University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XI

First Visit to Monticello—Mr. Jefferson's Home and
Grave

In early September, 1902, I made my first visit to Princeton,
an institution, in spite of Mr. Jefferson's known prejudices—
its teachings in those primitive days being elementary and denominational,
characteristics he so thoroughly detested—I always
held in high esteem. Each and every journey North
and to the upper Jersey coast resorts had brought me past the
Junction, revealing in the distance the beautiful outlines of
town and college (university) buildings, which served to create
an interest as well as a determination to take time some day
for a tour of inspection. Indeed every thoughtful college-trained
man possesses abundant milk of human kindness for
all educational institutions, and, although usually a graduate
of only one, finds in after years his criminations and discriminations
against the many becoming less and less acute. While
most of us during student life may have had strong preferences
for the institution we attended—standing for it ever loyal—yet
our sense of justice was never so obtunded as not to accord
to some others equal if not superior advantages. Certainly a
visit to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Cornell, or even Vassar, at
that early age would have been hailed by every collegian with
keen delight. Along with others it was my good fortune to
be on several occasions a delegate to my Fraternity's Grand
Chapter Annual Convention held at one or another college,
and that contact not only increased acquaintance and strengthened
friendship, but gave an insight to what was doing elsewhere—provided
more liberal views and a broader conception

University—Academic Building

(Erected 1896-98)

of the true educational life. Most persons enjoy travel and a
visit to the unseen, likewise nearly all believers in learning have
a natural curiosity, nay inspiration—beginning early and not
ceasing with years—to see the leading educational centers of
our land. From Princeton some relatives and many friends
had graduated, which served as a stimulus for realizing an unfading
hope, and now a nephew, for whom I had more than
ordinary ambition, was nearing the college period—that which
I preferred should be taken in Virginia, but knew would be
otherwise, as his family entertained strong Federalistic sentiments.
He was then at a preparatory school—far from best—
and we had talked over time and again Lawrenceville, thinking
the course there ideal, and that the stay of several years
in such close proximity to Princeton might incline towards
finally accepting her advantages. Enjoying mutual friends in
Trenton we happened one day in their presence to mention
these schools and a desire to visit them, when one of the gentlemen
quickly affirmed a willingness to accompany us at our
convenience. It was a golden opportunity readily and gladly
accepted—as the proffered escort was born and reared in that
city, had graduated from Princeton, following the good example
of his elder brothers, and carried a social entrée that was
most delightful. His father was a man of large affairs—
prominent in the counsels of State—but it was rather early
to prejudge the son's career. He met myself and nephew
on the appointed morning at the Trenton depot (Pennsylvania
Railroad), where we took the trolley to the center of the city
and there transferred to a larger and more commodious electric
car running the suburban route desired. After a half hour's
run over a well-equipped road through six miles of slightly
rolling agricultural land we reached, laying to our right, the
campus of the Lawrenceville School with its inviting open entrance.
Just within the grounds to the right of the first road
stood a well-proportioned and well-planned brick cottage,
partly overvined and faced with a small porch upon which
stood a gentleman of middle years, with seeming intelligence
and affability. Only a few steps and we faced him, when I
introduced ourselves and asked the privilege of inspecting the
institution. He greeted us cordially, stated he was the headmaster,
Dr. McPherson, and would be only too glad to go
with us through the grounds and such buildings as might interest
the stranger. I found him to be a Scotchman by birth,
well-informed, of strong personality and executive ability—a
strict disciplinarian, positive yet kind, evidently an ideal character
to fashion manly boys. I never was impressed more
favorably with any preparatory school, as its magnitude and
equipment left little to be desired—far excelling in my judgment
many of our American Colleges. The hour and a half
together was spent most delightfully, as Dr. McPherson not
only gave lucid descriptions of the buildings—Foundation
House, Memorial Hall, Memorial Chapel, Upper House, Gymnasium,
etc.—and methods of teaching used, but was friendly
enough to discuss freely several educational topics in accordance
with his decidedly pronounced opinions. I there saw
what I had never before—dozens of mahogany desks in service
six or eight years without the slightest evidence of knife
or other vandalic marks—only an occasional ink stain preventing
their acceptance as absolutely new. There seemed
little else to Lawrenceville beyond the school, which, with
tennis courts, buildings, athletic grounds, golf links, baseball
and football fields, extended a full half mile on the right of
the one (Main) street, whose center was the bed of our
electric road, while on the left the Burser's office, post-office,
a few stores and many comfortable residences with attractive
grounds, shrubbery and flowers occupied an equal distance.
Certainly it gave the one impression—simply an institutional
town without commercialism and distracting forces, perfect
qualities for the student.

