pressed in it are sincere. Her attachment was constant. Although all of them point to another object directly, yet the expressing them to me is a proof that our friendship is unbroken on her part. It has been a strong one, and has gone through trying circumstances on both sides, yet I retain it strongly both for herself and Mr. Adams. He and myself have gone through so many scenes together, that all his qualities have been proved to me, and I know him to possess so many good ones, as that I have never withdrawn my esteem, and I am happy that this letter gives me opportunity of expressing it to both of them. I shall do it with a frank declaration that one act of his life, and never but one, gave me personal displeasure, his midnight appointments. If respect for him will not permit me to ascribe that altogether to the influence of others, it will leave something for friendship to forgive. If Patsy is with you, communicate the letter to her, and be so good as to reinclose it to me. I think I shall leave this about the 22d of July, and shall hope to find you in Albemarle, and that you will soon be followed there by the Eppington family. I shall take my trip to Bedford soon after my arrival. Present me affectionately to the family at Eppington. Keep Francis mindful of me, and give both of them my kisses.

Affectionately adieu,

TO JOHN W. EPPES, EPPINGTON.

TH. JEFFERSON.

DEAR SIR:

MONTICELLO, August 7, 1804.

Your letters of July 16th and 29th both came to me on the 2d instant. I receive with great delight the information of the perfect health of our dear infants, and hope to see yourself, the family and them, as soon as circumstances admit. With respect to Melinda, I have too many already to leave here in idleness when I go away; and at Washington I prefer white servants, who, when they mis-behave, can be exchanged. John knew he was not to expect her society, but when he should be at Monticello, and then subject to the casualty of her being here or not. You mention a horse to be had, of a fine bay, and again that he is of the color of your horse. I do not well recollect the shade of yours, but if you think this one would do with Castor or Fitzpartner, I would take him at the price you mention, but should be glad to have as much breadth for the payment as the seller could admit, and at any rate not less than ninety-days. I know no finer horse than yours, but he is much too fiery to be trusted in a carriage; the only use I have for him while Arcturus remains. He is also too small. I write this letter in the hope you will be here before you can receive it, but on the possibility that the cause which detained you at the date of yours may continue. My affectionate salutations and esteem attend the family at Eppington and yourself.

TH. JEFFERSON.

P. S. By your mentioning that Francis will be your constant companion, I am in hopes I shall have him here with you during the session of Congress.

In Mr. Jefferson's family register, is the following entry:

"Mary Jefferson, born Aug. 1, 1778, 1 h. 30 m, A.M. Died April 17, 1804, between 8 and 9 A.M.

CHAP. III.
[.]

ACCOUNT OF, BY A NIECE.

101

The following letter, from a niece of the deceased, was not written with a thought to publication; but we trust we shall be pardoned for transcribing it. It contains some particulars already given-but the motive for presenting the narrative unbroken, will be apparent.

MY DEAR MR. RANDALL.

*

To HENRY S. RANDALL.

BOSTON, 15 January, 1856.

I find an old memorandum, made many years ago, I know not when nor under what circumstances, but by my own hand, in the fly leaf of a Bible. It is to this effect: Maria Jefferson was born in 1778, and married in 1797, John Wayles Eppes, son of Francis Eppes and Elizabeth Wayles, second daughter of John Wayles. Maria Jefferson died April, 1804, leaving two children, Francis born in 1801, and Maria who died an infant."

I have no recollection of the time when I made this memorandum, but I have no doubt of its accuracy.

Mrs. Eppes was never well after the birth of her last child. She lingered a while, but never recovered. My grandfather was in Washington, and my aunt passed the winter at Edgehill where she was confined. I remember the tender and devoted care of my mother, how she watched over her sister, and with what anx ious affection she anticipated her every want. I remember, at one time, that she left her chamber and her own infant, that she might sleep in my aunt's room, to assist in taking care of her and her child. I well recollect my poor aunt's pale, faded, and feeble look. My grandfather, during his Presidency, made two visits every year to Monticello, a short one in early spring, and a longer one the latter part of the summer. He always stopped at Edgehill, where my mother was then living, to take her and her whole family to Monticello with him. He came this year as usual, anxious about the health of his youngest daughter, whose situation, though such as to excite the apprehension of her friends, was not deemed one of immediate danger. She had been delicate and something of an invalid, if I remember right, for some years. She was carried to Monticello in a litter borne by men. The distance was perhaps four miles, and she bore the removal well. After this, however, she continued as before, steadily to decline. She was taken out when the weather permitted, and carried around the lawn in a carriage, I think drawn by men, and I remember following the carriage over the smooth green turf. How long she lived I do not recollect, but it could have been but a short time. One morning I heard that my aunt was dying; I crept softly from my nursery to her chamber door, and being alarmed by her short, hard breathing, ran away again. I have a distinct recollection of confusion and dismay in the household. I did not see my mother. By and by one of the female servants came running in where I was with other persons, to say that Mrs. Eppes was dead. The day passed I do not know how. Late in the afternoon I was taken to the death-chamber. The body was covered with a white cloth, over which had been strewed a profusion of flowers. A day or two after, I followed the coffin to the burying-ground on the mountain side, and saw it consigned to the earth, where it has lain undisturbed for more than fifty years.

