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1Author:  Bruce William Cabell 1860-1946Add
 Title:  John Randolph of Roanoke, 1773-1833  
 Published:  2007 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: When Randolph reached Richmond on his return from Russia to Roanoke, he was so ill that he had to take to his bed; and to bed or room he was confined until a day or so before the first Monday in November, when he found himself strong enough to proceed to Charlotte Court House and to address the people there on that day. On the second Monday of November, he addressed the people of Buckingham County, and on the third Monday of November the people of Prince Edward County; and he was prevented by rain only from addressing the people of Cumberland County on the fourth Monday of November.1 1Nov. 27, 1831, Jackson Papers, v. 79, Libr. Cong. "1. Resolved, that, while we retain a grateful sense of the many services rendered by Andrew Jackson, Esq., to the United States, we owe it to our country and to our posterity to make our solemn protest against many of the doctrines of his late proclamation. Just as I mounted my horse on Monday morning at Washington, your truly welcome and friendly letter was put into my hands. I arrived here this evening a little before sunset, after a ride on horseback of thirty-five miles. Pretty well, you'll say, for a man whose lungs are bleeding, and with a `church-yard cough,' which gives so much pleasure to some of your New York editors of newspapers. . . . I am never so easy as when in the saddle. Nevertheless, if `a gentleman' (we are all gentlemen now-a-days) who received upwards of £300 sterling for me merely to hand it over, had not embezzled it by applying it to his own purposes, I should be a passenger with you on the eighth. I tried to raise the money by the sale of some property, that only twelve months ago I was teased to part from (lots and houses in Farmville, seventy miles above Petersburgh, on Appomattox river), but could not last week get a bid for it. Such is the poverty, abject poverty and distress of this whole country. I have known land (part of it good and wood land) sell for one dollar an acre, that, ten years ago, would have commanded ten dollars, and last year five or six. Four fine negroes sold for three hundred and fifty dollars, and so in proportion. But I must quit the wretched subject. My pay, as a member of Congress, is worth more than my best and most productive plantation, for which, a few years ago, I could have got eighty thousand dollars, exclusive of slaves and stock. I gave, a few years since, twenty-seven thousand dollars for an estate. It had not a house or a fence upon it. After putting it in fine order, I found that, so far from my making one per cent, or one-half or one-fourth of one per cent, it does not clear expenses by about seven hundred and fifty dollars per annum, over and above all the crops. Yet, I am to be taxed for the benefit of wool-spinners, &c., to destroy the whole navigating interest of the United States; and we find representatives from New-Bedford, and Cape Ann, and Marblehead, and Salem, and Newburyport, voting for this, if they can throw the molasses overboard to lighten the ship Tariff. She is a pirate under a black flag."1 1The New Mirror, v. 2, 71, Nov. 4, 1843. "I do not remember in any `letters from the South' a description of a Virginia court-day, and, as I know of nothing which exhibits in more lively colours the distinctive traits of the State character, I will employ a little time in sketching a scene of this kind, which presented itself on Monday, the 2d of April. The court of Charlotte Co. is regularly held upon the first Monday of every month, and there is usually a large concourse of people. This was an occasion of peculiar interest, as elections for Congress and the State Legislature were then to take place. As the day was fine, I preferred walking, to the risk of having my horse alarmed, and driven away by the hurly-burly of such an assemblage. In making my way along the great road, which leads from my lodgings to the place of public resort, I found it all alive with the cavalcades of planters and country-folk going to the raree show. A stranger would be forcibly struck with the perfect familiarity with which all ranks were mingling in conversation, as they moved along upon their fine pacing horses. Indeed, this sort of equality exists to a greater degree here than in any country with which I am acquainted. Here were young men, whose main object seemed to be the exhibition of their spirited horses, of the true race breed, and their equestrian skill. The great majority of persons were dressed in domestic, undyed cloth, partly from economy, and partly from a State pride, which leads many of our most wealthy men, in