by Andrea Wulf
As always he was meticulous, noting the yields but also failures. Doggedly recording the fate of the plants: “killed by bug,” “nearly failed,” “killed,” “a very few plants,” “came to nothing,” “failed” and “failed” again and again seemingly without much frustration. Because this was an experimental garden, Jefferson never expected that all varieties would do well in his plots—even if only “one species in a hundred is found useful and succeeds,” he believed, it was worth the trial. For decades he had exchanged seeds with dozens of people across Europe and the United States, but now in his retirement Jefferson finally had time to test these plants himself. The seeds, he wrote, were “nourishment to my hobby horse.”
Having dedicated his huge vegetable terrace to experiments rather than to efficient kitchen gardening, Jefferson regularly fell short of the staples. What he couldn’t supply himself he bought from his slaves, who worked on small vegetable plots in the little free time they had on Sundays and in the evenings. Almost one hundred and fifty slaves lived at Monticello during Jefferson’s retirement, and many of the families had their own yards. They sold to Jefferson cucumbers, potatoes, cabbages, squashes and lettuces as well as apples and melons. This was nothing unusual—many plantation owners gave their slaves a piece of land to grow their own vegetables or to keep chickens. Often these plots were next to the slave cabins, but they could also be awkwardly shaped slices of lands around the estate—a triangle left between fields, a plot carved out of the forest or a steep slope. Some owners hoped such gardens gave a slave “an interest in his home,” while others thought that it created “a cheerful, home-like appearance to the quarter.” At the same time these small plots also provided an essential supplement to the slaves’ diet, as plantation owners, including Jefferson, provided few or no vegetables in their rations.
The lack of basic vegetables in his own garden did not seem to bother Jefferson. The purpose of the huge plots was not to fill Monticello’s kitchen larder but to secure America’s future—he was experimenting for his country and fellow countrymen. With the increasing hostility between the United States and France and Britain it was imperative that Americans “endeavor to make every thing we want within ourselves,” Jefferson believed, “and have as little intercourse as possible with Europe.” Consequently he tried but eventually failed to establish an American vineyard and to produce sesame oil (a perfect substitute for olive oil, he reckoned) at Monticello. Even his granddaughters were playfully drawn into the “homespun” production when Jefferson gave eleven-year-old Cornelia, nine-year-old Virginia and seven-year-old Mary some silkworms (soon reduced to a single worm) with the promise that “as soon as they can get III wedding gowns from this spinner they shall be married.”
Jefferson was so obsessed with his garden that Bacon never managed to arrive there before his employer, no matter how early he woke up. At dawn the views from the vegetable terrace were particularly spectacular—as the fog clung to the plains below, the entire countryside was transformed into “an ocean.” As Jefferson stood above, the billowing fog created miles and miles of white waves, with only the treetops peeping out like “verdant islands.” It seemed as if the whole of America stretched out from here. This was Jefferson’s favorite place—so much so that the only garden pavilion known to have been built at Monticello was not in the Grove or among the ornamental flowerbeds but in the middle of the vegetable terrace, overlooking the beans, eggplants and tomatoes on the one side and with views across the countryside on the other.
From here it was only a short walk to the lawn at the back of the house, the most manicured area of Jefferson’s garden, where Anne had helped him plant oval flowerbeds. They had allocated a single species for each bed, some rarities but most of them common, such as the local cardinal flower with its tall red spikes. Jefferson did not care much for “those of mere curiosity,” instead preferring the most “handsome” and “fragrant”—it was almost as if the elderly statesman, freed from the burden of politics, was allowing himself to be a little more whimsical, at least in the ornamental flower garden. There were old-fashioned English favorites such as carnations and sweet William, and from Asia the blackberry lily, which was so successful that its star-shaped orange blossoms can be found everywhere in midsummer at Monticello today. From Europe came the common red field and yellow-horned poppies, and from North America the delicate twinleaf—Jeffersonia diphylla—the flower that had been named after Jefferson himself. Some of the beds were planted with hyacinths in three colors as well as tulips. Most exciting of all, two of the oval beds were dedicated to the prizes from the Lewis and Clark expedition: “the flowering pea of Arkansa” from which Anne had collected fourteen seeds after the first flowering in 1807, and Fritillaria pudica, a tiny perennial with a nodding yellow blossom, which Lewis had collected near the Columbia River.
