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Tlic Merry Time of Old.
They say that learning’s light has spread,
A happier time around,
And tyrants’ power has well-nigh fled
From out her hallow’d ground;
‘Tis trne that superstitious sway
Few votaries now can claim,.
And pass’d like childish dreams away
Each once dread mystic name;
But Mammon reigns in every clime,
And millions ho\y to gold,
Jfar more than in the merry time,
| The merry t>me ex eld!
And calculation’s coiduess then
Was seldom, seldom found, ■
But impulse nobly guided men,
And warriors trod the ground.
Sneer not, it had a noble claim,
When-youuis were taugf.t 10 wield
The sworcl that flashed In honor’s name,
And stand .as honor’s shield ;
Then maiden’s praise and poet's chime
Rose highest when they told
Os noble, deeds that crown'd the time,
The merry time of old f
From the New York Century.
PERSONAL DETAILS OF
JOHN RANDOLPH.*
Virginia, July 18, 1859.
In the ‘ Old Convention” ot 1829, which
had assembled to revise the. Constitution
of Virginia, there was n member whose ap
pearance attract -d and fixed the attrac
tion of every spectator. lie was a man
ot nearly sixty, but looked older. His
face was almost the color of parchment,
and*beneath the thin, gray brows rolled
a pair ot keen, penetrating eyes, which
burned with a strange brilliancy*. He
was clad iu mourning, with crape upon
his hat and on Lis arm, and when some
one asked him, ono day, it he had lost a
friend, he replied, ‘No, sir, l am in mourn
ing tor the Old Constitution."’ Sitting a
part from the other members, and resting
liis hand upon the head of his stick, which
he passed up and down from time to time,
in a measured and absent manner, he
seemed to take no interest in the proceed
ings of the Convention, ami for along
time did not open his lips. One day, how
ever, the citizens of Richmd might have
been seen hastening to the Capitol, in
which the body belli its session. From
every quarter the crowd j.wufed in eagerly
scaice .uifiwer any question.
The. explanation ihe hurry and curios
ity was contained in the wonts passed
from mouth to month, tin ugh the streets
ot the town: “John Ran lolph is speak
ing.”
Such was the public curiosity and
strange interest fell in this singular man,
by his owu fellow-citizens of the native
soil.” What was tie source of it ? Many
persons were as famous.. The Convention
embraced two ex-Presidents—Madison
and Monroe—Chief Justice Marshall, and
a dozen other men of wide celebrity; but
when these gentlemen spoke, the citizens
did not hurry thus to hear them. It is
true that when the venerable Madison
rose to address the body, his associates
crowded around him, to catch the%whis
pered tones of his feeble voice; but the
general curiosity to bear the orator of
Roanoke was greater even than this.
It arose front the singularity of the man,
far more than iiis wide fame in the coun
cils of a nation. A late writer called bun,
with more point than truth, • the abortive
child of talent and notoriety,” but this
was only a portion of the pU taf*. The
public might have beer, attractea by his
“talent,” and stimulated to curiosity by
bio “notoriety,” but his personal traits
were the real causes ot the general inter
est. liis persoji was a siaudug theme for
gossip; every movement which he made
was watched and commented on. His
well known and striking career dwelt in
the memories of all, and would have made
him the “observed of all observers,” but
in addition to all this, behind nil lay the
man, John Randolph—a human being un
like any other person of ins time perhaps
ol all time. Let us glanco at him apart
from his political caieer—recall some of
the peculiarities of his person, his manners
and his habits—and notice, iu passing, an
anecdote or two which illustrate bis char
acter. They may serve to present the
orator ui Roanoke as he lived and moved,
and the picture, rigidly true to life, as it
will be, may not prove destitute of inter
est and value.
Let me introduce the brief sketch I de
sign making, with a contrast. Over the
fireplace ot *ue of the apartments at Roan
oke. hung, not many years ago. the por
trait of a boy of twelve, by Gilbert Stuart.
