When Jackson issued his famous proclamation against the South Carolina nullifiers, Randolph arose from his sick bed and actively canvassed the district, making inflammatory speeches from his carriage to arouse a public sentiment against the proclamation and its author—as if a skeleton, uttering a voice from the grave, had come back to awaken the living. Then we hear of him at the Petersburg races, making a speech and betting on the horses. It was probably on this occasion that he made the retort to a sporting man. Randolph excitedly offered a certain wager on one of the horses. A stranger proposed to take the bet, saying, “My friend Thompson here will hold the stakes.” “Yes,” squealed the skeleton statesman, suspiciously, “and who will hold Thompson?”
But the end was drawing on. Ill as he was, he made preparations to go abroad again, and in May, 1833, started for Philadelphia to take passage.
On the boat thence to Philadelphia the dying man—for such now he was—ate heartily of fried clams, asked an acquaintance to read for him and criticised every incorrect accent or pronunciation, and talked freely about men, measures, and especially about his horses, which were very fast. The closing scene took place in Philadelphia, in a hotel, among strangers,—fit finale of his desolate, homeless life.
He lingered several days, during which time he took, with great care, the necessary legal steps to confirm his will for the manumission of his slaves. This finally done, he seemed to feel easier in mind and body. The account of the strange end of the eventful history proceeds:
He now made his preparations to die. He directed John to bring him his father’s breast button; he then directed him to place it in the bosom of his shirt. It was an old-fashioned, large-sized gold stud. John placed it in the button hole of the shirt bosom—but to fix it completely required another hole on the other side. “Get a knife,” said he, “and cut one.” A napkin was called for, and placed by John, over his breast. For a short time he lay perfectly quiet, with his eyes closed. He suddenly roused up and exclaimed:
“Remorse! Remorse!”
It was thrice repeated—the last time, at the top of his voice, with great agitation. He cried out, “Let me see the word. Get a dictionary! Let me see the word!”
“There is none in the room, sir.”
“Write it down then—let me see the word.”
The Doctor picked up one of his cards, “Randolph, of Roanoke.” “Shall I write on this?”