By COLEMAN E. BISHOP.
A study in morbid anatomy! John Randolph, of Roanoke, might have said, withMrs. Gummidge, “everything goes contrary with me;” for not only every quality of his nature, but all the circumstances of his life conspired to create in him a sum of unhappiness not often concentrated upon one individual; and this, notwithstanding his opportunities for usefulness were exceptionally good, his career brilliant, his abilities of the highest order, and his motives in the main praiseworthy. To understand such untoward results flowing from such conditions we must as well know his surroundings as study his character.
John Randolph was born, near Petersburg, Va., June 2, 1773,—a subject of George III. He was descended on his father’s side from an old English family; on the other side from an older American family—a royal line, too, viz: that of Pocahontas, the Indian princess, by Captain Rolfe. In this fusion and confusion of blood can probably be found the cause of much disease in him, and of that decay of his family which brought such disappointment and disaster to his most cherished hopes. Indian blood showed itself in his swarthy complexion and straight black hair, in his placing one foot straight before the other in walking, and in his vengeful temper. The Randolphs led in the effort of Virginia planters to transplant the manners and institutions of the English aristocracy to the new country, with the very important difference that the American aristocracy was to be rooted in African slavery. This solecism was adhered to by the Randolphs after most of the other first families of Virginia had learned theories of government more American and more democratic. Such dreamers desired to have the English laws of entail and primogeniture reënacted by the Virginia legislature; defended slavery after it had become a burden and a loss to them, and had sunk Virginia from the first to the eighth rank among the states; and they advocated state-sovereignty to the last. Their conservatism became obstruction against all changes. Randolph condensed their theory of government into the famous aphorism, “a wise and masterly inactivity,” which his sympathetic biographer, as late as 1850, declared “embraces the whole duty of American statesmen.” So they were forced along with the progress of the country, backward—as the cattle went into the cave of Cacus—and with despairing gaze turned toward the receding past. “The country is ruined past redemption; it is ruined in the spirit and character of the people,” cried Randolph, when he found that the United States would not turn back, and he said he would leave the country if he could sell out and knew where to go. Hence, we find Randolph going through his varied political career, protesting like Hamlet:
“The times are out of joint. O, cursed spite,That ever I was born to set them right.”
“The times are out of joint. O, cursed spite,That ever I was born to set them right.”
“The times are out of joint. O, cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set them right.”
He was the last man to set anything right, having been born wrong himself. A more delicate, high-strung, untuned human instrument was never set up; it was, moreover, set in a frame out of order in every part. A skin as thin and delicate as a girl’s; nerves all on the surface; a remarkably precocious intellect of poetic cast; proud and affectionate in disposition, and “a spice of the devil in his temper,” as he said. “A spice!” This was a mild term (a thing Randolph was not often chargeable with using) to apply to a person who at the age of four years would fly into such a passion as to swoon away and remain for some time unconscious. Every function of his organism seemed to be influenced by his mood; his mood responded like a thermometer to his environment; disappointment or mental disturbance would upset the whole machine. Thus natural poetry, sweetness and affection were “like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;” and body and mind became inharmony morbid—almost the only harmony in his organization.
Life, at its best, jars harshly on such natures; but it dealt with the unfortunate Randolph with a severity that might have appalled and broken down a strong and healthy nature. Nothing but physical and moral courage as extraordinary as the rest of his qualities could have carried him through sixty years of pent-up purgatory. While an infant he lost his father; and his mother (“the only human being who ever knew me”) was taken away when he was fifteen. The sensitive, irritable, delicate child was left to “rough it” alone.
A succession of blows destroyed the dearest object of his life—the transmission of the family name and estates. One brother, Theodorick, died three years after his mother (1791), and three years later the eldest brother, Richard, the pride and hope of the family. The perpetuation of the line rested then on John and Richard’s two infant sons. John Randolph nursed these carefully to manhood, only to see one of them become a hopeless madman from disappointment in love, and the other sicken and die with consumption.
