Chapter VI

Death of Count de Vergennes.--Jefferson is ordered to Aix by
his Surgeon.--Death of his youngest Child.--Anxiety to have his
Daughter Mary with him.--Her Reluctance to leave Virginia.-- Her
Letters to and from her Father.--Jefferson's Letters to Mrs.
and Mr. Eppes.--To Lafayette.--To the Countess de Tesse.-- To
Lafayette.--Correspondence with his Daughter Martha.

In a letter written to Mr. Jay on the 23d of February, 1787, Mr. Jefferson says:

The event of the Count de Vergennes's death, of which I had
the honor to inform you in a letter of the 4th instant, the
appointment of the Count Montmorin, and the propriety of my
attending at his first audience, which will be on the 27th, have
retarded the journey I proposed a few days.

The journey above mentioned was a trip to Aix, whither he was ordered by his surgeon, in order to try the effect of its mineral-waters on his dislocated wrist. In the letters which he wrote to his daughter Martha, while absent on this occasion, he alludes frequently to his youngest daughter, Mary, or Polly, as she was sometimes called. As I have before mentioned, she and her younger sister, Lucy, were left by their father in Virginia, with their kind uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Eppes. Lucy died in the fall of the year 1784, and her death was announced to her father in a letter from Mr. Eppes, who writes:

I am sorry to inform you that my fears about the welfare of our
children, which I mentioned in my last, were too well founded.
Yours, as well as our dear little Lucy, have fallen sacrifices
to the most horrible of all disorders, the whooping-cough. They
both suffered as much pain, indeed more than ever I saw two
of their ages experience. We were happy in having had every
experience this country afforded; however, they were beyond the
reach of medicine.[31]

[31] With the tender sensibility of a mother, Mrs. Eppes
announced this event to Jefferson in the following touching
letter:

Eppington, October 13th, 1784.

Dear Sir--It is impossible to paint the anguish of my heart on
this melancholy occasion. A most unfortunate whooping-cough has
deprived you and us of two sweet Lucys within a week. Ours was
the first that fell a sacrifice. She was thrown into violent
convulsions, lingered out a week, and then died. Your dear angel
was confined a week to her bed, her sufferings were great, though
nothing like a fit; she retained her senses perfectly, called me
a few minutes before she died and asked distinctly for water.
Dear Polly has had it most violently, though always kept about,
and is now quite recovered.... Life is scarcely supportable
under such severe afflictions. Be so good as to remember me
most affectionately to my dear Patsy, and beg she will excuse
my not writing till the gloomy scene is a little forgotten. I
sincerely hope you are both partaking of every thing that can in
the smallest degree entertain and make you happy. Our warmest
affections attend you both.

Your sincere friend, E. EPPES.

The death of this child was felt keenly by Jefferson. After getting established in Paris, he became impatient to have his little daughter Mary with him. She did not join him, however, until the year 1787, her uncle and aunt being loath to part with her, and no good opportunity occurring for getting her across the Atlantic. The child herself could not bear the thought of being torn from the kind uncle and aunt, whom she had learned to love so devotedly, to go to a strange land. I have lying before me a package of her letters to her father, whose sweet, childish prattle must be excuse enough for their appearing here, trivial though they seem. The first was written for her by her aunt. The others are in the huge, grotesque-looking letters of a child just beginning to write. The following was written before her father had left Philadelphia:

_Mary Jefferson to Thomas Jefferson._

EPPINGTON, APRIL 11TH, 1784.

My dear Papa--I want to know what day you are going to come and
see me, and if you will bring sister Patsy and my baby with you.
I was mighty glad of my sashes, and gave Cousin Bolling one. I
can almost read.

Your affectionate daughter,

POLLY JEFFERSON.

It is touching to see how gently her father tries to reconcile her, in the following letter, to her separation from her good uncle and aunt, and how he attempts to lure her to France with the promise that she shall have in Paris "as many dolls and playthings" as she wants.

_Thomas Jefferson to Mary Jefferson._

Paris, Sept. 20th, 1785.

My dear Polly--I have not received a letter from you since
I came to France. If you knew how much I love you and what
pleasure the receipt of your letters gave me at Philadelphia,
you would have written to me, or at least have told your aunt
what to write, and her goodness would have induced her to take
the trouble of writing it. I wish so much to see you, that I
have desired your uncle and aunt to send you to me. I know, my
dear Polly, how sorry you will be, and ought to be, to leave
them and your cousins; but your sister and myself can not live
without you, and after a while we will carry you back again to
see your friends in Virginia. In the mean time you shall be
taught here to play on the harpsichord, to draw, to dance, to
read and talk French, and such other things as will make you
more worthy of the love of your friends; but above all things,
by our care and love of you, we will teach you to love us
more than you will do if you stay so far from us. I have had
no opportunity since Colonel Le Maire went, to send you any
thing; but when you come here you shall have as many dolls and
playthings as you want for yourself, or to send to your cousins
whenever you shall have opportunities. I hope you are a very
good girl, that you love your uncle and aunt very much, and are
very thankful to them for all their goodness to you; that you
never suffer yourself to be angry with any body, that you give
your playthings to those who want them, that you do whatever any
body desires of you that is right, that you never tell stories,
never beg for any thing, mind your books and your work when
your aunt tells you, never play but when she permits you, nor
go where she forbids you; remember, too, as a constant charge,
not to go out without your bonnet, because it will make you very
ugly, and then we shall not love you so much. If you always
practice these lessons we shall continue to love you as we do
now, and it is impossible to love you any more. We shall hope to
have you with us next summer, to find you a very good girl, and
to assure you of the truth of our affection for you. Adieu, my
dear child. Yours affectionately,

TH. JEFFERSON.