My mother has told me that on the day of her sister's death, she left her father

alone for some hours. He then sent for her, and she found him with the Bible in his hands. He who has been so often and so harshly accused of unbelief, he, in his hour of intense affliction, sought and found consolation in the sacred volume. The comforter was there for his true heart and devout spirit, even though his faith might not be what the world calls orthodox.

There was something very touching in the sight of this once beautiful and still lovely young woman, fading away just as the spring was coming on with its buds and blossoms-nature reviving as she was sinking and closing her eyes on all that she loved best in life. She perished not in autumn with the flowers, but as they were opening to the sun and air in all the freshness of spring. I think the weather was fine, for over my own recollection of these times there is a soft, dreamy sort of haze, such as wraps the earth in warm dewy spring-time.

You know enough of my aunt's early history to be aware that she did not accompany her father, as my mother did, when he first went to France. She joined him, I think, only about two years before his return, and was placed in the same convent where my mother received her education. Here she went by the name of Mademoiselle Polie. As a child she was called Polly by her friends. It was on her way to Paris that she staid awhile in London with Mrs. Adams, and there is a pleasing mention of her in that lady's published letters.

I think the visit (not a very long one) made by my mother and aunt to their father in Washington, must have been in the winter of 1802-3. My aunt, I believe, was never there again; but after her death, about the winter of 1805-6, my mother, with all her children, passed some time at the President's house. I remember that both my father and Uncle Eppes were then in Congress, but cannot say whether this was the case in 1802-3.

My aunt, Mrs. Eppes, was singularly beautiful. She was high principled, just, and generous. Her temper, naturally mild, became I think, saddened by ill-health, in the latter part of her life. In that respect she differed from my mother, whose disposition seemed to have the sunshine of heaven in it. Nothing ever wearied my mother's patience, or exhausted, what was inexhaustible, her sweetness, her kindness, indulgence, and self-devotion. She was intellectually somewhat superior to her sister, who was sensible of the difference, though she was of too noble a nature for her feelings ever to assume an ignoble character. There was between the sisters the strongest and warmest attachment, the most perfect confidence and affection.

was.

My aunt utterly undervalued and disregarded her own beauty, remarkable as it She was never fond of dress or ornament, and was always careless of admiration. She was even vexed by allusions to her beauty, saying that people only praised her for that, because they could not praise her for better things. If my mother inadvertently exclaimed, half sportively, "Maria, if I only had your beauty," my aunt would resent it as far as she could resent anything said or done by her sister. It may be said that the extraordinary value she attached to talent, was mainly founded in her idea that by the possession of it, she would become a more suitable companion for her father. Both daughters considered his affection as the great good of their lives, and both loved him with all the devotion of their most loving hearts. My aunt sometimes mourned over the fear that her father must prefer her sister's society, and could not take the same pleasure in hers. This very humility in one so lovely was a charm the more in her character. She was greatly loved and esteemed by all her friends. She was on a footing of the most intimate friendship with my father's sister, Mrs. T. Eston Randolph, herself a most exem

CHAP. III.]

ANSWERS TO CONDOLENCES.

103

plary and admirable woman, whose daughter, long years after, married Francis, Mrs. Eppes's son.

I know not, my dear Mr. Randall, whether this letter will add anything to the knowledge you already possess of this one of my grandfather's family. Should it not, you must take the will for the deed, and as I am somewhat wearied by the rapidity with which I have written, in order to avoid delay, I will bid you adieu with my very best wishes for your entire success in your arduous undertaking. Very truly yours.