opposing the tariff, to reject all manufactures which are protected by the Government. A man would form a very incorrect estimate of the worldly circumstances of a Virginia planter who should measure his finances by the fineness of his coat. When I came near to the village, I observed hundreds of horses tied to the trees of a neighbouring grove, and further on could descry an immense and noisy multitude covering the space around the courthouse. In one quarter, near the taverns, were collected the mob, whose chief errand is to drink and quarrel. In another, was exhibited a fair of all kinds of vendibles, stalls of mechanics and tradesmen, eatables and drinkables, with a long line of Yankee wagons, which are never wanting on these occasions. The loud cries of salesmen, vending wares at public auction, were mingled with the vociferation of a stump orator, who, in the midst of a countless crowd, was advancing his claims as a candidate for the House of Delegates. I threaded my way into this living mass, for the purpose of hearing the oration. A grey-headed man was discoursing upon the necessity of amending the State Constitution, and defending the propriety of calling a convention. His elocution was good, and his arguments very plausible, especially when he dwelt upon the very unequal representation in Virginia. This, however, happens to be the unpopular side of the question in our region and the populace, while they respected the age and talents of the man showed but faint signs of acquiescence. The candidate, upon retiring from the platform on which he had stood, was followed by a rival, who is well known as his standing opponent. The latter kept the people in a roar of laughter by a kind of dry humour which is peculiar to himself. Although far inferior to the other in abilities and learning, he excels him in all those qualities which go to form the character of a demagogue. He appealed to the interests of the planters and slave owners, he turned into ridicule all the arguments of the former speaker, and seemed to make his way to the hearts of the people. He was succeeded by the candidate for the Senate, Henry A. Watkins, of Prince Edward, a man of great address and suavity of manner; his speech was short but pungent and efficient, and, although he lost his election, he left a most favourable impression upon the public mind. We had still another address from one of the late delegates who proposed himself again as a candidate. Before commencing his oration, he announced to the people that, by a letter from Mr. Randolph, he was informed that we should not have the pleasure of seeing that gentleman, as he was confined to his bed by severe illness. This was a sore disappointment. It was generally expected that Mr. R. would have been present, and I had cherished the hope of hearing him once in my life. It would give you no satisfaction for me to recount to you the several topics of party politics upon which the several speakers dilated. We proceeded (or rather as many as could, proceeded) to the courthouse, where the polls were opened. The candidates, six in number, were ranged upon the Justices' bench, the clerks were seated below, and the election began, viva voce. The throng and confusion were great, and the result was that Mr. Randolph was unanimously elected for Congress, Col. Wyatt for the Senate, and the two former members to the Legislature of the State. After the election, sundry petty squabbles took place among the persons who had been opposing one another in the contest. Towards night, a scene of unspeakable riot took place; drinking and fighting drove away all thought of politics and many a man was put to bed disabled by wounds and drunkenness. This part of Virginia has long been celebrated for its breed of horses. There is scrupulous attention paid to the preservation of the immaculate English blood. Among the crowd on this day, were snorting and rearing fourteen or fifteen stallions, some of which were indeed fine specimens of that noble creature. Among the rest, Mr. Randolph's celebrated English horse, Roanoke, who is nine years old, and has never been `backed.' That which principally contributes to this great collection of people on our court days is the fact that all public business and all private contracts are settled at this time. All notes are made payable on these days, &c., &c. But you must be tired with Charlotte Court; I am sure that I am."1 1Mar. 13, 1827, 40 Yrs.' Familiar Letters, v. 1, 98. When, at my departure from Morrisania, in your sister's presence, I bade you remember the past, I was not apprised of the whole extent of your guilty machinations. I had nevertheless seen and heard enough in the course of my short visit to satisfy me that your own dear experience had availed nothing toward the amendment