for the _free_ internal government of one people, living in
climates so remote, and whose habits and particular
interests are, and probably always will be, so different? Is
it to be expected that general laws can be adapted to the
feelings of the more eastern and the more southern parts of
so extensive a nation? It appears to me difficult, if
practicable. Hence, then, may we not look for discontent,
mistrust, disaffection to government, and frequent
insurrections, which will require standing armies to
suppress them in one place and another, where they may
happen to arise. Or, if laws could be made adapted to the
local habits, feelings, views, and interests of those
distant parts, would they not cause jealousies of partiality
in government, which would excite envy and other malignant
passions productive of wars and fighting? But should we
continue distinct sovereign States, confederated for the
purpose of mutual safety and happiness, each contributing to
the federal head such a part of its sovereignty as would
render the government fully adequate to those purposes and
_no more_, the people would govern themselves more easily,
the laws of each State being well adapted to its own genius
and circumstances, and the liberties of the United States
would be more secure than they can be, as I humbly conceive,
under the proposed new constitution."--_Life of Samuel
Adams_, Vol. III, p. 251.
This passage is one of the large number in the writings of that time
to which recent events have given a new interest; nor is it now
without salutary meaning for us, though we quote it only to show the
reluctance of some of the best citizens of the North to come into a
national system. Suppose, to-day, that the United States were invited
to merge their sovereignty into a confederation of all the nations of
America, which would require us to abolish the city of Washington, and
send delegates to a general congress on the Isthmus of Darien! A
sacrifice of pride like that was demanded of the leading States of the
Union in 1787. Severe was the struggle, but the sacrifice was made,
and it cost the great States of the North as painful a throe as it did
the great States of the South. Why, then, has State pride died away in
the North, and grown stronger in the South? Why is it only in the
Southern States that the doctrine of States' Rights is ever heard of?
Why does the Northern man swell with national pride, and point with
exultation to a flag bearing thirty-seven stars, feeling the remotest
State to be as much his country as his native village, while the
Southern man contracts to an exclusive love for a single State, and is
willing to die on its frontiers in repelling from its sacred soil the
national troops, and can see the flag under which his fathers fought
torn down without regret?
The study of John Randolph of Virginia takes us to the heart of this
mystery. He could not have correctly answered the question we have
proposed, but he _was_ an answer to it. Born when George Washington,
Thomas Jefferson, George Mason, and James Madison were Virginia
farmers, and surviving to the time when Andrew Jackson was President
of the United States, he lived through the period of the decline of
his race, and he was of that decline a conscious exemplification. He
represented the decay of Virginia, himself a living ruin attesting by
the strength and splendor of portions of it what a magnificent
structure it was once. "Poor old Virginia! Poor old Virginia!" This
was the burden of his cry for many a year. Sick, solitary, and half
mad, at his lonely house in the wilderness of Roanoke, suffering from
inherited disease, burdened with inherited debt, limited by inherited
errors, and severed by a wall of inherited prejudice from the life of
the modern world, he stands to us as the type of the palsied and dying
State. Of the doctrine of States' Rights he was the most consistent
and persistent champion; while of that feeling which the North
Carolina Reader No. III. styles "State pride," we may call him the
very incarnation. "When I speak of my country," he would say, "I mean
the Commonwealth of Virginia." He was the first eminent man in the
Southern States who was prepared in spirit for war against the
government of the United States; for daring the Nullification
imbroglio of 1833, he not only was in the fullest accord with Calhoun,
but he used to say, that, if a collision took place between the
nullifiers and the forces of the United States, he, John Randolph of
Roanoke, old and sick as he was, would have himself buckled on his
horse, Radical, and fight for the South to his last breath.
