Old people are often accused of being too conservative, and even reactionary. They seem out of step with the younger generations, and very few preserve enough resiliency to keep in touch with the ceaseless changes taking place around them. But a few men who, born in the second half of the eighteenth century, lived well up into the nineteenth, were able to escape this apparently unavoidable law of nature. After witnessing political convulsions, commotions and revolutions, they clung tenaciously to the faith of their younger days. They refused to accept the view that the world was going from bad to worse; they looked untiringly for every symptom of improvement and thought they could distinguish everywhere signs foretelling the dawn of a new era. The growing infirmities of their bodies did not leave them any illusion about their inevitable disappearance from the stage and they were not upheld by any strong belief in personal immortality. But however uncertain and hazy may have been their religious tenets, they had a stanch faith in the unlimited capacity of human nature for improvement and development. They believed in the irresistible power of truth, in the ultimate recognition of natural principles and natural laws, in the religion of progress as it had been formulated by the eighteenth-century philosophers. Thus, rather than follow the precept of the ancient poet and unhitch their aging horses, they had anticipated the advice of the American philosopher by hitching their wagon to a star.

Du Pont de Nemours, experimenting with his sons to develop American industries in order to make America economically independent from Europe; Destutt de Tracy, almost completely blind, dictating his treatise on political economy and appearing in the streets of Paris during the glorious days of 1830; Lafayette, yearning and hoping for the recognition of his ideal of liberty during the Empire and the Restauration—all of these were more than survivors of a forgotten age. Even to the younger generations they represented the living embodiment of the political faith of the nineteenth century. It is not a mere coincidence that most of them were friends and admirers of the Sage of Monticello, whose letters they read "as the letters of the Apostles were read in the circle of the early Christians."

Jefferson could complain that "the decays of age had enfeebled the useful energies of the mind",[550] but he kept, practically to his last day, his alertness, his encyclopÆdic curiosity and an extraordinary capacity for work. A large part of his time was taken by his correspondence. Turning to his letter list for 1820 he found that he had received no less than "one thousand two hundred and sixty-seven communications, many of them requiring answers of elaborate research, and all of them to be answered with due attention and consideration."[551] I may be permitted to add that a large part of the letters he received as well as those he wrote deserve publication and would greatly contribute to our knowledge of the period.

Among them essays and short treatises on every possible subject under heaven will be found. With Du Pont de Nemours, Jefferson discussed not only questions of political economy, education and government, but the acclimation of the merino sheep, the manufacturing of woolen goods and nails, the construction of gunboats and the organization of the militia. With Madame de TessÉ, Lafayette's aged cousin, he resumed the exchange of botanical views, interrupted by his presidency and the continental blockade. He undertook to put together the scraps of paper on which he had scribbled notes during Washington's and Adams' administrations and compiled his famous "Anas"; he wrote his "Autobiography", furnished documents to Girardin for his continuation of Burke's "History of Virginia"; he answered queries on the circumstances under which he had written the Declaration of Independence, the Kentucky Resolution, on his attitude towards France when Secretary of State and President; he criticized quite extensively Marshall's "History of Washington" and one of his last letters, written on May 15, 1826, was to inform one of his friends of the facts concerning "Arnold's invasion and surprise of Richmond, in the winter of 1780-81."[552]

His interest in books was greater than ever; he had scarcely sold his library to Congress when he undertook to collect another, going systematically through the publishers' catalogues, writing to booksellers in Richmond, Philadelphia, New York and even abroad, requesting his European friends to send him the latest publications and asking young Ticknor to procure for him, in France or Germany, the best editions of the Greek and Latin classics. He drew up the plans for the University of Virginia and supervised the construction of the building. Between times he took upon himself the task of rewriting entirely the translation of Destutt de Tracy's "Review of Montesquieu" and directed the printing of his treatise on "Political Economy." After writing letters, regulating the work of the farm, he spent several hours on horseback every day and during the balance of the afternoon read new and old books, played with his grandchildren, walked in the garden to look at his favorite trees, listened to music and, during the fine weather, received the visitors who flocked to Monticello by the dozens. Some were simply idlers coming out of curiosity, many were old friends who stayed for days or weeks; but all were welcomed with the same affable courtesy and the same generous hospitality, according to the best traditions of old Virginia.