Resuming our trolley ride, another six miles through fields
of growing corn and grazing herds, traversed now and then
by large, sluggish streams, brought us to our destination,
Princeton—very near the railroad station. To our companion
I referred several times en route to Aaron Burr, expressing
a great desire to see his grave, and always received
the courteous reply: "I shall most assuredly show you that."
After passing a couple of hours in going through various
buildings and haunting grounds, and beginning to realize
fatigue, hunger and the approaching end of sight-seeing, I
reminded him again of Burr's grave, only to bring forth the
reply: "That is now very near." We were then about finishing

the Dynamo, Engineering and Chemical buildings, and immediately
proceeded to the extreme east of the campus, along
Washington Street southward to the Infirmary and that
beautiful boulevard, Prospect Avenue, whose level sides were
graced with students' club-houses and professors' homes—all
in well-arranged floral plots and verdant grounds. Just before
reaching this latter street we came to a standstill under
a good-sized tree, with extensive foliage canopying a solitary
neglected grave, modestly enclosed by small cedars or arbor
vitæ, and marked by ordinary much-discolored and mutilated
white marble slabs, the foot one being almost invisible.
The head was westward and carried by far the larger vertical
slab—about three feet six inches high, two feet wide and two
inches thick—bearing upon its eastern face this epitaph: "The
remains of Catherine Bullock, daughter of Joseph and Esther
Bullock, of Philadelphia, who, after a tedious illness which
she suffered with exemplary resignation, died June 7, 1794,
aged 22 years." As we approached the spot our companion
with confidence and emphasis ejaculated: "This is the grave
of Burr." My great surprise can well be imagined upon finding
it the resting place of another—that in which our friend
shared to the extent of positive embarrassment. After a
ruminative period we concluded that Burr must lay in the
town cemetery, often called "America's Westminster," where
a later hour was arranged to be spent, and where on June 26th
(1908) was laid at rest our much revered ex-President,
Grover Cleveland. We next visited his club-house (Colonial)
and the Infirmary, then accepted an hour for dinner (Nassau
Inn—the Princeton Inn being closed and under repairs—),
after which a team conveyed us to the more remote points—
Bayard Lane homes (Mr. Cleveland's, Dr. Van Dyke's, etc.),
Theological Seminary, Moses Taylor Pyne's, Athletic grounds,
Cemetery, etc. To this latter entrance was gained by a small
gate on Witherspoon Street, and once within no difficulty
was experienced in finding along the south boundary graves of
many distinguished dead—those who had held with signal
ability most important positions in the College, Seminary,
town, county and State. Near the corner of Wiggins Street
was one of the oldest treasures—the discolored and almost
illegible tomb of Dr. Thomas Wiggins—"many years a distinguished
and faithful physician in the town." Close by
and eastward was the Stockton lot containing graves of
Commodore Richard Stockton and members of that noted
family. But the one adjoining—College lot—was of most
interest, as there rested so many of her illustrious presidents
and their intimate associates. The west boundary was
marked by a row of fourteen graves, each two or three feet
apart and covered almost uniformly with full length horizontal
white marble slabs upon marble coping, or brick covered
with cement, about two feet high. The most northward
was that of the elder Aaron Burr, followed by those
of Jonathan Edwards, Samuelis Davies, Samuelis Finley,
Joannis Witherspoon, Samuelis Stanhope Smith, Walter
Minto, Ashbel Green, Mary—wife of James Carnahan,
Jacobi Carnahan, Joannis Maclean, Johannis Maclean, M. D.,
Mrs Phebe Maclean, William Bainbridge Maclean. Many of
the epitaphs were entirely Latin, some so lengthy as to fill
completely the slab, but those of Aaron Burr and Jonathan
Edwards seemed most difficult to decipher owing to greater
discoloration and mutilation. At the foot of these two graves,
nearly centering the continuous four-foot inter-space, but
slightly nearer Jonathan Edwards, stood the vertical tombstone
of Aaron Burr's son, Aaron—once our vice-president—consisting
of a white marble slab four feet high, twenty-one inches
wide, and eight inches thick, with edges channeled, set into a
slightly broader block of similar marble—two feet wide, ten
inches thick and high—which in turn rested upon a granite
slab three feet long, twenty-two inches deep and eight inches
high. Near the top the eastward face bore this inscription:
"Aaron Burr, Born Feb. 6, 1756. Died Sept. 14, 1836. A
Colonel in the Army of the Revolution. Vice-President of
the United States, from 1801 to 1805." It is said that some
lady admirer erected this monument incognito two years after
his death, it being conveyed to the cemetery and mounted in
the stillness of night without even the knowledge of residents
or town authorities. Just opposite a few feet—northeast
corner of the lot—stood by far the most imposing tomb—
granite monument—bearing upon its westward face the inscription:
"James McCosh, D. D., LL. D., D. S. Born
Ayrshire, Scotland, April 1, 1811. Died Princeton, New Jersey,
Nov. 16, 1894. Therefore are they before the throne of
God, and serve him day and night in his temples." In strolling
over towards the entrance driveway we noticed to our left
what was possibly the graveyard's most imposing monument,
having on its summit a life size statue in frock-coat and skullcap,
and on one face the inscription: "Paul Tulane, 18011887.
Founder of the Tulane University of New Orleans."
Near here we encountered several colored men busily improving
the appearance of various lots, and of one I inquired the
direction of Professor Guyot's tomb, only to provoke considerable
hesitation, but finally the exclamatory reply: "Oh,
yes, it is over yonder"—pointing somewhat northward. He
soon desired to know why I asked for that gentleman, as in
his memory I was the first so to do. I could not suppress
my regret that the man and name, Arnold Guyot, for thirty
years a Princeton professor, and a world-renowned naturalist,
ranking possibly next to Agassiz in their day, should have
left in this land of adoption such a fading memory.