But then he was a man of genius, travel, and reading. We find him,
therefore, as we have said, a _conscious_ witness of his Virginia's
decline. Along with a pride in the Old Dominion that was fanatical,
there was in this man's heart a constant and most agonizing sense of
her inferiority to lands less beloved. By no tongue or pen--not by
Summer's tongue nor. Olmstead's pen--have more terrible pictures been
drawn of Virginia's lapse into barbarism, than are to be found in John
Randolph's letters. At a time (1831) when he would not buy a
pocket-knife made in New England, nor send a book to be bound north of
the Potomac, we find him writing of his native State in these terms:--
"I passed a night in Farrarville, in an apartment which, in
England, would not have been thought fit for my servant; nor
on the Continent did he ever occupy so mean a one. Wherever
I stop it is the same: walls black and filthy; bed and
furniture sordid; furniture scanty and mean, generally
broken; no mirror; no fire-irons; in short, dirt and
discomfort universally prevail; and in most private houses
the matter is not mended. The cows milked a half a mile off,
or not got up, and no milk to be had at any distance,--no
jordan;--in fact, all the old gentry are gone, and the
_nouveaux riches_, when they have the inclination, do not
know how to live. _Biscuit_, not half _cuit_; everything
animal and vegetable smeared with butter and lard. Poverty
stalking through the land, while we are engaged in political
metaphysics, and, amidst our filth and vermin, like the
Spaniard and Portuguese, look down with contempt on other
nations,--England and France especially. We hug our lousy
cloak around us, take another _chaw of tub-backer_, float
the room with nastiness, or ruin the grate and fire-irons,
where they happen not to be rusty, and try conclusions upon
constitutional points."
What truth and painting in this passage! But if we had asked this
suffering genius as to the cause of his "country's" decline, he would
have given us a mad answer indeed. He would have said, in his wild
way, that it was all Tom Jefferson's doing, sir. Tom Jefferson
abolished primogeniture in Virginia, and thus, as John Randolph
believed, destroyed the old families, the life and glory of the.
State. Tom Jefferson was unfaithful to the States' Rights and
strict-constructionist creed, of which he was the expounder and
trustee, and thus let in the "American system" of Henry Clay, with its
protective tariff, which completed the ruin of the agricultural
States. This was his simple theory of the situation. These were the
reasons why he despaired of ever again seeing, to use his own
language,
"the Nelsons, the Pages, the Byrds, and Fairfaxes, living in
their palaces, and driving their coaches and sixes, or the
good old Virginia gentlemen in the Assembly drinking their
twenty and forty bowls of rack punches, and madeira and
claret, in lieu of a knot of deputy sheriffs and hack
attorneys, each with his cruet of whiskey before him, and
puddle of tobacco-spittle between his legs."
He was as far from seeing any relation of cause and effect between the
coaches, palaces, and bowls of punch, and the "knot of deputy
sheriffs," as a Fenian is from discerning any connection between the
Irish rackrenting of the last century, and the Irish beggary of this.
Like conditions produce like characters. How interesting to discover
in this republican, this native Virginian of English stock, a perfect
and splendid specimen of a species of tory supposed to exist only in
such countries as Poland, Spain, Ireland, and the Highlands of
Scotland, but which in reality does abound in the Southern States of
this Union,--the tory, conscious of his country's ruin, but clinging
with fanatical and proud tenacity to the principles that ruined it.
Dear tobacco, virgin land, and cheap negroes gave the several families
in Virginia, for three generations, a showy, delusive prosperity,
which produced a considerable number of dissolute, extravagant men,
and educated a few to a high degree of knowledge and wisdom. Of these
families, the Randolphs were the most numerous, and among the oldest,
richest, and most influential. The soldiers of the late army of the
Potomac know well the lands which produced the tobacco that maintained
them in baronial state. It was on Turkey Island (an island no more),
twenty miles below Richmond; close to Malvern Hill of immortal memory,
that the founder of the family settled in 1660,--a Cavalier of ancient
Yorkshire race ruined in the civil wars. Few of our troops, perhaps,
who rambled over Turkey Bend, were aware that the massive ruins still
visible there, and which served as negro quarters seven years ago, are
the remains of the great and famous mansion built by this Cavalier,
turned tobacco-planter. This home of the Randolphs was so elaborately
splendid, that a man served out the whole term of his apprenticeship
to the trade of carpenter in one of its rooms. The lofty dome was for
many years a beacon to the navigator. Such success had this Randolph
in raising tobacco during the fifty-one years of his residence upon
Turkey Island, that to each of his six sons he gave or left a large
estate, besides portioning liberally his two daughters. Five of these
sons reared families, and the sons of those sons were also thriving
and prolific men; so that, in the course of three generations,
Virginia was full of Randolphs. There was, we believe, not one of the
noted controlling families that was not related to them by blood or
marriage.
