University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XVIII.

JOHN RANDOLPH AS AN ORATOR.

WHATEVER doubt may exist as to whether Mr. Randolph
was a great man, a consistent statesman, a
profound thinker, a logical debater, there can be none
as to his being a great orator.

In criticising oratory, we must be careful not to confound
the orator with the mere logical reasoner or debater. There
is a wide difference between them. The object of the two
classes of speakers is different, the effect is different, and the
criterion, by which their respective merits are estimated, is
different.

The logician may be able to accomplish more in the end,
particularly in this country, where so many facilities are afforded
for publishing speeches; and he certainly furnishes
an agreeable exercise for the mental faculties; but the orator
proper exhibits the highest order of talent, and dancing to
the most fascinating music, is not more delightful than the
stimulus of hearing him speak.

The object of the mere debater, at least in the halls of
Congress, is the remote and permanent effect. There, nine-tenths
of the speakers address themselves mainly to the
reporters. They do not care so much for the immediate
effect upon their hearers, as the lasting impression upon
their constituents particularly, and the public generally.

The facility afforded by the press for having speeches
reported and disseminated all over the nation, within a few

hours after delivery, has a great tendency to decrease the
cultivation of real oratorical talents. But occasionally there
appears a sudden and bright light, who stirs every feeling of
the human breast, who may, indeed, be reported, and with
considerable effect, but whose object is immediate conviction
and persuasion, and whose glory is to electrify his audience.

Such was John Randolph.

We doubt whether there ever lived a more eloquent man
than Mr. Randolph.

Some are eloquent in the pulpit or at the bar, but dull and
uninteresting around the social circle. Others are gifted
with great colloquial powers, but are unable to deliver a
public address. But Mr. Randolph was eloquent, both in
his speeches and in his conversations. Thousands, who
never had the good fortune to hear him address a public
assembly, have felt his power of fascination in private, when
he chose to exert it, with wonder and admiration.

But, in our humble opinion, we should be wide of the
mark, if, being called upon for the evidences of his great
oratorical powers, we should point to his reported speeches.

His speech, in answer to Mr. Everett, of Massachusetts, is
all that Mr. Garland claims for it. It is a specimen of his
"large acquaintance with history, profound knowledge of
human character, his copiousness of illustration, and the
rapidity, beauty, strength and purity of his style."

But however much we admire the beauty of the composition,
or the profundity of the views expressed, there is
nothing in that speech which entitles its author to be styled
a great orator. We cannot tell from the length of David's
sling, or the weight of Francisco's sword, how they wielded
these instruments of death. We are convinced that Randolph
and Clay were orators, but not from reading their
speeches. We might admit they were great masters of composition,

logical reasoners—wise men; but we should not
be justified in pronouncing them great orators from reading
their speeches.

Mr. Randolph was an orator proper. He possessed the
faculty of producing an instantaneous and powerful effect
upon his auditors; and his speeches lose half their charm
when they appear in print. Sheridan was well aware of this
pecularity of the orator when he refused to permit his great
speech, in the case of Warren Hastings, to be reported.

If called upon to select the passage which we most admire
of all that we have seen from the great Virginia orator,
we should point to a sentence in his speech made at Charlotte
Court-house, at the time he excused himself, on the
ground of ill health, for declining a reelection to Congress.
The reader will remember we gave it among the recollections
of the Honorable James W. Bouldin; but, for the better
illustration of our subject, we repeat it. He said:

This passage written reads very well, but of its force and
beauty, as pronounced by Mr. Randolph, we have no adequate
conception. We are told that while he was speaking,
every bosom swelled with sympathy for the fate of the unhappy
exile, who was going to a foreign land to "eke out
the last remains of his toilsome life."

But we repeat the words used on that occasion, and admire
them with scarcely a sigh. The harp is before us, with
all its strings in tune, but in vain we attempt as he played to
play.

Still, after all, this sentence may have been spoken by a
tongue by no means eloquent.

