In the spring of 1826 the health of Mr. Jefferson became more impaired; his nutrition fell off; and at the approach of summer he was troubled with diarrhœa, to which he had been liable for some years—ever since, as he believed, he had resorted to the Virginia Springs, especially the White Sulphur, and had freely used the waters externally for an eruption which did not yield readily to the ordinary remedies. I had prescribed for this affection early in June, and he had improved somewhat; but on the 24th of that month he wrote me the last note I received from him, begging me to visit him, as he was not so well. This note was, perhaps, the last he penned. On the same day, however, he wrote an excellent letter to General Weightman, in reply to an invitation to celebrate in Washington the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, which he declined on the ground of indisposition. This, Professor Tucker says, was probably his last letter. It had all the striking characteristics of his vigorous and unfaded intellect.
The tone of the note I received from him satisfied me of the propriety of visiting him immediately; and having mentioned the subject to Mr. Tucker, he proposed to accompany me. I immediately saw that the affection was making a decided impression on his bodily powers, and, as Mr. Tucker has properly remarked in his life of this distinguished individual, was apprehensive that the attack would prove fatal. Nor did Mr. Jefferson himself indulge any other opinion. From this time his strength gradually diminished, and he had to remain in bed....
Until the 2d and 3d of July he spoke freely of his approaching death; made all his arrangements with his grandson, Mr. Randolph, in regard to his private affairs; and expressed his anxiety for the prosperity of the University, and his confidence in the exertion in its behalf of Mr. Madison and the other Visitors. He repeatedly, too, mentioned his obligation to me for my attention to him. During the last week of his existence I remained at Monticello; and one of the last remarks he made was to me. In the course of the day and night of the 2d of July he was affected with stupor, with intervals of wakefulness and consciousness; but on the 3d the stupor became almost permanent. About seven o'clock of the evening of that day he awoke, and, seeing me staying at his bedside, exclaimed, "Ah! Doctor, are you still there?" in a voice, however, that was husky and indistinct. He then asked, "Is it the Fourth?" to which I replied, "It soon will be." These were the last words I heard him utter.
Until towards the middle of the day—the 4th—he remained in the same state, or nearly so, wholly unconscious to every thing that was passing around him. His circulation was gradually, however, becoming more languid; and for some time prior to dissolution the pulse at the wrist was imperceptible. About one o'clock he ceased to exist.
Jefferson had the utmost confidence in Dr. Dunglison, and, on being entreated by a Philadelphia friend to send for the celebrated Dr. Physic, he refused kindly, but firmly, to do so, saying, "I have got a Dr. Physic of my own—I have entire confidence in Dr. Dunglison." Nor would he allow any other physician to be called in.
Ever thoughtful of others, and anxious to the last not to give trouble, he at first refused to allow even a servant to be with him at night; and when, at last, he became so weak as to be forced to yield his consent, he made his attendant, Burwell, bring a pallet into his room that he might rest during the night.
"In the parting interview with the female members of his family," says Mr. Randall, "Mr. Jefferson, besides general admonitions (the tenor of which corresponds with those contained in his letter to Thomas Jefferson Smith), addressed to them affectionate words of encouragement and practical advice adapted to their several situations. In this he did not pass over a young great-grandchild (Ellen Bankhead), but exhorted her to diligently persevere in her studies, for they would help to make life valuable to her. He gently but audibly murmured: 'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.'"[79]
I now give Colonel Randolph's account of his grandfather's death. Having revised this for me, he has in one or two instances inserted a few words which were not in the original.
Mr. Jefferson had suffered for several years before his death from a diarrhœa which he concealed from his family, lest it might give them uneasiness. Not aware of it, I was surprised, in conversation with him in March, 1826, to hear him, in speaking of an event likely to occur about midsummer, say doubtingly that he might live to that time. About the middle of June, hearing that he had sent for his physician, Dr. Dunglison, of the University of Virginia, I immediately went to see him.[80] I found him out in his public rooms. Before leaving the house, he sent a servant to me to come to his room, whereupon he handed me a paper, which he desired me to examine, remarking, "Don't delay; there is no time to be lost." He gradually declined, but would only have his servants sleeping near him: being disturbed only at nine, twelve, and four o'clock in the night, he needed little nursing. Becoming uneasy about him, I entered his room, unobserved, to pass the night. Coming round inadvertently to assist him, he chided me, saying, that, being actively employed all day, I needed repose. On my replying that it was more agreeable to me to be with him, he acquiesced, and I did not leave him again.
A day or two after, at my request, my brother-in-law (Mr. Trist) was admitted. His servants, ourselves, and the doctor became his sole nurses. My mother sat with him during the day, but he would not permit her to sit up at night. His family had to decline for him numerous tenders of service from kind and affectionate friends and neighbors, fearing and seeing that it would excite him to conversation injurious to him in his weak condition.
