the Republican party. For a time the spell of Jefferson's winning
genius, and the presence of a powerful opposition, kept him in some
subjection; but in 1807 that spell had spent its force, and the
Federal party was not formidable. John Randolph was himself again. The
immediate occasion of the rupture was, probably, Mr. Jefferson's
evident preference of James Madison as his successor. We have a right
to infer this, from the extreme and lasting rancor which Randolph
exhibited toward Mr. Madison, who he used to say was as mean a man for
a Virginian as John Quincy Adams was for a Yankee. Nor ought we ever
to speak of this gifted and unhappy man without considering his
physical condition. It appears from the slight notices we have of this
vital matter, that about the year 1807 the stock of vigor which his
youth had acquired was gone, and he lived thenceforth a miserable
invalid, afflicted with diseases that sharpen the temper and narrow
the mind. John Randolph _well_ might have outgrown inherited
prejudices and limitations, and attained to the stature of a modern, a
national, a republican man. John Randolph _sick_--radically and
incurably sick--ceased to grow just when his best growth would
naturally have begun.
The sudden defection of a man so conspicuous and considerable, at a
time when the Republican party was not aware of its strength, struck
dismay to many minds, who felt, with Jefferson, that to the Republican
party in the United States were confided the best interests of human
nature. Mr. Jefferson was not in the least alarmed, because he knew
the strength of the party and the weakness of the man. The letter
which he wrote on this subject to Mr. Monroe ought to be learned by
heart by every politician in the country,--by the self-seekers, for
the warning which it gives them, and by the patriotic, for the comfort
which it affords them in time of trouble. Some readers, perhaps, will
be reminded by it of events which occurred at Washington not longer
ago than last winter.[1]
"Our old friend Mercer broke off from us some time ago; at
first, professing to disdain joining the Federalists; yet,
from the habit of voting together, becoming soon identified
with them. Without carrying over with him one single person,
he is now in a state of as perfect obscurity as if his name
had never been known. Mr. J. Randolph is in the same track,
and will end in the same way. His course has excited
considerable alarm. Timid men consider it as a proof of the
weakness of our government, and that it is to be rent in
pieces by demagogues and to end in anarchy. I survey the
scene with a different eye, and draw a different augury from
it. In a House of Representatives of a great mass of good
sense, Mr. Randolph's popular eloquence gave him such
advantages as to place him unrivalled as the leader of the
House; and, although not conciliatory to those whom he led,
principles of duty and patriotism induced many of them to
swallow humiliations he subjected them to, and to vote as
was right, as long as he kept the path of right himself. The
sudden departure of such a man could not but produce a
momentary astonishment, and even dismay; but for a moment
only. The good sense of the House rallied around its
principles, and, without any leader, pursued steadily the
business of the session, did it well, and by a strength of
vote which has never before been seen.... The augury I draw
from this is, that there is a steady good sense in the
legislature and in the body of the nation, joined with good
intentions, which will lead them to discern and to pursue
the public good under all circumstances which can arise, and
that no _ignis fatuus_ will be able to lead them long
astray."
Mr. Jefferson predicted that the lost sheep of the Republican fold
would wander off to the arid wastes of Federalism; but he never did
so. His defection was not an inconsistency, but a return to
consistency. He presented himself in his true character thenceforth,
which was that of a States' Rights fanatic. He opposed the election of
Mr. Madison to the Presidency, as he said, because Mr. Madison was
weak on the sovereignty of the States. He opposed the war of 1812 for
two reasons:--1. Offensive war was in itself unconstitutional, being a
_national_ act. 2. War was nationalizing. A hundred times before the
war, he foretold that, if war occurred, the sovereignty of the States
was gone forever, and we should lapse into nationality. A thousand
times after the war, he declared that this dread lapse had occurred.