In the trial of a case of murder, in which Patrick Henry
defended the prisoner at the bar, he made use of the following
language:

These were the instruments employed by the speaker to
convey to the jury the terrible image which was in his own
mind. But there appears nothing in his words which enables
us to rank him one of the greatest orators the world
has produced. And yet, we are informed, that when he
uttered this sentence, it produced "paroxysms of emotion
in every breast."

What is there in the expression, "If we are wrong, let us
all go wrong together?" Yet such was the effect when
spoken by Henry with the appropriate action, that the whole
auditory moved unconsciously with the speaker.

If we were to take our seat by the side of some beautiful
woman and listen to a piece of music which charmed our
souls, and afterwards were to show the notes to a friend,
what a faint idea he could form of the treat we had really
enjoyed. So, if we had the good fortune of hearing a great
orator speak, and were to adduce, as proof of it, an accurate
report of the words which he used, how very far short we
should fall of conveying an adequate conception of the spell
that bound us?

If we wanted to convey a just idea of the tumultuous rage
of a great battle we had witnessed, we should not, when it
was all over—the dead removed, and silence restored to
the scene, point to the fell instruments which were used, the
swords of the veteran warriors, the quality of the ammunition
which was belched from the mouths of the cannon; nor
can they be taken as the proofs of a successful battle. The
genius of the warrior consists in the use he makes of his
instruments of death, and the manner in which they are
handled; and the criterion of his merit is the actual effect.

The speech of Mr. Randolph, so highly spoken of by
Mr. Garland, is not a complete evidence of his oratorical
powers. There we read the strategic plans of the author;
are enabled to conceive of his wonderful facility in gathering
materials for crushing the feelings of his adversaries; behold
the dreadful weapons he employed; but the action is
wanting. We cannot witness the running through with the
long bony finger, the rage of his eyes, which flashed from
side to side, nor the awful contractions of the muscles of
his face. We cannot tell how he bore himself upon the field
of battle, when the cry was, "delenda est Carthago," nor
how the victims of his displeasure writhed and agonized
with pain.

A book of military tactics affords about as much evidence
of the genius of the warrior as the speeches of Mr. Randolph
afford of his genius as an orator.

The evidence, we repeat, of the oratorical powers of any
man is not to be found in his reported speeches. The orations
of Demosthenes and Cicero are perhaps the most perfect
models of composition of their kind which the world
ever saw, yet from them we can gather naught to convince
us that they were orators of the first magnitude. If the
speeches of Patrick Henry were ten times more logical

than they really are; if those of Mr. Randolph were really
more brilliant, the language more chaste and harmonious,
still, from the perusal of them, we could form but a very imperfect
estimate of the oratorical powers of these wonderful
men.

We said the object of oratory is to sway the crowd; to
produce an immediate effect. Orators are fully aware of the
advantages they possess over the historian or novelist. As
we read the pages of the one, we pause to weigh the testimony;
to consider the truth and accuracy of the statements,
and the representations of the other must still be held up to
nature, to determine whether they be drawn to life. But,
when a great orator is speaking we are filled with electricity;
it passes from him to us, and from us to him; we catch the
passions which burn and flash within his animated breast;
are hurried along from point to point, and have no time for
sifting arguments; we are transported with the scenes he
describes; our imagination is filled with glowing pictures;
we are charmed, fascinated, and often our reason is led captive
by a single expression.

In illustration of the last idea, we will mention the effect
which the Rev. Dr. Speece says a single expression had
upon him. He was at the trial, in one of our district courts,
of a man charged with murder. After briefly stating the
case, he remarks:

There is something almost superhuman in the gift which
moves a crowd to tears by the utterance of a simple sentence,
as Flechier did in his funeral oration on Turenne,
when he said: "Here I am almost forced to interrupt my
discourse. I am troubled, Messieurs! Turenne dies!" and
when his audience, which had been held breathless, at that
passage, burst forth into tears and cries.

One reason why no description can convey to another the
impression produced by eloquence, is because of the impossibility
of reproducing the circumstances which gave
effect to the original utterance. Of this there is a striking
illustration in the life of Whitfield.