of your life. My object was to let you know that the eye of man as well as of that God, of whom you seek not, was upon you—to impress upon your mind some of your duty towards your husband, and, if possible, to rouse some dormant spark of virtue, if haply any such should slumber in your bosom. The conscience of the most hardened criminal has, by a sudden stroke, been alarmed into repentance and contrition. Yours, I perceive, is not made of penetrable stuff. Unhappy woman, why will you tempt the forbearance of that Maker who has, perhaps, permitted you to run your course of vice and sin that you might feel it to be a life of wretchedness, alarm and suspicion? You now live in the daily and nightly dread of discovery. Detection itself can hardly be worse. Some of the proofs of your guilt, (you know to which of them I allude); those which in despair you sent me through Dr. Meade on your leaving Virginia; those proofs, I say, had not been produced against you had you not falsely used my name in imposing upon the generous man to whose arms you have brought pollution! to whom next to my unfortunate brother you were most indebted, and whom next to him you have most deeply injured. You told Mr. Morris that I had offered you marriage subsequent to your arraignment for the most horrible of crimes, when you were conscious that I never at any time made such proposals. You have, therefore, released me from any implied obligation, (with me it would have been sacred; notwithstanding you laid no injunction of the sort upon me, provided you had respected my name and decently discharged your duties to your husband) to withhold the papers from the inspection of all except my own family. "My husband yesterday communicated to me for the first time your letter of the last of October, together with that which accompanied it, directed to him. "This is possibly the last letter that you shall receive from me until I am liberated from my prison-house. Nine hours quill driving per day is too much. I give up all my correspondents for a time, even your Uncle Henry. I must not kill myself outright. Business, important business, now demands every faculty of my soul and body. If I fail, if I perish, I shall have fallen in a noble cause—not the cause of my country only but a dearer one even than that—the cause of my friend and colleague [Tazewell]. Had he been here, I should never have suffered and done what I have done and suffered for his sake; and what I would not undergo again for anything short of the Kingdom of Heaven. You mistake my character altogether. I am not ambitious; I have no thirst for power. That is ambition. Or for the fame that newspapers etc. can confer. There is nothing worldly worth having (save a real friend and that I have had) but the love of an amiable and sensible woman; one who loves with heart and not with her head out of romances and plays. That I once had. It is gone never to return, and it changed and became—my God! To what vile uses do we come at last! I now refer you to the scene in Shakespeare, first part of Henry IV at Warworth Castle, where Lady Percy comes in upon Hotspur who had been reading the letter of his candid friend. Read the whole of it from the soliloquy to the end of it. `This (I borrow his words) is no world to play with mammets and to tilt with lips.' It is for fribbles and Narcissus and [illegible], idle worthless drones who encumber the lap of society, who never did and never will do anything but admire themselves in a glass, or look at their own legs; it is for them to skulk when friends and country are in danger. Hector and Hotspur must take the field and go to the death. The volcano is burning me up and, as Calanthe died dancing, so may I die speaking. But my country and my friends shall never see my back in the field of danger or the hour of death. Continue to write to me but do not expect an answer until my engagements of duty are fulfilled."1 1Bryan MSS. "I write not only because you request it, but because it seems to fill up a half hour in my tedious day. No life can be more cheerless than mine. Shall I give you a specimen? One day serves for all. At daybreak, I take a large tumbler of milk warm from the cow, after which, but not before, I get a refreshing nap. I rise as late as possible on system and walk before breakfast about half a mile. After breakfast, I ride over the same beaten track and return `too weary for my dinner,' which I eat without appetite, to pass away the time. Before dark, I go to bed, after having drunk the best part of a bottle of Madeira, or the whole of a bottle of Hermitage. Wine is my chief support. There is no variety in my life; even my morning's walk is over the same ground; weariness and lassitude are my portion. I feel deserted by the whole world, and a more dreary and