He suffered no pain, but gradually sank from debility. His mind was always clear—it never wandered. He conversed freely, and gave directions as to his private affairs. His manner was that of a person going on a necessary journey—evincing neither satisfaction nor regret. He remarked upon the tendency of his mind to recur back to the scenes of the Revolution. Many incidents he would relate, in his usual cheerful manner, insensibly diverting my mind from his dying condition. He remarked that the curtains of his bed had been purchased from the first cargo that arrived after the peace of 1782.
Upon my expressing the opinion, on one occasion, that he was somewhat better, he turned to me, and said, "Do not imagine for a moment that I feel the smallest solicitude about the result; I am like an old watch, with a pinion worn out here, and a wheel there, until it can go no longer."
On another occasion, when he was unusually ill, he observed to the doctor, "A few hours more, doctor, and it will be all over."
Upon being suddenly aroused from sleep by a noise in the room, he asked if he had heard the name of Mr. Hatch mentioned—the minister whose church he attended. On my replying in the negative, he observed, as he turned over, "I have no objection to see him, as a kind and good neighbor." The impression made upon my mind at the moment was, that his religious opinions having been formed upon mature study and reflection, he had no doubts upon his mind, and therefore did not desire the attendance of a clergyman: I have never since doubted of the correctness of the impression then taken.
His parting interview with the different members of his family was calm and composed; impressing admonitions upon them, the cardinal points of which were, to pursue virtue, be true and truthful. My youngest brother, in his eighth year, seeming not to comprehend the scene, he turned to me with a smile, and said, "George[81] does not understand what all this means."
He would speculate upon the person who would succeed him as Rector of the University of Virginia, and concluded that Mr. Madison would be appointed. With all the deep pathos of exalted friendship, he spoke of his purity, his virtue, his wisdom, his learning, and his great abilities; and then, stretching his head back on his pillow, he said, with a sigh, "But ah! he could never in his life stand up against strenuous opposition." The friendship of these great men was of an extraordinary character. They had been born, lived, and died within twenty-five miles of each other, and they visited frequently through their whole lives. At twenty-three years old Mr. Jefferson had been consulted on Mr. Madison's course of study—he then fifteen. Thus commenced a friendship as remarkable for its duration as it was for the fidelity and warmth of its feelings. The admiration of each for the wisdom, abilities, and purity of the other was unlimited. Their habit of reliance upon mutual counsel equalled the sincerity of their affection and the devotion of their esteem.
In speaking of the calumnies which his enemies had uttered against his public and private character with such unmitigated and untiring bitterness, he said that he had not considered them as abusing him; they had never known him. They had created an imaginary being clothed with odious attributes, to whom they had given his name; and it was against that creature of their imaginations they had levelled their anathemas.
On Monday, the third of July, his slumbers were evidently those of approaching dissolution; he slept until evening, when, upon awaking, he seemed to imagine it was morning, and remarked that he had slept all night without being disturbed. "This is the fourth of July," he said. He soon sank again into sleep, and on being aroused at nine to take his medicine, he remarked in a clear distinct voice, "No, doctor, nothing more." The omission of the dose of laudanum administered every night during his illness caused his slumbers to be disturbed and dreamy; he sat up in his sleep and went through all the forms of writing; spoke of the Committee of Safety, saying it ought to be warned.
As twelve o'clock at night approached, we anxiously desired that his death should be hallowed by the Anniversary of Independence. At fifteen minutes before twelve we stood noting the minute-hand of the watch, hoping a few minutes of prolonged life. At four A.M. he called the servants in attendance with a strong and clear voice, perfectly conscious of his wants. He did not speak again. About ten he fixed his eyes intently upon me, indicating some want, which, most painfully, I could not understand, until his attached servant, Burwell, observed that his head was not so much elevated as he usually desired it, for his habit was to lie with it very much elevated. Upon restoring it to its usual position he seemed satisfied. About eleven, again fixing his eyes upon me, and moving his lips, I applied a wet sponge to his mouth, which he sucked and appeared to relish—this was the last evidence he gave of consciousness. He ceased to breathe, without a struggle, fifty minutes past meridian—July 4th, 1826. I closed his eyes with my own hands.
He was, at all times during his illness, perfectly assured of his approaching end, his mind ever clear, and at no moment did he evince the least solicitude about the result; he was as calm and composed as when in health. He died a pure and good man. It is for others to speak of his greatness. He desired that his interment should be private, without parade, and our wish was to comply with his request, and no notice of the hour of interment or invitations were issued. His body was borne privately from his dwelling by his family and servants, but his neighbors and friends, anxious to pay the last tribute of respect and affection to one whom they had loved and honored, waited for it in crowds at the grave.
Two days before his death, Jefferson told Mrs. Randolph that in a certain drawer, in an old pocket-book, she would find something intended for her. On looking in the drawer after his death, she found the following touching lines, composed by himself:
A Death-bed Adieu from Th. J. to M. R.
Life's visions are vanished, its dreams are no more;
Dear friends of my bosom, why bathed in tears?