University of Virginia Library

The first time I saw Mr. Randolph (says Mr. Bouldin) was at Prince
Edward court, in October 1808 or '9. He was then at his zenith. For the
first time since his first election, which was closely contested with Powhatan
Bolling, some opposition began to discover itself to him in the district.
It was said he was to speak, and I rode twenty miles to hear him. I remember
well his appearance. When I saw him he was approaching the
court-house, walking very slowly, and alone—a tall, spare, straight man,
very neatly dressed in summer apparel—shoes, nankeen gaiters and pantaloons,
white vest, drab cloth coat of very fine quality, and white beaver

hat. Though he had no shape, but that he was forked, and had very long
arms, all the way of the same size, with long bony fingers, with gloves on,
still he had a most graceful appearance. His bow, notwithstanding it was
slight, bending his body very little, and rather leaning his head back than
forward, was winning to those to whom it was addressed, and seemed to
carry with it marked attention and respect. His eyes were hazel, of the
darkest hue, and had the appearance of being entirely black, unless you
were very near him. They opened round, and when open nearly hid the
lids, the dark long lashes only showing. Their brilliancy surpassed any
I have ever seen. His appearance was remarkable and commanding, and
would attract the attention of any one. His manner, though stately, possessed
a charm to those to whom he wished to make himself agreeable,
but had something terrible in it to those to whom he felt a dislike. To
mere strangers it was simply lofty and graceful.

I said the first time I saw Mr. Randolph was at Prince Edward court,
in October 1808 or 1809. I saw him once before when I was at school.
He was riding by on horseback. I had the paddle raised to strike a ball
while playing a game of cat. So remarkable was his appearance that I
failed to strike while gazing at him. I had no idea who he was, or that
he was a distinguished man.

Very soon after Mr. Randolph made his appearance, the people began
to gather around the steps of the railing, where those who addressed them
generally stood. Much curiosity was discovered to hear him, and I suppose
of various kinds. Politicians, I imagine, wished to hear what he
had to say on public affairs, and others for other reasons. My anxiety was
to hear a great orator speak. He made but a short address; but I was
much gratified. He was the first very great man I had ever heard deliver
a public speech.

I remember his commencement. It was thus: "After, an absence, fellow-citizens,
of nearly six months, I have returned to the bosom of my
constituents to be—chastised."

I remember little else now of what he said literally. He was defending
himself against charges made of his having deserted the Republican
party.

As to his manner, its fascination was felt by all who ever heard him, and
those who have not, can be little edified by any attempt to describe it.

During his canvass with Mr. Eppes, a Mr. Dabbs, a minister of the
Baptist Association, took a very active part in the canvass in favor of
Eppes, and introduced him to many of his brethren and others, he being
personally an entire stranger in the district. Eppes went with him to
many places where Dabbs had appointments to preach. Randolph went
to very few places of worship during the canvass. He sometimes went to
hear Mr. Hoge, a Presbyterian minister, and president of Hampden Sidney
College—a man of great talents and piety, and though he had an
impediment in his speech, was decidedly the most eloquent man I ever
knew, except Mr. Randolph himself.

Mr. Randolph evidently courted the support of the Presbyterian church.
He spoke in high and just praise of Mr. Hoge, and I have no doubt sincerely,
but doubtless more frequently and openly than he would have done
had he not been a candidate, and hard pressed.

On one occasion, at Sandy Creek, when it was rumored that Mr. Eppes
and Mr. Dabbs would be there, Mr. Hugh Wyllie, a Scotchman, and a
great friend of Mr. Randolph, wrote him a note, informing him that such
was the expectation, and inviting him down. Mr. Randolph replied, in a
very courteous note in pencil, that he should be glad to attend worship,
but he could not violate the Sabbath by profanely attending the house of
God for electioneering purposes.

This note was circulated through the congregation, and read with approbation
by most of them.

He attended many musters and public gatherings during his two canvasses

with Eppes, in the first of which he was beaten, and in the second
successful.

I went with him on one occasion to a muster near where I was born. He
did not address the people; nearly all at that place were opposed to him.
He took me aside, and asked me whether he had best address them. I
told him I thought not. He talked however freely and familiarly with
the people on various subjects. He had much to say to a certain lady who
was present—very intelligent, but I thought a little hysterical. He was
polite and respectful to her, as he was always to ladies, while in their presence.
I never saw him show so plainly his desire to make himself agreeable
and acceptable as on this occasion.

