to Richmond, which had not long been the capital, and there he lived until his death, which happened in 1835 in the city of Philadelphia, whither he had repaired to submit to a second operation.  The first of these operations was cutting to the bladder for the stone, and he survived it.  Subsequently, his liver became enlarged and had abcesses on it, and his stomach would not retain much nutriment.  Marshall was a social man, and at times convivial; and I should think it probable that, though he lived to a good old age, these complaints were, to some extent, engendered by the fried food they insist upon in Virginia, and addiction to Madeira wine instead of lighter French or German wines.  He was one of the last of the old Madeira drinkers of this country, like Washington, and his only point of pride was that he had perhaps the best Madeira at Richmond.  Above all other men who ever lived at Richmond, Virginia, Marshall gives sanctity and character to the place.  His house still stands there, and ought to become the property of the bar of this country.  It is now a pretty old house, made of brick and moderately roomy.

AT THE BAR.

The basis of Marshall’s ability at the bar was his understanding.  Not highly read, he had one of those clear understandings which was equal to a mill-pond of book-learning.  His first practice was among his old companions in arms, who felt that he was a soldier by nature, and one of those who loved the fellowship of the camp better than military or political ambition.  Ragged and dissipated, they used to come to him for protection, and at a time when imprisonment for debt and cruel executions were in vogue.  He not only defended them, but loaned them money.  He lost some good clients by not paying more attention to his clothing, but these outward circumstances could not long keep back recognition of the fact that he was the finest arguer of a case at the Richmond bar, which then contained such men as Edmund Randolph, Patrick Henry, and later, William Wirt.  He was not an orator, did not cultivate his voice, did not labor hard; but he had the power to penetrate to the very center of the subject, discover the chief point, and rally all his forces there.  If he was defending a case, he would turn his attention to some other than the main point, in order to let the prosecution assemble its powers at the wrong place.  With a military eye he saw the strong and weak positions, and, like Rembrandt painting, he threw all his light on the right spot.  The character of his argument was a perspicuous, easy, onward, accumulative, reasoning statement.  He had but one gesture—­to lift up his hand and bring it down on the place before him constantly.  He discarded fancy or poetry in his arguments.  William Wirt said of him, in a sentence worth committing to memory as a specimen of good style in the early quarter of this century:  “All his eloquence consists in the apparent