Calling on the Presidents: Tales Their Houses Tell. Clark Beim-Esche
guessed that his day had passed, that the “Red Fox of Kinderhook" had already run his last meaningful race?
The use to which he had put this large room would certainly suggest that, at least at the time he moved in, Martin Van Buren had missed the irony pictured on the walls of his political headquarters.
As Rachel continued to lead us through the back rooms of the house, it became increasingly apparent that much of what we were seeing had been the result of additions commissioned by Smith Van Buren, the son whose family had moved in with the ex-President in his later years.
The modernization of the kitchen areas, the elaborate Italianate tower that dominates the rear of the house, even the bright yellow paint of the building's façade, all were Smith's alterations of the original Van Ness structure that Martin Van Buren had purchased in 1839.
It was hard not to find in all these modifications a poignant parallel to Van Buren's political life. The party structure he had labored so intently to establish was now developing in new directions and backing new candidates. Commenting on his son Smith's many architectural improvements to Lindenwald, Martin Van Buren observed that “the idea of seeing in life the changes which my heir would be sure to make after I am gone, amuses me." Apparently it was more difficult to be amused by the changes wrought by his political heirs.
The final, and perhaps the most telling, insight into the life of Martin Van Buren that we were to encounter at Lindenwald came as Rachel welcomed Carol and me into the President's bed chamber. There, lying diagonally on the white bedspread, was a silver headed walking stick.
“This is one of my favorite pieces in the house,” Rachel began. “It was a gift to Mr. Van Buren from Andrew Jackson. It’s made of old hickory, echoing Mr. Jackson’s famous nickname, and look at what the silver cap reads.” She held up the cane so that we could make out its inscription: “Mr. Van Buren For the Next President.”
“Isn’t that great?” Rachel continued. “Right there Andrew Jackson was passing the baton of power to his chosen successor. And look down the shaft of the walking stick. There are thirteen silver discs placed around the stick, each carrying one visible letter: A-N-D-R-E-W-J-A-C-K-S-O-N. This gift must have made Mr. Van Buren very proud.”
Well, again, yes and no. Certainly the stick was a clear indication of Jackson’s approbation and support. But did it not also suggest that Van Buren would forever be leaning on the reputation and career of his illustrious predecessor? The verdict of most historians would appear to confirm both of these conclusions.
One of the most prominent of these historians, Joel H. Silbey, who wrote an acclaimed study of the significance of the Presidency of Martin Van Buren, identified four categories into which he believed the Presidents of the United States could be accurately grouped. The first was “the leader-statesmen” group, towering figures of national resolve; the second, Silbey labeled “prophets,” men, often unappreciated in their own time, who foresaw problems the nation would have to face in later years; third in Silbey’s categories were the “run-of-the-mill officeholders,” essentially ciphers in political history; and fourth and lastly were “the organizers/managers of American political life,” of whom, Silbey concluded, Van Buren was “a major example, perhaps the leading one…” (xi-xii).
Most other historians have accepted this vision of our eighth President: Martin Van Buren, the “Little Magician,” the sly “Red Fox of Kinderhook.” He is widely seen as the father of the political party machine, the organizing process of attaining and retaining power which has held national sway right up to the present day. This, historians have tended to agree, was his great legacy to his country. Yet this legacy may also be largely responsible for the negative light so often thrown on his achievements as a leader and as a President.
Why? Because it is an enigmatic truth that although Americans find politics a source of almost endless fascination and debate, they also tend to distrust and dislike politicians. Unless, of course, they win. Then, all is forgiven.
Martin Van Buren, as Silbey suggests, had played an essential role in creating the modern political party machine. He had ridden its influence all the way to the White House. But when he had lost his bid for a second term, the very machine he had been so instrumental in founding had cast him off for other more potentially attractive candidates. He would live long enough to find even at his beloved Lindenwald that his heirs and successors would amend and alter the estate to suit their own needs and tastes. He had lost the power to dictate the direction of his world.
The home here in Kinderhook, New York, then, stands as a somewhat curious combination of attained prominence and accepted defeat. As his country plunged into Civil War, the aging Martin Van Buren would persistently question both his family members and any visitors to Lindenwald about news from the front. Would the Union be saved? Were the Northern armies achieving victories? Had Southern forces threatened Washington? His family and friends repeatedly attempted to reassure the ex-President that the nation would withstand any adversity.
For Martin Van Buren, however, only absolute certainty could relieve him of his anxieties, and, during the first two years of the war, any such certainty was impossible to provide. He died here at his beautiful New York estate in July of 1862. Ironically it was a moment of history when nobody, not even one of the most astute politicians of his age, could be sure of just which side it was that was winning.
William Henry Harrison: No "LOG CABIN"... No "HARD CIDER"
President William Henry Harrison is more often cited as the answer to humorous trivia questions than for his considerable accomplishments prior to being elected our ninth Chief Executive. "What President gave the longest inauguration speech?" "What President served for the shortest time?" "What President's campaign slogan was, '...settle upon him a pension of $2,000 a year, and... he will be content to live in a LOG CABIN and drink HARD CIDER the remainder of his life.'" Yet, both his home in Vincennes, Indiana, and his birthplace, Berkeley Plantation, in the Virginia tidewater, reveal a very different and more substantial William Henry Harrison than do these often repeated quips. Each location speaks volumes to visitors interested in learning more about the man behind the trivia.
My first geographic encounter with the historical William Henry Harrison occurred at neither of the two above mentioned homes, but rather in a leaf-covered narrow plot of fenced-in ground in central Indiana. Our son had recently matriculated to Purdue University in West Lafayette, and, after a happy parental visit, Carol and I found our way to the nearby site of Tippecanoe.
As battlefields go, Tippecanoe is quite small: a long, narrow strip of forested land butting up to the steep bank of a meandering stream. But this seemingly inconsequential site would launch William Henry Harrison all the way to the Presidency. Here, in November of 1811, the most serious threat to American expansion into the so-called Northwest Territory had ended in a furious predawn battle that would rout the American Indian forces gathered at their capital, Prophetstown. Although Indians would continue to aid British forces in the upcoming War of 1812, no battle in the northwest would be fought this far south again. General Harrison and his army would go on the offensive, pursuing the British and their Indian allies into Canada before achieving final victory in Ontario.
By the time he fought at Tippecanoe, William Henry Harrison had served as Governor of the Indiana territory for twelve years. He had parleyed with, as well as campaigned against, various native tribes and leaders, and he had recognized the influence and power exercised over these peoples by charismatic chiefs like Tecumseh. The Governor's mansion that Harrison commissioned in the territorial capital of Vincennes stood as a powerful symbol of the ideals he was dedicated to bringing to the region under his charge. He named his new home Grouseland in acknowledgment of the abundant game fowl indigenous to the region.
Built in the first years of his governorship of the Indiana Territory (1803-04), Grouseland, or as it was also called,