Jackson reached New Orleans December 2d. I hesitate to try to picture him as he appeared to the gay, well fed, well bred people of that Creole town. Chronic dysentery since two years before, terrible in its pains and griping on his nerves and temper. In the Howard Library, New Orleans, the librarian of which is William Beers, undoubtedly the best living authority of Jacksonia, and a scholar and natural-born bibliophile, I was shown many courtesies and gathered some most interesting facts. Mr. Beers ranks Judge Walker’s book first on Jackson, because he was an accurate, scholarly historian, who got his information first-hand from survivors of the great battle who lived with him in his native city. “Parton’s book was not even secondary, but tertiary,” said Mr. Beers. “He took freely from Walker and gave but scant credit.” Here is Judge Walker’s description of Jackson’s arrival in New Orleans, written while many eye-witnesses were living, in 1855: “Along the road leading from Ft. St. John to the city, early in the morning of December 2d, 1814, a party of gentlemen rode at a brisk trot from the lake towards the city. The mist which during the night broods over the city had not cleared off. The air was chilly, damp, uncomfortable. The travelers, however, were hardy men, accustomed to exposure and intent upon purposes too absorbing to leave any consciousness of external discomfort. The chief of the party, which was composed of five or six persons, was a tall, gaunt man, of very erect carriage, with a countenance full of stern decision and fearless energy, but furrowed with care and anxiety. His complexion was sallow and unhealthy; his hair was iron gray, and his body thin and emaciated, as of one just recovered from a lingering sickness. But the fierce glare of his bright and hawk-like eye betrayed a soul and spirit which triumphed over all the infirmities of the body. His dress was simple and nearly threadbare. A small leather cap protected his head, and a short Spanish blue cloak his body, whilst his feet and legs were encased in high dragoon boots, long ignorant of polish or blacking, which reached to his knees. In age he appeared to have passed about forty-five winters—the season for which his stern and hardy nature seemed peculiarly adapted.” One of the strange things about the lives of all great men is the almost certain fact that some grossly untrue story, picturesque lie or exaggerated half-truth of some personal trait will be started and cling to them for all time. For a half-bred lie always outruns a full-blood truth. The universally accepted misrepresentation of Jackson’s character is that he was an uncouth backwoodsman, half-spelled, ill-bred and a bragging bully. [Illustration: “The beautiful old homes on the banks peeped sleepily from pecan and oaks.”]