It was Saturday night before the Charlotte election, which was the first
in the district, the elections being then held on the different court days
through the district.

He went with me to Charlotte court, where I lived, and stayed in the
room with me until Monday. He kept in his room on Sunday, except
going to the tavern to dinner. Sunday night he slept very little, and
looked badly in the morning—drank very little then, but freely at the muster.
In the morning when I went to breakfast he did not go, but asked
me to send him a bottle of wine with his breakfast.

He was very fond of good coffee, and had it strong and excellent at
home, but he would hardly drink it bad.[1] He preferred bad wine, if he
could get neither good. He made his breakfast principally on wine, and
drank the most of the bottle, yet it did not intoxicate him.

Shortly after breakfast he dressed himself with great neatness and care.
He looked very languid and pale, as he always did, when he was quite
sober and not excited.

There was great expectation from the orators, especially from Mr. Randolph.
My door was immediately in view of the rostrum, where he
always stood to speak. The people began to draw around this place, to
be sure of a stand near it, very early in the morning.

While he was walking backward and forward, his eyes flashing with
more and more brilliancy, as the crowd became larger and larger, he exclaimed:
"The subject is so large I do not know where to lay hold on it
first."

It was still early; but said I, "Sir, you see the crowd is gathered
around the stand, and if you do not begin, Eppes will begin first, and read
until sunset, and you will be wearied to death before you get a chance to
say a word." He immediately made his way through the crowd, which
was at this time large and dense, and commenced his address. I was
much engaged at the time, and did not go out until he had nearly gotten
through.

I do not know how Mr. Eppes appeared elsewhere, and in comparison
with others; but compared with Mr. Randoph and on the hustings I
thought him dull and heavy. He was self-possessed, and much of a gentleman,
but I thought greatly inferior to Randolph in eloquence and
ability.

Probably Mr. Randolph's greatest efforts at speaking were made during
the canvass with Mr. Eppes, in which he was beaten. I heard many of
them, including the one at Prince Edward court, in the Fall preceding
the election. He was told by a friend that this was considered to be the
best speech he ever made. He replied, that it was the only time he ever
felt conscious of being eloquent while speaking. He remarked that he
felt the truth of what Mark Anthony said—"Passion, thou art catching"—
that he felt the electricity passing from him to the crowd, and from the
crowd back to him.

I remember but one expression, literally, during that speech. Speaking
of Bonaparte's strides to universal dominion, he said: "He stood
with one foot upon European and the other upon American shores. It is
said that Moloch smiled at the blood of human sacrifice running at the
foot of the altar; this great arch enemy of mankind is now grinning and
smiling at American blood, flowing in support of his inordinate ambition."

He spoke for an hour, perhaps, and when he concluded, I found myself
musing and walking without any aim or object; and looking around,
found the crowd gradually dispersing in the same mood. The Rev. Moses
Hoge was sitting in a chair opposite the speaker, and remained till I
observed him, still with his mouth open, and looking steadfastly in the
same direction. Parson Lyle was standing by him. Said Mr. Hoge to
Lyle, "I never heard the like before, and I never expect to hear the like
again."

It was at the next succeeding Charlotte court that he made the reply to
Colonel S. that has sometimes been alluded to in print.

Mr. Eppes had lately moved into the district, and Mr. Randolph
charged him with having been imported, like a stallion, for the purpose
of being run against him. He said the district had no necessity to import
one; they had good stock of their own. If the people did not like his
services, they could elect one from their own stock. "Where are your
Daniels, your Bouldins, your Carringtons,"—and was proceeding with the
enumeration, but made a pause as was much his custom (he spoke very
slowly and distinctly). Said Colonel S., "There are other families in the
district as respectable as those you have mentioned." "Certainly," replied
Mr. Randolph, "None more so than the S.'s, but you are an exception."

Mr. Eppes read many documents at Prince Edward and more at Charlotte
court. When Mr. Randolph rose to reply, he said: "It is true I am
not asleep, but I must confess I am somewhat drowsy. The gentleman
may not have improved in his speaking, but he certainly gets along in his
reading."

The collision with Colonel S., and other circumstances, made this address
rather of the satirical order, than of the grave and sublime character
of that at Prince Edward court. Severe repartees and remarks creating
great mirth at the expense of others, overshadowed in a measure the able
and eloquent view he took of the politics of that day.