In the rosy complexion, the bright plump
checks, the laughing eyes, and beautiful
lips of theimy, you saw and felt the fresh
charm of youth, the innocence and sweet
grace of childhood. One who knew the
original once held up his bands and ex
•ln a former sketch pnblisheJ in The
GrfSTUKY the writer of this article spoke
ot some early scenes in the life of Ran
dolph ; the design here is to collect some
personal traits and details of his latter
I dav*
GREENESBORO’, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY MORNING, JUNE 27, 1860.
claimed, “I never saw such a beautiful
boy !” His skin was peculiarly thin and
delicate, and the warm blood played visi
bly beneath. In the happy eyes and in
genious lips, every emotion was distinctly
revealed. Such was Randolph at twelve
year&ofage. What was he at fifty, or
even forty? I examined his portrait some
time since with melancholy interest. The
keen eyes fixed coldly and steadfastly on
the beholder defied every attempt to read
the thought of the brain beneath. The
hair parted in the middle and gathered
behind the ears, had lost the youthful
gloss of old days, and was stiff’ and intrac
table. The bright cheeks had become
ittllow and shrunken. Those tw*o terrible
enemies, and’ fnisfbrtune, had marched
over the countenance once so blooming
and beautiful. They had trodden down
the flowers in the rosy cheeks—ploughed
jtuesmooiu forehead into heavy furrows;
and in those deep furrows, they had sow
ed the rank seeds of suffering and care.
Bitter tears had dimmed the bright eyes
once so brilliant: midnight agony groans
had wasted the round cheeks—between
the smiling portraits of Gilbert Stuart and
the picturel looked on of the aged man,,
there was scarcely any resemblance to be
discovered. John Randolph so beautitul
in youth,’ with such high hopes and
bright thoughts of the future, bad become
thus in time, and from sickness and suf
fering, quite another being—a sad and
sorrowful figure—the mark jests or
wonder—of pity or admiration, or dislike.
His figure, like his face, was full of singu
lar eccentricity. Tall, angular, thin as a
shade w, he. resembled rather some ghost
from another world, than a veritable be
ing of flesh-aud blood. His limbs were
wonderfully slender, and the fashion of-the
time served to display this peculiarity to
its fullest extent. He were small clothes
so tight that they seemed to be. a part ot
his person; and tiilfsnow-white stockings,
fastened at his knees by a small gold
buckle, fitted as closely as the cuticle al
most. Over these, and reaching about
midway the calf, were a pair ot course,
country-knit yarn stockings, or “hose,”
as they were then called. His shoes were
of the ild revolutionary fashion, with
huge buckles—his coat ample, and but
ton and tightly around his slender, woman
like waist; his chin half buried itself in
the folds of a great white cravat, and the
dry fiaxen hair surmounted by a fur cap.
The movements of this singular figure
were ns unique as the costume. In walk
ing, Randolph followed the Indian fasb
ion, placing the foot straight in fiont—the
toes inclined neither inward nor outward.
A fanciful mind might have attributed
tins peculiarity* to his Indian blood, for
he was descended in the seventh degree
from the Princess Pocahontas. Moving,
quickly and slowly, by starts, with head
thrown back, and the keen eyes sparkling
beneath the rim of his dark, far cap, often
muttering to himself, to wake suddenly to
a consciousness of tbe world around him,
■stride on rapidly to his lonely apartment
—this singular figure was eminently cal
culated to attract the attention of every
one, w'hether it moved over the familiar
court greens of Virginia, or in the streets
of Washington or Loudon. In both of
these cities ho was the “observed of all
observers.” The metropolis of England,
where physical peculiarities and eccen
tricities are met with incessantly, could
furnish nothing* stranger than the form of
the orator of Virginia. In Washington,
Baltimore, Philadelphia and Richmond,
he was the mark of all eyes—to be point
ed out with the finger. Boys often fol
lowed him, but rarely laughed, or indulg
ed in those practicle jokes so congenial to
the mischievous minds of youth. They
trooped after Randolph, as one who wit
nessed the sight declares, “in silent curi
ous wonder.” This notoriety annoyed
him, but led to no alteration in his cos
tume. His clothes, like his principles,
seemed a part of him. He felt doubtless
as the great statesman of “Marshfield”
did, when he said that he could more eas
ily change his political convictions than
the mode of wearing, or the fashion of his
shirt collar. Randolph doubtless clung to
his eccentric mode of dress—tor he was
always far behind the fashion in a portion
cf his costume—from bis intense attach
ment to every Virginian. His old neigh
bors still adhered to the sashing of tbe
past in a great degree ; and if among these
he could wear his swallow-tailed coat, with
lofty collar, when the mode was fautailed
with no collar at all, why should he not
do so in the streets of Washington or Lon
don ? He bad a keen relish for all that
Was characteristic of bis native soil, aud
in travelling followed the old fashion of
his colonial forefathers. He always made
use of his private vehicle—either a coach
dragged onu ard by tour blooded horses,
or a sulky drawn by a fast trotter. He
was generally driven by Jupiter, bis body
servant —“Jnba” was bis familiar name; a
warm-hearted and faithful retainer, who
loved bis master with extreme affection,
and clang to him in sickness and health,
in jcy and sorrow.
