LETTER XLIX.
Bizarre, Friday, Nov. 16, 1810.
Dear Theodore,
I got here yesterday morning, having been compelled
(not more from fatigue and sickness, than from inclination,)
to stay the preceding night with Mr. Hoge. St. George and
Johnny, who took the other road, came on that night. We
found your sister and cousin in good health.
I am in no situation to write, but I cannot resist the inclination
I feel to say something to you, as well as to set you a
good example; and yet, what have I to say, that has not been
repeated in every possible form, until, at last, it has, perhaps,
become stale and nauseous to you.
Shall I tell you of my "Miseries of Human Life?" Last
night I awaked shrieking with pain. It was spasm, occasioned
by my wounded foot. The bones of the middle toe are
crushed, and the whole member a mass of contusion. I fear
I shall have to amputate it at last; (I mean the toe.) A large
dose of opium gave me some unquiet sleep; but, to-day, I am
greatly disordered. I have a bad cold and sore throat; but
these I do not so much mind: my hip, and the whole thigh
and leg are, very painful. I think it must be sciatic. The
pain extends along down the inside of the thigh, crosses obliquely
at the knee, so as to affect rather the outer than inner
side of the knee, and afflicts me beyond expression. I
have felt nothing like it since my confinement at Mr. Key's,
two winters ago.
You have not mentioned Messrs. Innskeep & Bradford,
or another commission which began in Richmond, and ended
in Georgetown. Did you stay at Crawford's? and whom did
you see in Richmond. Have you received the second $250,
and lodged it in the bank? I want to know all about you;
but, from your scanty letters, which look like the forced production
of an ungenial climate, I suppose I shall have to glean
my intelligence from others, at second or third hand. I see
very plainly the error into which you have fallen, and you
will see it too, (as I did in my own case,) when too late.
Have you read "Manœuvring" yet. I tell you, (you may
believe me or not, just as you please,) you are no match for
female adroitness and artifice, even if not seconded by wit,
some beauty, and long practice. The love of power, and of
admiration, (and the last is subordinate and instrumental to
the first,) is woman's ruling passion. Whatever be the affectation
of the day, it is pushed to the extreme—is it timidity?
she shrinks from a mouse; is it fortitude? she braves
Heaven, itself. Read, if you please, Dr. Young's Universal
Passion; that, I think, is the title of his satires. Let me
know how, and where, and with whom you are lodged; who
are your companions, &c. I am in great pain.
Yours, truly,
JOHN RANDOLPH, of Roanoke.
If you make any acquaintances, who know me, tell me
who they are, and their present situation in the world.
When you write to your mother, inquire if my letter of last
winter, enclosing Sally's, reached her. I have a particular
reason for wishing to know.
