the round
of his judicial year.

The entire lack of pageantry and circumstance which attended these
journeyings of his is nowhere more gaily revealed than in the following
letter to his wife, which is now published for the first time through
the kindness of Mr. Beveridge:

Rawleigh, Jan'y. 2d, 1803.

My Dearest Polly

You will laugh at my vexation when you hear the various calamities that
have befallen me. In the first place when I came to review my funds, I
had the mortification to discover that I had lost 15 silver dollars out
of my waist coat pocket. They had worn through the various mendings the
pocket had sustained and sought their liberty in the sands of Carolina.

I determined not to vex myself with what could not be remedied & ordered
Peter to take out my cloaths that I might dress for court when to my
astonishment & grief after fumbling several minutes in the portmanteau,
starting [sic] at vacancy, & sweating most profusely he turned to me
with the doleful tidings that I had no pair of breeches. You may be sure
this piece of intelligence was not very graciously received; however,
after a little scolding, I determined to make the best of my situation &
immediately set out to get a pair made.

I thought I should be a sans-culotte only one day & that for the residue
of the term I might be well enough dressed for the appearance on the
first day to be forgotten.

But, the greatest of evils, I found, was followed by still greater. Not
a taylor in town could be prevailed on to work for me: They were all so
busy that it was impossible to attend to my wants however pressing they
might be, & I have the extreme mortification to pass the whole time
without that important article of dress I have mentioned. I have no
alleviation for this misfortune but the hope that I shall be enabled in
four or five days to commence my journey homeward & that I shall have
the pleasure of seeing you & our dear children in eight or nine days
after this reaches you.

In the meantime, I flatter myself that you are well and happy.

Adieu my dearest Polly

I am your own affectionate,

J. Marshall.

Marshall erected his Richmond home, called "Shockoe Hill," in 1793 on a
plot of ground which he had purchased four years earlier. Here, as his
eulogist has said, was "the scene of his real triumphs." At an early
date his wife became a nervous invalid, and his devotion to her brought
out all the finest qualities of his sound and tende