CHAPTER XII
That ride with Mr. Jefferson, and the day I spent at Monticello, have still a pleasant flavor in retrospect. Mr. Jefferson's urbanity matched his delightful conversation, and my pleasure in his condescension and his intellectual charm gave him evident satisfaction.
Part of our way lay through the forest, and one could hear the oozing sap, mounting upward into the yet leafless branches interlaced above us. The graceful, clean-limbed maples had strung themselves with strand after strand of glowing coral leaf buds, and the white trunked cotton woods were hung thickly with a soft pinkish brown fringe, while each branch of the laurel, the dogwood and the ivy shrubs bulged with close folded gray green buds—big with promise of leaf and blossom. The rich loam under our horses' feet was cracked open here and there, making tiny winrows of the rotted leaves, where reawakened roots of fern or flower were pushing upward with divine instinct for life and sunshine. From sunny dell's slope, and the southern side of oak and locust trees, rose nature's incense—the breath of purple violets, of white anemones, and flushed arbutus blossoms, floating intermittently upon the whimsical zephyrs of a balmy day in March.
Sudden bursts of rapture, or shrill, happy calls from vibrant throats of robin, and wren, cat bird and oriole, red bird and yellow hammer, mocking bird and blue jay, rang from treetop to treetop, and the fluttering of busy wings, and the important chirruping and twittering of the nest builders, told that the birds, too, recognized the many hints of coming spring, and were all of a spirit with the mounting sap, and the promise-breathing perfume of violet and arbutus buds.
We talked of farming and gardening, upon which subject Mr. Jefferson had gathered much valuable information. From horticulture we drifted to books, and the writers of them. It pleased me to find that, as far as my limited reading had gone, our tastes were similar. He preferred the Greeks and Greek literature to the Romans and their writings. He admired Demosthenes, Thucydides, and Homer; Tacitus and Horace were his favorites among the Latins; and when we came to English writers, he also gave first place to Dryden, Milton, Pope and Ossian among the poets, to Bacon, Hume and Addison among prose writers. Finding I knew nothing of French, Italian or German literatures, he barely mentioned Molière, Racine, Petrarch, Tasso and Goethe. Yet his mere word of appreciation kindled my resolution to know these masters, when peace and a quiet life should give me opportunity.
My liking for Ossian seemed to delight Mr. Jefferson, and he quoted freely from his poems, saying, with warmth, that he thought "this rude bard of the North the greatest of poets."
"Then, sir, you give no credence to the charge of the English critics, that there was never any other Ossian than his pretended translator?"
"No, I do not!" answered Mr. Jefferson emphatically, then proceeded to give me cogent reasons to back his opinion.
The urgency of Mr. Jefferson's invitation to stop a day at Monticello was not to be resisted, nor was my inclination far behind the courtesy of my host. The early morning was spent about the beautifully turfed and planted grounds, and the carefully cultivated gardens. I was even allowed to look over the garden books, as accurate as algebraic demonstrations, and as neat as copy books. Horses were then ordered for a ride over the plantation. Mr. Jefferson scanned their satiny coats with critical eye, rubbed a single rough spot on his own mount with his handkerchief, and showing the black groom who held the impatient steed's bridle the dust stain made upon it, gave him a sharp reprimand. We got back in time for a glass of Scotch rum and hot water, seasoned with nutmeg, before dinner. A second ride to Charlottesville in the afternoon, to procure the mail and attend to some matter of business, seemed necessary to Mr. Jefferson's indefatigable energy.