On a par with his singularity of dress
and personal appcaruce, were the man
ner of speaking, tone ci voice, gesticula
tion ib public addreas, and habits in gen
eral of the individual. His voice was
high-pitrbed, and under strong excitement
rose to a shrill key, which pentrated to
the furthest limits of the greatest crowd,
and was heard above the loudest uproar.
1 liere was a satirical and ironical delib
eration in the shrill invective thus utter
ed, which produced a curious impression
upon the listener. Onco heard in his mo
ments of cold passion, if I may so speak,
Randolph was never forgotten. The use
which lie made of hie long, thin forefinger,
is well known. He would sometimes stand
for several moment si perfectly silent, with
his penetrating eye riveted upon the per
son whom he addressed, or of whom he
spoke, and the ghostly finger aud long
angular arm moving slowly up aud down
—when those who wore familiar, with his
habit knew that, lie was selecting and ar
ranging in the depths of his mind the very
words and turns of phrase of the sarcasm
or invective which he designed. Many
aneccEtes ai'C routed of the effectproduced
by tlie voice aim finger— -ag when, aftera
violent denunciation of his character aud
career from a young member of the Koils©
he rose quietly, and stretching out his
arm, 6aid in calm, indifferent tones. “Mr.
Speaker, who is that gentleman ?” It
.was impossible not to be interested in his
speeches, for they were exquisitely choice
in their phraseology ; and no.sentence
passed his lips which Lad not first been
fiamed and polished carefully, so to speak,
in his mind. Often his gestures were
dramatic and expressive—as wheu lie ren
dered up his public trust, after the old
Convention of which I have spoken. “It
is time for me to retire and stand before
another and a higher tribunal,” he said
solemnly, “where a verdict of acquittal
will be of infinitely more importance than
any from an earthly tribunal. Here is the
trust which, you placed -in my hands
twenty-eight years ago”—then stooping
forwards and extending his arms as though
he rolled a great, weight toward his hear
ers, -‘take it back ! take it back !” he said
and mounting bis horse without further
words rode off. Throughout his entire
life, from the day iu -March, 1799, when
he mounted the rostrum from which Pat- *
rick Henry hod just descended, to his sor
rowful death in May, 1833. his peculiarities
of speaking, acting, dressing, and living,
attracted universal attention. The flan
nel dressing-gown in which he went on
the field to fight Henry Clay, is still in
existence, with the mark of the pistol ball
under the arm. The particulars ot this
affair are so eharcterislic of the man, and
present him in a light so amiable and at
tractive, that they may fitly find , a brief
space iu this sketch : The night preceding
tbe duel, General Hamilton went to see
him, when Randolph said to him : “Ham
ilton, 1 have determined to receive with
out reluming Clay’s fire ; nothing shall
induce me to Win a hair of his head. I
will not’ wife a widow, or his
children orphans. ’Their tears would be
shed over his grave ; but, when, the sod of
Virginia rests on my bosom, there is not
in this wide world one individual to pay
this tribute to mine.” The eyes of the
speakei till.ed as he thus inferred to Ins
lonely life, but be soon grew composed
again. In spiteof Hamilton’s remonstrance
he adhered to his purpose, requesting his
friend, however, not to inform Colonel
Tattnal, his second, who lie feaied would
take the studs aud refuse to go out with
him. Hamilton, however, informed the
Colonel, and at midnight they went to
gether to Randolph’s lodgings. He was
reading Milton, and commenced an en
thusiastic criticism upon the passage yliicb
engaged him. Colonel Tattnal soon came
to business, and opposed strongly the
design of his principal not to return Clay’s
fire. A compromise finally resulted from
Randolph’s declaration, that if lie saw ‘'•the
devil iu Clay’s eye.” and any “malice
prepense” to take his life, he would return
his fire. They met on the next evening,
on the banks of the Potomac, just as the
sun was setting “behind the blue hills of
Randolph’s own Virginia.” - While Colo
nel Tattnal was loading Lis principal’s
weapon, Hamilton approached aud took
Randolph’s hand, in which he says, there
was “not the quickening of one pulsation.”
