The Old, Weird Jefferson

During a recent sojourn, deep into the bowels of Mr. Jefferson's university's library, I sought a copy of Coke's Laws, and other sundry works. I expected a peaceful, if sedentary, Morning, devoted to the clerical arts of Reading and Contemplation, a mild Physic of divers readings.

But Lo! I turned a dusty Corner, and there did find a cryptic Freak of a man. Encircled like a Magus of old with the writings of Jefferson, he stare'd coldly at a bust of that venerated Virginian. He seem'd to read Messages from the mute Visage, which he had paint'd to much the colors of a living man, and wd run his coarse & knotted figures 'cross its face. The moldy scent of Madness hung in the air, a vapor commonly dispersed amongst such antient Tomes. I tried to pass, leaving him to his obscure Devotions, but he called - "Hark! See ye this? Seek ye knowledge of the Truth? Look no further than the Brazen Head of that Primeval Patriarch, JEFFERSON!"

To explain: As in Herculaneum they did celebrate Heracles, and in Rome the very footprints of Romulus are venerated, so in Charlottesville, so "Mr." Jefferson. To be sure, Founder of a Univ., Author of the Decl. of Independence, and of the V. Statute of Religious Freedom - these wou'd make a lesser Man Great in the eyes of his contemporaries.

But not Jefferson. His Feats began early in his life, and so Numerous were they that scribblers & scrawlers exhausted their inkpots, merely recording the deeds of this Titan. The aforementioned Old Mortality (for that was his name), provided me with the following tale. I offer you this his testimony, yet more proof of this man's judicious & learned character:


It was the February of 1761. Jefferson's enthusiasm for his studies overwhelmed him, calling him back from friends, wine, and the entertainments of that decadent whorepit[sic] Williamsburg. Of an evening, he wd spend his hours hunched over Adam Smith, or translating Ossian, or examining the writings of Tacitus & Homer. His determination bought him a spacious estate of knowledge, and proved his industry.

But sometimes at night, when the wind moan'd in the rafters, he wd walk into Williamsburg, to see George Wythe, or William Small, both professors, or perhaps to visit a fellow-student boarded in the town. It happened that on this bleak, cold evening, Jefferson was walking to the rooms of his friend, John Page. Page's letter to his father tells the rest of the story:


"Tho. has had a most remarkable experience. But two weeks ago, he traveled towards my rooms to dine, for I had recently obtained some delicious Pheasant from across the James, in Surry County. Walking the streets of Williamsburg as the sun's last did fade, a rain began to pinch his face. He ran to the porch of my Boarding House, and did stand under the cover of the awning for some brief moments, to preserve his clothing from the onslaught of vicious water.

At this juncture, a quite rain-soaked ruffian accosted him. Pardon sir, exclaimed the degenerate, could you spare coin for a lonely soul this evening?

You will remember, from Christmas last, Tho's vicious distaste for all persons transient and indigent; the thought of an odious rapscallion such as this pawing at his purse threw Noble Tho. into a phrenzy. Thus, he smote the scoundrel betwixt the eyes, breaking open the skull across his brow. At this, Tho. set down his brass-topped cane, and thought to examine the peculiar physiology of such a warped, rascallish type; but all at once, a veritable throng of ungrateful Beggars sprung towards him, at which he retreated into my house, breathing the story with equal parts frantic rage and sated relief."


"So the story, from the very correspondence of John Page! Doubt ye the veracity of the King of Rosewell? Will ye continue to deny that signification, so mystic and yet so keen?"

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Thus did Old Mortality sing his Tale in his Bibliocrypt, and thus he undoubtedly sings still.