desolate existence than mine was never known by man. Even our incomparably fine weather has no effect upon my spirits."2 2Bryan MSS. I am glad to learn that you are cheerful and happy. This used to be the season of gladness and joy. But times are changed now. I am well aware that I have changed not less, and that no degree of merriment and festivity would excite in me the same hilarity that I used to feel. But, laying that consideration aside, or rather, after making the most ample allowance for it, I cannot be deceived in the fact that we are an altered people, and altered in my estimation sadly for the worse. The very slaves have become almost forgetful of their Saturnalia. Where now are the rousing `Christmas Fires' and merry, kind-hearted greetings of the by-gone times? On this day, it used to be my pride to present my mother with not less than a dozen partridges for an ample pie. The young people [became] merry and the old cheerful. I scratched a few lines to you on Thursday (I think) or Friday, while lying in my bed. I am now out of it, and somewhat better; but I still feel the barb rankling in my side. Whether, or not, it be owing to the debility brought on by disease, I can't contemplate the present and future condition of my country without dismay and utter hopelessness. I trust that I am not one of those who (as was said of a certain great man) are always of the opinion of the book last read. But I met with a passage in a review (Edinburgh) of the works and life of Machiavelli that strikes me with great force as applicable to the whole country south of Patapsco: `It is difficult to conceive any situation more painful than that of a great man condemned to watch the lingering agony of an exhausted country, to tend it during the alternate fits of stupefaction and raving which precede its dissolution, to see the signs of its vitality disappear one by one, till nothing is left but coldness, darkness, and corruption.' "1 1Washington, Feb. 9, 1829, Garland, v. 2, 317. "I have been interrupted, and I dare say you wish that it had been the means of putting an untimely end to this prosing epistle. As however ours is a weekly post, it gives me leisure to bore you still further. I have no hesitation (nor would you either, my friend, if you were brought to the alternative) in preferring the gentleman's mode of deciding a quarrel to the blackguard's—and if men must fight (and it seems they will) there is not, as in our politics, a third alternative. A bully is as hateful as a Drawcansir: Abolish dueling and you encourage bullies as well in number as in degree, and lay every gentleman at the mercy of a cowardly pack of scoundrels. In fine, my good friend, the Yahoo must be kept down, by religion, sentiment, manners if you can—but he must be kept down."1 1Roanoke, June 24, 1811, Nicholson MSS., Libr. Cong. On taking out my chariot this morning, for the first time, since I got from your house, to clean it and the harness (for the dreadful weather has frozen us all up until today), the knife was found in the bottom of the carriage, where it must have been dropped from a shallow waist-coat pocket, as I got in at your door, for I missed the knife soon afterwards. When I got home, I had the pockets of the chariot searched, and everything there taken out, and it was not until John had searched strictly into my portmanteau and bag, taking out everything therein, that I became perfectly convinced of what I was before persuaded, that I had left the knife in my chamber in your house on Tuesday the 6th, and, when I heard it had not been seen, I took it for granted that your little yellow boy, having `found it,' had, according to the negro code of morality, appropriated it to himself. In this, it seems I was mistaken, and I ask his pardon as the best amends I can make to him; and, at the same time to relieve you and Mrs. M. from the unpleasant feeling that such a suspicion would occasion, I dispatch this note by a special messanger, although I have a certain conveyance tomorrow. I make no apology to yourself or to Mrs. M. for the frank expression of my suspicion, because truth is the Goddess at whose shrine I worship, and no Huguenot in France, or Morisco in Spain, or Judaizing Christian in Portugal ever paid more severely for his heretical schism VOL. II—27 than I have done in leaving the established church of falsehood and grimace. I am well aware that ladies are as delicate as they are charming creatures, and that, in our intercourse with them, we must strain the truth as far as possible. Brought up from their earliest infancy to disguise their real sentiments (for a woman would be a monster who did not practice this disguise) it is their privilege to be insincere, and we should despise [them] and justly too, if they had that manly