_Mary Jefferson to Thomas Jefferson._

Dear Papa--I long to see you, and hope that you and sister Patsy
are well; give my love to her and tell her that I long to see
her, and hope that you and she will come very soon to see us. I
hope that you will send me a doll. I am very sorry that you have
sent for me. I don't want to go to France, I had rather stay
with Aunt Eppes. Aunt Carr, Aunt Nancy and Cousin Polly Carr are
here. Your most happy and dutiful daughter,

POLLY JEFFERSON.

Dear Papa--I should be very happy to see you, but I can not go
to France, and hope that you and sister Patsy are well. Your
affectionate daughter. Adieu.

MARY JEFFERSON.

Dear Papa--I want to see you and sister Patsy, but you must come
to Uncle Eppes's house.

POLLY JEFFERSON.

Mr. Jefferson's anxieties about his little daughter crossing the ocean, and his impatience to fold her once more in his arms, are vividly portrayed in the following letter:

_Thomas Jefferson to Mrs. Eppes._

Paris, Sept. 22d, 1785.

Dear Madam--The Mr. Fitzhughs having staid here longer than they
expected, I have (since writing my letter of Aug. 30, to Mr.
Eppes) received one from Dr. Currie, of August 5, by which I
have the happiness to learn you are all well, and my Poll also.
Every information of this kind is like gaining another step, and
seems to say we "have got so far safe." Would to God the great
step was taken and taken safely; I mean that which is to place
her on this side of the Atlantic. No event of your life has put
it into your power to conceive how I feel when I reflect that
such a child, and so dear to me, is to cross the ocean, is to
be exposed to all the sufferings and risks, great and small, to
which a situation on board a ship exposes every one. I drop my
pen at the thought--but she must come. My affections would leave
me balanced between the desire to have her with me, and the fear
of exposing her; but my reason tells me the dangers are not
great, and the advantages to her will be considerable.

I send by Mr. Fitzhugh some garden and flower seed and bulbs;
the latter, I know, will fall in your department. I wish the
opportunity had admitted the sending more, as well as some
things for the children; but Mr. Fitzhugh being to pass a long
road both here and in America, I could not ask it of him. Pray
write to me, and write me long letters. Currie has sent me one
worth a great deal for the details of small news it contains. I
mention this as an example for you. You always know facts enough
which would be interesting to me to fill sheets of paper. I pray
you, then, to give yourself up to that kind of inspiration, and
to scribble on as long as you recollect any thing unmentioned,
without regarding whether your lines are straight or your
letters even. Remember me affectionately to Mr. Skipwith, and
to the little ones of both houses; kiss dear Polly for me, and
encourage her for the journey. Accept assurances of unchangeable
affection from, dear Madam, your sincere friend and servant,

TH. JEFFERSON.

In the letter to Mr. Eppes of August 30th, which Mr. Jefferson alludes to in the preceding, he writes:

_Thomas Jefferson to Mr. Eppes._

I must now repeat my wish to have Polly sent to me next summer.
This, however, must depend on the circumstance of a good vessel
sailing from Virginia in the months of April, May, June, or
July. I would not have her set out sooner or later on account
of the equinoxes. The vessel should have performed one voyage
at least, but not be more than four or five years old. We do
not attend to this circumstance till we have been to sea, but
there the consequence of it is felt. I think it would be found
that all the vessels which are lost are either on their first
voyage or after they are five years old; at least there are
few exceptions to this. With respect to the person to whose
care she should be trusted, I must leave it to yourself and
Mrs. Eppes altogether. Some good lady passing from America to
France, or even England, would be most eligible; but a careful
gentleman who would be so kind as to superintend her would do.
In this case some woman who has had the small-pox must attend
her. A careful negro woman, as Isabel, for instance, if she
has had the small-pox, would suffice under the patronage of a
gentleman. The woman need not come farther than Havre, l'Orient,
Nantes, or whatever port she should land at, because I could
go there for the child myself, and the person could return to
Virginia directly. My anxieties on this subject could induce me
to endless details, but your discretion and that of Mrs. Eppes
saves me the necessity. I will only add that I would rather live
a year longer without her than have her trusted to any but a
good ship and a summer passage. Patsy is well. She speaks French
as easily as English; while Humphries, Short, and myself are
scarcely better at it than when we landed....

I look with impatience to the moment when I may rejoin you.
There is nothing to tempt me to stay here. Present me with the
most cordial affection to Mrs. Eppes, the children, and the
family at Hors-du-monde. I commit to Mrs. Eppes my kisses for
dear Poll, who hangs on my mind night and day.

