University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER II.

MR. RANDOLPH was perhaps the most impressive
man that ever lived; and much of what he said and
did could be gathered from the recollections of others,
even at this late day. And not only is this the case, but his
image is still alive in the minds of all who had the good
fortune to see him—his tall and slender frame, his long,
bony fingers, his dark eyes, his withered and beardless face,
upon which there were so many wrinkles, his graceful bow,
his lofty bearing.

The most remarkable feature about him was his eyes.
They were brilliant beyond all comparison, and ever vigilant.
When he first entered an assembly of people, they
were the eyes of the eagle in search of his prey, darting
about from place to place to see upon whom to light; when
his person was assailed, they flashed fire, and proclaimed a
torrent of rage within.

And he had a voice which was distinguished among ten
thousand. One might live a hundred years and not hear
such a sound as proceeded from his lungs; and the wonder
was, why the sweet tone of a woman was so harmoniously
blended with that of a man. He could be heard as far
as any speaker, we presume; and it is curious that the individual
sitting immediately under him would experience no

inconvenience. His very whisper could be distinguished
above the ordinary tone of other men. His voice was so
singularly clear, distinct and melodious, that it was a positive
pleasure to hear him articulate anything. The Hon.
James W. Bouldin, whose "Recollections" are before us in
the original manuscript, says:

"I once stayed all night with Mr. Randolph at Roanoke,
and for some reason which. I do not remember I slept in
the same room with him. Having gone to bed, Mr. Randolph,
at a late hour of the night, roused me by setting his
books to rights and singing:

"I thought his singing as far surpassed other men's singing
as his speaking surpassed other men's speaking."

Mr. Randolph was fond of music and had a talent for it;
but so prodigal was nature with him, that he could afford
to let this gift lie dormant, from which others realize fame
and fortune. He was perhaps ashamed to work in mines of
silver and gold when diamonds were in his reach.

The moment one laid eyes on Mr. Randolph he felt
conscious of seeing a great man. Under great mental excitement
his appearance was unusually striking. On one
occasion, when he was about to make a speech at Charlotte-Court-house,
says the same gentleman from whose manuscript
we quoted above:

"As he saw the people gather around the stand, his eye
began to kindle, his color to rise; and as he became more
and more animated, his eyes sparkled brighter and brighter,
and his cheeks grew rosy, the wrinkles on his face seemed
to disappear with the sallowness and languor, and he became
almost transfigured."

This was the case with Patrick Henry on great occasions;
but the appearance of Mr. Randolph was remarkable on
all occasions. "Patrick Henry's countenance, which," Mr.
Baldwin in his Party Leaders remarks, "under the excitement
of speech was almost articulate with the emotions that
thrilled his soul, was almost dull in repose; and Mr. Clay
had nothing but a lofty brow and bright eye to redeem his
face from uncommon plainness."

There was nothing plain or common about the features of
Mr. Randolph. When he made his appearance he not only
caused the schoolboy to drop his paddle, while the ball
passed unheeded by, but the pious member of the church
forgot to say his prayers, and the grave senator turned his
eyes from the affairs of state and fixed them on him. Other
men were great, but it required some unusual occasion to
bring them out. The slumbering fire must be roused upon
the field of battle, or never waked to action. The latent
energies must be stimulated by stirring scenes, or sleep forever.
Even the immortal Clay was sometimes vapid and
dull; Mr. Randolph never. His lamp was always burning.
In him, the vivida vis animi was always resplendent. His
feelings were intense, and all his faculties morbidly active.
Hence, whatever he said or did, was done in the most
impressive manner. His words and actions were so many
vivid pictures which fixed themselves indelibly upon the
minds of others. Owing to this cause, his conversations
upon subjects the most trivial, possessed a charm which few
could create, upon subjects the most important.

It is a remarkable fact, that we scarcely ever heard a person
tell an anecdote, or repeat a saying of Mr. Randolph's,
without attempting to imitate his intimitable style, and making
at the same time a most signal failure. Each seemed to
feel it a duty he owed to the author, to convey, if possible,

some idea of his peerless manner. This, they deemed altogether
necessary to forming a proper estimate of the man.
And as they were forced to acknowledge, that they were
wholly inadequate to the task, we fancied we saw upon their
countenances, mingled with a feeling of dissatisfaction at
their own want of powers of imitation, evident traces of
regret, that such looks and tones could never be transmitted
to others; that, of the magical powers which rendered him
immortal, posterity could form no just conception.

