A study in morbid anatomy! John Randolph, of Roanoke, might have said,
with _Mrs. 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.”
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 in
harmony 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 State _versus_ Federal
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 they can 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 the _Puritan_ with the
_blackleg_.” 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.”
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 the _locale_ of 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 no _deeper_ obligation. 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 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?”
“Yes; nothing more proper.”
The word _remorse_ was 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?