| | 1 | Author: | Bruce
William Cabell
1860-1946 | Requires cookie* | | | 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. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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