DEATH OF JOHN RANDOLPH, OF ROANOAKE.
He died at Philadelphia in the summer of 1833—the scene of his early and brilliant apparition on the stage of public life, having commenced his parliamentary career in that city, under the first Mr. Adams, when Congress sat there, and when he was barely of an age to be admitted into the body. For more than thirty years he was the political meteor of Congress, blazing with undiminished splendor during the whole time, and often appearing as the "planetary plague" which shed, not war and pestilence on nations, but agony and fear on members. His sarcasm was keen, refined, withering—with a great tendency to indulge in it; but, as he believed, as a lawful parliamentary weapon to effect some desirable purpose. Pretension, meanness, vice, demagogism, were the frequent subjects of the exercise of his talent; and, when confined to them, he was the benefactor of the House. Wit and genius all allowed him; sagacity was a quality of his mind visible to all observers—and which gave him an intuitive insight into the effect of measures. During the first six years of Mr. Jefferson's administration, he was the "Murat" of his party, brilliant in the charge, and always ready for it; and valued in the council, as well as in the field. He was long the chairman of the Committee of Ways and Means—a place always of labor and responsibility, and of more then than now, when the elements of revenue were less abundant; and no man could have been placed in that situation during Mr. Jefferson's time whose known sagacity was not a pledge for the safety of his lead in the most sudden and critical circumstances. He was one of those whom that eminent statesman habitually consulted during the period of their friendship, and to whom he carefully communicated his plans before they were given to the public. On his arrival at Washington at the opening of each session of Congress during this period, he regularly found waiting for him at his established lodgings—then Crawford's, Georgetown—the card of Mr. Jefferson, with an invitation for dinner the next day; a dinner at which the leading measures of the ensuing session were the principal topic. Mr. Jefferson did not treat in that way a member in whose sagacity he had not confidence.
It is not just to judge such a man by ordinary rules, nor by detached and separate incidents in his life. To comprehend him, he must be judged as a whole—physically and mentally—and under many aspects, and for his entire life. He was never well—a chronic victim of ill health from the cradle to the grave. A letter from his most intimate and valued friend, Mr. Macon, written to me after his death, expressed the belief that he had never enjoyed during his life one day of perfect health—such as well people enjoy. Such life-long suffering must have its effect on the temper and on the mind; and it had on his—bringing the temper often to the querulous mood, and the state of his mind sometimes to the question of insanity; a question which became judicial after his death, when the validity of his will came to be contested. I had my opinion on the point, and gave it responsibly, in a deposition duly taken, to be read on the trial of the will; and in which a belief in his insanity, at several specified periods, was fully expressed—with the reasons for the opinion. I had good opportunities of forming an opinion, living in the same house with him several years, having his confidence, and seeing him at all hours of the day and night. It also on several occasions became my duty to study the question, with a view to govern my own conduct under critical circumstances. Twice he applied to me to carry challenges for him. It would have been inhuman to have gone out with a man not in his right mind, and critical to one's self, as any accident on the ground might seriously compromise the second. My opinion was fixed, of occasional temporary aberrations of mind; and during such periods he would do and say strange things—but always in his own way—not only method, but genius in his fantasies: nothing to bespeak a bad heart, but only exaltation and excitement. The most brilliant talk that I ever heard from him came forth on such occasions—a flow for hours (at one time seven hours), of copious wit and classic allusion—a perfect scattering of the diamonds of the mind. I heard a friend remark on one of these occasions, "he has wasted intellectual jewelry enough here this evening to equip many speakers for great orations." I once sounded him on the delicate point of his own opinion of himself:—of course when he was in a perfectly natural state, and when he had said something to permit an approach to such a subject. It was during his last visit to Washington, two winters before he died. It was in my room, in the gloom of the evening light, as the day was going out and the lamps not lit—no one present but ourselves—he reclining on a sofa, silent and thoughtful, speaking but seldom, and I only in reply, I heard him repeat, as if to himself, those lines from Johnson, (which in fact I had often heard from him before), on "Senility and Imbecility," which show us life under its most melancholy form.
"In life's last scenes what prodigies surprise, Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise! From Marlborough's eyes the streams of dotage flow, And Swift expires, a driveller and a show."
When he had thus repeated these lines, which he did with deep feeling and in slow and measured cadence, I deemed it excusable to make a remark of a kind which I had never ventured on before; and said: Mr. Randolph I have several times heard you repeat these lines, as if they could have an application to yourself, while no person can have less reason to fear the fate of Swift. I said this to sound him, and to see what he thought of himself. His answer was: "I have lived in dread of insanity." That answer was the opening of a sealed book—revealed to me the source of much mental agony that I had seen him undergo. I did deem him in danger of the fate of Swift, and from the same cause as judged by his latest and greatest biographer, Sir Walter Scott.