At a public dinner, after the return of peace, he gave the once
celebrated toast, "States' Rights,--_De mortuis nil nisi bonum_." As
before the war he sometimes affected himself to tears while dwelling
upon the sad prospect of kindred people imbruing their hands in one
another's blood, so during the war he was one of the few American
citizens who lamented the triumphs of their country's arms. In his
solitude at Roanoke he was cast down at the news of Perry's victory on
the lake, because he thought it would prolong the contest; and he
exulted in the banishment of Napoleon to Elba, although it let loose
the armies and fleets of Britain upon the United States. "That
insolent coward," said he, "has met his deserts at last." This
Virginia Englishman would not allow that Napoleon possessed even
military talent; but stoutly maintained, to the last, that he was the
merest sport of fortune. When the work of restoration was in progress,
under the leadership of Clay and Calhoun, John Randolph was in his
element, for he could honestly oppose every movement and suggestion of
those young orators,--national bank, protective tariff, internal
improvements, everything. He was one of the small number who objected
to the gift of land and money to Lafayette, and one of the stubborn
minority who would have seen the Union broken up rather than assent to
the Missouri Compromise, or to _any_ Missouri compromise. The question
at issue in all these measures, he maintained, was the same, and it
was this: Are we a nation or a confederacy?
Talent, too, is apt to play the despot over the person that possesses
it. This man had such a power of witty vituperation in him, with so
decided a histrionic gift, that his rising to speak was always an
interesting event; and he would occasionally hold both the House and
the galleries attentive for three or four hours. He became accustomed
to this homage; he craved it; it became necessary to him. As far back
as 1811, Washington Irving wrote of him, in one of his letters from
Washington:
"There is no speaker in either House that excites such
universal attention as Jack Randolph. But they listen to him
more to be delighted by his eloquence and entertained by his
ingenuity and eccentricity, than to be convinced by sound
doctrine and close argument."
As he advanced in age, this habit of startling the House by unexpected
dramatic exhibitions grew upon him. One of the most vivid pictures
ever painted in words of a parliamentary scene is that in which the
late Mr. S.G. Goodrich records his recollection of one of these
displays. It occurred in 1820, during one of the Missouri debates. A
tall man, with a little head and a small oval face, like that of an
aged boy, rose and addressed the chairman.
"He paused a moment," wrote Mr. Goodrich,
"and I had time to study his appearance. His hair was
jet-black, and clubbed in a queue; his eye was black, small,
and painfully penetrating. His complexion was a
yellowish-brown, bespeaking Indian blood. I knew at once
that it must be John Randolph. As he uttered the words, 'Mr.
Speaker!' every member turned in his seat, and, facing him,
gazed as if some portent had suddenly appeared before them.
'Mr. Speaker,' said he, in a shrill voice, which, however,
pierced every nook and corner of the hall, 'I have but one
word to say,--one word, sir, and that is to state a fact.
The measure to which the gentleman has just alluded
originated in a dirty trick!' These were his precise words.
The subject to which he referred I did not gather, but the
coolness and impudence of the speaker were admirable in
their way. I never saw better acting, even in Kean. His
look, his manner, his long arm, his elvish
fore-finger,--like an exclamation-point, punctuating his
bitter thought,--showed the skill of a master. The effect of
the whole was to startle everybody, as if a pistol-shot had
rung through the hall."--_Recollections_, Vol. II. p. 395.
Such anecdotes as these, which are very numerous, both in and out of
print, convey an inadequate idea of his understanding; for there was
really a great fund of good sense in him and in his political creed.
Actor as he was, he was a very honest man, and had a hearty contempt
for all the kinds of falsehood which he had no inclination to commit.
No man was more restive under debt than he, or has better depicted its
horrors. Speaking once of those Virginia families who gave banquets
and kept up expensive establishments, while their estates were covered
all over with mortgages, he said: "I always think I can see the
anguish under the grin and grimace, like old Mother Cole's dirty
flannel peeping out beneath her Brussels lace." He was strong in the
opinion that a man who is loose in money matters is not trustworthy in
anything,--an opinion which is shared by every one who knows either
life or history. "The time was," he wrote,
"when I was fool enough to believe that a man might be
negligent of pecuniary obligations, and yet be a very good
fellow; but long experience has convinced me that he who is
lax in this respect is utterly unworthy of trust in any
other."