Once, when he had an appointment to preach in London,
before the hour came, the brightness of the morning was
eclipsed by ominous and lurid clouds. His text was,
"Strive to enter in at the strait gate."

"See," said he, pointing to a shadow that was flitting
across the floor—"see that emblem of human life." "See

there," as a flash of lightning lit up the deepening gloom of
the house. "It is a glance from the angry eye of Jehovah!"

Raising his finger in a listening attitude, as the thunder,
gradually growing louder, burst in one tremendous crash
over the building, he continued the instant it ceased: "It
was the voice of God proclaiming his wrath."

Then, as the sound died away, he knelt in the pulpit, and
covered his face with his hands in silent adoration.

The audience that day was under his spell, and he swayed
them at pleasure. This induced Dr. Campbell, in his
sketch of Whitfield, to say of that discourse, that it was
easy to print it, but the thunder and lightning could not be
struck off by the press.

Neither the surrounding circumstances, nor the magnetic
currents which pass from the speaker to his hearers, can
ever be reproduced by the narrator, and therefore the written
and the reported speeches of an orator give little idea of
his power.

The intoxicating effect of eloquence is, indeed, delightful.
The excitement of reading a good speech is agreeable, that
of reading a good novel still more so, but it is nothing
compared to the stimulant of hearing a great orator speak.
The effect of a sudden flash from the brain of genius is a
striking illustration of the direct influence of the mind over
the physical system. As he becomes more and more excited,
the speaker himself is almost transfigured, his eyes
kindle and brighten, and his cheeks grow rosy, and the
wrinkles on his withered face disappear, and the hollow and
meagre features of old age become beautiful objects to behold.

Such, we have seen, was the appearance of John Randolph,
on one occasion, as he walked across the floor and
saw the people gather round the stand. But if the speaker

is transfigured, the auditors are intoxicated with intense excitement;
every heart beats rapidly, and every bosom swells
with emotion.

Now, to be able to stir these absorbing passions of the
mind, to find one in a calm, cool state, unexcited by any
strong feeling, and in a few moments to cause him to blaze
all over, requires the most extraordinary endowments which
the Creator bestows upon the creature. The mere dialectician
cannot begin to excite those thoughts, which exert such
intense influence over an audience. Like a caterpillar, he
crawls along, laying down his premises, step by step, perfectly
satisfied that his auditors are following him through
his laborious journey, while the orator, with a few rapid
strides, gains in an instant an object, which the other never
can attain.

The instantaneous change which the feelings of his auditors
underwent when Henry uttered the words, "blood is
concerned;" the paroxysms of emotion produced on the
other occasion, when he spoke of "double-triggered loaded
rifles cocked at your breast," shows the powerful and mysterious
effect of a single thought. But to be able to conceive,
and clothe, and speak that single thought, as Henry spoke,
is, perhaps, to be endowed with all the finest qualities of the
mind, united with great physical advantages, and adorned
by all the embellishments of art. A look or a tone may at
first seem accomplishments of easy attainment, but when
they produce these extraordinary impressions upon others,
they are themselves the result of the highest mental and
physical development. All the noblest qualities of the entire
structure of man—body, mind and soul—may be required
to produce them. It is deep feeling which makes the
sound that melts tears, and to give the expression to the eye
which kindles fire within the human breast, may require the

habitual indulgence for years in the most ennobling thoughts.
An ignorant, uncultivated man, with none of the rare natural
gifts of his Creator, cannot look like Patrick Henry when
his arms seemed to cover the whole house; nor like John
Randolph when he was describing Napoleon Bonaparte's
strides to universal dominion.

The following incident shows the susceptibility of Mr.
Randolph to oratorical excellence, at the same time it affords
a striking proof of the oratorical powers of the immortal
Henry.

We quote from the manuscripts of the Honorable James
W. Bouldin:

Here the speaker had not uttered a dozen sentences before
he displayed the oratorical faculty, producing a powerful
illusion upon the imagination of Mr. Randolph, and we
presume of the auditors generally. But the words used by
the speaker on that occasion might well have been employed
by one who had no pretentions to oratory.