On this, or on some other occasion about that time, having been often
interrupted with much heat by the same Colonel S., who was not only of
a highly respectable family, but was highly respectable himself, yet a little
too warm in party politics, Mr. Randolph was admonished to keep cool
and not to be provoked to rashness. "I am as cool," said he, "as the
centre seed of a cucumber."

He had all the deliberation, self-possession and outward calmness that
would belong to a man who was cool, and he was guarded; still I thought
his mind and passions were roused to the highest pitch of excitement.
The fiery vengeance that burns and flashes in the eyes of an enraged tiger
cannot be mistaken for coolness, however deliberate he may be in preparing
to make his spring.

When Jerman Baker was a rival candidate for Congress, Mr. Randolph
treated him with great kindness and forbearance, considering his usual
treatment towards his opponents.

On one occasion, when Mr. Baker was promising what he would do, if
elected, Mr. Randolph, in reply, said: "The gentleman and I stand on

very different ground. I stand on fourteen years' hard bought experience.
He is in the land of promise which always flows with milk and
honey;" and presently afterwards he said, "A new broom sweeps clean,
but an old one knows where the dirt lies."

As Mr. Baker stood no chance of election, and was moderate in his
abilities, there was no great interest in that canvass.

When Mr. Austin was a candidate, and Mr. Randolph declined a reelection
to Congress, expecting to go to Europe for his health, he took leave of
his constituents by riding around to the elections, and addressing the people
in the morning, before Mr. Austin began. These addresses were of
a character wholly different from any made by him on any other occasion,
that I ever knew of. They were filled with grave and solemn
advices, and the most pathetic appeals to the sympathies of the district,
without the least allusion to party or feud.

I remember verbatim a portion of the commencement of a speech he
made at Charlotte court, which, from its peculiar style of parenthesis, will
be recognized by all who were acquainted with his manner of expression.
He was excusing himself, on the ground of ill health, for declining the
service of the people, after their long continued confidence in him. He
said:

"I am going across the sea to patch up and preserve a shattered frame
—a frame worn out in your service, and to lengthen out, yet a little
longer, (hitherto certainly,) not a very happy existence; for, excepting the
one upbraided by a guilty conscience, no life can be more unhappy, than
that, the days of which are spent in pain and sickness, and the nights in
travail and sorrow."

During this address he remarked: "I was going to say in the sincerity
of the poet, but the sincerity of the poet is somewhat doubted;—I can
say with a truth, in the language of the poet,—

Just as he had concluded, and was putting on his hat (he always spoke
with it off), as he was stepping down to the next step, weak and somewhat
tottering, he said: "The flesh is indeed weak, though the spirit is strong."

Mr. J. Robinson, a clergyman of distinguished ability, dined with me
the day on which he made this speech. He was opposed to Mr. Randolph

in politics, but was a great admirer of his genius. He remarked:
"He had not supposed that Mr. Randolph had any pathos, as he had never
before heard him in that strain, but that now he was forced to confess,
after having heard all the distinguished orators of the then just past age,
from Patrick Henry down, that Mr. Randolph was the most pathetic man
he ever heard open his lips."

I certainly saw tears roll down the cheeks of men who hated him then,
and would curse his memory now if he were named in their presence.

I think these addresses did more to make firm his popularity, which,
during the war, had been a little shaken, than anything he ever did. They
soothed, softened, and set aside much of the bitterness which had been
engendered during those bitter party conflicts.

Though this was the first and only time I ever heard Mr. Randolph
deliver a speech wholly in this strain of pathos, and sober wisdom and
counsel, I had often witnessed touches of the same in other speeches, and
his power of fascination in private, when he chose to exert it, with wonder
and amazement."

"It has been said by some, who have heard Mr. Randolph both in
Congress and on the hustings, that on the latter theatre he made his most
fascinating and brilliant displays. I never heard him in Congress, but I
cannot conceive that anything he uttered there could possibly surpass what
I have heard on the hustings.