Randolph then said, “Clay is calm, but
not vindictive.” I hold my purpmse in
any evant; remeDber this.” To bis se
cond he said, as the pistol with the hair
trigger spring was presented to him,
‘‘Tattnal, although I am one of the best
shots in Virginia, with either a pistol or
gun, I never fire with tbe hair trigger; be
sides. I have a thick buckskin glove on,
which will destroy the delicacy of my
toueb, and the Jrigger may fly before I
know where I am.” It happened as be
expected ; but at the second fire be dis
charged in the air, whereupon Mr. Clay
hastened to him and exclaimed, “I trust
in God, my dear sir, yon are untouched ;
after what has occurred, I would not harm
you for a thousand, I would not harm you
fora thousand words.” Thus ended tkis
famous encounter, in which Randolph
assuredly acted with noble feeling. This
circumstance, doubtless, went far to dis
arm those bitter enmities which he had
aroused by his career on the floor of Con
gress. But to return for a brief space to
the personal details which were designed:
It was In his retirement rt Roanoke, far
away from political turmoil, and among
bis old neighbors that Randolph lived the
more pleaaant days of his life There lie
read and wrote, and mused, with the
rniurmur of the forest in his ears—in the
midst of a solitude almost, for a large part
of the time. paid great attention to fiis
correspondence with those bosom friends
whom be loved long and faithfully. I saw
some years ago, a paper writen by him, in
which he lamented that he and liis dear
friends Mr. ‘Tazewell had grown to twen
ty without knowing each other. He had
lost all those.years, he said, of his friend’s
society. On this correspondence he lav
ished all liis thoughts and lei&uie moments.
It remains in iarge part unpublished, spite
of the two volumns of his lifo by Mr. Gar
land ; and I have often read the colored
letters to an old beloved friend, with deep
interest. The love of reading disputed
with this fondness of writing. He read
everything, from works on divinity and
elaborate books of history to novels, plays
and poetry, liis favorites were the “gods
of song”—Homer, Shakspeare and Milton,
of which lio imported exquisite London
copies. In the “Iliiad,” Hector and not
Acinlles, vaUfib! favorite. When a mere
child he was Liken {Crib? Bermuda Islands,
he says in one of thooO old letters to
which I have referred, where he read she.