Letters

Mr. Jefferson felt this blow with terrible keenness. of condolence poured in upon him from his early friends. To none did he unbosom himself more fully than to his old classmate and boyish confidant, Governor Page. He wrote him, June 25th:

"Your letter, my dear friend, of the 25th ultimo, is a new proof of the goodness of your heart, and the part you take in my loss marks an affectionate concern for the greatness of it. It is great indeed. Others may lose of their abundance, but I, of my want, have lost even the half of all I had. My evening prospects now hang on the slender thread of a single life. Perhaps I may be destined to see even this last cord of parental affection broken! The hope with which I had looked forward to the moment, when, resigning public cares to younger hands, I was to retire to that domestic comfort from which the last great step is to be taken, is fearfully blighted. When you and I look back on the country over which we have passed, what a field of slaughter does it exhibit! Where are all the friends who entered it with us, under all the inspiring energies of health and hope? As if pursued by the havoc of war, they are strewed by the way, some earlier, some later, and scarce a few stragglers remain to count the numbers fallen, and to mark yet, by their own fall, the last footsteps of their party. Is it a desirable thing to bear up through the heat of the action, to witness the death of all our companions, and merely be the last victim? I doubt it. We have, however, the traveller's consolation. Every step shortens the distance we have to go; the end of our journey is in sight, the bed wherein we are to rest, and to rise in the midst of the friends we have lost. 'We sorrow not then as others who have no hope;' but look forward to the day which 'joins us to the great majority.' But whatever is to be our destiny, wisdom, as well as duty, dictates that we should acquiesce in the will of him whose it is to give and take away, and be contented in the enjoyment of those who are still perImitted to be with us. Of those connected by blood, the number does not depend on us. But friends we have, if we have merited them. Those of our earliest years stand nearest in our affections. But in this, too, you and I have been unlucky. Of our college friends (and they are the dearest) how few have stood with us in the great political questions which have agitated our country: and these were of a nature to justify agitation. I did not believe the Lilliputian fetters of that day strong enough. to have bound so many. Will not Mrs. Page, yourself and family, think it prudent to seek a healthier region for the months of August and September? And may we not flatter ourselves that you will cast your eye on Monticello? We have not many summers to live. While fortune places us then within striking distance, let us avail ourselves of it, to meet and talk over the tales of other times.

"Present me respectfully to Mrs. Page, and accept yourself my friendly salutations and assurances of constant affection."

Three days after, he wrote Judge Tyler :'

"I lament to learn that a like misfortune has enabled you to estimate the afflictions of a father on the loss of a beloved child. However terrible the possibility of such another accident, it is still a blessing for you of inestimable value that you would not even then descend childless to the grave. Three sons, and hopeful ones too, are a rich treasure. I rejoice when I hear of young men of virtue and talents, worthy to receive, and likely to preserve the splendid inheritance of self-government, which we have acquired and shaped for them."

The letter of condolence from Mrs. Adams, alluded to and inclosed in Mr. Jefferson's letter to Mr. Eppes (of June 4th), was as follows:

TO THOMAS JEFFERSON.

QUINCY, 20th May, 1804.

SIR:

Had you been no other than the private inhabitant of Monticello, I should, ere this time, have addressed you with that sympathy which a recent event has awakened in my bosom; but reasons of various kinds withheld my pen, until the powerful feelings of my heart burst through the restraint, and called upon me to shed the tear of sorrow over the departed remains of your beloved and deserving daughter. An event which I most sincerely mourn.

The attachment which I formed for her when you committed her to my care upon her arrival in a foreign land, under circumstances peculiarly interesting, has remained with me to this hour; and the account of her death, which I read in a late paper, recalled to my recollection the tender scene of her separation from me, when, with the strongest sensibility, she clung around my neck, and wet my bosom with her tears, saying, "Oh, now I have learned to love you, why will they take me from you."

It has been some time since I conceived that any event in this life could call forth feelings of mutual sympathy. But I know how closely entwined around a parent's heart are those cords which bind the parental to the filial bosom; and when snapped asunder, how agonizing the pangs. I have tasted of the bitter cup, and bow with reverence and submission before the great Dispenser of it, without whose permission and over-ruling providence not a sparrow falls to the ground. That you may derive comfort and consolation in this day of your sorrow and affliction from that only source calculated to heal the broken heart, a firm belief in the being, perfections and attributes of God, is the sincere and ardent wish of her who once took pleasure in subscribing herself your friend.

ABIGAIL ADAMS.

This letter, from one whose bosom had so often pillowed the head of his dead daughter, was well calculated to call back the

Afterwards Governor of Virginia, and father of President John Tyler.