Andrew Johnson
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Andrew Johnson
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About this listen
because of bad carpentry when, in truth, the frame has shifted with the building. He is not a creature of salons or law schools; he is a tailor from Raleigh, apprenticed at ten, run away at sixteen, a self-taught reader who learned syllables from a wife who had more book in her fingers than in her family’s purse. Eliza McCardle placed a primer and a grammar on the table the way other brides lay out a dowry; the young husband bent over vowels and consonants at night, and a life began to take a different shape. In Greeneville, Tennessee, he pieced coats by day and pieced arguments by evening, slipping from workbench to stump with a craftsman’s confidence that if you know how to measure, you can make things fit. He entered town government, then the statehouse, then Congress, bringing with him a certainty that democracy must be a ladder wide enough for men who begin with nothing. He distrusted bankers, monopolies, and aristocracies with the fury of a poor boy who had watched well-dressed men pass laws like mirrors. He championed the homesteader and the mechanic, despised the planter’s condescension, and cultivated a Jacksonian stubbornness that placed the “plain people” in his mouth like a vow.
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