Most generally, whenever it was expected he would speak, a large proportion
of the crowd would anticipate his arrival by some hour or two,
and gather around the stand to secure a close proximity to the speaker.
But when he was seen to move forward to the rostrum, then the courthouse,
every store, and tavern, and peddlar's stall, and auctioneer's stand,
and private residence, was deserted, and the speaker saw beneath him a
motionless mass of humanity, and a sea of upturned faces. When he
rose, with a deliberate motion he took off his hat, and made a slight inclination
of the body, a motion in which grace and humility seemed inexplicably
blended. Now the grace was natural, but the humility was affected,
but with such consummate address as to pass for genuine, except
among those who know that artis est celare artem. His exordium was
brief, but always peculiarly appropriate. His gestures were few and
simple, yet exactly no more or fewer than what the occasion called for.
With many public speakers there seems to be an unpruned luxuriance of
gesticulation, laboring most painfully to bring forth a mouse of an idea.
But, in the case of Mr. Randolph, the idea was sure to be bigger than the
gesture that accompanied it. His voice was unique, but yet so perfect was

his pronunciation, and so sharp the outlines of every sound, that, as far as
his voice could be heard, his words could be distinguished. In short, his
speaking was exquisite vocal music. An accurate ear could distinguish, as
he went along, commas, semi-colons, colons, full stops, exclamation and
interrogation points, all in their proper places. In adverting to what he
conceived to be the overruling agency of Providence in the affairs of man,
no minister of the gospel could raise his eyes to heaven with a look more
impressively reverential. If the reader will look at Hamlet's advice to
the players, and conceive it to be punctually followed to the letter, Shakspeare
will give him a better idea of Randolph's oratory than he can derive
from any other source.[2] He seemed to have discarded from his vocabulary
most of those sonorous sesquipedalia verba, which enter so
largely into the staple of modern oratory, and to have trimmed down his
language to the nudest possible simplicity consistent with strength. When
he had gotten fully warmed with the subject, all idea of anything nearer
to perfection in eloquence was held in utter abeyance, and when he concluded
all felt that they had never heard the like before, for the speeches
of this remarkable man were characterized by all that is conclusive in
argument, original in conception, felicitous in illustration, forcible in language,
and faultless in delivery."

Mr. Randolph's was a peculiar physical organization, encasing one of
the most astute, philosophic minds of his or any other day. No statesman
ever looked into or predicted the future of any governmental policy
with more accuracy than did Mr. Randolph.

But to give those who never saw him some idea of his personal appearance
and presence, I may say that he was tall, slender, delicate and
feeble, with a short body, long legs and arms, and the longest fingers I
ever saw. His head was not very large, but was symmetrical in the
highest degree. His eyes were brilliant beyond description, indicating to
a thoughtful observer a brain of the highest order. No one could look
into them without having this truth so indelibly impressed upon his own
mind that time's busy fingers may strive in vain to efface the impression.
His eye, his forefinger and his foot were the members used in gesticulation;
and, in impressing a solemn truth, a warning, or a proposition to
which he wished to call the attention of his audience particularly, he
could use his foot with singular and thrilling effect. The ring of the
slight patting of his foot was in perfect accord with the clear musical intonations
of that voice which belonged only to Mr. Randolph. In his
appeals to High Heaven, the God of the Universe, the Final Judge of all
the Earth, with his eyes turned heavenward, and that "long bony finger"
pointing to the skies, both gradually lowering as the appeal or invocation
closed, the moral effect was so thrilling that every man left the scene with
(for the time at least) a better heart than he carried there.

The "long bony finger" really appeared, when used in gesticulation, to
have no bone in it; for when it had accomplished what it had been called

into action for, it would fall over on the back of his hand, almost as limp
as a string, as if, having done its work, it sought repose.

But I have digressed from what I set out to write, viz: Mr. Randolph's
great speech at Halifax Court-house in the Spring of 1827. I would that
the task had fallen to hands more skillful than mine; that the power of
that mighty effort had been portrayed by an abler pen, before force of
circumstances devolved the duty upon me. Of the vast multitude there
assembled, only a few remained to witness the fulfillment of the ominous
predictions of the illustrious speaker. These should aid in preserving
from oblivion the almost prophetic warnings they then received.

He came to breast the flood then rolling on from the western portion of
the State for a convention. In spite of all his efforts, however, the stream
increased, until it found temporary rest in the convention of 1829. It
had been known, for a long time, and for many miles around, that he
would be there upon that occasion, and would address the people on that
question. The time drew nigh; the people everywhere were talking
about it; expectation ran high. The day arrived and the crowd was immense,
the largest I ever saw at a country gathering, variously estimated
at from six to ten thousand, representing all the bordering counties in Virginia
and North Carolina.