Meanwhile Randolph had himself received a wound which at once blasted his own happiness, and cut off the last hope of succession through himself. He loved; something, we know not what, came between him and his affianced and she married another. Undoubtedly a man of his intense and self-repressed nature threw into this passion extraordinary abandon. At least he never recovered from the disappointment and never married—though, be it said to his credit, cynical as he was, he retained through life the most profound respect for women, and found in their society the only alleviation of his lot. Late in life he wrote: “There was a volcano under my ice, but it is burnt out. The necessity of loving and being beloved was never felt by the imaginary beings of Rousseau’s and Byron’s creation more imperiously than by myself.” Randolph erected a cabin for himself among those of his slaves and there, when not in Congress or traveling abroad he spent his life in solitude, brooding over his misery and ruin, as wretched a recluse and misanthrope as ever breathed out a painful, hopeless existence.
To complete the sad picture, give the hapless victim of himself and circumstances a deeply religious nature and take away the consolations of hope and faith. This last drop was added to the cup and he sipped its dregs all his life. He brought his wonderful intellectual powers to bear on this subject; read, studied, thought, brooded, agonized over it in pursuit of spiritual peace; went through all the variations of skepticism, contrition, hope, despair, conversion, and relapse. Such an analytical mind coupled with a quick and self-depreciating conscience, a high ideal of religious experience, and a downright honesty of purpose could not compromise with its own extreme demands, could accept of no doubtful convictions or half-conversion. The very desire for salvation might seem selfish and unworthy to an unhealthy nature; the failure to feel, to live all that others profess (often without feeling) becomes to it conclusive evidence of the hopeless, forever-lost condition of self. Doubt brought self-condemnation for doubting; self-condemnation in turn brought new doubts. So, in a fog, he traveled perpetually in a circle.
But, through all these years of struggle and misery John Randolph was a just, a pure, a benevolent man, and he discharged his private and public duties with a fidelity and devotedness that they of sound mind and body might well emulate. The contrasts of mood and act of such a man were many and strong; they got him the credit of being crazy, and of being most so when he was most himself—such is the world’s usual perception of eccentricity.
The personal appearance of the man, however, encouraged this idea: Tawny complexion, tall thin form, spindle shanks, long hair in a queue, large, black, glowing eyes, pointed chin, beardless face, small effeminate hands, long tapering fingers, and, above all, a voice shrill, piercing, sonorous and magnetic as a woman’s. He dressed in drab or buck-skin breeches, with blue coat and white top-boots, or large buckled shoes. His manner was courteous and attractive to the few whom he regarded as his equals; to the rest of mankind he was dignified and reserved; to no one did he permit familiarity. A man introduced himself to Randolph as Mr. Blunt. “Blunt?” said he with a piercing and repellant glance; “Blunt!Ah, I should say so!”
Another stranger addressed him in Washington: “Mr. Randolph, I am just from Virginia; I passed your house a few days ago?” “Thank you, I hope you always will,” was the only encouragement the advance received.
Yet, in England, Randolph was thought very approachable and genial. An introduction was not necessary to an acquaintance at all. Perhaps the difference was largely in his health, which was better abroad.
John Randolph first came into prominence in politics in 1798, by the daring act of opposing on the stump the idol of Virginia, the venerable Patrick Henry. Henry took grounds against the State upon its nullification of the laws of the United States, although he had always been an extreme States-rights man. Young Randolph—then aged twenty-five—astounded everybody by daring to meet such a champion; but he had Henry’s former record in his favor, and he made a speech of such power that it carried him into the House of Representatives. Referring to these two men, the happy expression was used, “The Rising and the Setting Sun.” Henry died soon after.
Randolph took his seat in December, 1799. When he advanced to the Speaker’s desk to take the oath, the clerk, moved by his youthful and singular appearance, asked, “Are you old enough to be eligible?” “Ask my constituents,” was the only reply his State pride allowed him to make. In one month Randolph had become one of the best marked men of the nation. He broke with the administration of his party under Jefferson on “the Yazoo business”—a bit of early official corruption that rivals anything disclosed in later times. His opposition to the anti-English measures of Madison’s administration, and to the war of 1812, cost him his re-election, and he was retired. Henry Clay’s star was rising, and a new era was dawning. “The American system” of internal improvements, protection, manufactures, and Federal supremacy was taking shape. The irrepressible conflict of StateversusFederal powers, had begun under Clay and Randolph—a conflict destined to lead to the duel between these two leaders, and ultimately to be appealed to the arbitrament of civil war.