frankness and reserve, which constitutes the ornament of our character, as the very reverse does of theirs. We must, therefore, keep this in view in all of our intercourse with them, and recollect that, as our point of honour is courage and frankness, theirs is chastity and dissimulation, for, as I said before, a woman who does not dissemble her real feelings is a monster of impudence. Now, therefore, it does so happen (as Mr. Canning would say) that truth is very offensive to the ears of a lady when to those of a gentleman (her husband for instance) it would be not at all so. To illustrate—Mrs. Randolph of Bizarre, my brother's widow, was beyond all comparison the nicest and best house-wife that I ever saw. Not one drop of water was suffered to stand upon her sideboard, except what was in the pitcher, the house from cellar to garret, and in every part [was] as clean as hands could make it, and everything as it should be to suit even my fastidious taste. "(The severest attack which I have had for a long time, obliged me to give over writing yesterday. The distress and anxiety of the last 18 hours are not to be described.) "The last sentence was not finished until today. I have been very much distressed by my complaint and, as the Packet, which will carry this, does not sail until Thursday morning, I have written by snatches. Saturday, I made out to dine with the famous `Beef Steaks'; which I had a great desire to do. The scene was unique. Nothing permitted but Beef Steaks and potatoes, port wine, punch, brandy and water, &c. The broadest mirth and most unreserved freedoms among the members; every thing and every body burlesqued; in short, a party of school boys on a frolic could not have been more unrestrained in the expression of their merriment. I was delighted with the conviviality and heartiness of the company. Among other toasts, we had that `great friend of Liberty, Prince Metternich' and a great deal more of admirable foolery. The company waited chiefly on themselves. The songs, without exception, were mirth-stirring and well sung. In short, here I saw a sample of old English manners; for the same tone has been kept up from the foundation of the club—more than a century. Nothing could be happier than the burlesque speeches of some of the officers of the club; especially a Mr. Stephenson (Vice P.) who answered to the call of `Boots!' Maj. Gen. Sir Andrew Barnard presided admirably, and another gallant officer, Gen'l Sir Ronald Ferguson, greatly contributed to our hilarity also. Admiral Dundas (not of the Scotch clan) a new Ld of Admiralty, who came in for his full share of humour and left-handed compliments, paid his full quota towards the entertainment. In short, I have not chuckled with laughter before since I left Virginia."1 1Sou. Lit. Mess., Richm., Nov. 1856, 382-385. As there seems little probability that change of scene will produce any permanent benefit to my unhappy child, I would wish to know whether you suppose it could be any disadvantage to him to have him removed to Bizarre, where, in a few weeks, I can have a very comfortable room fitted up for myself. You say that you think the negroes can restrain St. George sufficiently, and that he shows no disposition to injure persons or animals. If so, there is no reason why you should suffer exclusively the melancholy sight which it is my duty and my inclination to relieve you from. At this place, he cannot be kept; the vicinity of the highroad; the tavern opposite, which is now continually visited by strangers, together with the excessive heat and sun in this house, would destroy him. In his own little apartment at Bizarre, he could be very comfortable; it is so well shaded. Oh! had we never quitted that spot, desolate as it now is! my child would never have lost his reason! A more guileless, innocent and happy creature I believe never existed than he, until that fatal calamity which sent us forth houseless."1 1Farmville, June 28, 1814, Bryan MSS. Do you love gardening? I hope you do, for it is an employment eminently suited to a lady. That most graceful and amiable friend of mine, [Mrs. Dr. John Brockenbrough] whom you now never mention in your letters, excels in it, and in all the domestic arts that give its highest value to the female character. The misfortune of your sex is that you are brought up to think that love constitutes the business of life, and, for want of other subjects, your heads run upon little else. This passion, which is `the business of the idle man, the amusement of the hero, and the bane of the sovereign,' occupies too much of your time and thoughts. I never knew an idle fellow who was not profligate (a rare case to be sure), that was not the slave of some princess, and, no matter how often the subject of his adoration was changed by a marriage