The widow never returned to the desolated homestead.  She and her little ones were taken into the family of one of her married sisters, where she spent her few remaining years.  On the 15th of March, less than two weeks after her husband’s death, she gave birth to a third son; and the child was promptly christened Andrew, in memory of the parent he would never know.

Curiously, the seventh President’s birthplace has been a matter of sharp controversy.  There is a tradition that the birth occurred while the mother was visiting a neighboring family by the name of McKemy; and Parton, one of Jackson’s principal biographers, adduces a good deal of evidence in support of the story.  On the other hand, Jackson always believed that he was born in the home of the aunt with whom his bereaved mother took up her residence; and several biographers, including Bassett, the most recent and the best, accept this contention.  It really matters not at all, save for the circumstance that if the one view is correct Jackson was born in North Carolina, while if the other is correct he was born in South Carolina.  Both States have persistently claimed the honor.  In the famous proclamation which he addressed to the South Carolina nullifiers in 1832 Jackson referred to them as “fellow-citizens of my native state”; in his will he spoke of himself as a South Carolinian; and in correspondence and conversation he repeatedly declared that he was born on South Carolina soil.  Jackson was far from infallible, even in matters closely touching his own career.  But the preponderance of evidence on the point lies decidedly with South Carolina.

No one, at all events, can deny to the Waxhaw settlement an honored place in American history.  There the father of John C. Calhoun first made his home.  There the Revolutionary general, Andrew Pickens, met and married Rebecca Calhoun.  There grew up the eminent North Carolinian Governor and diplomat, William R. Davie.  There William H. Crawford lived as a boy.  And there Jackson dwelt until early manhood.

For the times, young Andrew was well brought up.  His mother was a woman of strong character, who cherished for her last-born the desire that he should become a Presbyterian clergyman.  The uncle with whom he lived was a serious-minded man who by his industry had won means ample for the comfortable subsistence of his enlarged household.  When he was old enough, the boy worked for his living, but no harder than the frontier boys of that day usually worked; and while his advantages were only such as a backwoods community afforded, they were at least as great as those of most boys similarly situated, and they were far superior to those of the youthful Lincoln.  Jackson’s earlier years, nevertheless, contained little promise of his future distinction.  He grew up amidst a rough people whose tastes ran strongly to horse-racing, cockfighting, and heavy drinking, and whose ideal of excellence found expression in a readiness to fight