“Tempest,” in the midst of the scene;
which the master-mind contemplated when
he wrote it. This sojourn in the lovely
islands, lost far av*nv in the Atlantic, lias
been little considered’; and yet it must
have strongly influenced the poetical and
imaginative child. We may fancy him
stretched on the sod beneath the great
palmettos with the orange and pomegranate
clustering around, and reading the Caliban
and Ariel where once the former rolled on
the yellow sand, ana the gentle spirit
soared beneath the moon. No one had a
greater zest for poetry. It was his lifelong
delight—if anything disputed it, except
his correspondence, it was licraldry.-*-
Randolph was born with a natural and
ingrained feeling of c<z.i?e. He never was
and never could have been a Democrat.—
His ancestors had ruled in the old colonial
days, and he was jealous erf all which ten
lied to obliterate the lines of distinction
between himself and the mass. He could
never endure Mr. Jefferson’s “levelling
doctrines,” and inveighed against them
bitterly. One of his favorite Looks was
the “English Peerage,” and his familiarity
with it was very striking. His own family
he, traced back step by step, in a little
MS. hook, to Ratmepli or Rulf, a leader
of the Danish invaders of Franco in the
dark ages. In placing so much stress
upon blood and decent, he was only fol
lowing the dictates of his his
training and his position. He was the last
of his branch of the Randolphs, and thought
with bitter distress of its probable ex
tinction after all the splendid past which
it. could boast.- Thus he clung to tbe
claims and honors of bis race with intense
tenacity, and grew at last to be a sort of
master of Ravenswood, greater and more
noble in his own opinion, for this isolation
and in the depths of his lonely weakness
dowered with all the glory and digninly of
the past. This sentiment was no doubt
fostered by the. high social position and
great public services of his kindred, but
it was in bis blood wben he was born, and
grew with his suffering and misfortune.—
Delicate, nervous and sensitive, it might
almost be said that ho indeed exhibited
the indications of what is technically cal
led, ‘blood,” in animals ; that, unfitted for
tbe systematic and regular toils of life,
he yet accomplished what none but the
racer can accomplish. On those public
occasions when liis unique endowments
astonished the world, lie gained for himself
an immense fame, and proved of vast ser
vice by bis watchful opposition to parties
in power; but, to return to the simile,
what a weary raccc was his life ! It was
full of feverish triumphs, and prostrating
languor. He was alternately disgusted
by the struggles of the political arena, apd
by liis lnneiy retirement. Washington
harassed and wore out his energies—lie
craved the solitude of Roauoko. Roanoke
wearied him with its silence and ennui—
be looked again toward the sceno of his
triumphs. It was his fate to fight to the
last, however. He died in.harness almost.
When he raised his voice, against the
Proclamation, his long fight was ended ;
he had spoken his last word for the rights
aud sacred altars sf the Sovereign States ;
and was soon laid in his grave at Roanoke.
He died in Philadelphia, m May, 1833,
worn out in mind and body, and far from
bis beloved Virginia. That be passed
away from tbe world in .which be had
beeu so unhappy, with the comfort of a
certain faith, i verily believe, after a full
consideration of every circumstance.
Thus ended the career of a very extra
ordinary man* whose life and character
must always present to the thinking mind
a carious problem. The singularities of
the great orator grow upon the mind, and
are of inexhaustible attraction. This at
traction is sad but profound. No person
age in our national annals has left npon
the minds of men more distinct impres
sion of his mental and physical character
istics. Hundreds of anecdotes remain of
him, but they arc often so doubtful that I
bave refrained from repeating them in a
sketch which aims at rigid historical ac
curacy and faithfulness. Tbe omission
J may disappoint some of tlioao who read
’ these lines,expecting amusement and food
Terms— sl,so Always in Advance.
foi laughter; but others will perhaps feel
satisfaction at the absence of such matter.
Those floating bon mots, epigrams and
sarcasms, ill authenticated for the most
part, and often very bitter, would prove
of little interest to the thoughtful reader.
Much more averse is the writer of these
lines to gay employment of his subject for
tho purposes of amusement. He disdains
to lay bare the shuddering nerves of this
famous and unhappy man to the mirth
and ridicule of the thoughtless crowd.