Had he been the mother instead of the father of the little girl who was to cross the Atlantic, he could not have shown more anxiety about her welfare and safety on the passage. In a letter of Jan. 7th, 1786, to Mr. Eppes, he writes:

I wrote you last on the 11th of December, by the way of
London. That conveyance being uncertain, I write the present
chiefly to repeat a prayer I urged in that, that you would
confide my daughter only to a French or English vessel having
a Mediterranean _pass_. This attention, though of little
consequence in matters of merchandise, is of weight in the mind
of a parent which sees even possibilities of capture beyond
the reach of any estimate. If a peace be concluded with the
Algerines in the mean time, you shall be among the first to hear
it from myself. I pray you to believe it from nobody else, as
far as respects the conveyance of my daughter to me.

A few weeks later he writes:

I know that Mrs. Eppes's goodness will make her feel a
separation from an infant who has experienced so much of her
tenderness. My unlimited confidence in her has been the greatest
solace possible under my own separation from Polly. Mrs. Eppes's
good sense will suggest to her many considerations which render
it of importance to the future happiness of the child that she
should neither forget nor be forgotten by her sister and myself.

In concluding the same letter, he says:

How much should I prize one hour of your fireside, where I might
indulge that glow of affection which the recollection of Mrs.
Eppes and her little ones excites in me, and give you personal
assurances of the sincere esteem with which I am, dear Sir, your
affectionate friend and servant.

In a letter written to Mr. Eppes a year later, he says, "My dear Poll, I hope, is on the way to me. I endeavor not to think of her till I hear she is landed." His reasons for insisting upon his little daughter being sent to him are found in the following letter:

_To Mrs. Eppes._

Paris, Dec. 14th, 1786.

Dear Madam--I perceive, indeed, that our friends are kinder than
we have sometimes supposed them, and that their letters do not
come to hand. I am happy that yours of July 30th has not shared
the common fate. I received it about a week ago, together with
one from Mr. Eppes announcing to me that my dear Polly will come
to me the ensuing summer. Though I am distressed when I think of
this voyage, yet I know it is necessary for her happiness. She
is better with you, my dear Madam, than she could be anywhere
else in the world, except with those whom nature has allied
still more closely to her. It would be unfortunate through life,
both to her and us, were those affections to be loosened which
ought to bind us together, and which should be the principal
source of our future happiness. Yet this would be too probably
the effect of absence at her age. This is the only circumstance
which has induced me to press her joining us.... I am obliged to
cease writing. An unfortunate dislocation of my right wrist has
disabled me from writing three months. I have as yet no use of
it, except that I can write a little, but slowly and in great
pain. I shall set out in a few days to the South of France, to
try the effect of some mineral-waters there. Assure Mr. and Mrs.
Skipwith of my warm affections. Kiss the little ones for me.
I suppose Polly not to be with you. Be assured yourself of my
sincere love and esteem.

Yours affectionately,
TH. JEFFERSON.

On the eve of his departure for the South of France, we find him writing the following letter to his devoted friend, Lafayette. In the advice which he gives of keeping England for a model, we see, on his part, an apprehension of the dangers ahead in the proceedings of the Assemblée des Notables.

_To Lafayette._

Paris, February 28th, 1787.

Dear Sir--I am just now in the moment of my departure. Monsieur
de Montmorin having given us audience at Paris yesterday, I
missed the opportunity of seeing you once more. I am extremely
pleased with his modesty, the simplicity of his manners, and
his dispositions towards us. I promise myself a great deal of
satisfaction in doing business with him. I hope he will not give
ear to any unfriendly suggestions. I flatter myself I shall hear
from you sometimes. Send your letters to my hotel, as usual,
and they will be forwarded to me. I wish you success in your
meeting. I should form better hopes of it, if it were divided
into two Houses instead of seven. Keeping the good model of your
neighboring country before your eyes, you may get on, step by
step, towards a good constitution. Though that model is not
perfect, yet, as it would unite more suffrages than any new one
which could be proposed, it is better to make that the object.
If every advance is to be purchased by filling the royal coffers
with gold, it will be gold well employed. The King, who means so
well, should be encouraged to repeat these Assemblies. You see
how we republicans are apt to preach when we get on politics.
Adieu, my dear friend.

Yours affectionately,
TH. JEFFERSON.

While on this tour though the southern part of France, Jefferson wrote some of his most charming letters to his daughter and his friends; among the latter the two most agreeable were to Lafayette and the Comtesse de Tesse, which we now give:

_To the Comtesse de Tesse._[32]

[32] This lady was an aunt of Madame Lafayette, and an intimate
friend of Jefferson's.

Nismes, March 20th, 1787.

Here I am, Madam, gazing whole hours at the Maison Quarrée, like
a lover at his mistress. The stocking-weavers and silk-spinners
around it consider me as a hypochondriac Englishman, about to
write with a pistol the last chapter of his history. This is the
second time I have been in love since I left Paris. The first
was with a Diana at the Château de Laye-Epinaye in Beaujolais,
a delicious morsel of sculpture, by M. A. Slodtz. This, you
will say, was in rule, to fall in love with a female beauty;
but with a house! It is out of all precedent. No, Madam, it is
not without a precedent in my own history. While in Paris, I
was violently smitten with the Hôtel de Salm, and used to go
to the Tuileries almost daily to look at it. The _loueuse des
chaises_--inattentive to my passion--never had the complaisance
to place a chair there, so that sitting on the parapet, and
twisting my neck around to see the object of my admiration, I
generally left it with a _torti-colli_.