In 1773, when John Randolph was born, the family was still powerful;
and the region last trodden by the Army of the Potomac was still
adorned by the seats of its leading members. Cawsons, the mansion in
which he was born, was situated at the junction of the James and
Appomattox, in full view of City Point and Bermuda Hundred, and only
an after-breakfast walk from Dutch Gap. The mansion long ago
disappeared, and nothing now marks its site but negro huts. Many of
those exquisite spots on the James and Appomattox, which we have seen
men pause to admire while the shells were bursting overhead, were
occupied sixty years ago by the sumptuous abodes of the Randolphs and
families related to them. Mattoax, the house in which John Randolph
passed much of his childhood, was on a bluff of the Appomattox, two
miles above Petersburg; and Bizarre, the estate on which he spent his
boyhood, lay above, on both sides of the same river. Over all that
extensive and enchanting region, trampled and torn and laid waste by
hostile armies in 1864 and 1865, John Randolph rode and hunted from
the time he could sit a pony and handle a gun. Not a vestige remains
of the opulence and splendor of his early days. Not one of the
mansions inhabited or visited by him in his youth furnished a target
for our cannoneers or plunder for our camps. A country better adapted
to all good purposes of man, nor one more pleasing to the eye, hardly
exists on earth; but before it was trodden by armies, it had become
little less than desolate. The James River is as navigable as the
Hudson, and flows through a region far more fertile, longer settled,
more inviting, and of more genial climate; but there are upon the
Hudson's banks more cities than there are rotten landings upon the
James. The shores of this beautiful and classic stream are so
unexpectedly void of even the signs of human habitation, that our
soldiers were often ready to exclaim:
"Can this be the river of Captain John Smith and Pocahontas?
Was it here that Jamestown stood? Is it possible that white
men have lived in this delightful land for two hundred and
fifty-seven years? Or has not the captain of the steamboat
made a mistake, and turned into the wrong river?"
One scene of John Randolph's boyhood reveals to us the entire
political economy of the Old Dominion. He used to relate it himself,
when denouncing the manufacturing system of Henry Clay. One ship, he
would say, sufficed, in those happy days, for all the commerce of that
part of Virginia with the Old World, and that ship was named the
London Trader. When this ship was about to sail, all the family were
called together, and each member was invited to mention the articles
which he or she wanted from London. First, the mother of the family
gave in her list; next the children, in the order of their ages; next,
the overseer; then the _mammy_, the children's black nurse; lastly,
the house servants, according to their rank, down even to their
children. When months had passed, and the time for the ship's return
was at hand, the weeks, the days, the hours were counted; and when the
signal was at last descried, the whole household burst into
exclamations of delight, and there was festival in the family for many
days.
How picturesque and interesting! How satisfactory to the tory mind!
But alas! this system of exhausting the soil in the production of
tobacco by the labor of slaves, and sending for all manufactured
articles to England, was more ruinous even than it was picturesque. No
middle class could exist, as in England, to supply the waste of
aristocratic blood and means; and in three generations, rich and
beautiful Virginia, created for empire, was only another Ireland. But
it was a picturesque system, and John Randolph, poet and tory,
revelled in the recollection of it. "Our Egyptian taskmasters," he
would say, meaning the manufacturers of Pennsylvania, New York, New
Jersey, and New England, "only wish to leave us the recollection of
past times, and insist upon our purchasing their vile _domestic_
stuffs; but it won't do: no wooden nutmegs for old Virginia."