Defeat cut John Randolph more deeply than it did David Crockett under similar circumstances. Randolph retired to his cabin and brooded; misanthropy gnawed like the vulture at the vitals of Prometheus bound. He longed for human sympathy, and was too proud to accept of it when proffered. It was during this season of disappointment and isolation that his severest religious discipline and the hope of conversion came; then also came the last sundering of his hopes of a lineal successor. “This business of living,” he said, “is dull work. I possess so little of pagan philosophy or of Christian patience as to be frequently driven to despair. * * I look forward without hope. * * I have been living in a world [in Washington] without souls, until my heart is dry as a chip, and cold as a dog’s nose.”
In 1815 Randolph rode into Congress again on the wave of reaction against the war and its burdens, and remained in the House until 1826, when he was elected to the Senate to fill a vacancy. His antagonism against Henry Clay reached a dangerous point in the struggle over the Missouri Compromise of 1820.
Randolph went to England in 1822. He took with him large quantities of books and magazines to be bound, as he would not “patronize our Yankee task-masters, who have caused such a heavy duty to be imposed on foreign books. I shall employ John Bull to bind my books until the time arrives when theycan be properly done south of Mason and Dixon’s line.” He was received with much honor by all classes in England, where his stout championship of English ideas was well known. His singular appearance was heightened by his very great emaciation, and by a big fur cap with a long fore-piece which he wore. But the splendid intellect, fine manners, and brilliant conversational powers which shone out of this grotesqueness, made him even more noted.
The issue of the Presidential election of 1825 was the occasion of the Randolph-Clay duel. There had been no choice by the people, and the election went to the House of Representatives. Adams, Crawford, Clay and Jackson were the candidates. Clay’s friends threw the election to John Quincy Adams. When the latter made up his cabinet, Clay’s name appeared at the head, as Secretary of State. The disappointed friends of Jackson and Crawford immediately made charges of a bargain between Adams and Clay, but no one dwelt on it with such persistence and bitterness of invective as Randolph. In a speech in the Senate in 1826, he referred to Adams and Clay as “the coalition of Blifil and Black George—the combination, unheard of till then, of thePuritanwith theblackleg.” He also charged Clay with forging or falsifying certain state documents which had been furnished the Senate. A challenge from Clay promptly followed, and was as promptly accepted, Randolph refusing to disclaim any personal meaning as to Clay.
“The night before the duel,” says General James Hamilton, of South Carolina, “Mr. Randolph sent for me. I found him calm, but in a singularly kind and confiding mood. He told me he had something on his mind to tell me. He then remarked, ‘Hamilton, I have determined to receive, without returning, Clay’s fire; nothing shall induce me to harm a hair of his head; I will not make his wife a widow, or his children orphans. Their tears would be shed over his grave; but when the sod of Virginia rests on my bosom, there is not in this wide world one individual to pay tribute upon mine.’ His eyes filled, and resting his head upon his hand, we remained some moments silent.”
“The night before the duel,” says General James Hamilton, of South Carolina, “Mr. Randolph sent for me. I found him calm, but in a singularly kind and confiding mood. He told me he had something on his mind to tell me. He then remarked, ‘Hamilton, I have determined to receive, without returning, Clay’s fire; nothing shall induce me to harm a hair of his head; I will not make his wife a widow, or his children orphans. Their tears would be shed over his grave; but when the sod of Virginia rests on my bosom, there is not in this wide world one individual to pay tribute upon mine.’ His eyes filled, and resting his head upon his hand, we remained some moments silent.”