with some more fortunate swain, the successor (for there is no demise of that crown) was quickly invested with the attributes of her predecessor, and he was dying of love for her lest he should die of the gapes. To a sorry fellow of this sort a mistress is as necessary an antidote against ennui as tobacco; but to return to gardening, I never saw one of those innumerable and lovely seats in England without wishing for one for Mrs. B. [Brockenbrough] who would know so well how to enjoy while she admired it. I beg pardon of the Wilderness a thousand times. I have no doubt that it is a most respectable desert, with a charming little oasis inhabited by very good sort of people, quite different from the wandering Barbarians around them. To say the truth, I was a little out of temper with the aforesaid desert because it had subjected me more than once to disappointment in regard to you. At Fredericksburg, you seem to be within my reach: but there I can't get at you. I am too much of a wild man of the woods myself to take upon me airs over my fellow-savages. And I shall be willing hereafter to rank your wilderness along with the far-famed forest of Arden. By the way, this is not saying much for it. I traveled two weary days' journey through the Ardennes in 1826. Figure for yourself a forest of beech and alder saplings intersected by a thousand cart tracks, the soil, if soil it might be called, strongly resembling the Stafford Hills of Virginia, and where, instead of spreading oaks or beech, under which I hoped to find Angelica asleep by a crystal stream, we had much ado to find a drop of water for our sorry cattle, who painfully drew us through the ruts of a narrow, hollow way, deeply worn in the uneven ground, and sheltered from everything but the sun (In August) by a thicket of brushwood, through which, every now and then, peeped the sooty figure of a charcoal burner. I did not expect to meet with Rosalind or Orlando, because I had corrected a former misapprehension in regard to the scene of that enchanting drama. Shakespeare, it seems, so say the critics, had in his eye the forest of Arden in his native Warwickshire, and a delightful forest it would be, if there were fewer towns and villages and more trees. As it is, however, it is what is called in England a woody tract, and the woodmen of Arden meet there annually, and contend for prizes in archery (a silver arrow or bugle); excited by the smiles of all the `Beauty and Fashion' of the neighboring country. My late apparent rashness, I am overjoyed to see, has not wounded you. That it has made you uneasy, I regret, but why was I so moved; because I love you more than worlds. I am the man in the book with one little ewe lamb: but I am not the man tamely to see the wolf carry it away. I will resist even unto blood. My fate was in your hands. When you come to know my history, you will see what it is that makes me what the world would call desperate. Desperation is the fruit of guilt, of remorse. It is for the unjust. It is for the wretched who had rather steal than work. It is for the Harrels (see Cecilia) who prefer hell at home and in their own bosoms to the foregoing of dress, and shew, and parties, and an equipage, when their fortune will not afford a wheelbarrow."2 2Mar. 30, 1828, Bryan MSS. When I got home from Richmond, a fortnight ago, Dr. Dudley informed me that he had, that very morning, sent letters for me to that place by my wagon— `one from Rutledge.' (I come a different road until within a few miles of my own house.) At length, `the heavy rolling wain' has returned—a safer, and ofttimes a swifter, conveyance than the Post—and I have the pleasure to read your letter written on my birthday. I hope you will always celebrate it in the same way, and, as probably you never knew that important fact, or have forgotten it, I must inform you that it falls just two days before that of our sometime king, on the anniversary of whose nativity you tell me you had proposed to set out, or, as it is more elegantly expressed in our Doric idiom, `to start' for the good old thirteen United States. I am too unwell and too much fatigued to say much more than to VOL. II.