From Lyons to Nismes I have been nourished with the remains
of Roman grandeur. They have always brought you to my mind,
because I know your affection for whatever is Roman and noble.
At Vienne I thought of you. But I am glad you were not there;
for you would have seen me more angry than, I hope, you will
ever see me. The Prætorian palace, as it is called--comparable,
for its fine proportions, to the Maison Quarrée--defaced by
the barbarians who have converted it to its present purpose,
its beautiful, fluted Corinthian columns cut out, in part, to
make space for Gothic windows, and hewed down, in the residue,
to the plane of the building, was enough, you must admit, to
disturb my composure. At Orange, too, I thought of you. I was
sure you had seen with pleasure the sublime triumphal arch of
Marius at the entrance of the city. I went then to the Arenæ.
Would you believe, Madam, that in this eighteenth century, in
France, under the reign of Louis XVI., they are at this moment
pulling down the circular wall of this superb remain, to pave a
road? And that, too, from a hill which is itself an entire mass
of stone, just as fit, and more accessible! A former intendant,
a Monsieur de Basville, has rendered his memory dear to the
traveller and amateur, by the pains he took to preserve and
restore these monuments of antiquity. The present one (I do
not know who he is) is demolishing the object, to make a good
road to it. I thought of you again, and I was then in great
good-humor, at the Pont du Gard, a sublime antiquity and well
preserved. But most of all here, where Roman taste, genius, and
magnificence excite ideas analogous to yours at every step. I
could no longer oppose the inclination to avail myself of your
permission to write to you, a permission given with too much
complaisance by you, and used by me with too much indiscretion.
Madame de Tott did me the same honor. But, she being only the
descendant of some of those puny heroes who boiled their own
kettles before the walls of Troy, I shall write to her from a
Grecian, rather than a Roman canton; when I shall find myself,
for example, among her Phocian relations at Marseilles.

Loving as you do, Madam, the precious remains of antiquity,
loving architecture, gardening, a warm sun and a clear sky, I
wonder you have never thought of moving Chaville to Nismes.
This, as you know, has not always been deemed impracticable;
and therefore, the next time a _Sur-intendant des bâtiments
du roi_, after the example of M. Colbert, sends persons to
Nismes to move the Maison Quarrée to Paris, that they may not
come empty-handed, desire them to bring Chaville with them, to
replace it. Apropos of Paris. I have now been three weeks from
there, without knowing any thing of what has passed. I suppose
I shall meet it all at Aix, where I have directed my letters to
be lodged _poste restante_. My journey has given me leisure to
reflect on the Assemblée des Notables. Under a good and a young
king, as the present, I think good may be made of it. I would
have the deputies, then, by all means, so conduct themselves as
to encourage him to repeat the calls of this Assembly. Their
first step should be to get themselves divided into two Chambers
instead of seven--the Noblesse and the Commons separately. The
second, to persuade the King, instead of choosing the deputies
of the Commons himself, to summon those chosen by the people for
the provincial administrations. The third, as the Noblesse is
too numerous to be all of the Assemblée, to obtain permission
for that body to choose its own deputies. Two Houses, so
elected, would contain a mass of wisdom which would make the
people happy and the King great--would place him in history
where no other act could possibly place him. They would thus put
themselves in the track of the best guide they can follow; they
would soon overtake it, become its guide in turn, and lead to
the wholesome modifications wanting in that model, and necessary
to constitute a rational government. Should they attempt more
than the established habits of the people are ripe for, they may
lose all, and retard indefinitely the ultimate object of their
aim. These, Madam, are my opinions; but I wish to know yours,
which, I am sure will be better.

From a correspondent at Nismes you will not expect news. Were
I to attempt to give you news, I should tell you stories one
thousand years old. I should detail to you the intrigues of the
courts of the Cæsars--how they affect us here, the oppressions
of their prætors, prefects, etc. I am immersed in antiquities
from morning to night. For me the city of Rome is actually
existing in all the splendor of its empire. I am filled with
alarms for the event of the irruptions daily making on us by
the Goths, Visigoths, Ostrogoths, and Vandals, lest they should
reconquer us to our original barbarism. If I am sometimes
induced to look forward to the eighteenth century, it is
only when recalled to it by the recollection of your goodness
and friendship, and by those sentiments of sincere esteem and
respect, with which I have the honor to be, Madam, your most
obedient and most humble servant,

TH. JEFFERSON.

_To Lafayette._

Nice, April 11th, 1787.

Your head, my dear friend, is full of Notable things; and being
better employed, therefore, I do not expect letters from you. I
am constantly roving about to see what I have never seen before,
and shall never see again. In the great cities, I go to see what
travellers think alone worthy of being seen; but I make a job of
it, and generally gulp it all down in a day. On the other hand,
I am never satiated with rambling through the fields and farms,
examining the culture and cultivators with a degree of curiosity
which makes some take me to be a fool, and others to be much
wiser than I am. I have been pleased to find among the people
a less degree of physical misery than I had expected. They are
generally well clothed, and have a plenty of food, not animal,
indeed, but vegetable, which is as wholesome....