It is not wonderful, therefore, that so many of his sayings
are remembered to this day. We are confident that, while
the manner cannot be conveyed, more of the matter of what
Mr. Randolph said, could be accurately reported from the
memories of others, than of any man who ever lived in
America. And the interest which he excited in his congressional
district was wholly unrivalled. Wherever he stopped,
those who had seen him all their lives, would stare and gaze
at him, as if he had been some show, or as if they had never
seen him before, or anything like him.

It is said that every great man has a glance which no one
can imitate. A learned physiologist goes farther and states,
that "every man of decided character reveals it in his eyes."
We have already expressed the opinion that the most remarkable
feature about Mr. Randolph was his eyes. The
following incident, touching upon this point, taken from the
written memoranda of Mr. Bouldin, will no doubt be read
with interest: He says—

"Soon after I first knew Mr. Randolph, I had occasion to
visit Winchester, Virginia. On my way there I stopped at
Gordonsville, and was reclining on the porch bench, being
very tired, when a man rode up just from Norfolk. He immediately
began on politics, and told of a rencounter which,
he said, had recently taken place between Mr. Randolph and

a Mr. L., at Prince Edward Court-house, a few days before,
in which Mr. Randolph was so completely vanquished that
everybody deserted him; but, while his young competitor
was speaking, such was the attention paid to him, that you
might have heard a pin fall.

"I observed that the tavern keeper looked very incredulous,
and though he did not contradict or cross-examine
much, he was evidently slow to believe the story. He had
found out from my servant where I was from, and as soon
as he had an opportunity, he asked me, when alone, how
much of the story was true?

"I told him that if he would say Charlotte instead of
Prince Edward, and M., a man in the prime of life, instead
of L., a young man, and then say Randolph instead of M.,
it was all true. For that Mr. Randolph and L. had no rencounter
at that time; but, after several rounds, late in the
evening, M. was left alone, except one man whom he held
by the coat lapelle, talking to him on the same stage. This
is literally true.

"M., a lawyer of about forty years of age, was considered
a man of talents; though he was always objected to for
loquacity.

"The landlord then explained his incredulity. He could
not believe that any audience would desert Mr. Randolph,
although he had not seen him since he was quite a youth.

"He said: About '98, he and several of his neighbors
were Federalists. They held a social club at his house:
dinner was being prepared and the gentlemen assembling,
when two striplings came up walking and called for dinner.
The club being assembled in a private apartment, the boys
called him off frequently to attend to them; and seeing that
they were genteel and intelligent, he asked permission to

invite them to participate in the proceedings. They said
very little and were modest all the time.

"After dinner, the company, with a cooler of wine, retired
to a shade back of the house, and commenced talking politics
very heartily. All made speeches in turn, and at last
the landlord. When he had finished, one of the boys rose
on his feet before him. He did not know which side he
would advocate; but, as he was not accustomed to public
speaking, he feared the young gentleman had risen against
him. He raised his eyes slowly from the feet of those boys
to the eyes of the one on foot and before him. He said, the
moment he saw it, he was sure the d—l was in it; and he
placed his eyes again on the ground, and there let them
remain until the shower was over.

"Shortly afterwards, the company dispersed, and he found
that the boy who stood before him was John Randolph,
and the other John Thompson, on a stroll, he believed, on
foot, over the mountains. He remarked that such a storm
had never fallen on his head, as did on that occasion; and
although he had not heard him or seen him afterwards;
yet he had heard of him, and could scarcely have believed
his own eyes, if he had seen a youth get the better of him,
or an audience desert him to the extent described by the
stranger from Norfolk."

Apropos of the same subject—we mean Mr. Randolph's
eyes, we will make an extract from the "School-boy Reminiscences
of John Randolph of Roanoke," by the late William
H. Elliott, of Charlotte country, Virginia. They were
written many years ago for the press; but the author, as
soon as he was acquainted with the fact that we were gathering
materials for the present volume, generously donated
them to us, and we promise the reader to make frequent use
of his valuable manuscript. Mr. Elliott is a man of decided

genius, whose prose is only equalled by his beautiful lines in
verse.

"The Rev. Dr. R.," says Mr. Elliott, "taught a classical
school in the county of Charlotte, about fifteen miles from
Roanoke, the residence of Mr. Randolph. Here I must
observe, by the way, that this Dr. R. was one of the ripest
scholars and one of the most conscientious and thorough
instructors of youth that ever engaged in that arduous and
responsible vocation.

