LETTER CLXXIII.
Roanoke, June 10, 1821.
Sunday.
I am concerned to perceive, from your letter of the 4th,
which I have just now received, that your change of residence
has not been attended by the consequences which were naturally
to have been expected from it. It is, however, probable
enough that you wrote under the influence of a temporary
depression of spirits, which surrounding circumstances will
soon dispel, if it be not already dissipated. You do not overrate
the solitariness of the life I lead here. It is dreary beyond
conception, except by the actual sufferer. I can only acquiesce
in it, as the lot in which I have been cast by the good
providence of God; and endeavour to bear it, and the daily
increasing infirmities, which threaten total helplessness, as
well as I may. "Many long weeks have passed since you
heard from me:" And why should I write? To say that I
had made another notch in my tally?—or to enter upon the
monotonous list of grievances, mental and bodily, which egotism
itself could scarcely bear to relate, and none other to listen
to. You say truly: "there is no substitute" for what
you name, "that can fill the heart." The bitter conviction
has long ago rushed upon my own, and arrested its functions.
Not that it is without its paroxysms, which, I thank Heaven,
itself, alone, is conscious of. Perhaps I am wrong to indulge
in this vein; but I must write thus, or not at all. No punishment,
except remorse, can exceed the misery I feel. My
heart swells to bursting, at past recollections; and, as the present
is without enjoyment, so is the future without hope; so
far, at least, as respects this world.
I found the horse here when I got home, and was told Mr.
Sim's wagonner left him. I sincerely wish that you would
cultivate a more cheerful temper of mind than you appear to
possess, or than this effusion, of one worn down by disappointments,
and disease, and premature old age, is calculated to inspire.
May God, in his mercy, protect and bless you; and may
you never experience the forlorn and desolate sensations of
him who has endeavoured, with whatever success, to prove
your friend.
JOHN RANDOLPH, of Roanoke.
Dr. Dudley.
I wrote the above yesterday. Perhaps you may think that
I, too, have acquired the "knack of writing letters, and putting
nothing into them;" but, really, I have nothing to put
in. You say nothing of Dr. and Mrs. B., of L., the C's.,
Mrs. B., G. or R.; not to mention my nieces.
The true cure for maladies like yours, is employment.
"Be not solitary; be not idle!" was all that Burton could advise.
Rely upon it, life was not given us to be spent in
dreams and reverie, but for active, useful exertion; exertion
that turns to some account to ourselves, or to others—not laborious
idleness. (I say nothing of religion, which is between
the heart and its Creator.) This preaching is, I know, foolish
enough: but let it pass. We have all two educations; one we
have given to us—the other we give ourselves; and, after a
certain time of life, when the character has taken its ply, it
is idle to attempt to change it.
If I did not think that it would aggravate your symptoms,
I would press you to come here. In the sedulous study and
practice of your profession, I hope you will find a palliative,
if not a complete cure, of your moral disease. Yours is the
age of exertion—the prime and vigour of life. But I have
"fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf: and that which should
accompany old age, as honour, love, obedience, troops of
friends,
[1]
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,—."
You say my friends in Richmond would, no doubt, be glad
to see me there. To tell you the truth, I find such visits
very unsuitable to the straitened state of my finances; and,
upon the whole, I am, perhaps, best here. Habit, after a little
while, enables us to bear any thing. Here I am free from
apprehensions of being in other folks' way, and try to bear
my lot without flinching; yearning, sometimes, after human
converse, so as to make acceptable, for the moment, the presence
of people, without one congenial sentiment or principle.
Miss Margaret C. was married on Tuesday, the 14th of
May, to Mr. L. I have been there once to dinner, and returned
the same day. John and Henry have dined here, and
staid all night. I have dined once at Col. C's. On his way
to Charlotte Court House, I saw Mr. L. for the first time since
my return from Washington. Mr. B. and Peyton R. came
home with me from court, (where I was obliged to go,) and
staid the next day with me. I have since been closely confined,
under a course of mercury; and the weather has been
so cloudy and threatening, although we have little actual rain,
that I dare not venture out. Sims I have not seen. The
hawks have caught both my summer ducks. Nancy is very
ill. Old Essex, too, is laid up with a swelled jaw, from a carious
tooth. This, I believe, is the sum of our domestic
news, except that old Dido is plus caduque que son maitre.
I am my own physician, and feel my way in the dark, like
the rest of the faculty. Adieu.
JOHN RANDOLPH, of Roanoke.
Monday Morning.
