as to save me the pain of travelling. I must not be outdone in politeness, and will, therefore, endeavour to meet them on the middle ground."

I cannot dwell, as I would, on the memorable events of that brief but extraordinary Creek campaign. The troops, both volunteers and militia, were ready at his call; but tormenting delays and vexations attended the collection of adequate stores and provisions. Impatient of these delays, Jackson resolved, at last, to cut his way, at all hazards, to the very heart of the Indian country, and there end the war by a sudden and fatal blow. Onward he went, with scarcely a week's supply, through trackless forests, and over rugged mountains, and across almost impenetrable swamps. The first important battle is at Tallushatchee-a name that will ring sadly in the ear of every surviving Creek to the end of time. And yet shall the red man and the white remember the terrors of that field with mingled emotions, for it bears immortal testimony to the humanity, as well as the military genius, of Jackson. Among the slain is

found an Indian mother, an infant boy, unhurt, sucking her lifeless breast.' Jackson requests the captive women to take care of the child. They refuse; "All his relations," say they, 66 are dead-kill him too!" How did those words thrill through the heart of the orphan general! "All my relations, also," thought he, "are dead!" He took the infant child to his own tent with his own hand he feeds him with sugared water-he sends him home to Nashville to become the adopted child of the Hermitage-with the aid of his willing wife he rears that boy to manhood, educates him to business, engages all his affections and when Lincoyer dies, that affectionate and childless couple weep over his grave and remember him as a son.

From Tallushatchee, with a half-starved army, the general, by forced marches, day and night, pushes on to Talladega, a friendly fort beleaguered by one thousand hostile Creeks. Scarcely pausing to eat their meager rations, but appeasing their hunger as they may with a handful of parched corn, or a few acorns snatched from the ground as they hurry on, these indomitable volunteers rush ever forward, and ere the besieging force are aware of the presence of an enemy, they are wholly surrounded, and the thunderbolt of war. has overwhelmed them with sudden destruction.

The friendly garrison thus relieved, are themselves almost starving, and Jackson must again push forward with famishing troops. One of his soldiers discovers the general seated upon a log, engaged in eating with apparent relish. Supposing that Jackson had secreted something to supply his own want, he asks for a share of his rations. "I never turn away the hungry," said the general, "while I have anything to give them!" and so saying, he drew from his pocket a handful of acorns! With such a commander, his soldiers are ready to endure all that human fortitude can bear. But actual starvation will break the heart, and destroy the discipline of an army. What wonder, then, that a few days after the victory of Talladega, we find the militia in open mutiny, clamouring for bread, and actually marching homeward. Jackson believes that relief is at hand-he feels that the mutiny must be quelled. His volunteers remain true; with them he throws himself across the path of his retreating militia, whom he threatens with instant death if they do not return at once to duty; and they submit to his iron will. But the volunteers themselves are starving and disaffected; they regret that they have been used as Jackson's instruments to suppress the mutiny; they resolve themselves to desert the field on the day following. They attempt their project-but behold! across their path stands that terrible leader, backed up by the fixed bayonets of his now obedient militia; death to the disobedient! In their turn they submit; and thus, by a double victory, unparal