His own pecuniary history was an illustration of the working of the
system. His father left forty thousand acres of the best land in the
world, and several hundred slaves, to his three boys; the greater part
of which property, by the early death of the two elder brothers, fell
to John. As the father died when John was but three years old, there
was a minority of eighteen years, during which the boy's portion
should have greatly increased. So far from increasing, an old debt of
his father's--a _London_ debt, incurred for goods brought to a joyous
household in the London Trader--remained undiminished at his coming of
age, and hung about his neck for many years afterward. Working two
large estates, with a force of negroes equivalent to one hundred and
eighty full field hands, he could not afford himself the luxury of a
trip to Europe until he was fifty years old. The amount of this debt
we do not know, but he says enough about it for us to infer that it
was not of very large amount in comparison with his great resources.
One hundred and eighty stalwart negroes working the best land in the
world, under a man so keen and vigilant as this last of the noble
Randolphs, and yet making scarcely any headway for a quarter of a
century!
The blood of this fine breed of men was also running low. Both the
parents of John Randolph and both of his brothers died young, and he
himself inherited weakness which early developed into disease. One of
his half-brothers died a madman. "My whole name and race," he would
say, "lie under a curse. I feel the curse clinging to me." He was a
fair, delicate child, more like a girl than a boy, and more inclined,
as a child, to the sports of girls than of boys. His mother, a fond,
tender, gentle lady, nourished his softer qualities, powerless to
govern him, and probably never attempting it. Nevertheless, he was no
girl; he was a genuine _son_ of the South. Such was the violence of
his passions, that, before he was four years old, he sometimes in a
fit of anger fell senseless upon the floor, and was restored only
after much effort. His step-father, who was an honorable man, seems
never to have attempted either to control his passions or develop his
intellect. He grew up, as many boys of Virginia did, and do,
unchecked, unguided, untrained. Turned loose in a miscellaneous
library, nearly every book he read tended to intensify his feelings or
inflame his imagination. His first book was Voltaire's Charles XII.,
and a better book for a boy has never been written. Then he fell upon
the Spectator. Before he was twelve he had read the Arabian Nights,
Orlando, Robinson Crusoe, Smollett's Works, Reynard the Fox, Don
Quixote, Gil Bias, Tom Jones, Gulliver, Shakespeare, Plutarch's Lives,
Pope's Homer, Goldsmith's Rome, Percy's Reliques, Thomson's Seasons,
Young, Gray, and Chatterton,--a gallon of sack to a penny's worth of
bread. A good steady drill in arithmetic, geography, and language
might have given his understanding a chance; but this ill-starred boy
never had a steady drill in anything. He never remained longer at any
one school than a year, and he learned at school very little that he
needed most to know. In the course of his desultory schooling he
picked up some Latin, a little Greek, a good deal of French, and an
inconceivable medley of odds and ends of knowledge, which his
wonderful memory enabled him to use sometimes with startling effect.
Everywhere else, in the whole world, children are taught that
virtue is self-control. In the Southern States, among these
tobacco-lords, boys learned just the opposite lesson,--that virtue is
self-indulgence. This particular youth, thin-skinned, full of talent,
fire, and passion, the heir to a large estate, fatherless, would have
been in danger anywhere of growing up untrained,--a wild beast in
broadcloth. In the Virginia of that day, in the circle in which he
lived, there was nothing for him in the way either of curb or spur. He
did what he pleased, and nothing else. All that was noble in his
life,--those bursts of really fine oratory, his flashes of good sense,
his occasional generosities, his hatred of debt, and his eager haste
to pay it,--all these things were due to the original excellence of
his race. In the very dregs of good wine there is flavor. We cannot
make even good vinegar out of a low quality of wine.