From the first olive-fields of Pierrelatte to the orangeries of
Hières has been continued rapture to me. I have often wished for
you. I think you have not made this journey. It is a pleasure
you have to come, and an improvement to be added to the many you
have already made. It will be a great comfort to you to know,
from your own inspection, the condition of all the provinces
of your own country, and it will be interesting to them, at
some future day, to be known to you. This is, perhaps, the only
moment of your life in which you can acquire that knowledge. And
to do it most effectually, you must be absolutely incognito, you
must ferret the people out of their hovels, as I have done, look
into their kettles, eat their bread, loll on their beds under
pretense of resting yourself, but in fact to find if they are
soft. You will feel a sublime pleasure in the course of this
investigation, and a sublimer one hereafter, when you shall be
able to apply your knowledge to the softening of their beds, or
the throwing a morsel of meat into their kettle of vegetables.

You will not wonder at the subjects of my letter; they are the
only ones which have been presented to my mind for some time
past, and the waters must always be what are the fountains
from which they flow. According to this, indeed, I should
have intermingled, from beginning to end, warm expressions of
friendship to you. But, according to the ideas of our country,
we do not permit ourselves to speak even truths, when they have
the air of flattery. I content myself, therefore, with saying
once more for all, that I love you, your wife and children. Tell
them so, and adieu. Yours affectionately,

TH. JEFFERSON.

The following correspondence between Jefferson and his daughter Martha will be found unusually interesting. Her letters were written from the convent of Panthemont, in Paris, where she was at school. She was at the time fifteen years old, and the artlessness, intelligence, and warm affection with which she writes to her father render her letters inexpressibly charming.

_Martha Jefferson to Thomas Jefferson._

Being disappointed in my expectation of receiving a letter from
my dear papa, I have resolved to break so painful a silence by
giving you an example that I hope you will follow, particularly
as you know how much pleasure your letters give me. I hope your
wrist is better, and I am inclined to think that your voyage is
rather for your pleasure than your health; however, I hope it
will answer both purposes. I will now tell you how I go on with
my masters. I have begun a beautiful tune with Balbastre, done a
very pretty landscape with Pariseau--a little man playing on the
violin--and begun another beautiful landscape. I go on slowly
with my _Tite Live_,[33] it being in such ancient Italian that I
can not read without my master, and very little with him even.
As for the dancing-master, I intend to leave him off as soon
as my month is finished. Tell me if you are still determined
that I shall dine at the abbess's table. If you are, I shall
at the end of my quarter. The King's speech and that of the
Eveque de Narbonne have been copied all over the convent. As for
Monsieur, he rose up to speak, but sat down again without daring
to open his lips. I know no news, but suppose Mr. Short will
write you enough for him and me too. Madame Thaubeneu desires
her compliments to you. Adieu, my dear papa. I am afraid you
will not be able to read my scrawl, but I have not the time of
copying it over again; and therefore I must beg your indulgence,
and assure you of the tender affection of yours,

M. JEFFERSON.

Pray write often, and long letters.
Panthemont, February 8th, 1787.

[33] Livy.

_Martha Jefferson to Thomas Jefferson._

My dear Papa--Though the knowledge of your health gave me the
greatest pleasure, yet I own I was not a little disappointed in
not receiving a letter from you. However, I console myself with
the thought of having one very soon, as you promised to write to
me every week. Until now you have not kept your word the least
in the world, but I hope you will make up for your silence by
writing me a fine, long letter by the first opportunity. _Titus
Livius_ puts me out of my wits. I can not read a word by myself,
and I read of it very seldom with my master; however, I hope I
shall soon be able to take it up again. All my other masters
go on much the same--perhaps better. Every body here is very
well, particularly Madame L'Abbesse, who has visited almost a
quarter of the new building--a thing that she has not done for
two or three years before now. I have not heard any thing of
my harpsichord, and I am afraid it will not come before your
arrival. They make every day some new history on the Assemblée
des Notables. I will not tell you any, for fear of taking a trip
to the Bastile for my pains, which I am by no means disposed to
do at this moment. I go on pretty well with Thucydides, and hope
I shall very soon finish it. I expect Mr. Short every instant
for my letter, therefore I must leave you. Adieu, my dear papa;
be assured you are never a moment absent from my thoughts, and
believe me to be, your most affectionate child,

M. JEFFERSON.

March 25th, 1787.

_Thomas Jefferson to Martha Jefferson._

Aix en Provence, March 28th, 1787.

I was happy, my dear Patsy, to receive, on my arrival here,
your letter, informing me of your good health and occupation.
I have not written to you sooner because I have been almost
constantly on the road. My journey hitherto has been a very
pleasing one. It was undertaken with the hope that the
mineral-waters of this place might restore strength to my wrist.
Other considerations also concurred--instruction, amusement,
and abstraction from business, of which I had too much at
Paris. I am glad to learn that you are employed in things new
and good, in your music and drawing. You know what have been my
fears for some time past--that you do not employ yourself so
closely as I could wish. You have promised me a more assiduous
attention, and I have great confidence in what you promise.
It is your future happiness which interests me, and nothing
can contribute more to it (moral rectitude always excepted)
than the contracting a habit of industry and activity. Of all
the cankers of human happiness none corrodes with so silent,
yet so baneful an influence, as indolence. Body and mind both
unemployed, our being becomes a burthen, and every object about
us loathsome, even the dearest. Idleness begets ennui, ennui the
hypochondriac, and that a diseased body. No laborious person
was ever yet hysterical. Exercise and application produce order
in our affairs, health of body and cheerfulness of mind, and
these make us precious to our friends. It is while we are young
that the habit of industry is formed. If not then, it never is
afterwards. The fortune of our lives, therefore, depends on
employing well the short period of youth. If at any moment, my
dear, you catch yourself in idleness, start from it as you would
from the precipice of a gulf. You are not, however, to consider
yourself as unemployed while taking exercise. That is necessary
for your health, and health is the first of all objects. For
this reason, if you leave your dancing-master for the summer,
you must increase your other exercise.