He discriminated well between those showy, occasional acts of
so-called generosity which such men perform, and the true, habitual,
self-denying benevolence of a solvent and just member of society.
"Despise the usurer and the miser as much as you will," he would
exclaim, "but the spendthrift is more selfish than they." But his very
honesty was most curiously blended with his toryism. One of his
friends relates the following anecdote:--
"Just before we sailed, the Washington papers were received,
announcing the defeat of the Bankrupt Bill by a small
majority. At that moment, I forgot that Randolph had been
one of its most determined opponents, and I spoke with the
feelings of a merchant when I said to him,--
"'Have you heard the very bad news from Washington this
morning?'
"'No, sir,' replied he, with eagerness; 'what is it?'
"'Why, sir, I am sorry to tell you that the House of
Representatives has thrown out the Bankrupt Bill by a small
majority.'
"'Sorry, sir!' exclaimed he; and then, taking off his hat
and looking upwards, he added, most emphatically, 'Thank God
for all his mercies!'
"After a short pause he continued: 'How delighted I am to
think that I helped to give that hateful bill a kick. Yes,
sir, this very day week I spoke for three hours against it,
and my friends, who forced me to make the effort, were good
enough to say that I never had made a more successful
speech; it must have had _some_ merit, sir; for I assure
you, whilst I was speaking, although the Northern mail was
announced, not a single member left his seat to look for
letters,--a circumstance which had not occurred before
during the session!'
"I endeavored to combat his objections to a Bankrupt Bill
subsequently, but, of course, without any success: _he felt
as a planter, and was very jealous of the influence of
merchants as legislators_."
There are flashes of sense and touches of pathos in some of his most
tory passages. As he was delivering in the House one of his emphatic
predictions of the certain failure of our experiment of freedom on
this continent, he broke into an apology for so doing, that brought
tears to many eyes. "It is an infirmity of my nature," said he,
"to have an obstinate constitutional preference of the true
over the agreeable; and I am satisfied, that, if I had had
an only son, or what is dearer, an only daughter,--which God
forbid!--I say, God forbid, for she might bring her father's
gray hairs with sorrow to the grave; she might break my
heart, or worse than that--what? Can anything be worse than
that? Yes, sir, I _might break hers_!"
His fable, too, of the caterpillar and the horseman was conceived in
arrogance, but it was pretty and effective. Every tory intellect on
earth is pleased to discourse in that way of the labors of the only
men who greatly help their species,--the patient elaborators of truth.
A caterpillar, as we learn from this fable, had crawled slowly over a
fence, which a gallant horseman took at a single leap. "Stop," says
the caterpillar,
"you are too flighty; you want connection and continuity; it
took me an hour to get over; you can't be as sure as I am
that you have really overcome the difficulty, and are indeed
over the fence."
To which, of course, the gallant horseman makes the expected
contemptuous reply. This is precisely in the spirit of Carlyle's
sneers at the political economists,--the men who are not content to
sit down and howl in this wilderness of a modern world, but bestir
themselves to discover methods by which it can be made less a
wilderness.
There is so much truth in the doctrines of the original States' Rights
party,--the party of Jefferson, Madison, and Patrick Henry,--that a
very commonplace man, who learned his politics in that school, is able
to make a respectable figure in the public counsels. The mere notion
that government, being a necessary evil, is to be reduced to the
minimum that will answer the purposes of government, saves from many
false steps. The doctrine that the central government is to confine
itself to the duties assigned it in the Constitution, is a guiding
principle suited to the limited human mind. A vast number of claims,
suggestions, and petitions are excluded by it even from consideration.
If an eloquent Hamiltonian proposes to appropriate the public money
for the purpose of enabling American manufacturers to exhibit their
products at a Paris Exhibition, the plainest country member of the
Jeffersonian school perceives at once the inconsistency of such a
proposition with the fundamental principle of his political creed. He
has a compass to steer by, and a port to sail to, instead of being
afloat on the waste of waters, the sport of every breeze that blows.