His gentle mother taught him all the political economy he ever took to
heart. "Johnny," said she to him one day, when they had reached a
point in their ride that commanded an extensive view,
"all this land belongs to you and your brother. It is your
father's inheritance. When you get to be a man, you must not
sell your land: it is the first step to ruin for a boy to
part with his father's home. Be sure to keep it as long as
you live. Keep your land, and your land will keep you."
There never came a time when his mind was mature and masculine enough
to _consider_ this advice. He clung to his land as Charles Stuart
clung to his prerogative.
All the early life of this youth was wandering and desultory. At
fourteen, we find him at Princeton College in New Jersey, where, we
are told, he fought a duel, exchanged shots twice with his adversary,
and put a ball into his body which he carried all his life. By this
time, too, the precocious and ungovernable boy had become, as he
flattered himself, a complete atheist. One of his favorite amusements
at Princeton was to burlesque the precise and perhaps ungraceful
Presbyterians of the place. The library of his Virginian home, it
appears, was furnished with a great supply of what the French mildly
call the literature of incredulity,--Helvetius, Voltaire, Rousseau,
Diderot, D'Alembert, and the rest. The boy, in his rage for knowledge,
had read vast quantities of this literature, and, of course, embraced
the theory of the writers that pushed denial farthest. For twenty-two
years, he says in one of his letters, he never entered a church. Great
pleasure it gave him to show how superior the Mahometan religion was
to the Christian, and to recite specimens of what he took delight in
styling Hebrew jargon. The Psalms of David were his special aversion.
Almost all gifted and fearless lads that have lived in Christendom
during the last hundred years have had a fit of this kind between
fifteen and twenty-five. The strength of the tendency to question the
grounds of belief must be great indeed to bear away with it a youth
like this, formed by Nature to believe. John Randolph had no more
intellectual right to be a sceptic, than he had a moral right to be a
republican. A person whose imagination is quick and warm, whose
feelings are acute, and whose intellect is wholly untrained, can find
no comfort except in belief. His scepticism is a mere freak of vanity
or self-will. Coming upon the stage of life when unbelief was
fashionable in high drawing-rooms, he became a sceptic. But Nature
will have her way with us all, and so this atheist at fifteen was an
Evangelical at forty-five.
His first political bias was equally at war with his nature. John
Randolph was wholly a tory; there was not in his whole composition one
republican atom. But coming early under the direct personal influence
of Thomas Jefferson, whose every fibre was republican, he, too, the
sympathetic tory of genius, espoused the people's cause. He was less
than twenty-two years, however, in recovering from _this_ false
tendency.
Summoned from Princeton, after only a few months' residence, by the
death of his mother, he went next to Columbia College, in the city of
New York, where for a year or two he read Greek with a tutor,
especially Demosthenes. At New York he saw the first Congress under
the new Constitution assemble, and was one of the concourse that
witnessed the scene of General Washington's taking the oath on the
balcony of the old City Hall. It seemed to this Virginia boy natural
enough that a Virginian should be at the head of the government; not
so, that a Yankee should hold the second place and preside over the
Senate. Forty years after, he recalled with bitterness a trifling
incident, which, trifling as it was, appears to have been the origin
of his intense antipathy to all of the blood of John Adams. The
coachman of the Vice-President, it seems, told the brother of this
little republican tory to stand back; or, as the orator stated it,
forty years after, "I remember the manner in which my brother was
spurned by the coachman of the Vice-President for coming too near the
arms emblazoned on the vice-regal carriage."
Boy as he was, he had already taken sides with those who opposed the
Constitution. The real ground of his opposition to it was, that it
reduced the importance of Virginia,--great Virginia! Under the new
Constitution, there was a man on the Western Continent of more
consequence than the Governor of Virginia, there were legislative
bodies more powerful than the Legislature of Virginia. This was the
secret of the disgust with which he heard it proposed to style the
President "His Highness" and "His Majesty." _This_ was the reason why
it kindled his ire to read, in the newspapers of 1789, that "the most
honorable Rufus King" had been elected Senator. It was only Jefferson
and a very few other of the grand Virginians who objected for higher
and larger reasons.