The wife of Jefferson died in her youth. His love for her was the passion of his life. In his love, and in his existence, she was never supplanted. Ever after, he lived in his children, his grand-children, his books and the affairs of State.
Jefferson had two daughters, the only two of his children who survived to mature life. One of these, Maria, who in childhood went to Paris in the care of Mrs. Adams, and who was remarkable for her beauty and the loveliness of her nature, died in early womanhood. She was indifferent to her own beauty, and almost resented the admiration which it called forth, exclaiming, “You praise me for that because you can not praise me for better things.” She set an extraordinary value upon talent, believing that the possession of it alone could make her the worthy companion of her father. She was most tenderly beloved by him, and, at the time of her early death, he wrote to his friend, Governor Page: “Others may lose of their abundance; but I, of my want, have lost even the half of that I had. My evening prospects now hang on the slender thread of a single life.” This “single” life was that of Martha Jefferson Randolph. She lived to be not only the domestic comforter, but the intellectual companion of her father. She was one of that type of daughters, of which, in our own country, Theodocia Burr and Katherine Chase have been such illustrious examples. These women, equally beautiful, intellectual, and charming, identified themselves not only with the private interests, but with the public life and political ambitions of their fathers.
Had Martha Jefferson been less womanly and domestic, she might have made herself famous as a belle, a wit, or a scholar. Married at seventeen, the mother of twelve children, seven of whom were daughters, the fine quality of her intellect, and the nobility of her soul were all merged into a life spent in their guidance, and in devotion and service to her husband and father. The mother of five children at the time of her father’s inauguration as President of the United States, separated from Washington by a long and fatiguing journey, which could only be performed by coach and horse-travel, Mrs. Randolph never made but two visits to the President’s house, during his two terms of office. Her son, James Madison Randolph was born in the “White House.”
Jefferson began his Presidency with a certain ostentation of democracy. One of the first declarations of his administration was, “Levées are done away.” Remembering what importance was attached to these assemblies by Washington and Adams, and what grand court occasions they were made, we can imagine the disapprobation with which this mandate was received by the “belles of society.” A party of these gathered in force, and, all gaily attired, proceeded to the President’s house. On his return from a horseback ride he was informed that a large number of ladies were in the “Levée room” waiting for him. Covered with dust, spurs on, and whip in hand, he proceeded to the drawing-room. Shade of Washington! He told them he was glad to see them, and asked them to remain. These belles and beauties received his polite salutations with how much delight we may fancy. They never came again.
A Virginian accustomed to the service of slaves, as the President of the United States, Jefferson blacked his own boots. A foreign functionary, a stickler for etiquette, paid him a visit of ceremony one morning, and found him engaged in this pleasing employment. Jefferson apologized, saying, that being a plain man, he did not like to trouble his servants. The foreign grandee departed, declaring that no government could long survive, whose head was his own shoe-black. Jefferson gave great offense to the English Minister, Mr. Merry, because he took Mrs. Madison, to whom he happened to be talking, into dinner instead of Mrs. Merry. Mr. Merry made it an official offense which was reported to his government. Mr. Madison wrote to Mr. Monroe, who was then Minister to England, that he might be ready to answer the call of the British government for explanations. Mr. Monroe wrote back that he was glad of it, for the wife of a British under-secretary had recently been given precedence to Mrs. Monroe, in being escorted to the dinner table. Nevertheless, Mrs. Merry’s nose never came down from the air, and she never again crossed the threshold of the President’s house.
The same year Jefferson aroused the ire of Thomas Moore, then twenty-four years of age, and without fame, save in his own country. The President, from his altitude of six feet two-and-a-half inches, looked down on the curled and perfumed little poet, and spoke a word and passed on. This was an indignity that London’s and Dublin’s darling never pardoned, and he went back to lampoon, not only America, but the President. One of his attacks came into the hands of Martha Randolph, who, deeply indignant, placed it before her father in his library. He broke into an amused laugh. Years afterwards, when Moore’s Irish melodies appeared, Jefferson, looking them over, exclaimed: “Why, this is the little man who satirized me so! Why, he is a poet after all.”[all.”] And from that moment Moore had a place beside Burns’ in Jefferson’s library.
John Randolph, her father’s political foe, said of Martha Jefferson: “She is the sweetest creature in Virginia,” and we all know that John Randolph believed that nothing “sweet” or even endurable existed outside of Virginia. In adversity and sorrow, in poverty and trial, in age as in youth, the steadfast sweetness of character, and elevation of nature, which made Martha Jefferson remarkable in prosperity, shone forth with transcendent lustre when all external accessories had fled. The daughter of a man called a free-thinker, she all her life was sweetly, simply, devoutly religious. In her letters to her daughter, “Septimia,” she draws us nearer to her tender soul in its heavenly love and charity. This daughter, to his latest breath, was to Jefferson, the soul of his soul. After his retirement she not only entertained his guests, and ministered to his personal comforts, but shared intellectually all his thoughts and studies. Six months before her death, Sully painted her portrait. Her daughter says:
“I accompanied her to Mr. Sully’s studio, and, as she took her seat before him, she said playfully: ‘Mr. Sully, I shall never forgive you if you paint me with wrinkles.’
“I quickly interrupted, ‘Paint her just as she is, Mr. Sully, the picture is for me.’
“He said, ‘I shall paint you, Mrs. Randolph, as I remember you twenty years ago.’