As the hour approached every countenance beamed with anticipation,
or was grave with anxiety, for the weather was a little inauspicious, and
Mr. Randolph's health was bad. It was known that he had reached
Judge Leigh's, but fears were entertained that he might be deterred by
the weather. About 10 o'clock, however, the thin clouds vanished, and
about 11 news passed like an electric current through the vast multitude
that he was coming. In an instant the crowd began moving slowly and
noiselessly towards the upper tavern. Scarcely had they reached the summit
of the slope between the court-house and the tavern when they saw
him coming on horseback, his carriage in the rear, driven by one of his
servants. As he drew near, the crowd simultaneously divided to each side
of the street, making a broad avenue along which he passed, hat in hand,
bowing gracefully to the right and to the left, until he reached the lower
tavern. The people, with uncovered heads, silently returned the graceful
salutation. As he passed on to the lower tavern, the multitude followed
in profound silence, not a shout nor a word being heard. Alighting and
going in for a few moments he soon reappeared, crossed the street, ascended
the steps leading over to the court-house, and began by asking:

"Fellow-citizens:—Why in my feeble condition am I here? Love of
your liberty, as well as my own, compelled me to come!" A mighty
effort he said was being made by politicians to call a convention to alter
the constitution of the State. He warned them against the danger of
tinkering with the constitution; said that few if any had ever been bettered
by so doing; reminded them that change was not always improvement;
that the change then sought began in the west for sectional power;
that it was the work of `mushroom politicians,' seeking place and power
in the only way in which they could attain them.

He next adverted to the social, civil and religious liberty the people of
Virginia enjoyed, and asked what more they wanted. "Ah! but," said
he, "politicians want more! They want the right of suffrage extended!
And for what? Only that upon it they may ride into office!" And here
he denied the right upon sound governmental principles of any man to
vote to tax, or impose any other State burden upon the people of Virginia
to-day, and to morrow set out for Pennsylvania or New York, there to remain
beyond the reach of accountability for injuries inflicted on Virginia.
He admitted the difficulty of prescribing exact limits to the right of suffrage,
but believed that Virginia had come nearer to it than other States,
viz: in allowing it to none but those who had a "permanent interest in
the soil." This restriction he said had been adopted as a part of her constitution
after mature deliberation by some of the wisest and purest statesmen
and sages the world had ever produced.

Here he dwelt at considerable length on State and national authorities,
defining the boundaries of each, and cautioning the people against conflict
with the powers delegated to the General Government, maintaining
that delegated power was all that it could claim, and all not thus obtained
belonged to the States severally, or to the people. He admonished them
to make no encroachment on the rights of the Federal Government, and
to suffer none to be made on their own; said that a reckless disregard
of these powers, or a false interpretation of them by unqualified men in
power, had on several occasions come very high destroying our beautiful
political fabric, then being watched with jealousy by every monarchist on
earth. He adverted to Shay's and Shattock's war in Massachusetts, the
whiskey insurrection in Pennsylvania, &c., as instances of the precipitate
action of hasty, incompetent men; and in the same connection severely
animadverted on the Missouri compromise as a political measure of like

character, hasty, ill-advised, weak, and fraught only with present humiliation
and future danger.

Here he drew a striking and vivid picture of "the Old Ship of State"
sailing amongst these breakers, and, with extended arms and eyes raised
to heaven, he threw his body forward (as if to catch her), crying as he did
so in a half imploring, half confident tone, "God save the Old Ship!"
It was the most solemn, the most impressive gesture I ever saw from any
human being; and so powerful was the impression made, that the whole
multitude, many with extended arms, seemed to move involuntarily forward,
as if to help save the sinking ship."

After portraying many of the evils of an extended ballot, he raised his
eyes to heaven, and in an humble, Christian-like manner, thanked God
that in all our difficulties we yet had a pure judiciary. "Fellow-citizens,"
said he, "keep your judiciary pure, and your liberties are safe. Le
it become contaminated by political strife, and all will be gone! The
name of liberty alone will remain to you a phantom, a will-o'-the wisp, tolure
you on to degradation, and the destruction of all that is dear to you
now.' From the bench to the jury box these feelings would gradually
find their way, until courts of justice would become mere instruments for
rewarding friends and punishing opponents. Let the candid observer of
passing events say how far these predictions have reached their fulfilment.

