“To behold the hoary head and time-honored frame of one who fearlessly bared his breast to the shafts of the enemy of his country, both in time of peace as well as in war—to clasp his hand, to receive a blessing from his lips—would be a delight which nothing on earth could equal. But this joy I dare not hope to experience. I trust you will pardon the liberty I take in the request which I am about to make. Do not refuse to make a young heart happy. A few months ago I saw in a newspaper an account of a visit of some young people to whom you gave some locks of your hair. I read my Bible every night and morning and endeavor to follow the precepts contained in that sacred volume. It warns me of the sin and danger of envy and uncharitableness. But I confess to you that ever since reading that account I have envied those young countrymen of mine. As you are the cause of this sorrow and sadness, so does the cure rest with you. The struggle has been great ere I could summon courage to address you, but may I not supplicate for a similar favor? This gift will be more precious to me than threads of fine gold. I shall prize it through life as my choicest earthly possession, and when the hour of death comes and I must surrender my spirit into the hands of Him who gave it, I shall bequeath this lock of hair to the one whom my heart shall then prize most.” Then, after a fulsome concluding paragraph, the young lady signs her name “with sentiments of gratitude and affection too deep for utterance.” And on the back of this gushing epistle Old Hickory has laconically endorsed: “Answered and returned a lock of my hair, this 28th of October, 1842.—A.J.” This flowery application for a lock of the Jacksonian hair was by no means an isolated or unusual request. In fact, so insistent was the demand that the General formed the habit of carefully saving for this purpose the trimmings whenever he had his hair cut, and out of this little bag of hoarded locks came the souvenirs sent to correspondents and presented to admiring visitors. * * * * But, despite his wonderful vitality and determined resistance to the inroads of disease; the sands of the old man’s life were running out their allotted time. It was on a quiet Sunday in June that the summons came for him. The end was not unexpected, either by him or by the household. Two Sundays before he had partaken of the Communion, and had taken that occasion to speak feelingly on the consolation of religion and to declare that he was ready to go. “Death,” he said stoutly, “has no terrors for me.” And this was doubtless no mere figure of speech after the suffering he experienced during the last four months of his life, during which time he found it impossible to lie down in bed unless lulled by opiates.