before him to be conquered when he might choose. Nothing would be too great for him to accomplish—nothing impossible to that eager joyous soul enthroned at last upon the greatest heights of human happiness. And then—there was a change. He rode to her home one day, tying his horse outside as was his wont. A little later he strode out, [Pg 85]shaking like an aspen, his face white in agony. He drew his knife from his pocket, cut the bridle of his horse, dug his spurs into the quivering sides, and was off like the wind. What battle was fought out on that wild ride is known only to John Randolph and his God. What torture that fiery soul went through, no human being can ever know. When he came back at night, he was so changed that no one dared to speak to him.

[Pg 85]

He threw himself into the political arena in order to save his reason. Often at midnight, he would rise from his uneasy bed, buckle on his pistols, and ride like mad over the country, returning only when his horse was spent. He never saw Miss Ward again, and she married Peyton Randolph, the son of Edmund Randolph, who was Secretary of State under Washington.

The entire affair is shrouded in mystery. There is not a letter, nor a single scrap of paper, nor a shred of evidence upon which to base even a presumption. The [Pg 86]separation was final and complete, and the white-hot metal of the man’s nature was gradually moulded into that strange eccentric being whose foibles are so well known.

[Pg 86]

Only once did Randolph lift even a corner of the veil. In a letter to his dearest friend he spoke of her as:

“One I loved better than my own soul, or Him who created it. My apathy is not natural, but superinduced. There was a volcano under my ice, but it burnt out, and a face of desolation has come on, not to be rectified in ages, could my life be prolonged to patriarchal longevity.

“The necessity of loving and being loved was never felt by the imaginary beings of Rousseau and Byron’s creation, more imperiously than by myself. My heart was offered with a devotion that knew no reserve. Long an object of proscription and treachery, I have at last, more mortifying to the pride of man, become an object of utter indifference.”

The brilliant statesman would doubtless have had a large liberty of choice among the many beautiful women of his circle, but he never married, and there is no [Pg 87]record of any entanglement. To the few 

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