I do not like your saying that you are unable to read the
ancient print of your Livy but with the aid of your master. We
are always equal to what we undertake with resolution. A little
degree of this will enable you to decipher your Livy. If you
always lean on your master, you will never be able to proceed
without him. It is a part of the American character to consider
nothing as desperate; to surmount every difficulty by resolution
and contrivance. In Europe there are shops for every want; its
inhabitants, therefore, have no idea that their wants can be
supplied otherwise. Remote from all other aid, we are obliged to
invent and to execute; to find means within ourselves, and not
to lean on others. Consider, therefore, the conquering your Livy
as an exercise in the habit of surmounting difficulties; a habit
which will be necessary to you in the country where you are to
live, and without which you will be thought a very helpless
animal, and less esteemed. Music, drawing, books, invention, and
exercise, will be so many resources to you against ennui. But
there are others which, to this object, add that of utility.
These are the needle and domestic economy. The latter you can
not learn here, but the former you may. In the country life of
America there are many moments when a woman can have recourse
to nothing but her needle for employment. In a dull company,
and in dull weather, for instance, it is ill-manners to read,
it is ill-manners to leave them; no card-playing there among
genteel people--that is abandoned to blackguards. The needle is
then a valuable resource. Besides, without knowing how to use it
herself, how can the mistress of a family direct the work of her
servants?

You ask me to write you long letters. I will do it, my dear, on
condition you will read them from time to time, and practice
what they inculcate. Their precepts will be dictated by
experience, by a perfect knowledge of the situation in which
you will be placed, and by the fondest love for you. This it
is which makes me wish to see you more qualified than common.
My expectations from you are high, yet not higher than you may
attain. Industry and resolution are all that are wanting. Nobody
in this world can make me so happy, or so miserable, as you.
Retirement from public life will ere long become necessary for
me. To your sister and yourself I look to render the evening
of my life serene and contented. Its morning has been clouded
by loss after loss, till I have nothing left but you. I do
not doubt either your affections or dispositions. But great
exertions are necessary, and you have little time left to
make them. Be industrious, then, my dear child. Think nothing
insurmountable by resolution and application, and you will be
all that I wish you to be.

You ask if it is my desire that you should dine at the Abbess's
table? It is. Propose it as such to Madame de Frauleinheim,
with my respectful compliments, and thanks for her care of you.
Continue to love me with all the warmth with which you are
beloved by, my dear Patsy,

Yours affectionately,
TH. JEFFERSON.

_Martha Jefferson to Thomas Jefferson._

My dear Papa--I am very glad that the beginning of your voyage
has been so pleasing, and I hope that the rest will not be less
so, as it is a great consolation for me, being deprived of the
pleasure of seeing you, to know at least that you are happy. I
hope your resolution of returning in the end of April is always
the same. I do not doubt but what Mr. Short has written you
word that my sister sets off with Fulwar Skipwith in the month
of May, and she will be here in July. Then, indeed, shall I
be the happiest of mortals; united to what I have the dearest
in the world, nothing more will be requisite to render my
happiness complete. I am not so industrious as you or I would
wish, but I hope that in taking pains I very soon shall be. I
have already begun to study more. I have not heard any news of
my harpsichord; it will be really very disagreeable if it is
not here before your arrival. I am learning a very pretty thing
now, but it is very hard. I have drawn several little flowers,
all alone, that the master even has not seen; indeed, he advised
me to draw as much alone as possible, for that is of more use
than all I could do with him. I shall take up my Livy, as you
desire it. I shall begin it again, as I have lost the thread
of the history. As for the hysterics, you may be quiet on that
head, as I am not lazy enough to fear them. Mrs. Barett has
wanted me out, but Mr. Short told her that you had forgotten
to tell Madame L'Abbesse to let me go out with her. There was
a gentleman, a few days ago, that killed himself because he
thought that his wife did not love him. They had been married
ten years. I believe that if every husband in Paris was to do
as much, there would be nothing but widows left. I shall speak
to Madame Thaubeneu about dining at the Abbess's table. As for
needlework, the only kind that I could learn here would be
embroidery, indeed netting also; but I could not do much of
those in America, because of the impossibility of having proper
silks; however, they will not be totally useless. You say your
expectations for me are high, yet not higher than I can attain.
Then be assured, my dear papa, that you shall be satisfied in
that, as well as in any thing else that lies in my power; for
what I hold most precious is your satisfaction, indeed I should
be miserable without it. You wrote me a long letter, as I asked
you; however, it would have been much more so without so wide
a margin. Adieu, my dear papa. Be assured of the tenderest
affection of your loving daughter,

M. JEFFERSON.

Pray answer me very soon--a long letter, without a margin.
I will try to follow the advice they contain with the most
scrupulous exactitude.