Fearing that the twenty beds were not enough because they “will too much restrain the variety of flowers in which we might wish to indulge,” Jefferson—while still in Washington—had sent Anne a sketch of a “winding walk” edged with narrow flower borders, which snaked around the lawn at the back of the house. He had brought “a full collection of roots and plants” from Philadelphia and Washington in order to plant the scented ribbons along the edge. When Anne wasn’t there, Jefferson would report to her on the gardening progress, and no other letters reveal his sheer joy in the beauty of flowers so strongly: “the flowers come forth like the belles of the day, have their short reign of beauty and splendor, & retire,” he wrote to her, comparing the show on the back lawn to a theatrical production—“the hyacinths and tulips are off the stage, the Irises are giving place to the Belladonnas, as these will to the Tuberoses, Etc.” His pleasures ranged from sowing with his granddaughters to his annual competition with his neighbors to harvest the first pea of the season. This was the happiest period in Jefferson’s life. “Tho’ an old man, I am but a young gardener,” he wrote in August 1811, two years after his retirement.
The other great joy of these years was the revival of his friendship with John Adams. Not many signatories of the Declaration of Independence were still alive, and Jefferson described feeling like “a solitary tree from around which the axe of time has felled the companions of it’s youth & growth.” Their old friend Benjamin Rush, who described Jefferson and Adams “as the North and South Poles of the American Revolution,” had been trying to persuade them both to pick up their pens once again. After their acrimonious political battles, Adams and Jefferson had at first been reluctant, but eventually Adams made the opening move with a short letter on 1 January 1812, to which Jefferson immediately replied, writing that he had “given up newspapers” and was “much happier” as a result, before going on to describe the pleasure of being among his grandchildren. Adams was delighted that his old friend had responded so quickly: “You and I ought not to die,” he appealed to Jefferson, “before We have explained ourselves to each other.”
Like Jefferson, Adams had retired to the tranquillity of rural life after his presidency, and had since become “quite the Farmer,” according to Abigail. In the first few months of retirement he had still felt sour about the vicious election campaign, calling himself the “Farmer of Stony Field.” But he had quickly begun to enjoy himself, making “a good exchange,” he wrote, “of honor & virtues, for manure,” and soon bought more land. His life, he summarized, was spent “in the bosom of my family, surrounded by my children and grandchildren; on my farm, in my garden and library.” He studied botanical essays and his grandson read Virgil’s pastoral verses to him. In 1805 he wrote that he was “happier … than I ever was,” sentiments that Jefferson would echo in his own retirement.
Compared to Jefferson’s and Washington’s huge estates of several thousand acres, Adams’s farm was but “a Lilliputian Plantation,” he wrote modestly, and jokingly referred to it as “Montezillo Alias the little Hill.” Adams never attempted anything as ambitious or groundbreaking as, for example, Jefferson’s magnificent vegetable ter
race, but it didn’t seem to bother the aging statesman. In the past there had been times when Adams had resented Jefferson and Washington for their more luxurious lifestyles, envious that they were “riding in gay Coaches and building grand houses.” But during his retirement the irritable Adams had mellowed and enjoyed the more simple pleasures of his farm—no less enthusiastic about his new pastime than Jefferson. “I have seen the Queen of France with eighteen millions of Livres of diamonds upon her person,” he wrote some years later in 1820, when one winter storm had encased his trees with a coat of ice, but “all the glitter of her jewels, did not make an impression on me equal to that presented by every shrub.”
