Letters of John Randolph, to a young relative embracing a series of years, from early youth, to mature manhood. |
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 | Letters of John Randolph, to a young relative |  |
102
LETTER LXIX.
Roanoke, Sept. 8, 1811.
Sunday.
Sunday.
My dear Theodore,
Your letters have just arrived. I opened one from
Dr. Brockenbrough, in the first instance, and from it received
the afflicting intelligence.[1]
It dropped from my hands as if
I had touched a living fire-brand. I cannot tell you what I
feel. I could not, if I knew myself. But I do not. I am
stupefied. I do not know what I am about. I will try and
write again to-morrow. Say to Mrs. Clay, what I could not
if I were with her. I could only wring her hand, and mingle
my tears with hers. I feel a sense of suffocation about
my heart. I thank God that you were with him: that you
could do all that could be done; that I would have tried to
do if I had been there. My dear son, I can write no more.
I will endeavour to write again.
Yours, unalterably,
JOHN RANDOLPH.
I consider Randolph as my son.
| Letters of John Randolph, to a young relative | |