"It won't do. You are all blind. There, for instance, is the greatest man among you; his picture hangs at your back—"
Randolph turned and beheld, for the first time, a portrait which hung against the wall behind. It was a sad, stern face, with snow-white hair, and a look of intellect, moulded by an iron Destiny. It was the likeness of John C. Calhoun,—Calhoun, the John Calvin of Political Economy.
"I knew him when he was a young man," continued Lynn, "I have met and conversed with him. Mind, I do not say that we were intimate friends! A braver man, a truer heart, a finer intellect, never lived beneath the sun. Then he felt the evils of this horrible system, and felt that the only remedy, was the removal of the entire race to Africa. Yes, he felt that the black man could only exist beside the white, to the utter degradation of the latter. Now, ha! ha! he has grown into the belief, that Slavery,—in other words, the presence of the black race in the midst of the white,—is a blessing. To that belief he surrenders everything, intellect, heart, soul, the hope of power, and the approbation of posterity. When Calhoun is blind, how can you planters be expected to see?"
Randolph was silent. "There is in my veins, the blood of this accused race," he muttered to himself.
"In order to look up some of the results of this system," continued Bernard Lynn, "let us look at some of the characteristics of the American people. The north is a trader; it traffics; it buys; it sells; it meets every question with the words, 'Will it pay?' (As a gallant southron once said to me; 'When the north choose a patron saint, a new name will be added to the calendar, "Saint Picayune"'). The South is frank, generous, hospitable; there are the virtues of ideal chivalry among the southern people. And yet, the north prospers in every sense, while the south,—what is the future of the South? The west, noble, generous, and free from the traits which mark a nation of mere traffickers, is just what the south would be, were it free from the Black Race. Think of that, friend Randolph! You may glean a bit of solid truth from the disconnected remarks of an old traveler."
"But you have not yet instanced a single evil of our institution," interrupted Randolph.
"Are you from the south, and yet, ask me to give you instances of the evils of slavery? Pshaw! I tell you man, the evil of slavery consists in the presence of the black race in the midst of the whites. That is the sum of the matter. You cannot elevate that race save at the expense of the whites—not the expense of money, mark you,—but at the expense of the physical and mental features of the white race. Don't I speak plain enough? The two races cannot live together and not mingle. You know it to be impossible. And do you pretend to say, that the mixture of black and white, can produce anything but an accursed progeny, destitute of the good qualities of each race, and by their very origin, at war with both African and Caucasian? Nay, you need not hold your head in your hands. It is blunt truth, but it is truth."
The bolt had struck home. Randolph had buried his face in his hands,—"I am one of these hybrids," he muttered in agony; "at war at the same time, with the race of my father and my mother."
"But, how would you remedy this evil?" he asked, without raising his head.
"Remove the whole race to Africa," responded Lynn.