In relation to botany Adams was like “an old Widower, who meets an ancient Widow, who was one of the flames of his Youth,” he said, now falling “in love with her a second time.” And just as Jefferson was planning his vegetable terrace, Adams embarked on a long study of different species of seaweed that he had collected at the local shores, exploring their relative merits as “manure”—still one of his favorite subjects. Leafing through his botanical books (forever “angry” at himself for not buying enough of them while in Europe) and examining the seaweeds minutely, Adams’s conclusions were elaborate and revealed his impeccable botanical knowledge and mastery of the Linnaean classification system.
He had also been involved in the establishment of a botanic garden at Harvard University, and the scientist Benjamin Waterhouse dedicated his collection of botanical essays to Adams “as a token of gratitude for his early recommendation of natural history to his countrymen.” Even Madison, who had never particularly liked Adams, admitted that Adams’s encouragement of natural history “at so early a day” was proof of his “comprehensive patriotism.” Like Jefferson, Adams received exotic vegetable seeds, including “African pumpkin,” peppers and corn from Constantinople as well as scions of fruit trees that he grafted himself and distributed to his friends and neighbors. When he planted the tiny pear saplings, he hoped that “they will be an ornament to this Farm and a Comfort to some good Citizens two hundred years hence.”
Over the next fourteen years the two old men exchanged one hundred and fifty letters, slowly rebuilding their friendship and mutual respect. Their correspondence was infused with political discussion but also laced with humor (Adams signed one “J.A. In the 89 year of his age still too fat to last much longer”). They recommended books to each other, wrote about growing older and reminisced about revolutionary times. There was so much to discuss—religion, politics, old friends and enemies, philosophy and natural science—that “I can not see the Wood for Trees,” Adams wrote with vigor and delight. “So many Subjects crowd upon me that I know not, with which to begin.” They still disagreed about some political issues but their correspondence became a dialogue about what the American Revolution had meant. “Whether you or I were right,” Adams reflected, “Posterity must judge.”
And though retired from their political careers, both men remained active despite their age. “I walk little,” Jefferson wrote to Adams, but “I am on horseback 3. or 4. hours of every day.” Adams replied that he preferred walking—three or four miles “every fair day.” His hands trembled when writing and reading had become difficult, but he was still a hands-on farmer. “I call for my Leavers and Iron-bars; for my Chissels, drils and wedges to split rocks,” he told Rush, “and for my waggon to Cart sea-weed for manure upon my farm.”
Their time on the political stage might have been over but their passion for their country had not diminished. For them, working the soil, experimenting with new vegetables and examining plants was a patriotic act as well as an assertion of their belief in America’s future. Planting trees, Jefferson wrote in June 1812, was a joy even when it was “for a future race.” The saplings they nurtured now would shade the next generation of Americans. “I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past,” Jefferson wrote to Adams in the summer of 1816, their friendship now well and truly recovered. “So good night. I will dream on.”
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1 This was the landscape painter George Isham Parkyns and, despite Jefferson’s failure to bring him to Monticello, he might have still been influenced by his designs. In his book Six Designs for Improving and Embellishing Grounds (1793), Parkyns illustrated one garden that was located in a mountainous area. Many of the design elements that Parkyns presented were also found at Monticello, such as a winding walk around a lawn and a grove of “great forest trees.”
2 Jefferson had to pay for the entertainment of diplomats and congressmen during his two terms as president from his personal money. With an expensive taste for fine food and exquisite wine, Jefferson had—as so often—lived above his means.
3 The two oldest children did not live at Monticello at the time that Jefferson returned. Anne had married and Thomas Jefferson Randolph was educated in Philadelphia. Martha’s husband, Thomas Mann Randolph, remained at their farm in Edgehill, a short ride away from Monticello. Though living apart, Martha had three more children after she moved to Monticello. Martha adored her father more than anybody—so much so that only weeks after her marriage she had pledged never to love anyone more.
4 Jefferson had spent so many years building and changing his house that some friends had doubted if he would ever finish it. In September 1802, Anna Thornton remarked that Jefferson “has pulled down & built up again so often, that nothing is compleated, nor do I think ever will be.”