All efforts to dissuade him from sacrificing himself were unavailing; but he appeared on the “field of honor” in a huge dressing-gown, in which thelocaleof his attenuated form was as well hidden as it would have been in a hogshead. Clay fired, and the ball passed through the gown where it was reasonable to suppose its wearer to be, but in fact was not. Randolph fired his shot in air, and then approaching Clay he vehemently called out in his shrill voice, “Mr. Clay, you owe me a cloak, sir, you owe me a cloak!” at the same time pointing to the hole in that wrap. Clay replied with much feeling, pointing to Randolph’s breast, “I am glad I am under nodeeperobligation. I would not have harmed you for a thousand worlds.” This ended the encounter, but not the enmity, at least on Randolph’s part, as it was a matter of patriotic principle with him.
In 1827 he was again elected to the House, and immediately became the leader of the opposition, then called the Republican party. His speeches were numerous, and furnish some of the finest specimens of American eloquence. Many of his startling phrases became permanent additions to the list of Americanisms, as “bear-garden” (applied to the House of Representatives), and “dough-faces” (truckling Northern politicians). He was remarkable for eclecticism of words and careful accuracy of pronunciation.
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 offried 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?”“Yes; nothing more proper.”The wordremorsewas then written in pencil. He took the card in a hurried manner, and fastened his eyes on it with great intensity. “Write it on the back,” he exclaimed. It was so done and handed him again. He was extremely agitated.“Remorse! you have no idea what it is; you can form no idea of it whatever; it has contributed to bring me to my present situation. But I have looked to the Lord Jesus Christ, and hope I have obtained pardon. Now let John take your pencil and draw a line under the word,” which was accordingly done.“What am I to do with the card,” inquired the Doctor.“Put it in your pocket, take care of it, and when I am dead, look at it.”The dying man was propped up in the bed with pillows, nearly erect. Being extremely sensitive to cold, he had a blanket over his head and shoulders; and he directed John to place his hat on over the blanket, which aided in keeping it close to his head.The scene was soon changed. Having disposed of that subject most deeply impressed on his heart, his keen, penetrating eye lost its expression, his powerful mind gave way, and his fading imagination began to wander amid scenes and with friends that he had left behind. In two hours the spirit took its flight, and all that was mortal of John Randolph of Roanoke was hushed in death. At a quarter before twelve o’clock, on the twenty-fourth day of June, 1833, aged sixty years, he breathed his last, in a chamber of the City Hotel, Philadelphia.
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?”
“Yes; nothing more proper.”
The wordremorsewas then written in pencil. He took the card in a hurried manner, and fastened his eyes on it with great intensity. “Write it on the back,” he exclaimed. It was so done and handed him again. He was extremely agitated.
“Remorse! you have no idea what it is; you can form no idea of it whatever; it has contributed to bring me to my present situation. But I have looked to the Lord Jesus Christ, and hope I have obtained pardon. Now let John take your pencil and draw a line under the word,” which was accordingly done.
“What am I to do with the card,” inquired the Doctor.
“Put it in your pocket, take care of it, and when I am dead, look at it.”
The dying man was propped up in the bed with pillows, nearly erect. Being extremely sensitive to cold, he had a blanket over his head and shoulders; and he directed John to place his hat on over the blanket, which aided in keeping it close to his head.
The scene was soon changed. Having disposed of that subject most deeply impressed on his heart, his keen, penetrating eye lost its expression, his powerful mind gave way, and his fading imagination began to wander amid scenes and with friends that he had left behind. In two hours the spirit took its flight, and all that was mortal of John Randolph of Roanoke was hushed in death. At a quarter before twelve o’clock, on the twenty-fourth day of June, 1833, aged sixty years, he breathed his last, in a chamber of the City Hotel, Philadelphia.
From the very necessities of the nature of an Eccentric, John Randolph could not be in harmony with the time in which he lived. But this difference was intensified into enmity by the irritable nature of his mind and the diseased condition of his body; nay, by his very virtues and genius. To increase the enmity and his own misfortune, he threw himself with ardor upon the losing side of an irrepressible conflict in government. I think posterity is better prepared to do him justice than were his contemporaries, for we have passed a settlement of the political conflict, and from pitying hearts can make full allowance for Randolph’s unhappy nature and unfortunate lot, while recognizing the purity, honesty and heroism of his character. Which of us would have been a better man in his situation?