What was it which impressed Mr. Randolph with the feeling,
in spite of his judgment, that the judges were the most
cruel creatures for insisting on Henry's speaking first, and

that, too, when he knew that he was far more able to take
the laboring oar, feeble as he represented himself to be, than
any of the learned counsel who were arranged to precede
him? It was something which cannot be transmitted to
paper; it was precisely that which made him preëminently
an orator.

Mr. Randolph was a great actor. The reader, we dare
say, well remembers a passage in the recollections of Mr.
James M. Whittle, which for the better illustration of our
subject, we repeat. He says:

After reading the above, we were not surprised at the following,
which the reader found in the sketch of Mr. Randolph
by Dr. W. S. Plumer. He says:

Nor did he practice his art in public only; he carried it into
every-day life. In the dramatic scene at the granary described
by Mr. Henry Carrington, Mr. Randolph's acting is
pronounced "inimitable." His extraordinary conduct at the
time that the Hon. Thomas S. Flournoy, when a boy, with
his father visited Mr. Randolph, was, in our opinion, acting.
For the whole programme—his pretending that he was dying,
his warming up with his subject and surprising his
guests with a speech, his request to have his name withdrawn
as a candidate for the Convention, bidding them
adieu as if he never expected to see them again, and afterwards
mounting his horse and overtaking them on the road,
and going to Halifax court next day and making a public
speech—all flashed across his mind the moment that his servant
announced that Mr. John James Flournoy and his son
were at the door.

The actor uses arts which are totally inadmissible in the
debater. The latter expects to be reported, and hopes his
speech will be carefully perused by those who have time to
weigh every argument. Hence he is exceedingly particular
about his process of reasoning, the accuracy of his statements,
and the style of composition. He labors to give it
exquisite finish and to enhance its value by all the arts of
the logician. But the orator is not so mindful of these
things. If he carries the crowd with him, he is satisfied.
The demonstrations of the multitude do not make Poe a
poet or Prescott a historian; but they do make Henry and
Randolph orators.

It matters not whether the statements of the orator proper
are true or false; whether he covers the whole ground, or
jumps to conclusions, or touches the subject directly at all.
He may not be logical, may not be consistent; yet, if he
sways the multitude, he is an orator.

Therefore, he who should undertake to assign Mr. Randolph
his proper rank as an orator must not sit down to the
task with a volume of his speeches, but with a record of the
instantaneous effects of those speeches.

Of the actual effects produced by the speeches of Mr.
Randolph we have the most ample and satisfactory proof.
There are still many living witnesses. True, it has been a
long time since the spell was broken; but they can testify as
clearly as if it were but yesterday they felt his mental power.

The reader has not forgotten the interesting reminiscences
of an address delivered at Charlotte Court-house soon after
the adjournment of the Virginia Convention of 1829. In
this address Mr. Randolph was giving an account of his
stewardship and the proceedings of said convention. It is
important that we should repeat a few words uttered by the
speaker on that occasion. He said:

"I appear here to take my leave of you for the last time.
What shall I say? Twenty-eight years ago you took me
by the hand, when a beardless boy, and handed me to Congress.
I have served you in a public capacity ever since.
That I have committed errors I readily believe, being a descendant
of Adam, and full of bruises and putrifying sores
from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. People
of Charlotte, which of you is without sin?"

A voice in the crowd exclaimed, "Gracious God, what
preaching!"

Speaking of the trust committed to him by his constituents,

the duties of which he had so long discharged, he
made use of the following expression:

"Take it back, take it back," at the same time moving his
hand forward towards the multitude.

Mr. H. says he instinctively shrank back, feeling as if the
speaker was about to roll a tremendous stone upon him.
Just as the orator concluded, and while still under the intoxicating
effects of his eloquence, a gentleman standing near
turned to him and exclaimed; "He is almost a god."