Panthemont, April 9th, 1787.

_Thomas Jefferson to Martha Jefferson._

Toulon, April 7th, 1787.

My dear Patsy--I received yesterday, at Marseilles, your letter
of March 25th, and I received it with pleasure, because it
announced to me that you were well. Experience learns us to be
always anxious about the health of those whom we love. I have
not been able to write to you as often as I expected, because I
am generally on the road, and when I stop anywhere I am occupied
in seeing what is to be seen. It will be some time now, perhaps
three weeks, before I shall be able to write you again. But this
need not slacken your writing to me, because you have leisure,
and your letters come regularly to me. I have received letters
which inform me that our dear Polly will certainly come to us
this summer. By the time I return it will be time to expect
her. When she arrives she will become a precious charge on
your hands. The difference of your age, and your common loss
of a mother, will put that office on you. Teach her above
all things to be good, because without that we can neither be
valued by others nor set any value on ourselves. Teach her to
be always true; no vice is so mean as the want of truth, and at
the same time so useless. Teach her never to be angry; anger
only serves to torment ourselves, to divert others, and alienate
their esteem. And teach her industry, and application to useful
pursuits. I will venture to assure you that, if you inculcate
this in her mind, you will make her a happy being in herself, a
most inestimable friend to you, and precious to all the world.
In teaching her these dispositions of mind, you will be more
fixed in them yourself, and render yourself dear to all your
acquaintances. Practice them, then, my dear, without ceasing. If
ever you find yourself in difficulty, and doubt how to extricate
yourself, do what is right, and you will find it the easiest
way of getting out of the difficulty. Do it for the additional
incitement of increasing the happiness of him who loves you
infinitely, and who is, my dear Patsy, yours affectionately,

TH. JEFFERSON.

_Martha Jefferson to Thomas Jefferson._

My dear Papa--I was very sorry to see, by your letter to Mr.
Short, that your return would be put off. However, I hope not
much, as you must be here for the arrival of my sister. I wish I
was myself all that you tell me to make her; however, I will try
to be as near like it as I can. I have another landscape since
I wrote to you last, and have begun another piece of music. I
have not been able to do more, having been confined some time
to my bed with a violent headache and a pain in my side, which
afterwards blistered up and made me suffer a great deal, but I
am now much better. I have seen a physician who had just drawn
two of my companions out of a most dreadful situation, which
gave me a great deal of trust in him. But the most disagreeable
thing is, that I have been obliged to discontinue all my
masters, and am able now to take only some of them that are the
least fatiguing. However, I hope to take them all very soon.
Madame L'Abbesse has just had a _fluxion de poitrine_, and has
been at the last extremity, but now is better. The _pays bas_
have revolted against the Emperor, who is gone to Prussia to
join with the Empress and the Venetians to war against the
Turks. The plague is in Spain. A Virginia ship coming to Spain
met with a corsair of the same strength. They fought, and the
battle lasted an hour and a quarter. The Americans gained and
boarded the corsair, where they found chains that had been
prepared for them. They took them, and made use of them for the
Algerians themselves. They returned to Virginia, from whence
they are to go back to Algiers to change the prisoners, to
which, if the Algerians will not consent, the poor creatures
will be sold as slaves. Good God! have we not enough? I wish
with all my soul that the poor negroes were all freed.... A
coach-and-six, well shut up, was seen to go to the Bastile,
and the Baron de Breteuil went two hours before to prepare an
apartment. They suppose it to be Madame de Polignac and her
sister; however, no one knows. The King asked M. D'Harcourt how
much a year was necessary for the Dauphin. M. D'Harcourt having
looked over the accounts, told him two millions; upon which the
King could not help expressing his astonishment, because each of
his daughters cost him more; so Madame de Polignac had pocketed
the rest. Mr. Smith is at Paris. That is all the news I know;
they told me a great deal more, but I have forgotten it. Adieu,
my dear papa, and believe me to be for life your most tender and
affectionate child,

M. JEFFERSON.

Paris, May 3d, 1787.

_Thomas Jefferson to Martha Jefferson._

Marseilles, May 5th, 1787.

My dear Patsy--I got back to Aix the day before yesterday,
and found there your letter of the 9th of April--from which I
presume you to be well, though you do not say so. In order to
exercise your geography, I will give you a detail of my journey.
You must therefore take your map and trace out the following
places: Dijon, Lyons, Pont St. Esprit, Nismes, Arles, St.
Remis, Aix, Marseilles, Toulon, Hières, Fréjus, Antibes, Nice,
Col de Tende, Coni, Turin, Vercelli, Milan, Pavia, Tortona,
Novi, Genoa, by sea to Albenga, by land to Monaco, Nice,
Antibes, Fréjus, Brignolles, Aix, and Marseilles. The day after
to-morrow, I set out hence for Aix, Avignon, Pont du Gard,
Nismes, Montpellier, Narbonne, along the Canal of Languedoc
to Toulouse, Bordeaux, Rochefort, Rochelle, Nantes, L'Orient,
Nantes, Tours, Orléans, and Paris--where I shall arrive about
the middle of June, after having travelled something upwards of
a thousand leagues.

