As the young man approached, Mr. Van Ness refused even to acknowledge his presence and continued to read." Rachel paused a moment. “But as Martin Van Buren strode up to the door and knocked, Mr. Van Ness couldn't help but smile at the persistence and resolve of this young visitor."
This is obviously an apocryphal tale, though Van Buren had become friends with two of the Van Ness sons, Peter and William (both of whom were also Democratic-Republicans). Rachel's point, however, wasn't concerned with his friendships. She was more interested in portraying Van Buren, even at this early moment, as a man not easily flustered or intimidated.
That point, history reveals, is undeniably true. The story of Martin Van Buren's steady rise to political prominence reads like a Horatio Alger tale. While still a young lawyer, he successfully defended his friend William Van Ness from the charge of “having willfully and with malice aforethought murdered [Alexander] Hamilton" as a result of acting as Aaron Burr's second in the infamous duel that had cost the life of the great Federalist (Fleming 351). Building on the reputation this victory afforded him, Van Buren thereafter became known as the “Little Magician" who so professionally engineered the dominance of the Democratic Party in New York, the so-called “Albany Regency," that he managed to get himself elected to the U.S. Senate and, after that, to the governorship of the state. Later, both as Secretary of State to the first elected Democratic President, Andrew Jackson, and as Jackson's Vice President in 1832, this small-framed tavern keeper's son, this “Red Fox of Kinderhook," had arrived at a pinnacle of power and prestige that few of his townsfolk would ever have imagined possible. In the national election of 1836, he would win the Presidency itself, carrying the election by a comfortable margin in both popular and electoral votes.
Then, in 1839, the second year of his term of office, and almost like an award acknowledging his ascendency, the old Van Ness estate, Lindenwald, had come up for sale. The President wasted no time in purchasing it, even though, over the years, the house had deteriorated into a state of serious disrepair. One can only imagine what its acquisition must have meant to Martin Van Buren. That forbidding porch, once presided over by the patrician Peter Van Ness, had now become Van Buren property. The front parlor with its elegant Ogee arch leading into the breakfast area, the spacious front hallway with its spiral staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms, all were now his to reconfigure and to redecorate as he pleased. After a two year restoration, Martin Van Buren took up residence here in 1841, just as his own political roof was about to cave in upon him.
Not that that had come as a complete surprise. Almost from the moment he had entered the Presidency, Van Buren had seen the nation plummet into the worst economic downturn of its young history. Despite his belief that his proposed Independent Treasury Act would do much to ameliorate the nation's financial problems, he knew that there would be formidable political battles ahead if he attempted to retain his office. But Martin Van Buren had never been a man to avoid a good fight. In fact, as Rachel led us into the large ground floor central hall of Lindenwald, one of the alterations he had insisted upon in the renovation spoke very clearly of his political ambitions.
“The original structure had featured an impressively elegant winding staircase leading to the second floor," Rachel informed us. “Mr. Van Buren had that feature taken out so that the room could be extended to accommodate large political gatherings."
And in fact it had been here that the President had invited his friends and operatives to help him design each of the three re-election bids that would occupy him for the next twelve years.
Looking around the capacious interior of the room, complete with a banquet table that could easily accommodate over thirty people, it was hard not to notice, as well, the expansive wallpaper scene that illustrated various stages of an aristocratic fox hunt.
“It reminds me of the front hall of Jackson's Hermitage," I whispered to Carol. But I also saw an important difference. Jackson's wallpaper depicted an ideal and mythological vision of pastoral beauty. Here at Lindenwald, the hunt, while set in a verdant and bucolic setting, was much more realistically rendered.
“And look at this," Carol gestured to me and pointed toward one of the scenes on the wallpaper just to the left of the entrance to the home's main parlor. There, astonishingly, was pictured a group of hunters enjoying a festive beverage as the pelt of a red fox hung from the limb of a nearby tree! Was this a piece of self-deprecating humor that Van Buren may have enjoyed to set a tone of convivial humility? Or, more seriously, had Martin Van Buren already 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).
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