Mr. Randolph reminded his hearers that during a long life in Congress
he had often been taunted with—"You never propose anything!" "You
are always trying to tear down other men's work!" Pausing a moment,
with that long finger pointing back from the top of his forehead, he said:
"True, and I regard it as the brightest feather in my cap. My whole aim
has been to prevent, not to promote, legislation. Our people need but few
laws, couched in plain, simple language. Litigation would then be rarer,
and our troubles would almost cease!" He said it was with pain and misgivings
that he beheld the tendency throughout the country to excessive
legislation, and called attention to the prediction he would then hazard,
that if this country should ever be destroyed it would be by `excessive
legislation.'

He next gave an outline of his course in Congress, his opposition to the
Tariff and to the United States Bank; said there was no warrant in the constitution
for any such institution as the latter; that ours was intended for a
"hard money" government; that he had it from many of the fathers of
the constitution; that he had lived in their day, and was familiar with

their sentiments on that subject. He said he would be the veriest dunce
on earth if he were unacquainted with the fundamental principles of
government, for he had grown up and become familiar with many of the
leading men of Virginia who had assisted in the conception and erection
of the mighty political fabric under which we lived, and enjoyed all the
blessings of a free and happy people. Said he, "Mind, gentlemen, how
you touch it; how you set about with innovation. Once gone, you may
never restore it. Revolutions never go back, but on and on they roll; no
returning tide brings repose; no bow of promise spans their dark horizon.
On and on they go, until all is swallowed up in the abyss of anarchy and
ruin!"

During the long and entertaining speech, every man, of both races,
seemed bound to the earth on which he stood; not one moved.

The convention, however, was called; Mr. Randolph was elected to it;
served with characteristic fidelity, and returned to Halifax in 1829, to give
an account of his stewardship. By his arduous labors in that body his
health had suffered greatly; he was too feeble to speak out doors, and the
county court, then in session, tendered him the court-house, which he
gratefully accepted. As he moved up to the bench, it was apparent to
every one that he lacked the physical ability to entertain the people as he
had done on the previous occasion. Taking his stand on the county court
bench, and supporting himself with one hand on the railing, and the other
on his cane, he began by returning his thanks in a polite and graceful
manner to the worshipful court for their kindness in suspending their business
to accommodate one who needed so much their consideration. He
told them it must be plain to all that it was the last speech he should ever
make in Halifax. He gave a succinct statement of all the various alterations
(he would not call them amendments) proposed to the constitution,
and advised the people to vote against them.

He then showed what he called a trick of the convention in submitting
the ratification or rejection of the proposed alterations to the vote of the
people.

"Who called the convention?" he asked. "The freeholders! Who
had the right to say whether the work was done according to their wishes
but those who ordered it? No one! The non-freeholders, according to
all the rules of legitimate induction, had no more right to vote on that
question than the people of Hayti."

Mr. Randolph was, in every respect, a great man. As a statesman he

had no superior, and but few equals. As a philosopher and student of
history he stood in the foremost ranks, while as an orator he would compare
with any that the 19th century has produced.

His voice was uncommonly shrill, but was of that soft flute-like character
that always elicited admiration, and feeble as he was for nearly his
whole life, he could always so modulate it as to make every member of
the largest assemblies distinctly hear every word that he uttered, and that
without the least strain on his vocal or respiratory organs.

At March term 1821 of Prince Edward county court, it was expected
that Mr. John Randolph of Roanoke would be present, on his way home
from Washington city, on the close of the then recent session of Congress.
I was then a boy at school in the neighborhood—in my sixteenth year.
The universal expectation of this event, as usual, induced a general desire
among the people to look upon this strange man, as much so to those who
had seen him from his youth up, to his constituents, whom he had represented
in Congress for more than twenty years, as to those who had derived
their impressions of him from the tongue of rumor alone. It was
near the time of the congressional election, for which he stood a candidate;
and in the session just ended had been settled, as was supposed, the
"Missouri question," after convulsive struggles of two sessions. The
crowd found at court was much larger than usual, and throbbing with
anxiety to see—hopingly—to hear a man, so extraordinary in all respects,
that a promiscuous mingling with my race, in many differing phases, in
the long years which have since rolled away, has failed to furnish me with
a suggestion—much less a likeness—of him.