From Genoa to Aix was very fatiguing--the first two days having
been at sea, and mortally sick--two more clambering the cliffs
of the Apennines, sometimes on foot, sometimes on a mule,
according as the path was more or less difficult--and two others
travelling through the night as well as day without sleep. I
am not yet rested, and shall therefore shortly give you rest
by closing my letter, after mentioning that I have received a
letter from your sister, which, though a year old, gave me great
pleasure. I inclose it for your perusal, as I think it will be
pleasing for you also. But take care of it, and return it to me
when I shall get back to Paris, for, trifling as it seems, it is
precious to me.

When I left Paris, I wrote to London to desire that your
harpsichord might be sent during the months of April and May,
so that I am in hopes it will arrive a little before I shall,
and give me an opportunity of judging whether you have got the
better of that want of industry which I began to fear would be
the rock on which you would split. Determine never to be idle.
No person will have occasion to complain of the want of time who
never loses any. It is wonderful how much may be done if we are
always doing. And that you may be always doing good, my dear, is
the ardent prayer of, yours affectionately,

TH. JEFFERSON

_Martha Jefferson to Thomas Jefferson._

My dear Papa--I was very glad to see by your letter that you
were on your return, and I hope that I shall very soon have the
pleasure of seeing you. My sister's letter gave me a great deal
of happiness. I wish she would write to me; but as I shall enjoy
her presence very soon, it will make up for a neglect that I own
gives me the greatest pain. I still remember enough of geography
to know where the places marked in your letter are. I intend to
copy over my extracts and learn them by heart. I have learnt
several new pieces on the harpsichord, drawn five landscapes and
three flowers, and hope to have done something more by the time
you come. I go on pretty well with my history, and as for _Tite
Live_ I have begun it three or four times, and go on so slowly
with it that I believe I never shall finish it. It was in vain
that I took courage; it serves to little good in the execution
of a thing almost impossible. I read a little of it with my
master who tells me almost all the words, and, in fine, it
makes me lose my time. I begin to have really great difficulty
to write English; I wish I had some pretty letters to form my
style. Pray tell me if it is certain that my sister comes in the
month of July, because if it is, Madame De Taubenheim will keep
a bed for her. My harpsichord is not come yet. Madame L'Abbesse
is better, but she still keeps her bed. Madame De Taubenheim
sends her compliments to you. Pray how does your arm go? I am
very well now. Adieu, my dear papa; as I do not know any news, I
must finish in assuring you of the sincerest affection of your
loving child,

M. JEFFERSON.

Paris, May 27th, 1787.

_Thomas Jefferson to Martha Jefferson._

May 21st, 1787.

I write you, my dear Patsy, from the canal of Languedoc, on
which I am at present sailing, as I have been for a week past,
cloudless skies above, limpid waters below, and on each hand,
a row of nightingales in full chorus. This delightful bird had
given me a rich treat before, at the fountain of Vaucluse.
After visiting the tomb of Laura at Avignon, I went to see this
fountain--a noble one of itself, and rendered famous forever
by the songs of Petrarch, who lived near it. I arrived there
somewhat fatigued, and sat down by the fountain to repose
myself. It gushes, of the size of a river, from a secluded
valley of the mountain, the ruins of Petrarch's château being
perched on a rock two hundred feet perpendicular above. To add
to the enchantment of the scene, every tree and bush was filled
with nightingales in full song. I think you told me that you had
not yet noticed this bird. As you have trees in the garden of
the convent, there might be nightingales in them, and this is
the season of their song. Endeavor, my dear, to make yourself
acquainted with the music of this bird, that when you return
to your own country you may be able to estimate its merit in
comparison with that of the mocking-bird. The latter has the
advantage of singing through a great part of the year, whereas
the nightingale sings but about five or six weeks in the spring,
and a still shorter term, and with a more feeble voice, in the
fall.

I expect to be at Paris about the middle of next month. By
that time we may begin to expect our dear Polly. It will be a
circumstance of inexpressible comfort to me to have you both
with me once more. The object most interesting to me for the
residue of my life, will be to see you both developing daily
those principles of virtue and goodness which will make you
valuable to others and happy in yourselves, and acquiring those
talents and that degree of science which will guard you at all
times against ennui, the most dangerous poison of life. A mind
always employed is always happy. This is the true secret, the
grand recipe, for felicity. The idle are the only wretched. In a
world which furnishes so many employments which are useful, so
many which are amusing, it is our own fault if we ever know what
ennui is, or if we are ever driven to the miserable resource of
gaming, which corrupts our dispositions, and teaches us a habit
of hostility against all mankind. We are now entering the port
of Toulouse, where I quit my bark, and of course must conclude
my letter. Be good and be industrious, and you will be what
I shall most love in the world. Adieu, my dear child. Yours
affectionately,

TH. JEFFERSON.

The following is an extract from a letter to his daughter, dated Nantes, June 1st, 1787:

I forgot, in my last letter, to desire you to learn all your
old tunes over again perfectly, that I may hear them on your
harpsichord, on its arrival. I have no news of it, however,
since I left Paris, though I presume it will arrive immediately,
as I have ordered. Learn some slow movements of simple melody
for the Celestini stop, as it suits such only. I am just setting
out for L'Orient, and shall have the happiness of seeing you at
Paris about the 12th or 15th of this month, and assuring you in
person of the sincere love of, yours affectionately,

TH. JEFFERSON.