Thera was little to amuse, in the jests of
John Randolph. They were tho utter
ances of a man whose mind aud body wore
both cruelly affected, and should fill us
with sadness rather than mirth. No jaugh
ter accompanied them when they were ut
tored, unless it were tho triumphant ap
plause of those wl*> hated the object ot
.his sarcasm. The sharp and penetrating
barb upon tbeh brilliant tips struck deep
and fostered, arousing rage and hatred,
not amusement. I prefer to let them rest
in the obscure newspaper, or the idle
jest book, and leave the subject of the
life and character of John Randolph, as I
approached it, in* a mood of grave reflec
tion, most becoming iu the student of his
career. Turning away from nil such things,
I look upon him as so many of those good
men whom Le wounded did when lie had
passed away—with charity for his faults,
aud dlie recognition of the lifelong-servi
ces he rendered to the constitutional
rights of all the States. He had much to
sour and embitter him—sickness, suffering
and terrible, misfortune. Black care rode
ever behind him in that feverish life-race
which he ran, and tho incubus never van
ished. Ho sleeps after many sorrowful
and distressing years—after heart-burn
ings, tears, and divers woes which lacked
him cruelly ; let him sleep in peace. The
two great pines which stretch their arms
above his grave in the Roanoke woods,
are the solemn guardians of his ashes.
J.E C.
Mistakes of Physicians.
Oliver W. Holmes (physician, philoso
pher and poet), in a lecture upon physi
cians, gives the following account of some
mistakes which have been made in medi
cine : /
Sooner or later, everybody is tripped
up in forming a diagnosis, i saw Velpeau
tie one of tho carotid arteries for a suppos
ed aneurism, which was only a little harm
less tumor, and kill his patient. Mr. Dense ‘
of Dublin, was more fortunate iu a case be
boldly declared an abscess, while others
thought it an aneurism. He thrust a lan
cet into it, and proved himself in the right.
Soon after, he made a similar diagnosis.—
He thrust in his lancet, as before, and out
gushed tho patient’sliloo’d, and his life with
it. The next morning Mr. Dease was
found dead, and floating in his blood. Ho
had divided tho femoral artery. I have
doomed people, and seen others doom them,
over and over again, on the. strength of
physical signs,and they have lived in tho
most contumacious and scientifically un
justifiable manner ns long as they lived,
and some are. living still. I see two men
in the street very often, who were both as
good as dead in the Opinion of all who saw
them in their extremity. People will in
sist on living sometimes through manifest
ly moribund. In Dr. Elder’slife of Kane
you will find a story of this sort told by
Dr. Kane himself. The captain of a ship
was dying with scurvy, but tho crew muti
nied, and he gave up dying for the*present
to take care of them. An old lady in this
,city, bear her end, got a littfo vexed about
a proposed change in her will; ,ordered a
coach; was driven twenty miles to the
house of a relative, and lived for fouPyears
longer. Cotton Mather tells some-good
stories which he picked.ug by experience,
or out of his looks, showing the unstable
‘equilibiiui of prognosis. Simon Stoue w.as
shot in nine places, and as he Iffy for dead
the Indians made two hacks with a hatch
et to cut las head off’. He got well, how
ever, and va,s a lusty fellow in Cotton Ma
ther’s time. Jubez Muse rave was shot
w'tli a ballet that went in hi* eat* and dame
out of Ir.s eye on the ctherside. A couple
of bullets went tlrrough his bony also.—
Jabez got well, however, and lived many
years. Ver contra. Col. crack
ing a plum Btone with his teeth, broke a
tooth, anil lostj.is lifo. YVe have seen phy
sicians dying, like Spiggellus, from a
scratch'; ar.d a man who had a crawbar
shot through his head is alive nnd wcll.—
These extreme cases arte warnings. But
you can never be too cautious in your
prognosis, in the view uueeitainty
of the course of any disease not long
watched, and tlie many unexpected turns
it may take.
A Disinherited Daughter liighicd.— -On
Monday last in the Surrogate’s Court, at
New York, tbe will of tbe widow of the
3
late Bt'.pbcn Whitney, the millionaire,
whose death occurred a few months ago,
was admitted to probate. Mrs. Whitney
leaves £6,500 to her nieces, and all thej*est
of her property to her daughter, Enieline
Dore, wife of John Dore. Mr. Whitnoy
left this daughter com pari lively a small
portion of his cstato, which is propably
the reason she lias been so lihcfttlly provi
ded for by M’ Whitney,
NUMBER V 2G-