5 McMahon’s publication was also the first American garden book that included information on how to propagate and cultivate native trees and shrubs. Like Philip Miller’s Gardeners Dictionary, McMahon included lists of “Hardy Decidious Trees and Shrubs,” “Hardy Evergreen Trees and Shrubs” and so on that could be used to select species for groves and shrubberies.
6 The celebration of America’s cultivated nature also found an expression in public buildings. In 1809 Jefferson received from the architect Benjamin Henry Latrobe a model of the top part (the capital) of the most-loved columns in the Capitol—composed of ears of maize instead of the traditional acanthus leaves. This American interpretation of a classical design, Latrobe wrote to Jefferson, brought him “more applause from the Members of Congress” than the magnificent building of the Capitol itself. They proudly christened it “the Corn Cob Capital.” Jefferson adored this “peculiarly American capital” so much that he turned the model into a sundial for the garden. Latrobe later designed more “American” capitals for the Capitol when he included tobacco leaves and flowers as well as magnolias.
9
“BALANCE OF NATURE”
JAMES MADISON AT MONTPELIER
SLAVES DRESSED in smart liveries rushed back and forth across the huge lawn’s immaculately scythed grass, dodging scurrying children as they carried food and drinks from table to table. More than one hundred guests and family members sat shaded by tall tulip poplars, chestnut, walnut and other forest trees. Laughter and the mouthwatering smell of roasted animals on the spit drifted across the garden, as did the sweet sound of violin music. The feast was sumptuous, with soups, meats and vegetables from the garden, the best wines available and large bowls of spiced punch. The cooks had even made ice cream from the ice, which was stored in the icehouse that was cleverly hidden under a classical garden temple next to the house.
It was a late summer’s day in 1817, and James and Dolley Madison had invited their neighbors and relatives to Montpelier to celebrate the harvest. Some had left their own plantations at dawn, traveling as much as thirty miles to Orange County, Virginia, for the barbeque. Other guests had arrived the night before and spent the day entertaining themselves with Madison’s most popular piece of party furniture, a telescope, spying on carriages and riders as they approached. From the large portico at the front of the house they had sweeping views across Montpelier’s driveway, clumps of trees, golden wheat fields and the rolling outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.
When their guests arrived that day, Madiso
n and his wife had welcomed them in person, as they always did. And, as ever, many would have noticed that their hosts were an odd-looking couple. The voluptuous Dolley seemed to tower over the diminutive Madison, the wife an “Amazon,” the husband “like one of the puny knights of Lilliputia,” commented one visitor. Another described him, rather uncharitably, as “a withered little apple-John.” Dolley looked elegant and vibrant, as always dressed in bright colors with her hair wrapped in a “turban,” while Madison still wore black and old-fashioned breeches. Handsome and chatty, Dolley delighted guests with her “overflowing kindness” as she had already done in Washington. But visitors were also surprised to see how much Madison changed in this regard when at Montpelier. In the capital he had often been described as cold and reserved, yet at home he was more relaxed. His “little blue eyes sparkled like stars,” one old friend from Washington remarked when she saw Madison at Montpelier, and Dolley agreed that he seemed markedly more leisurely, fun even, always “fond of a frolic and of romping” with the children of relatives and friends. He also enjoyed chasing his wife around the porch—“I do not believe you can out run me,” Dolley told the daughter of one guest on another occasion, “Madison and I often run races here.”
Having welcomed them, Dolley and Madison would have led their guests into the large drawing room in the center of the house, where three large triple sash windows opened onto the back portico and the vast lawn. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors brought the garden and the surrounding landscape into the room. Stepping out onto the rear portico, they were welcomed by the delicate perfume of the tiny white flowers of climbing jasmine and “ever blooming roses,” which snaked around six tall columns. During these summer months greenhouse plants such as elegant gardenias were grown outdoors, their waxy white blossoms adding to the pleasant fragrance. Only one other flower was allowed to grow near the house—sweetbriar, an old-fashioned, sweetly scented plant from Europe.