"MARY JEFFERSON, _born_ Aug. 1, 1778, 1_h._ 30_m._ A.M. _Died_ April 17, 1804, between 8 and 9 A.M." The following beautiful account of the closing scenes of this domestic tragedy is from the pen of a niece of Mrs. Eppes, and was written at the request of Mr. Randall, Jefferson's worthy biographer: Boston, 15th January, 1856. My dear Mr. Randall--I find an old memorandum made many years ago, I know not when nor under what circumstances, but by my own hand, in the fly-leaf of a Bible. It is to this effect: "Maria Jefferson was born in 1778, and married, in 1797, John Wayles Eppes, son of Francis Eppes and Elizabeth Wayles, second daughter of John Wayles. Maria Jefferson died April, 1804, leaving two children, Francis, born in 1801, and Maria, who died an infant." I have no recollection of the time when I made this memorandum, but I have no doubt of its accuracy. Mrs. Eppes was never well after the birth of her last child. She lingered a while, but never recovered. My grandfather was in Washington, and my aunt passed the winter at Edgehill, where she was confined. I remember the tender and devoted care of my mother, how she watched over her sister, and with what anxious affection she anticipated her every want. I remember, at one time, that she left her chamber and her own infant, that she might sleep in my aunt's room, to assist in taking care of her and her child. I well recollect my poor aunt's pale, faded, and feeble look. My grandfather, during his Presidency, made two visits every year to Monticello--a short one in early spring, and a longer one the latter part of the summer. He always stopped at Edgehill, where my mother was then living, to take her and her whole family to Monticello with him. He came this year as usual, anxious about the health of his youngest daughter, whose situation, though such as to excite the apprehensions of her friends, was not deemed one of immediate danger. She had been delicate, and something of an invalid, if I remember right, for some years. She was carried to Monticello in a litter borne by men. The distance was perhaps four miles, and she bore the removal well. After this, however, she continued, as before, steadily to decline. She was taken out when the weather permitted, and carried around the lawn in a carriage, I think drawn by men, and I remember following the carriage over the smooth green turf. How long she lived I do not recollect, but it could have been but a short time.