No sound estimate of the extraordinary influence exerted by Jefferson upon the growth of liberalism can be made at the present time. It would require separate studies, careful investigation and the publication of many letters, safely preserved but too little used, which rest in the Jefferson Papers of the Library of Congress, and with the Massachusetts Historical Society. I have already printed Jefferson's correspondence with Volney, Destutt de Tracy, Lafayette and Du Pont de Nemours; many other letters, no less significant, remain practically unknown. He encouraged his European friends, Correa de Serra, Kosciusko, the Greek Coray, to keep up their courage, to hope against hope. To all of them he preached the same gospel of faith in the ultimate and inevitable recognition throughout the world of the principles of American democracy. This was not done for propaganda's sake, for no man would deserve less than Jefferson the dubious qualification of propagandist. The many letters written to his American friends on the same subject clearly show that this was his profound conviction and almost his only raison d'Être. His was not an over-optimistic temperament; he did not fail to notice all "the specks of hurricane on the horizon of the world." Yet, all considered, and in spite of temporary fits of despondency, his conclusion on the future of democracy can be summed up in the words he wrote to John Adams at the end of 1821:

Jefferson felt such a dislike for unnecessary controversies that he was apt to adopt the tone and the style of his correspondents and apparently to accept their ideas, so that many contradictions can be found in these letters. To a chosen few only he fully revealed his intimate thoughts and without reticence, without fear of being betrayed, communicated his doubts, his hopes and his hatred. The letters he wrote to Short, Priestley, and Thomas Cooper are most remarkable in this respect. But with none of them did he communicate so freely as with his old friend John Adams. The correspondence that passed between them during the last fifteen years of their lives constitutes one of the most striking and illuminating human documents a student of psychology may ever hope to discover. To those who have had the privilege of using the manuscripts to follow month by month the palsied hand of Adams until he had to cease writing himself and dictated his letters to a "female member of his household", it seems unthinkable that the wish expressed by Wirt in 1826,—to see the correspondence between the two great men published in its entirety,—should not have received its fulfillment.

They had been estranged for a long time, and no word had passed between them for more than ten years after Adams' sulky departure from Washington on the morning of March 4, 1801. At the beginning of 1811, Doctor Benjamin Rush made bold to deplore "the discontinuance of friendly correspondence between Mr. Adams and Mr. Jefferson." Jefferson answered quite lengthily, giving a long account of his difficulties with Adams, including the letter written by Abigail Adams in 1802, but adding that he would second with pleasure every effort made to bring about a reconciliation. However, he did not entertain much hope that Doctor Rush would succeed, for he knew it was "part of Mr. Adams' character to suspect foul play in those of whom he is jealous, and not easily to relinquish his suspicions."[555]

It was not until the end of the same year that Jefferson took up the subject again, having heard that during a conversation Adams had mentioned his name, adding: "I always loved Jefferson, and still love him." This was enough, and it only remained to create an opportunity to resume the correspondence without too much awkwardness; but "from this fusion of sentiments" Mrs. Adams was "of course to be separated", for Jefferson could not believe that the woman wounded in her motherly pride had forgotten anything. This was no insuperable obstacle, however: "It will only be necessary that I never name her" wrote Jefferson.[556]

Adams took the first step, and, knowing how much Jefferson was interested in domestic manufactures, sent him a fine specimen of homespun made in Massachusetts. Jefferson could but acknowledge the peace offering, which he did most gracefully, without mentioning Mrs. Adams.[557] But he was too much of a Southern gentleman to hold a resentment long even against a woman of such a jealous disposition. Two months later he sent for the first time the homage of his respects to Mrs. Adams, after which he never forgot to mention her. On two occasions he even wrote her charming letters, in the same friendly tone as he had used with her twenty-five years earlier, when he used to do shopping for her in Paris. On hearing of her death on November 13, 1818, he sent to his stricken old friend a touching expression of his sympathy:

Quite naturally, as the circle of his friends grew narrower and one after the other were called by death, Jefferson's thoughts turned to the hereafter. In his youth he had apparently settled the problem once for all; but the solution then found was scarcely more than a temporary expedient. It may behove a young man full of vigor, with a long stretch of years before him, to declare that "the business of life is with matter" and that it serves no purpose to break our heads against a blank wall. There are very few men, if they are thinking at all, who can entirely dismiss from their minds the perplexing and torturing riddle, as the term grows nearer every day. Such an ataraxia may have been obtained by a few sages of old, but it is hardly human, and Jefferson, like Adams, was very human. This is a subject, however, which I cannot approach without some reluctance. Jefferson himself would have highly disapproved of such a discussion. After submitting silently to so many fierce criticisms, after being accused of atheism, materialism, impiety and philosophism by his contemporaries, he hoped that the question would never be broached to him again. With those who tried to revive it, he had absolutely no patience.

Unfortunately the controversy is still going on and at least a few points must be indicated here. The simplest and to some extent the most acceptable treatment of the matter was given a few years after his death by the physician who attended him up to the last minutes:

But Doctor Dunglison's declaration is somewhat unsatisfactory and misleading, for Jefferson once gave his own definition of Unitarianism. From a letter he wrote to James Smith in 1822 it appears he was not ready to join the Unitarian Church any more than any other:

On the other hand, one might easily be misled by some declarations of Jefferson to his more intimate friends. "I am a materialist—I am an Epicurian," he wrote on several instances to John Adams, Thomas Cooper and Short, with whom he felt that he could discuss religious questions more freely than with any others. Rejecting the famous Cogito ergo sum of Descartes, he fell back when in doubt on his "habitual anodyne": "I feel therefore I exist." This in his opinion did not imply the sole existence of matter, but simply that he could not "conceive thought to be an action of a particular organisation of matter, formed for the purpose by its Creator, as well as that attraction is an action of matter, or magnetism of loadstone." Then he added: "I am supported in my creed of materialism by the Lockes, the Tracys and the Stewarts. At what age of the Christian Church this heresy of immaterialism or masked atheism, crept in, I do not exactly know. But a heresy it certainly is. Jesus taught nothing of it."[562]

In the same sense he could write to Judge Augustus S. Woodward: "Jesus himself, the Founder of our religion, was unquestionably a Materialist as to man. In all His doctrines of the resurrection, he teaches expressly that the body is to rise in substances."[563]

His definition of Epicurism would seem equally remote from the popular acceptation, and certainly Jefferson was never of those who could deserve the old appellation of Epicuri de grege porcus; for his Epicurus is the philosopher "whose doctrines contain everything rational in moral philosophy which Greece and Rome have left us."[564]

All through the year 1813 and on many occasions after that date, Adams tried to draw him out on the question of religion. "For," as he said, "these things are to me, at present, the marbles and nine-pins of old age; I will not say beads and prayer books." But Jefferson could not have declared, as did his old friend: "For more than sixty years I have been attentive to this great subject. Controversies between Calvinists and Arminians, Trinitarians and Unitarians, Deists and Christians, Atheists and both, have attracted my attention, whenever the singular life I have led would admit, to all these questions."[565]

Not so with Jefferson, who felt a real abhorrence for theological discussions and considered them as a sheer waste of time. They belonged to a past age and were to be buried in oblivion lest they create again an atmosphere of fanaticism and intolerance; at best, they could be left to the clergy. But tolerant as he was, there were certain doctrines against which Jefferson revolted even in later life, as he probably did when a student at William and Mary:

I can never join Calvin in addressing his God. He was indeed an atheist, which I can never be; or rather his religion was dÆmonism. If ever man worshipped a false God, he did. The God described in his five points, is not the God whom you acknowledge and adore, the Creator and benevolent Governor of the world; but a dÆmon of malignant spirit.