At the White House she shared the honors of hostess with her kinswoman, Mrs. Donelson, whose superior charms were gracefully acknowledged by Mrs. Jackson, and acted in accordance with the President’s suggestion to remain as the mistress of his own home. During the long period of ill-health which accompanied the declining years of General Jackson, she ministered to him as only a loving woman can. Never for a moment was her watchful care withdrawn, but leaving all other duties, she devoted herself to his comfort. The crowds of company which flocked to the Hermitage were always smilingly received by her, and her name was dear to all who enjoyed the hospitality of the home of old Hickory. After the death of Mrs. Donelson and the failing health of her father, her task was one of severity, but the method and order which reigned in and about her home—the attention she bestowed upon her children, and the manner in which she cared for the dependent ones about her, attest her strong Christian character, and convince us that her success was entire. Hospitality at the Hermitage was taxed in a scarcely less degree than Monticello had once been, and for many years Mrs. Jackson received the world’s votaries at the shrine of greatness. In addition to all this, there was a never ceasing demand on her time and brain for the welfare of her numerous dependents. She was a true friend to the slaves of the family, and the many helpless ones always seen on a large plantation were her special property. The wants of the sick, the control of the young and the management of all, was a task only appreciated by those accustomed to an institution now extinct. On Sabbath evenings, for many years, it was her habit to have all who would choose to gather around, to hear her read of eternal life, and to instruct the children in religious duties. Called to pass through great afflictions—to part with father and husband, and later to mourn the loss of a son in his early manhood, whose life was just budding into promise of future usefulness, her sorrows rest now in her declining years heavily upon her. Her grief is sacred. During the civil war, whose earliest tocsin was sounded near her, and whose dying echoes reverberated along the banks of the Cumberland, she remained in the lonely home of her happier youth, amid scenes which continually recall the unreturning past. In the quiet of a winter’s night, or even amid the beauty of a midsummer’s day, she looks upon the tomb in the garden, and hallowed recollections fill her heart. Through the triumphs of life she has passed, and now in the eventide sits beside her graves.[15] Footnote 15: The State of Tennessee owns the Hermitage, and Mrs. Jackson resides there as its guest. Now, as in early youth, she evinces her submission to the will of God, and the little church adjoining the Hermitage is as sacred to her as it was dear to her adopted mother.