THE STATUE OF OLD ANDREW JACKSON
[_]
When the statue of Andrew Jackson before the White
House in Washington is removed, America is doomed. The
nobler days of America's innocence, in which it was set up,
always have a special tang for those who are tasty. But this
is not all. It is only the America that has the courage of
her complete past that can hold up her head in the world of
the artists, priests and sages. It is for us to put the iron
dog and deer back upon the lawn, the John Rogers group
back into the parlor, and get new inspiration from these and
from Andrew Jackson ramping in bronze replica in New
Orleans, Nashville and Washington, and add to them a sense
of humor, till it becomes a sense of beauty that will resist
the merely dulcet and affettuoso.
Please read Lorado Taft's History of American Sculpture,
pages 123–127, with these matters in mind. I quote a few
bits:
“... The maker of the first equestrian statue in the history
of American sculpture: Clark Mills. ... Never having
seen General Jackson or an equestrian statue, he felt himself
incompetent ... the incident, however, made an impression
on his mind, and he reflected sufficiently to produce a design
which was the very one subsequently executed. ... Congress
appropriated the old cannon captured by General Jackson.
... Having no notion, nor even suspicion of a dignified
sculptural treatment of a theme, the clever carpenter felt,
nevertheless, the need of a feature. ... He built a colossal
horse, adroitly balanced on the hind legs, and America gazed
with bated breath. Nobody knows or cares whether the rider
looks like Jackson or not.
“The extraordinary pose of the horse absorbs all attention,
all admiration. There may be some subconscious feeling of
respect for a rider who holds on so well. ...”
(Written while America was in the midst of the war with
Germany, August, 1918.)
Andrew Jackson was eight feet tall.
His arm was a hickory limb and a maul.
His sword was so long he dragged it on the ground.
Every friend was an equal. Every foe was a hound.
Andrew Jackson was a Democrat,
Defying kings in his old cocked hat.
His vast steed rocked like a hobby-horse.
But he sat straight up. He held his course.
He licked the British at Noo Orleans;
Beat them out of their elegant jeans.
He piled the cotton-bales twenty feet high,
And he snorted “freedom,” and it flashed from his eye.
And the American Eagle swooped through the air,
And cheered when he heard the Jackson swear:—
“By the Eternal, let them come.
Sound Yankee Doodle. Let the bullets hum.”
And his wild men, straight from the woods, fought on
Till the British fops were dead and gone.
And now old Andrew Jackson fights
To set the sad big world to rights.
He joins the British and the French.
He cheers up the Italian trench.
He's making Democrats of these,
And freedom's sons of Japanese.
His hobby horse will gallop on
Till all the infernal Huns are gone.
Yes,
Yes,
Yes!
By the Eternal!
Old Andrew Jackson!