I have related this experience to show that it is possible for
an intelligent young man to spend four years at Princeton, to
graduate, to pass by the supposed grave of a great man several
times daily without the interest or curiosity to verify an impression,
to keep all that time without the cemetery walls, and
to know not where rest, at least, some of her noted dead. And
here I wish to draw a happy contrast—that in contact with my
fellow students I never encountered one who admitted having
been drawn to the University of Virginia alone by its reputation
as a teaching institution, knowing nothing previously of
Mr. Jefferson's identity with it. Not only this, but they
realized with considerable pride, that on the crest of the nearby
towering peak to the east, Monticello, he lived, died and
rested. Nearly every school history of that day gave, if not an
illustration, some reference to Monticello, the home of Jefferson,
while the two names at Charlottesville and the University
were linked so inseparably that we students somehow imbibed
very early the Jeffersonian spirit—that which still pervaded
thoroughly the atmosphere, causing us to consider their palmy
days not remote and of the greatest historic interest.

At Princeton it seemed very different with Mr. Burr and
his resting place—a man certainly to whom the institution

and students owed indirectly not a little—for his father, Aaron
Burr the elder, had been the College's second president and
had rescued it from its predecessor, Jonathan Dickinson, just
in time to save it from possible extinction and to assure it
thereafter a substantial existence—that which it had never
enjoyed. Therefore, if not its founder he was its life saving
spirit, and, upon meeting an untimely death, was succeeded
by his renowned father-in-law, the saintly Jonathan Edwards,
who aided in making the family connection and dependence
all the stronger. Beyond that the younger Aaron Burr was a
graduate of the College and became distinguished in politics
—strangely enough a contemporaneous party rival of Mr.
Jefferson—the two running together, 1800, on the National
ticket for President and Vice-President, the one securing simply
the larger electoral vote to occupy the higher office. It
is true then came the tie vote contest occasioning the House
of Representatives to make a decision, by only one plurality
in favor of Mr. Jefferson being President and Mr. Burr the
Vice-President, a result in exact conformity with the peoples'
wishes; that Mr. Burr was accused at that time of chicanery
and trickery to thwart public will in his behalf, and that later
he had headed a conspiracy against his country, but the fact
remained—that at one time they both had about an equal
hold upon the confidence of their countrymen. Although it
is easy to draw between these two noted characters a kind of
parallelism in some respects, yet to-day all recognize them to
have been widely different—one living nobly and solely for
others, the other, Aaron Burr the scoundrel as Fiske puts it,
intriguingly and strictly for self.

