He was above the pursuit of wealth, but also above dependence and idleness; and, like an old Roman of the elder Cato's time, worked in the fields at the head of his slaves in the intervals of public duty, and did not cease this labor until advancing age rendered him unable to stand the hot sun of summer--the only season of the year when senatorial duties left him at liberty to follow the plough or handle the hoe. I think it was the summer of 1817--that was the last time (he told me) he tried it, and found the sun too hot for him--then sixty years of age, a Senator, and the refuser of all office. How often I think of him when I see at Washington robustious men going through a scene of supplication, tribulation, and degradation, to obtain office, which the salvation of the soul does not impose upon the vilest sinner. His fields, his flocks and his herds yielded an ample supply of domestic productions. A small crop of tobacco--three hogsheads when the season was good, two when bad--purchased the exotics which comfort and necessity required and which the farm did not produce. He was not rich, but rich enough to dispense hospitality and charity, to receive all guests in his house, from the President to the day-laborer--no other title being necessary to enter his house but that of an honest man; rich enough to bring up his family (two daughters) as accomplished ladies, and marry them to accomplished gentlemen--one to William Martin, Esq., and the other to William Eaton, Esq., of Roanoke, my early schoolfellow and friend for more than half a century; and, above all, he was rich enough to pay as he went and never to owe a dollar to any man.