—35 express my disappointment at not seeing you on your Atlantic Pilgrimage. I knew that I did not lie in your route, and, altho' I had no right to expect such a deflection from your line of march, yet, somehow or other, joining an expression of one of your letters and my own wishes together, I made up a sort of not very confident hope of seeing you in my solitary cabin— `bag [and] baggage' as you say. I acknowledge that my construction of your language was strained, but, when once we have set our hearts upon anything, `trifles light as air' serve our purpose as well as `holy writ.' And so you have been given back like another Orpheus by the infernal regions—but without leaving your Eurydice behind you. I suspect you cast no `longing, lingering look behind.' Pray tell me whether your Ixions of the West (whom I take to be true `crackers') stopped their wheels, as you passed; or Tantalus forgot his thirst, and put by the untasted whiskey. Since you left us, I have been deeply engaged in what you advised. I have reviewed the Roman and Grecian history; I have done more; I have reviewed my own. Believe me, Jack, that I am less calculated for society than almost any man in existence. I am not perhaps a vain fool, but I have too much vanity, and I am too susceptible of flattery. I have that fluency which will attract attention and receive applause from an unthinking multitude. Content with my superiority, I should be too indolent to acquire real, useful knowledge. I am stimulated by gratitude, by friendship and by love to make exertions now. I feel confident that you will view my foibles with a lenient eye; that you will see me prosper and in my progress be delighted."1 1Garland, v. 1, 73. I am not ceremonious. I feel a conviction that your silence does not proceed from a want of regard, but from a cause more important to the world, to yourself, and, if possible, more distressing to me than the loss of that place in your heart, on which depends my future prosperity. I had fondly hoped that the change of scene, and the novelty of business, would have dissipated that melancholy which overhung you. To see my friend return happy and well, was the only wish of my heart. "What are my emotions, dearest brother, at seeing your horse thus far on his way to return you among us! How eagerly do I await the appointed day! Ryland [Randolph] has returned, and another of the children of misfortune will seek refuge and consolation under this hospitable roof. He has promised me by letter to be with us in a day or two. What pleasure do I anticipate in the society of our incomparable sister, in yours, in Ryland's! I wish I had the vanity to suppose I was worthy of it. "Your letter was `right welcome unto me,' as my favorite old English writers say or sing, but much more welcome was the bearer of it. Son of yours, even with far less claims from his own merit than this gentleman obviously possesses, shall never be shown the `cauld shoulther.' I hope that you'll pardon my using the Waverley tongue, which I must fear bodes no good to the good old English aforesaid, and which I shall therefore leave to them that like it,—which I do not, out of its place,—and not always there. In short, I have not catched the literary `Scotch fiddle,' and, in despite of Dr. Blair, do continue to believe that Swift and Addison understood their own mother tongue as well as any Sawney, `benorth tha' Tweed.' Nay, further, not having the fear of the Edinburgh Reviewers before my eyes, I do not esteem Sir Walter to be a poet, or the Rev. Dr. Chalmers a pulpit orator. But, as I do not admire Mr. Kean, I fear that my reputation for taste is, like my earthly tabernacle, in a hopeless state. "If my memory does not deceive me," Randolph said, "you made me a sort of promise last winter to give Mr. Wood a sitting for me. Will you pardon the reminding you of this engagement by one who is too sensible of the kindness he received from you not to wish for a memorial of him by whom it was shown. Your portrait will make a most suitable companion for that of the Chief Justice, who was good enough to sit for me; and I mention this to show you that you will not be in company that should disgrace you. This is no common-place address, for without profession or pretension such you have quietly and modestly proved yourself to be, while, like Darius, I have been "As well as very bad implements and worse eyes will permit me to do it by candlelight, I will endeavor to make some return to your kind letter, which I received, not by Quashee, but the mail. I also got a short note by him, for which I thank you. . . . And now, my dear friend, one word in your ear—in the porches of thine ear. With Archimedes, I may cry Eureka. Why, what have you found—the philosopher's stone? No— something better than that. Gyges' ring? No. A substitute for bank paper? No. The elixir vitœ, then? It is; but it is the elixir of eternal life. It is that peace of God which passeth all understanding, and which is no more to be conceived of by the material heart than poor St. George can be made to feel and taste the difference between the Italian and German music. It is a miracle, of which the person, upon whom it is wrought, alone is conscious—as he is conscious of any other feeling—e.g. whether the friendship he professes for A or B be a real sentiment of his heart, or simulated to serve a turn.
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