No one, therefore, need be surprised that even at Princeton
the name and deeds of Mr. Burr count for little, while in
Virginia those of Mr. Jefferson still remain near the hearts
of his people, old and young—worshiped by many, praised by
all, condemned by none—and that one of the earliest ambitions
of first year students at the University was to make
during the pleasant autumn weather a journey to his home
and tomb. The distance by road was considered four miles,
but a little less by foot when passing in a straight line over
fields, fences and ravines. As a rule youth has no aversion
to long and rugged walks—those recognized advantageous to
health and development. Indeed, the more difficult the passage

the more tempting the undertaking, space figuring little,
as each boasts himself capable of walking the entire day without
serious inconvenience from fatigue. Inasmuch as every
week-day carried its full quota of work, the Sabbath alone
was left for such a required absence and diversion, so that
during the week small parties arranged for these Sunday
trips, weather permitting—a clear, bright day being preferred,
as only then we chanced to see the smoke of Richmond, nearly
a hundred miles away, and the dim outline of the slightly
nearer "Peaks of Otter," the highest point of the Blue Ridge
in Virginia (southwest). Several of us made plans for the
fourth Sunday in October (27th), but the early morning rain
rendered roads muddy and walking heavy, so we postponed
the trip a week later, November 3rd, which proved all that
could be desired. I take from my diary notes of that date,
important facts which I have thought wise to revise and amplify:
Burrus and I started for Monticello at 11.30 o'ck.;
stopped at Ambroselli's for oysters and waffles, knowing we
would miss regular dinner; left restaurant an hour later and
journeyed the usual route to Charlottesville, thence out by the
depot, the only one in those days over the railroad tracks by
the private road, on the crest, through Mr. Ficklin's two farms,
thence up hill and down dale to intersect the regular winding
road around the base and in the notch between the higher Carter's
Mountain on the south and Monticello, reaching the latter's
summit by a tortuous road over its southwestern slope.
Our pace was rather rapid until nearing the mountain's base
we encountered an unexpected obstacle—a good-sized stream
without bridge or foot-log. This vehicles easily forded, but
none of these was in sight, nor likely to be on the holy day—
a time not justifying much passing to and from the town.
While deliberating our troubles two students joined us having
in common the same destination, so we four proceeded up
the stream until a point was reached with many bed-rocks protruding
above the running water and sufficiently close together
to be reached by forced effort in jumping. This enabled
our safe passage and the entrance shortly thereafter
upon the ascent of the mountain side covered densely with a
growth of small and larger trees. Hill climbing at best requires
the expenditure of much energy—means work—but to
pull one's self up that narrow, poorly made and kept rocky,
precipitous road, taking cross-cuts whenever possible, suggested
early the nature of our impending task and the wish
that the summit be less remote. After tugging quite an hour
we came upon the graveyard, laying near to and on the right
(east) of the road, an area of more than a hundred feet
square enclosed by a brick wall of at least eight feet high. An
iron gate slightly higher than the wall and about ten feet wide,
constructed of three horizontal and many vertical rods four
inches apart, guarded the entrance on the roadside (northwest),
which was locked securely. We stood a while gazing
through these wide meshes, and except in the immediate front
the view was that of a neglected wilderness—thoroughly
covered with an undergrowth of grass, small and large bushes
and a few stately trees. In the foreground several feet from
the gate and about its median line stood a modest monument,
obelisk, eight feet high, with square base three feet broad and
two feet high, surmounted by a tapering rectangular shaft
with base two feet and apex ten to twelve inches, the latter
beleved on all four sides to form an obtuse point. To our
left could easily be seen several graves covered with full-sized
horizontal marble and slate slabs, and in the rear wall one or
two disintegrated crumbling spots, by which we concluded an
entrance might be effected without risk or injury—a surmise
well-founded as in a few minutes we faced the lettered side
(east) of the monument. On the granite base could partly be
made out in three lines:

In the main shaft above was an indentation, into which was
fastened originally a white marble plate or slab bearing the
following inscription—that which Mr. Jefferson during life
purposely wrote and placed in a certain private drawer along
with various souvenirs, including an ink sketch of the monument
he desired:

There was not a vestige left of this inlaid slab, but it must
have conformed in outline to the full tapering face of the shaft,

nearly two feet wide, and have been that high, as the visible
recession extended from within three inches of the base to
the shaft's median line. Of course the marble slab, soft compared
with the rest of the monument, had been broken and
chipped off by the relic hunters, whose ruthless hands ceased
not even there, but had made disfiguring inroads upon all
four of the square corners, these being irregularly broken their
entire length. Seeing what others had done—set a vulgar
example—encouraged me to possess a similar memento of my
visit, so with various pieces of rocks lying around I attempted
to break off small fragments, but in vain as the harder granite
sternly resisted the violence applied. I did, however, find
within twenty feet of the grave a straight growing scion,
which I cut, had ferruled and capped, to serve me many years
as a curio walking stick. Although Mr. Jefferson lay buried
between his wife and daughter, Mary, with his eldest daughter,
Martha, across the head, all having had appropriate marble
slabs, yet only a few fragments of Martha's, the longest survivor,
remained to tell the story. To the left of the gate a
number of graves of still older dates had been more fortunate,
as their slate and discolored marble slabs had been unmolested
—belonging to family members less known and revered by
the general public. Slightly to the right and near the center
of the enclosure stood that stately oak, whose branching foliage
covered the remains of Dabney Carr, and extended to
the edge of the Jefferson group. Under this canopy of nature,
removed from all earthly disturbances, these two youthful
spirits, so congenial in feelings, tastes, principles and pursuits,
sat daily upon a rustic seat of their own construction studying
and discussing their Bracton, Coke and Matthew Bacon, critical
of the past, dissatisfied with the present and apprehensive
of the future. In death they rested together—the slab of Carr
covering their favorite spot and bearing this inscription:

After carefully inspecting everything considered of interest
we rescaled the rear wall and continued our steps to the
slightly more elevated summit, not more than a fourth of a
mile distant, which we found practically level for a space of
six hundred feet north and south by three hundred east and
west, to serve as a lawn, the sides of the mountain gradually
sloping therefrom. Stately trees stood here and there, and
near the center the neglected mansion, facing north—more
accurately northeast—to whose approach a straight indented
but thoroughly overgrown walk led from the lawn's edge.
It seemed closed and unoccupied, but upon walking around to
various points of advantage, talking considerably, and showing
signs of curiosity, an elderly white man made his appearance.
He was the keeper living on the premises (several
south rooms), having the privilege of certain tillage and the
revenue from showing visitors through the house—that for
us being the modest sum of fifteen cents each. In this capacity
he had acted for years, knew considerable Jeffersonian history,
and delighted to communicate it. The mountain has a height
of about six hundred feet and contains two hundred and
twenty-three acres, only one-half being subject to cultivation.
The building, externally Doric, internally Ionic architecture,
is constructed of English bricks, much discolored, apparently
a single story with balustrade around the almost flat roof
cornice, and consists of one large octagonal pavilion surmounted
by a circular dome, having wings north and south,
and projecting porticoes east and west—each cross-section being
about one hundred feet. The north and south wings each
terminate in a piazza with same floor elevation as the house,
three feet, supported by brick arches, and opening on to a
terrace, one-third above and two-thirds under ground—whose
floors are of the same level as the cellar with which they communicate,
and whose nearly flat roofs are on a line with the
first floor, thus enabling their use for promenading in evenings
and damp weather. These terraces extend to the brow of
the mountain on either side, having their two projecting ends
terminating in additional storied turrets or pavilions, twenty
feet square, both having been used by Mr. Jefferson as offices
—the south one in winter, the north one in summer—where
he was accustomed to sit bareheaded until bedtime with

University—Lewis Brooks Museum

(Erected 1875-77)