It is touching to observe that this unhappy, sick, and sometimes mad
John Randolph, amid all the vagaries of his later life, had always a
vein of soundness in him, derived from his early connection with the
enlightened men who acted in politics with Thomas Jefferson. The
phrase "masterly inactivity" is Randolph's; and it is something only
to have given convenient expression to a system of conduct so often
wise. He used to say that Congress could scarcely do too little. His
ideal of a session was one in which members should make speeches till
every man had fully expressed and perfectly relieved his mind, then
pass the appropriation bills, and go home. And we ought not to forgot
that, when President John Quincy Adams brought forward his schemes for
covering the continent with magnificent works at the expense of the
treasury of the United States, and of uniting the republics of both
Americas into a kind of holy alliance, it was Randolph's piercing
sarcasm which, more than anything else, made plain to new members the
fallacy, the peril, of such a system. His opposition to this wild
federalism involved his support of Andrew Jackson; but there was no
other choice open to him.
Seldom did he display in Congress so much audacity and ingenuity as in
defending General Jackson while he was a candidate for the Presidency
against Mr. Adams. The two objections oftenest urged against Jackson
were that he was a military chieftain, and that he could not spell.
Mr. Randolph discoursed on these two points in a most amusing manner,
displaying all the impudence and ignorance of the tory, inextricably
mingled with the good sense and wit of the man. "General Jackson
cannot write," said a friend. "Granted," replied he. "General Jackson
cannot write because he was never taught; but his competitor cannot
write because he was not teachable." He made a bold remark in one of
his Jacksonian harangues. "The talent which enables a man to write a
book or make a speech has no more relation to the leading of an army
or a senate, than it has to the dressing of a dinner." He pronounced a
fine eulogium on the Duke of Marlborough, one of the worst spellers in
Europe, and then asked if gentlemen would have had that illustrious
man "superseded by a Scotch schoolmaster." It was in the same
ludicrous harangue that he uttered his famous joke upon those schools
in which young ladies were said to be "finished." "Yes," he exclaimed,
"_finished_ indeed; finished for all the duties of a wife, or mother,
or mistress of a family." Again he said:
"There is much which it becomes a second-rate man to know,
which a first-rate man ought to be ashamed to know. No head
was ever clear and sound that was stuffed with
book-learning. My friend, W.R. Johnson, has many a groom
that can clean and dress a racehorse, and ride him too,
better than he can."
He made the sweeping assertion, that no man had ever presided over a
government with advantage to the country governed, who had not in him
the making of a good general; for, said he, "the talent for government
lies in these two things,--sagacity to perceive, and decision to act."
Really, when we read this ingenious apology for, or rather eulogy of,
ignorance, we cease to wonder that General Jackson should have sent
him to Russia.
The religious life of Randolph is a most curious study. He experienced
in his lifetime four religious changes, or conversions. His gentle
mother, whose name he seldom uttered without' adding with tender
emphasis, "God bless her!" was such a member of the Church of England
as gentle ladies used to be before an "Evangelical" party was known in
it. She taught his infant lips to pray; and, being naturally trustful
and affectionate, he was not an unapt pupil. But in the library of the
old mansion on the Appomattox, in which he passed his forming years,
there was a "wagon-load" of what he terms "French infidelity," though
it appears there were almost as many volumes of Hobbes, Shaftesbury,
Collins, Hume, and Gibbon, as there were of Diderot, D'Alembert,
Helvetius, and Voltaire. These works he read in boyhood; and when he
came to mingle among men, he found that the opinions of such authors
prevailed in the circles which he most frequented. Just as he, a
natural tory, caught some tincture of republicanism from Jefferson and
his friends, so he, the natural believer, adopted the fashion of
scepticism, which then ruled the leading minds of all lands; and just
as he lapsed back into toryism when the spell which drew him away from
it had spent its force, so he became, in the decline of his powers, a
prey to religious terrors. For twenty-two years, as we have said, he
held aloof from religion, its ministers, and its temples. The disease
that preyed upon him so sharpened his temper, and so perverted his