In a short time after reaching the court-house, groups of people were
seen hurrying to a spot down the road, some hundred yards off. Joining
the throng, I followed on, and discovered a dense crowd surrounding a
person in a sulky, drawn by a gray horse, and behind it a negro seated on
another of the same color, apparently its match. The heads of these
animals were lifted high above the spectators, and looked down upon
them with disdainful pride. On approaching it was observed that the
sulky and harness were deep black, with brilliant plated mountings, the
shafts bent to a painful segment of a circle, the horses of the best keep,
as doubtless they were of the highest blood. The servant, who was of
the profoundest sable, carried a high black portmanteau behind him, and
was attired in clothing of the same hue. Quite a strong contrast—possibly
designed—was exhibited between the masses of intense darkness and
the plating, the horses, the teeth and shirt collar of the servant. The order
of the whole equipage was complete. The tenant of the sulky was
as frail a man as I have ever seen. He was conversing pleasantly with
the people.

I heard nothing he said. He soon bowed gracefully to the crowd,
which gave way before him, and he passed on, it following him. The
throng increased as he proceeded to an old-fashioned Virginia inn near
the court-house, by which time it was swollen by the addition of most

of the persons on the ground, and became a dense mass. A twitch
was felt by some of the spectators, at observing so delicate a man at the
mercy of apparently so terrific a horse, which seemed to have its driver
completely in its power, but which he managed with entire composure.
Mr. Randolph alighted with a feeble step, passed through the porch of the
inn, into a passage, followed by a crowd, and disappeared within a room,
the door of which was immediately closed. The people remained before
the door of the inn, awaiting his reappearance, without noise or confusion.
After lolling awhile, Mr. Randolph came out and proceeded toward
the court-house. The crowd followed—keeping a respectful distance;
by his side walked some of his elderly and prominent constituents, with
whom he conversed familiarly on the way. It happened to me to have a
position from which I could discern his form and action. He was the
merest skeleton of a man; any boy of fifteen could, likely, have mastered
him. His extreme emaciation may have magnified his apparent height,
which was about six feet. There seemed to be a want of action about
his knees, which were somewhat in-turned. He drew them up in walking,
and did not throw his feet boldly forward. More than the usual
amount of the bottom of the feet was seen as he moved, and he placed
these directly forward as the Indians do. On reaching the court-house
pale, he stopped and conversed with a good many people, when a lawyer
came up and introduced one of his brethren to Mr. Randolph. The latter
passed through the introduction with commanding dignity and grace.
Having passed over the steps within the court-house yard, some of his
constituents solicited him to speak to the people; this he seemed reluctant
to do, but after some importunity he consented, and retired to a bench
near by, put his elbows about his knees, inserted his head between his
hands, and seemed to be in profound meditation for a few moments. In
this position, the want of proportion between the length of his body and
of his lower limbs was striking, so much so that his knees seemed to intrude
themselves into his face. He then approached the steps with a languid
and infirm tread, ascended them, took off his hat, and made his bow
to his audience in the most impressive and majestic manner that can be conceived.
It may be doubted whether there lives in America a man who
can do this as he did it. His countenance and manner were solemn—funereal.
Subsequent information enabled me to account for what would
seem to have been without occasion. He had just emerged from a contest
in Congress, running through two sessions, into which he had thrown his
whole power, the result of which had filled him with apprehensions of the
ruin of the Union, and from the rebound of the loosened tension he was
left sick and solemn. The outer man was now fully presented to those
before him. He was evidently a great sufferer from disease, and likely
the sturdy working of his impatient intellect had strained too severely the
feeble case which contained it. He appeared to be the Englishman and
Indian mixed. The latter assuming the outer, the former the larger part
of the inner man. His dress was all English—all over. His hat was
black; his coat was blue, with brilliant metallic buttons and velvet collar;
his breeches and vest drab, with fair-topped English boots and massive
silver spurs—likely they were ancestral; his watch ribbon sustained a
group of small seals—heirlooms, it may be, from times beyond Cromwell.
His age must have been about forty-three; his hair was bright brown,
straight, not perceptibly gray, thrown back from his forehead and tied
into a queue, neither long nor thick. His complexion was swarthy; his
face beardless, full, round and plump; his eye hazel, brilliant, inquisitive,
proud; his mouth was of delicate cast, well suited to a small head and
face, filled with exquisite teeth, well kept as they could be; his lips
painted, as it were, with indigo, indicating days of suffering and nights
of torturing pain. His hands were as fair and delicate as any girl's.
Every part of his dress and person was evidently accustomed to the utmost
care.