friends, unannoyed by dew and insects. The north one was
occupied many years as an office by his grandson, Thomas
Jefferson Randolph, and it was through one of these, possibly
the southern, that Mr. Jefferson, when Governor, made escape,
thus evading capture by the British under Tarleton.
The mansion contains thirty-six rooms, small and large, and
has two almost similar entrances—east and west—the former
considered front, having a portico receding six feet within
the wall, thereby giving it a depth of twenty-five and a width
of thirty feet, covered by an angled roof supported by four
stout stone pillars resting on the floor, three feet above ground,
and reached by five or six low stone steps extending its entire
width. It was through this our guide admitted us, entering
first a lofty nearly square hall or saloon having balcony to
the right, connecting the upper story and originally intended
an avenue of reaching the first floor by ornamental stairways
—those that never were erected. On one side is an old bust
of Mr. Jefferson and opposite stands one of Hamilton, both
mounted on large pedestals; over the front door built into the
wall is a good-sized clock, which had to be wound standing
upon a ladder—this latter being in normal position and claimed
to have been made by Mr. Jefferson himself; the hands stand
at 7.34 o'ck. From this hall we passed through folding
glass doors into an octagonal parlor or drawing-room, twenty-six
by twenty-three feet, opening out upon the rear or west
portico, so that these two large rooms comprise the entire
depth of the house. The parlor is adorned with several
pictures, and French plate mirrors extending from ceiling to
floor, the latter being tessellated or parqueted in ten inch
squares of wild cherry (mahogany color) with four inch
borders of light-colored beech, finished with a glossy surface.
From these two large halls or rooms we entered the other
living apartments—from the east hall by a passage on the
right to two bedrooms and the piazza, by one on the left
(south) to Mrs. Jefferson's sitting-room, library and piazza;
from the west hall (parlor) we entered on the right (north)
a good-sized dining-room furnished with a handsome crystal
chandelier and busts of Washington, Lafayette and Voltaire,
while just beyond (northward) is an octagonal tea-room,
used alone by Mr. Jefferson, opening out upon the north
piazza; from the parlor on the left (south) was Mr. Jefferson's
room, which entered, as did the adjoining passage, into the
library—a room extending the full depth of the building and
opening by glass windows and doors upon the piazza enclosed
with glass for a conservatory. The upper story, reached by
a very narrow, dark, winding stairs admitting the passage
of only one person at a time, is divided into a number of
small irregular shaped, poorly lighted and ventilated rooms,
several having alcoves with slats fastened into them for beds,
like unto the bed-chambers on the lower floor The dome
room is octagonal, large and commodious, without any partitions,
being used in its palmy day as the "ladies' drawing-room,"
but now the repository of one solitary article of more
than passing interest—the sulky or gig body in which Mr.
Jefferson made frequent trips to Richmond, Washington,
Philadelphia, etc. In one of the upper bedrooms a member
of the family died, when it was found necessary to lower the
body through one of the front circular windows, the stairs
being too contracted for that purpose. Upon approaching by
the front entrance the octagon with its circular dome is
scarcely visible, as that occupies the rear half of the building,
but looms into conspicuous prominence and effect when one
approaches from the graveyard or rear.

Monticello of that day was a total wreck, as many years
had passed without the slightest effort at repairs; the shingles
of the roof were so decayed as not only to admit rain and
snow but the rays of sunlight; many window panes, slats and
shutters were broken or missing; the paint of former years
was scarcely visible, and everything, once bright and beautiful,
was stained and effaced. The old English bricks, as durable
as time, were darkened by exposure, while the covered ways
(terraces) were coated with mould and green deposit, the result
of dampness, darkness and neglect. The front was carved,
penciled and disfigured with the names and remarks of many
who could not omit registering the delightful occasion of
their visitation.

That day's experience at Monticello was attended with no
little sadness, indeed, depression, for everything observed
belonged to a passed generation, had apparently seen its day
of usefulness and was on the rapid road to extinction. No

one, seemingly, was left with sufficient means, interest or
patriotism to stay the inroad of decay, and the entire mountain
top stood in our minds hopelessly doomed. One could
scarcely realize the historic side of the place, especially the
facts: that there possibly above all other private spots in
America had been assembled most love of liberty, virtue, wisdom
and learning; that it had been the home of Mr. Jefferson
for sixty years, forty of which, having been spent in higher
positions of public trust, had occasioned a certain degree of
entertaining unsurpassed in its day; that Madison, Monroe,
Wirt, Henry, Randolph and others had used so frequently its
hospitality as their own, while Webster, Paine, Priestley, Ticknor,
Wayland, Lafayette and hundreds of more or less eminence
had wandered around those grounds as were we that
beautiful afternoon of perfect sunshine. Although this was
my maiden trip to the "bleak house on the hill top," yet no
year passed during my stay at the University without making
at least one visit to that sacred shrine. It was the custom of
quite a number of us students and many fair daughters of
Albemarle to unite in giving upon those spacious and secluded
grounds annual May-parties, and the days thus spent stand
out now in after life with unusual brightness. Each year
we found it the same dilapidated, heartrending object, experiencing
no change save for the worse, presided over by the
old keeper, more dead than alive, ever glad to greet a strange
and youthful face, and when in numbers, as on those festive
May occasions, his joy knew no bounds, for we not only
brought him abundant sunshine, but what possibly was more
appreciated and to his liking—many dainties and dimes. No
one enjoyed more than he the coronation of May Queen and
the reverberations through that grove and palatial mansion
of music's sweet strains furnished by the Charlottesville String
Band.

