My first, though scrutinized with close inspections

My first, though scrutinized with close inspections Is found above all human imperfections. I hold it in my hand,—yet though polite, ’T is of no use to me while in my sight. But still ’tis felt, and in my secret soul Upon reflection, I commend my whole. Now nothing can describe my second better Than the last part of a well-written letter. My whole cannot escape his fate so sad, Tradition tells us all his race goes mad.