A light rain had begun to fall, heralding heavier rains to follow by the looks of the clouds amassing in the distance. Jefferson suggests we relocate to his library. He calls out to summon the grandchildren playing near the grove, among what one guest referred to as Jefferson’s “pet trees.”
As we make our way to the 43-room Monticello, it is easy to see why Jefferson refers to the structure as his “essay in architecture.” It has taken him some 40 years to bring it to this point, and he still is unwilling to concede his invariable designing, dismantling and reimagining.
Upon entering the south piazza or greenhouse, he exchanges his garden hat for a walking staff of animal horn that leans expectantly next to the heavily framed entrance door. He invites me to follow him through the greenhouse into his library— which visitors often refer to as his “sanctum sanctorum…where any other feet than his own seldom intrude.”
In contrast to the vibrantly decorated adjoining rooms, the library is plainly finished with whitewashed walls, off-white cornice and gray-blue baseboards.
We both settle into French armchairs fitted with slipcovers, no doubt artifacts from his years as United States minister to France before becoming secretary of state.
Jefferson sits in a lounging manner, resting his weight on one hip with one of his shoulders elevated much above the other. He looks a contented man, which impresses me, as adversity never triumphed over his character.
“You must welcome this season of your life?” I express, more as a statement of observation than a question.
“Yes, I enjoy a repose to which I have long been a stranger,” he responds; as though each word advanced an audible sigh. “I am finding the art of living…without this intrusion of institutions that might get in the way of that. I’m free to say and do what I please without being responsible to any mortal.”
I understood.
I was struck by the number of books he had accumulated and conveyed this to him; although in 1815, Jefferson “ceded” his extensive personal library to the United States government to replace the books in the Capitol that were burned by the British in 1814. Jefferson’s collection of nearly 7,000 titles became the foundation for the Library of Congress.
“I cannot live without books,” he replied, snatching a volume that happened to be sitting precariously on the edge of the octagonal table next to him. He immediately scanned its title: Cicero On Old Age (De Senectute), c. 45 BC.
Sensing my curiosity, he rotates the cover toward me, so I can discern its title for myself. “Most relevant, at this juncture in my life,” he smiles, turns pensive and continues: “In all that had contributed to Cicero’s fame and his happiness, he recognized he had passed the culminating point and was on the westward declivity of his life-way. Whatever Cicero’s reasons, he accepts that decrease and decline are inevitable.”
It was clear he was speaking not of Cicero, but of himself.
His eyes follow the book, held affectionately in his hand, back to its former station, where he releases his grip and nudges it a bit closer to the center of the table.
“As you, Sir, reflect over your ‘life-way’ and the early years of the republic, what stands out?”
He deliberates before responding, “‘The contests of that day were contests of principle, between the advocates of republican, and those of kingly government.’ If my political allies and I had not confronted the ‘monarchists,’ ‘Our government would have been, even at this early day, a very different thing from what the successful issue of those efforts have made it.’”
I solemnly suggest, “While time ordinarily is witness to change, Mr. Jefferson, I am not assured much has changed in the ongoing contests of principle.”
The man of penetrating intelligence and insatiable curiosity acknowledges, “Time indeed changes manners and notions, and so far we must expect institutions to bend to them. But time produces also corruption of principles, and against this it is the duty of good citizens to be ever on the watch, and if the gangrene is to prevail at last, let the day be kept off as long as possible.
“Every nation is liable to be under whatever bubble, design, or delusion may puff up in moments when off their guard,” he concludes.
I suggest, “In matters of conscience, is it not principle that gives conscience its voice? And for many are not their principles anchored in their religious beliefs?”
He grasps his right wrist–the one he dislocated attempting to leap a fence at the Cours la Reine, a public park and garden promenade located along the River Seine in Paris–and begins massaging it as he replies, “All men should be free to profess and, by argument, to maintain their opinions in matters of religion. [For] Almighty God hath created the mind free and manifested his supreme will that free it shall remain…all attempts to influence it by temporal punishment or burden or by civil incapacitation tend only to beget habits of hypocrisy and meanness and are a departure from the plan of the holy author of our religion.
“No man shall be enforced, restrained, molested or burdened in his body or goods, nor shall otherwise suffer on account of his religious opinions or beliefs. Everyone must act according to the dictates of his own reason, and mine tells me that civil powers alone have been given to the president of the United States and no authority to direct the religious exercises of its constituents.
“Because religious belief or non-belief is such an important part of every person’s life, freedom of religion affects every individual.
“I, personally, have sworn upon the altar of Almighty God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.
“The Lord who gave us life, gave us liberty.”
He pauses, aware the rain has increased its intensity, then counsels, “Following truth is the only safe guide.”
He delivers these words with ardent conviction, equal to that of any impassioned orator from a pulpit.
“We must eschew error, which bewilders us in one false consequence after another.”
“Regrettably,” adjusting his position in his chair, “There are various ways of keeping truth out of sight.
“The most effectual means of preventing the perversion of power into tyranny are to illuminate, as far as practicable, the minds of the people at large, and more especially to give them knowledge of those facts which history exhibits, that possessed thereby of the experience of other ages and countries, they may be enabled to know ambition under all its shapes, and prompt to exert their natural powers to defeat its purposes.
“The practice of morality being necessary for the well-being of society, [our Creator] has taken care to impress its precepts so indelibly on our hearts that, [one would hope], they shall not be effaced by the subtleties of our brain.
“If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be.
“Consider this country’s founding. ‘It was by the sober sense of our citizens that we were safely and steadily conducted from monarchy to republicanism, and it is by the same agency alone we can be kept from falling back.’”
The former president leans back in his chair, the rain, having subsided, leaves Monticello once again awash in sunlight–its architect having become a mere spectator to passing events…“on the westward declivity of his lifeway.”
It’s his ideas, his ideals and his words that I pray will continue to live.
Former Cook County Commissioner Garry Gamble is writing this ongoing column about the various ways government works, as well as other topics.
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