may 26, 1811 (sun.)

Today Mr. Jefferson is sending his married granddaughter, Anne, a novel she wanted to read, The Modern Griselda, by Maria Edgeworth. In general, he doesn't approve of girls or young women reading novels, but Mrs. Edgeworth's books teach important moral lessons.

He and Anne have long shared a love of flowers, and he reports on which ones have been and are now blooming at Monticello, "the hyacinths and tulips are off the stage, the Irises giving place to the Belladonnas ...." He writes whimsically, showing a side which would surprise those who know him only as a writer of grand political prose. (And, yes, he writes without using capital letters at the beginning of sentences.) "the flowers come forth like the belles of the day, have their short reign of beauty and splendor, & retire like them to the more interesting office of reproducing their like."

may 5, 1811 (sun.)

"... [S]ober interest tells me I should leave off buying books," Mr. Jefferson wrote a few days ago in response to a friend suggesting another title to add to his library of thousands.

Yeah. Right. This has all the credibility of a drunkard swearing off rum.

Well, today's mail brought yet another offer, this time a subscription to the Edinburgh Encyclopedia. He has declined, graciously, citing a surfeit of encyclopedias on his shelves already.

He's being responsible. For now.

may 1, 1811 (wed.)

Moving is never simple. It seems that one always leaves something or other behind. When Mr. Jefferson moved out of the President's house in Washington, D. C. two years ago, he left a some pictures on the wall of the sitting room -- an easy to understand oversight. His friend, Mr. Latrobe, the artist who made one of the prints, rescued them at that time, and now they're finally on their way to Monticello via another friend, Mr. Coles.

april 13, 1811 (sat.)

It's Mr. Jefferson's 68th birthday, but that's not what's on his mind. Instead, he's thinking about the political state of South America.

Last fall he received a book from his friend, Alexander von Humbolt, a German scientist living in Paris, but because of the unstable political situation in France, he hasn't been able to send his thanks until now. The book was a volume of Humbolt's work about his recent travels in Latin America, Voyages aux regions du nouveaux continent, fait en 1799, 1800, 1802, 1803, et 1804.

Now he ponders the futures of those South American countries. New Granada, Uruguay, and Argentina are currently in the struggle for freedom, and other colonies are surely soon to follow, as all the world seems to be following the examples of the United States and France in throwing off the chains of monarchy.

"What kind of government will they establish? How much liberty can they bear without intoxication? Are their chiefs sufficiently enlightened to form a well guarded government, and their people to watch their chiefs? Have they mind enough to place their domesticated Indians on a footing with whites?"

Heaven knows these problems have been, and continue to be, difficult enough here on the northern continent.

april 5, 1811 (fri.)

When Mr. Jefferson came back to Monticello from Bedford County about a month ago, he found the that the plants he'd started in the greenhouse had died during his absence. And he still didn't have his flour. The miller said he'd send it as soon as it was ground. It's not here yet, but should be coming soon, and some of it can then be sold, with the money going toward paying down debts.

february 21, 1811 (thur.)

This business trip to Poplar Forest keeps dragging on. Nothing is resolved. Mr. Jefferson's wheat is still at the mill, still unground. The mill dam has broken a second time, and then, as a result, Mr. Calloway, the miller, went bankrupt. Now someone else owns the mill, but he still has to fix it. Mr. Jefferson, usually a cheerful man, is beginning to feel rather glum. Because of the unexpected nature of the situation, and the fact that it's in the worst time of year for traveling, he's here alone. (Except for the enslaved servants, who are, of course, ever present, but don't provide true companionship.)

He thinks of his grandson, Francis, staying at Monticello, because his papa, a U.S. Representative from Virginia, thinks that the family should wait until after the winter to travel to Washington, D.C. What a shame to be stuck here, wasting precious time he could be with the boy.

He thinks of his granddaughter, Anne. She and her husband are thinking of moving to land they have here in Bedford County. It would be nice to have them nearby. Mr. Jefferson would like to plant some asparagus, gooseberries, and raspberries for her, but with temperatures dipping down below freezing at night, this hasn't been possible. It was below freezing during the day a couple of days ago, too, and even when it's not that cold, it's been hovering at that wet, chilly temperature that gets into the bones and feels miserable. Repeated snows, and melted snow, and half-melted slush have made the roads impassible.

Add to the isolation the fact that the post from Lynchburg to Milton, near Monticello, goes out only once a week. He'll write Martha again when it does, in a few days. No sense in writing any letters now. He shifts in his chair so that the waning firelight falls on the open pages of his book.

february 9, 1811 (sat.)

Mr. Jefferson is back at Poplar Forest. He had to return unexpectedly last week because of some business there. He had left his wheat to be ground at Mr. Calloway's mill, but the mill's dam has broken. It was supposed to have been fixed yesterday, but now it looks like the mill won't be able to start up again until the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, Mr. Jefferson's wheat, and that of several neighbors, languishes in limbo.