"Among the pupils of this school was the writer and
Theoderick Tudor Randolph, a nephew of him of Roanoke.
The school was divided into two classes, one of which pronounced
orations every alternate Friday evening. One class
was named the Henrian, after the deceased orator of Red
Hill; the other, the Randolphian, after the then living Randolph.
The speeches were wholly at second hand—short
extracts committed to memory from some British or American
orator. On speaking evenings it was usual for the
family, and company, if there was any, to gather into the
schoolroom to witness the performance. It so happened
on one Friday evening that there were some visitors, and
Mr. Randolph among them. To speak before a common-place
crowd was a thing we had gotten quite accustomed to,
and could go through with without having the nerves; but
to speak before Mr. Randolph was insupportable, intolerable,
annihilating. The class in a body implored Dr. R. to
excuse them from speaking on this occasion;—but no, speak
we must. The very reason we wished to be excused was
his reason for ruling us up to it.

"The company was introduced, occupying one side of the
room, and the orators arranged on a bench on the opposite
side. The writer, who was the youngest, and perhaps the
most timid of the oratorical corps, had to break the ice.

The Doctor looked towards our quarter, as much as to say,
`Go on.' I chose not to take the hint, because I had not
finished screwing my courage up to the speaking point.—
Dr. R. in the meantime filling up the awkward interval with
some commonplace remarks to Mr. Randolph. But, all
suspense must end somehow or other. At length our dominee
looked towards us with a stern expression—`time for
exercises to commence.' It was time to move now, live or
die. I rose, advanced a step or two on the floor, and made
my bow, without venturing to look directly at him. I saw
that Mr. Randolph returned my bow, though no one else
did. I regarded all the rest of the company as only so
many saplings in the woods. It may well be supposed that
I commenced in a very tremulous manner; for I imagined
he was stabbing me through and through with his perforating
dirk-like gaze. After twisting and wriggling about for
some minutes like a worm in the focus of a sun-glass, I ventured
to raise my eyes to him, and to my inexpressible comfort
and encouragement, I found that he had un-Randolphed
himself, pro tem. That is to say, by quenching his eyes,
looking down on the floor, and assuming a listless, uncriticising
air, he had diluted himself in the crowd around him.

"All this, I have since thought, was done to lessen, if possible,
the embarrassment of the speakers; for he saw intuitively
that his presence was oppressive. But, at that time,
when I saw him look so humble, I fancied I was getting the
better of him. While I had him down, I poured it upon
him; my enthusiasm rose, and I fairly deluged him with a
cataract of Fox's eloquence. When I concluded, he seemed
to come partially to life; looked up with a pleased expression,
as much as to say, `That does pretty well.'

"At the conclusion of the whole affair, he arose and collectively
complimented the young gentlemen on their creditable

performance; but thinking, no doubt, he had witnessed
a storm in a puddle, or a tempest in a teapot."

That voice and that eye will long be remembered. The
former is fresh in the memory of those from whose ears
almost all other sounds have died away, and his "perforating
dirk-like gaze" will be distinctly recalled, when the features
of the most familiar friends have long been buried in oblivion.
Even now there are those who shrink from it; and
although Mr. Randolph has been dead for more than forty
years, there are doubtless some who writhe under the torture
of his long, bony finger, which they fancy still pointing at
them. There are words, long buried in forgetfulness, which
if whispered in the ears of his victims, would cause them to
startle as from a ghost of the spectred night. There are
wounds inflicted by him, still bleeding; feelings harrowed
up, which time cannot cure, wounded pride still drooping
under the effects of his ridicule and scorn. Years after he
had ceased to breathe, men would scarcely speak their
minds, because his image was before them. So vivid was
the mental picture that it overpowered their bodily senses,
and it was with difficulty that they could realize the fact that
it was John Randolph of Roanoke they had put into the
grave and covered over with the sod.

His influence is still felt. The hoary heads of fraud and
corruption, when the name of John Randolph is mentioned,
are cursed with many a retrospection. From him they may
have received their first rebuke. His terrible image is associated
perhaps with their earliest and bitterest recollections.
And there remain upon the stage of life, some of his old
acquaintances, who dwell with pleasure and pride upon the
advantage which they derived from his valuable example.
For, while they may be forced to own that he had many
faults; still they recognize in him all that is most noble and

manly in sentiment, in personal character and accomplishments;
and by those who even deny his claims to statesmanship
and utterly repudiate the controlling principle of
his political life, he is held as a model of an orator, equal to
any which the Republic has produced.