while their estates were covered all over with mortgages, he said:  “I always think I can see the anguish under the grin and grimace, like old Mother Cole’s dirty flannel peeping out beneath her Brussels lace.”  He was strong in the opinion that a man who is loose in money matters is not trustworthy in anything,—­an opinion which is shared by every one who knows either life or history.  “The time was,” he wrote,

“when I was fool enough to believe that a man might be negligent of pecuniary obligations, and yet be a very good fellow; but long experience has convinced me that he who is lax in this respect is utterly unworthy of trust in any other.”

He discriminated well between those showy, occasional acts of so-called generosity which such men perform, and the true, habitual, self-denying benevolence of a solvent and just member of society.  “Despise the usurer and the miser as much as you will,” he would exclaim, “but the spendthrift is more selfish than they.”  But his very honesty was most curiously blended with his toryism.  One of his friends relates the following anecdote:—­

“Just before we sailed, the Washington papers were received, announcing the defeat of the Bankrupt Bill by a small majority.  At that moment, I forgot that Randolph had been one of its most determined opponents, and I spoke with the feelings of a merchant when I said to him,—­

     “’Have you heard the very bad news from Washington this
     morning?’

     “‘No, sir,’ replied he, with eagerness; ‘what is it?’

     “’Why, sir, I am sorry to tell you that the House of
     Representatives has thrown out the Bankrupt Bill by a small
     majority.’

     “‘Sorry, sir!’ exclaimed he; and then, taking off his hat
     and looking upwards, he added, most emphatically, ’Thank God
     for all his mercies!’

“After a short pause he continued:  ’How delighted I am to think that I helped to give that hateful bill a kick.  Yes, sir, this very day week I spoke for three hours against it, and my friends, who forced me to make the effort, were good enough to say that I never had made a more successful speech; it must have had some merit, sir; for I assure you, whilst I was speaking, although the Northern mail was announced, not a single member left his seat to look for letters,—­a circumstance which had not occurred before during the session!’

“I endeavored to combat his objections to a Bankrupt Bill subsequently, but, of course, without any success:  he felt as a planter, and was very jealous of the influence of merchants as legislators.”

There are flashes of sense and touches of pathos in some of his most tory passages.  As he was delivering in the House one of his emphatic predictions of the certain failure of our experiment of freedom on this continent, he broke into an apology for so doing, that brought tears to many eyes.  “It is an infirmity of my nature,” said he,