What you tell me of Milnor is quite unexpected. He was one of the last men whom I should have expected to take orders—not so much on account of his quitting a lucrative profession as from his fondness for gay life. I am not sure that it is the safest path—The responsibility is awful—it is tremendous. Thanks for your intelligence respecting my poor sister. If human skill could save her, Dr. Robinson would do it: but there is nothing left to smooth her path to that dwelling whither we must all soon follow her. I can give Mrs. B. no comfort on the subject of ——. For my part, it requires an effort to take an interest in any thing—and it seems to me strange, that there should be found inducements strong enough to carry on the business of the world. I believe you have given the true solution of this problem, by way of corollary from another—when you pronounce that free will and necessity are much the same. I used formerly to puzzle myself, as abler men have puzzled others, by speculations on this opprobrium of philosophy. If you have not untied the Gordian knot, you have cut it, which is the approved methodus medendi of this disease. My neighbor C., who is the bearer of this, is called by the world a _hard man_—but I like him because he has a manliness of character—not common in this age of base compliance with what is and what is not (but supposed to be) the ruling opinions. Write to me when you can do no better. Worse you cannot do for yourself, nor better for me. You can't imagine what an epoch in my present life a letter from you or Leigh constitutes. If I did not know that you could find nothing here beyond the satisfaction of mere animal necessity, I should entreat Mrs. B. and yourself to visit my solitary habitation. May every blessing attend you both. Your's unchangeably, JOHN RANDOLPH, of Roanoke. {570} LETTER VI. ROANOKE, July 15, 1814. I had begun to fear that my long visitation of last winter and spring, had put you so much out of the habit of writing to me, that you would never resume it—but your letter of the sixth (just received) encourages me to hope that I shall hear from you as formerly. It was a sensible relief to me—but I will say nothing about my situation. Poor St. George continues quite irrational. He is however very little mischievous, and governed pretty easily. His memory of persons, things, events and words, is not at all impaired—but he has no power of _combination_, and is entirely incoherent. _His_ going to the Springs is out of the question—and mine, I fear, equally so—although my rheumatism requires the warm bath. By this time, you are on your way thither—except that it is too _cold_, the weather could not have been finer. What a climate we live under! * * * * *