His face was the most beautiful and attractive to me I had almost ever
seen. There was no acerbity about it that day, his manner was calm and
bland, though sustained by a graceful and lofty dignity. It was apprehended
that a body so frail encased a group of shattered and tremulous
nerves, and that the prominence of his position, and what was expected of
him, might put these in an ague of agitation. Though he was as much excited
as a speaker could well be, yet he did not betray his emotion by any
quivering of a lip, tremor of a nerve, or hurry of a word. He seemed in
this, as in most other respects, to differ from all other men. He was calm,
slow and solemn throughout his address. The text of it, as has been intimated,
was the "Missouri compromise," and he expended not more than
fifteen minutes in its delivery. His manner was deliberate, beyond any
speaker I have ever heard. This so differed from my expectation of him,
as to dispel the ideal of tempestuous rapidity, which his cynic and impassioned
reputation had inspired. It was obvious, however, that the supreme
mastery which he had over himself was essential to the deadly aim

of his arrow, and the fatal mixing of the poison in which he dipped it.
He stood firm in his position, his action and grace seemed to be from the
knee up. His voice was that of a well-toned flageolet, the key conversational,
though swelled to its utmost compass. The grandeur of his mien
and his impressive salutation may have composed his audience into the
deep silence which prevailed, but the uttering of a few words disclosed a
power of engaging attention which I have met with in no other man—his
articulation. Without this, it is hard to conceive how, in the open air, he
could have been so distinctly heard by so large a mass. He was greatly
aided too by his self-possession, as in his feeble state it must have been essential,
to command every faculty and every art which could contribute to
the result desired. Not only every word and syllable, but it seemed that
every letter of every word in every syllable was distinctly sounded. There
was a perceptible interval it appeared between each of his words as they
dropped one by one from his lips, and that he had supplied himself with a
given quantum of speech before he commenced, determined by its judicious
use to accomplish a proposed effect.

These words, written and read, would hardly occasion any remark, except
perhaps that if he had not a foresight, which was extraordinary, there
was a rare coincidence between what he said would occur, and what, forty-four
years afterwards, actually did occur at Appomattox Court-house—the
overthrow of that Union under which we then lived, and that it resulted
from the causes which he indicated.

But his words were only a part of the performance, the uttering of but
a few of those showed that he was an actor. They were few, so were his
gestures, but they were as expressive as his words. I had studied some of
the orations of Cicero, and had read of Roscius; but I could not understand
the power of the latter over his spectators until that day. Had Mr.
Randolph lived when pantomine was in vogue, it is not unlikely that he
could have communicated his thoughts and feelings effectually, though he
spake never a word. As he proceeded, the impression was, there is Cicero
and Roscius combined, two men in one, Cicero within, Roscius without.
The auditors of course yielded themselves prompt and willing captives.
This combination required deliberation for its display, otherwise it cannot
be conceived how so much time was consumed in uttering so few words
without any apparent impatience of his hearers, or that throbbing twitter
which is felt when expectation is excited, and held too long in suspense.

I did not comprehend the subject he was discussing, nor know even its

leading facts, but he dwelt chiefly on the dissolution of the Union as the
effect of the compromise; and here Roscius did well act his part. As if
startled by the bursting asunder of the materials of some massive building,
in which he was, he drew up his shoulders, his head seemed to sink between
them, his bust was bent forward, and his face filled with horror.
His concluding words: "We fought manfully the good fight, and we are
beaten," seem inadequate to any oratorical effect; but Roscius took them
up, and equipped them for their work. The speaker must allude to the
faithful valor of the combat—how "manfully" it was fought—here the
fever-parched lips were compressed, the finger pointed to the skies, and
bowing in sad but lofty recognition of his fate, and with a countenance
hung with pictures of anxiety, came the words—"We are beaten," and he
retired.

In the Congress just ended, the State of Maryland was represented in
the Senate by William Pinckney, Esq., who is deemed to have delivered
the ablest speech on the "Missouri question" which had ever been made
in this country. Had Mr. Randolph been as ambitious of fame as Mr.
Pinckney, and had devoted himself as he had done to the preparation of
his speeches, and the manner of their delivery, it is not unlikely that Mr.
Pinckney could with more propriety have made the motion in the Senate,
which Mr. Randolph did in the lower House, when the former was about
to speak: "I move that this House do now adjourn, to hear the first orator
of this or any other age."