His parliamentary life was resplendent in talent—elevated in moral tone—always moving on the lofty line of honor and patriotism, and scorning every thing mean and selfish. He was the indignant enemy of personal and plunder legislation, and the very scourge of intrigue and corruption. He reverenced an honest man in the humblest garb, and scorned the dishonest, though plated with gold. An opinion was propagated that he was fickle in his friendships. Certainly there were some capricious changes; but far more instances of steadfast adherence. His friendship with Mr. Macon was historic. Their names went together in life—live together in death—and are honored together, most by those who knew them best. With Mr. Tazewell, his friendship was still longer than that with Mr. Macon, commencing in boyhood, and only ending with life. So of many others; and pre-eminently so of his neighbors and constituents—the people of his congressional district—affectionate as well as faithful to him; electing him as they did, from boyhood to the grave. No one felt more for friends, or was more solicitous and anxious at the side of the sick and dying bed. Love of wine was attributed to him; and what was mental excitement, was referred to deep potations. It was a great error. I never saw him affected by wine—not even to the slightest departure from the habitual and scrupulous decorum of his manners. His temper was naturally gay and social, and so indulged when suffering of mind and body permitted. He was the charm of the dinner-table, where his cheerful and sparkling wit delighted every ear, lit up every countenance, and detained every guest. He was charitable; but chose to conceal the hand that ministered relief. I have often seen him send little children out to give to the poor.
He was one of the large slaveholders of Virginia, but disliked the institution, and, when let alone, opposed its extension. Thus, in 1803, when as chairman of the committee which reported upon the Indiana memorial for a temporary dispensation from the anti-slavery part of the ordinance of 1787, he puts the question upon a statesman's ground; and reports against it, in a brief and comprehensive argument:
"That the rapid population of the State of Ohio sufficiently evinces, in the opinion of your committee, that the labor of the slave is not necessary to promote the growth and settlement of colonies in that region. That this labor, demonstrably the dearest of any, can only be employed to advantage in the cultivation of products more valuable than any known to that quarter of the United States: and the committee deem it highly dangerous and inexpedient to impair a provision wisely calculated to promote the happiness and prosperity of the northwestern country, and to give strength and security to that extensive frontier. In the salutary operation of this sagacious and benevolent restraint, it is believed that the inhabitants of Indiana will, at no very distant day, find ample remuneration for a temporary privation of labor and emigration."
He was against slavery; and by his will, both manumitted and provided for the hundreds which he held. But he was against foreign interference with his rights, his feelings, or his duties; and never failed to resent and rebuke such interference. Thus, he was one of the most zealous of the opposers of the proposed Missouri restriction; and even voted against the divisional line of "thirty-six thirty." In the House, when the term "slaveholder" would be reproachfully used, he would assume it, and refer to a member, not in the parliamentary phrase of colleague, but in the complimentary title of "my fellow-slaveholder." And, in London, when the consignees of his tobacco, and the slave factors of his father, urged him to liberate his slaves, he quieted their intrusive philanthropy, on the spot, by saying, "Yes: you buy and set free to the amount of the money you have received from my father and his estate for these slaves, and I will set free an equal number."
In his youth and later age, he fought duels: in his middle life, he was against them; and, for a while, would neither give nor receive a challenge. He was under religious convictions to the contrary, but finally yielded (as he believed) to an argument of his own, that a duel was private war, and rested upon the same basis as public war; and that both were allowable, when there was no other redress for insults and injuries. That was his argument; but I thought his relapse came more from feeling than reason; and especially from the death of Decatur, to whom he was greatly attached, and whose duel with Barron long and greatly excited him. He had religious impressions, and a vein of piety which showed itself more in private than in external observances. He was habitual in his reverential regard for the divinity of our religion; and one of his beautiful expressions was, that, "If woman had lost us paradise, she had gained us heaven." The Bible and Shakespeare were, in his latter years, his constant companions—travelling with him on the road—remaining with him in the chamber. The last time I saw him (in that last visit to Washington, after his return from the Russian mission, and when he was in full view of death) I heard him read the chapter in the Revelations (of the opening of the seals), with such power and beauty of voice and delivery, and such depth of pathos, that I felt as if I had never heard the chapter read before. When he had got to the end of the opening of the sixth seal, he stopped the reading, laid the book (open at the place) on his breast, as he lay on his bed, and began a discourse upon the beauty and sublimity of the Scriptural writings, compared to which he considered all human compositions vain and empty. Going over the images presented by the opening of the seals, he averred that their divinity was in their sublimity—that no human power could take the same images, and inspire the same awe and terror, and sink ourselves into such nothingness in the presence of the "wrath of the Lamb"—that he wanted no proof of their divine origin but the sublime feelings which they inspired.