It certainly is very gratifying to realize that the "little
mountain" top of to-day is not what it was then; that the
deadly pall no longer enshrouds the historic home, for in the
hands of its present owner, Mr. Jefferson M. Levy, it has
been restored to its original condition, so that life and manners
seem again to flourish there as in primeval times. The
little graveyard now is not quite the neglected and despoiled

spot as then, for happily by order of Congress, 1882, the
original much defaced and unlettered monument was replaced
by one carrying strikingly the same outline but greater proportions
(granite, twelve to fifteen feet high, two and a half
feet at the base tapering to fourteen inches at the summit),
and bearing the Jeffersonian epitaph—identical with that
originally inscribed on the marble slab set into its predecessor.
With this order also came the removal of the crumbling and
disintegrated brick wall around the enclosure, and the substitution
of a more attractive and durable iron railing, with
gate bearing the Latin proverb—Mr. Jefferson's crest motto:
"Ab Eo Libertas, A Quo Spiritus." Monticello of to-day
needs no apology, the wrongs have been arighted—she lives
as does her immortal Jefferson.

The new student soon heard much of the many secret fraternities
and the two open literary societies—Jeff. and Wash.
—and observed that while fraternity membership depended
upon good fellowship, social qualities, creditable class standing
and thorough acquaintance—commendations requiring
time for development, unless one's favorable reputation as
gained elsewhere had been heralded in advance by kind friends
—that on the other hand membership in either literary society
carried no such restrictions, they being accessible from the
very first to every matriculant desiring to sign the constitution
and pay the initiation fee of ten dollars. Both societies, as
far as merits, advantages, weekly debates, prominent members
in the present and past, and aspirants for positions of honor
received not a little general discussion, often furnishing much
of our table talk.

The Jeff(erson) was established during the first session
of the University, July 14, 1825, at No. 7 West
Lawn, having as its object the promotion of debate and literary
improvement, and at first had the phase of secrecy, which was
abolished after a time. Its badge was a scroll breastpin of
polished gold, about an inch long and fully half that wide,
bearing upon the front the inscription: Jeff. Soc. U. V.,
crossed pens and three Greek letters Φ Κ Θ, and upon the reverse
side, Haec olim meminisse juvabit, together with the
individual's name.

The Wash(ington) was established during the session
1834-35, by the merging of two other societies that had existed
several years, having a similar object, purpose and management
to the Jeff., but usually a slightly less membership,
which in each approximated one hundred.

For years each of these societies gave Intermediate and
Final Celebrations, but in my day only the latter were observed—during
Commencement Week—the Wash. selecting
Monday evening, the Jeff. Tuesday. These entertainments
consisted strictly of society talent, except the music, opening
prayer and benediction—the former generally furnished by a
Baltimore, Washington or Richmond band; the latter by the
University chaplain—and lasted about one and a half hours,
during which the president delivered an address of welcome to
the audience, showered kind expressions upon fellow students,
and introduced the orator, who spoke twenty or thirty minutes
upon some entertaining or otherwise subject. The president
then conferred in complimentary sentences the debater's medal
upon the selected recipient, who, with a five or ten minute
speech concluded the program. Thereafter came an open air
band concert from the stand erected for the occasion on the
Lawn, about two hundred feet from the Rotunda, during
which a general promenading around the brightly illuminated
(Chinese lanters, etc.) arcades, and attendance upon
one or more receptions, given each night by the several professors,
were enjoyed. It may be of interest to recall the
method employed at that period of selecting the President,
Orator and Medalist for the functions—a balloting vote of
the members—so analogous to pure and simple politics of
our maturer years.

The aspirants for the presidency usually were scarce, as
the position exacted a particular kind of man—one with a
social and friendly nature, clever and frank manners, and
abundant time for indulging these qualities without the resemblance
of abuse. He must be always urbane and polite,
avoiding excessive demonstration; manly and constant, never
allowing the feelings to measure the degree of affability or
the weather to influence the hand-shake—in being warm, never
cold. He could not afford to turn the back when the face
was needed, nor use the tongue save in praise and defence—
mollifying at all times various aspersions and the venomous
sting of slander. Added to all this he should possess money
and a willingness to spend it, not only in an occasional cheap
supper, but in the complimentary payment of initiation fees
under extenuating circumstances. The question of fraternity