perceptions of character, that, one after another, he alienated all
the friends and relations with whom he ought to have lived; and he
often found himself, between the sessions of Congress, the sole white
tenant of his lonely house at Roanoke,--the sick and solitary
patriarch of a family of three hundred persons. He sought to alleviate
this horrid solitude by adopting and rearing the orphaned sons of old
friends; to whom, when he was himself, he was the most affectionate
and generous of guardians. But even they could not very long endure
him; for, in His adverse moods, he was incarnate Distrust, and, having
conceived a foul suspicion, his genius enabled him to give it such
withering expression that it was not in the nature of a young man to
pass it by as the utterance of transient madness. So they too left
him, and he was utterly alone in the midst of a crowd of black
dependants. We see from his letters, that, while he saw the
impossibility of his associating with his species, he yet longed and
pined for their society and love. Perhaps there never lived a more
unhappy person. Revering women, and formed to find his happiness in
domestic life, he was incapable of being a husband; and if this had
not been the case, no woman could have lived with him. Yearning for
companionship, but condemned to be alone, his solace was the
reflection that, so long as there was no one near him, he was a
torment only to himself. "Often," he writes in one of his letters,
"I mount my horse and sit upon him for ten or fifteen
minutes, wishing to go somewhere, but not knowing where to
ride; for I would escape anywhere from the incubus that
weighs me down, body and soul; but the fiend follows me _en
croupe_.... The strongest considerations of duty are barely
sufficient to prevent me from absconding to some distant
country, where I might live and die unknown."
A mind in such a state as this is the natural prey of superstition. A
dream, he used to say, first recalled his mind to the consideration of
religion. This was about the year 1810, at the height of those hot
debates that preceded the war of 1812. For nine years, he tells us,
the subject gradually gained upon him, so that, at last, it was his
first thought in the morning and his last at night. From the atheism
upon which he had formerly plumed himself, he went to the opposite
extreme. For a long time he was plunged into the deepest gloom,
regarding himself as a sinner too vile to be forgiven. He sought for
comfort in the Bible, in the Prayer-book, in conversation and
correspondence with religious friends, in the sermons of celebrated
preachers. He formed a scheme of retiring from the world into some
kind of religious retreat, and spending the rest of his life in
prayers and meditation. Rejecting this as a cowardly desertion of the
post of duty, he had thoughts of setting up a school for children, and
becoming himself a teacher in it. This plan, too, he laid aside, as
savoring of enthusiasm. Meanwhile, this amiable and honest gentleman,
whose every error was fairly attributable to the natural limitations
of his mind or to the diseases that racked his body, was tormented by
remorse, which would have been excessive if he had been a pirate. He
says that, after three years of continual striving, he still dared not
partake of the Communion, feeling himself "unworthy." "I was present,"
he writes, "when Mr. Hoge invited to the table, and I would have given
all I was worth to have been able to approach it." Some inkling of his
condition, it appears, became known to the public, and excited great
good-will towards him on the part of many persons of similar belief.
Some of his letters written during this period contain an almost
ludicrous mixture of truth and extravagance. He says in one of them,
that his heart has been softened, and he "_thinks_ he has _succeeded_
in forgiving all his enemies"; then he adds, "There is not a human
being that I would hurt if it were in my power,--not even Bonaparte."
In another place he remarks that the world is a vast mad-house, and,
"if what is to come be anything like what has passed, it would be wise
to abandon the bulk to the underwriters,--the worms." In the whole of
his intercourse with mankind, he says he never met with but three
persons whom he did not, on getting close to their hearts, discover to
be unhappy; and they were the only three he had ever known who had a
religion. He expresses this truth in language which limits it to one
form or kind of religion, the kind which he heard expounded in the
churches of Virginia in 1819. Give it broader expression, and every
observer of human life will assent to it. It is indeed most true, that
no human creature gets much out of life who has no religion, no sacred
object, to the furtherance of which his powers are dedicated.