membership played little advantage—indeed, the rivalry between
these sometimes weakened chances of success, favoring
those not so entangled. After all it was the natural born
politician, with time and money at his disposal that stood
farthest from defeat—possessions that fell to the lot of few
in those unsettled days. Thus there were three ways of commanding
leisure: an unusual intellect, a short course, and
indifference to class standing—the former alone commending
itself to the students, the latter two simple possibilities to
those so inclined. The monetary power, however, could play
but little part, being beyond the grasp of the great majority,
as southern finances were depleted and nearly every representative
stood for—the most knowledge in the least time—to
become all the sooner a money-maker rather than a money-spender.
The system was wrong and denounced by many,
but retained from precedent, knowing nothing better. Just
to think of the several contestants and supporters so embittered
against one another as scarcely to speak in passing—an enmity
extending in a few cases over a large portion of their
University career—and you have the situation. A regular
political campaign with its excitement and consequences. Unfortunately
youth is intolerant of adverse opinions, relentless
and unforgiving in strong differences, so that contests of this
kind engendered more harm than good, and it was only by
making one's better manhood assert itself that those most interested
in time resolved to forgive and forget. Happily the
position demanded some literary ability from which there was
no escape, and every would-be applicant knew the danger of
overestimating personal fitness, as that had to be passed upon,
publicly, at the Saturday night meetings throughout the session—when
he entered into debate and speech-making. Some
gave numerous demonstrations, in fact too many for their
own good, others were contented with two or three.

The position of orator seemed to elicit least concern, rivalry
and rancor, the aspirants experiencing little difficulty in attaining
their ambition, chiefly because we recognized orators
to be born and not made. It was an acknowledged fact that
the best talent in this line lay in the law department among the
second year men, who had enjoyed Moot Court and other special
training, but most of such were handicapped by being

applicants for graduation, in which they preferred to take no
chances by diverting sufficient time to familiarize, write and
memorize a speech containing original and wholesome material
upon a subject affording pleasure to and praise from the public.
The possible honors being considered problematic—much
work and little glory—when one announced his desire to be
our orator he generally received unanimous support, especially
if he be a law student of good standing and address, and could
convince us in one or more efforts of ability to speak with intelligence
and composure. There was one other restriction
with which the orators had to contend—that of submitting
their manuscript to a Committee of the Faculty for approval—
a custom inaugurated only a short while before my entrance,
and made necessary through the unwillingness of the young
Southern enthusiasts immediately after the war to let bygones
be bygones, continuing to harp upon what they believed its
injustices, political wrongs and reconstruction crimes, to the
displeasure of the Faculty and the great majority of the older
heads. It was related with considerable gusto that during the
preceding summer (1872) when one of the orators visited
Professor Holmes, Chairman of the Approval Committee, and
laid before him the pages of his proposed speech, the professor
remarked: "Now, I do hope you have not condescended
to select a subject of low order, particularly one pertaining to
the late bitter strife, or one that might compromise our institution
in any way." To which the young man replied: "Far
from it, far from it Professor, I have not touched a single
thing on this mundane sphere; I have restricted myself entirely
to celestial bodies"—The night brings forth the stars.

The position of medalist was guarded with far greater care
and interest, being the most desirable within the gift of the
Societies, and stood not only for high excellence in debating
and speaking, but backed by a fifty dollar gold medal—a glittering
and durable testimonial of ability well-expressed. Here
usually was centered even more excitement and rivalry than
around the presidency, as the contestants were of greater
number and their merit less easy to judge with equity and
justice. Each entered many general and specific debates, prepared
and unprepared, affording abundant opportunity for a
fair estimate of capacity, strength, weakness and unfitness,

and whatever may have been the kindly feeling towards any
special one, it may be said to the credit of his admirers
and companions, that they would withhold support unless he
was found to possess a certain degree of natural talent—as
otherwise the reputation of the Societies and University would
suffer, that which we recognized was our highest and lasting
duty to protect. The chief fault was in allowing friendship
sometimes to go so far as to be satisfied with less than the
greatest available merit, but here, as with the President and
Orator, I never saw a Medalist an indifferent debater, or fail
at the Final Celebration to give general satisfaction in his
speech. However, the truth remained, that occasionally we
did not choose our most gifted members, and in consequence
of that injustice both Societies were well-pleased when the
Faculty two years later took matters into its own hands and
announced a plan for the future which would serve the best
interest of all concerned.