In the recollections of Dr. C. H. Jordan, the reader comes
across this remarkable passage:

"Here he drew a striking and vivid picture of the ship of
state, sailing amongst the 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
save the `old ship.' "

It has been said that Mr. Randolph's greatest efforts in
speaking were made on the hustings, during his canvass
with Mr. Eppes, in which he was beaten. Mr. Bouldin
heard many of them. The greatest speech he ever made,
in his opinion, was the one at Prince Edward Court-house,
in the Fall preceding the election.

His effort at Charlotte Court-house is characterized as
being of the "satirical order." Severe repartees and sayings
creating great mirth at the expense of others, are said to
have "overshadowed in a measure the able and eloquent
view he took of the politics of the day;" but the address delivered
at Prince Edward Court-house was "sublime."

"He spoke," says Mr. Bouldin, "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 him, and
remained till I observed him, still with his mouth open and
looking steadily in the same direction. Said he, to Parson
Lyle, who was standing by him, `I never heard the like
before, and I never expect to hear the like again.' "

Mr. Bouldin, who had heard all the distinguished orators
of that day, states that he never heard the like before or
since, nor did he ever expect to hear the like again.

Mr. Sawyer, his first biographer, speaks of Mr. Randolph's
sallies of wit, his biting sarcasm, his happy retorts
and home-thrusts, his satiric turn or his playful humor, which
rendered him a more agreeable and popular speaker than
others who were more severe and elaborate.

"If ridicule," says he, "be the test of truth, he had the most
effectual way of drawing her into the light of all the orators
of his day. With this powerful lever," he continues, "he
could shake, if not move from its foundations, any administration.
That it contributed in no small degree to subvert
that of the second Adams no man can doubt, who witnessed
his repeated and dexterous attacks and observed the effects
of his peculiar mode of warfare."

This is high and just praise of his powers of ridicule; but
he does not mention his wonderful powers of pathos. Mr.
Baldwin, too, we think, underrates his capacity in this respect.

It is not strange that those who only heard him in Congress,
should labor under the impression that Mr. Randolph
had no pathos; but the reader will remember that Mr. John
Robinson, one of his old constituents, who had heard all the

distinguished orators of the day, from Patrick Henry down,
gave it as his opinion that "Mr. Randolph was the most
pathetic speaker he ever heard open his lips."

In the halls of Congress, we presume, he seldom, or never,
indulged in that strain; but, we are informed that when he
declined to run for Congress, expecting to visit Europe, he
delivered several addresses of a character wholly different
from any made by him on any other occasion. While
riding around his district, taking leave of his constituents,
he was placed under very different circumstances from those
which called forth his mighty powers of ridicule and satire
in the halls of Congress. He was in a situation to counterfeit
tenderness and a generous forgiveness, if they did not
spring from the heart, and to make appeals to the sympathies
of his constituents for having to decline their service,
after their long and continued confidence in him, on the
ground of ill health.

These addresses, we are informed, were filled with grave
and solemn advices and the most pathetic appeals, without
the least allusion to party or feud, and did more to
strengthen his popularity, which, during the war, had been
a little shaken, than anything else he ever did. They
soothed, softened and set aside much of the bitterness which
had been engendered during those bitter party conflicts.
Mr. Bouldin says: "I certainly saw tears roll down the
cheeks of those who hated him then, and would curse his
memory now if he were named in their presence."

The deep and dark impression which he was capable of
making is only less wonderful than the power of genius to
wipe it out.

The language of the witness is strong, but all of Mr.
Randolph's acquaintances knew how he could make a man
hate him. His talents in this respect were wonderful. Let

the reader turn to his speech on Retrenchment and Reform,
note D, in the appendix, and there see his attack upon Mr.
C., and tell us, if ever a man had, to such a degree, the faculty
of raking up, condensing, and bringing into a speech
materials to make a man hate him. And let the reader say
if an individual thus treated—and there were many such—
was much to blame for cursing his memory even after he
was buried.

Nor was it a sudden ebullition of passion with Mr. Randolph,
soon over and forgotten. All his life he pursued his
opponents, whose presence was hateful to him and all they
possessed.

Now, when he had retired from the victorious field, where
he had stirred up the most violent feelings, and had left so
many foes chafing under the wounds which he had inflicted,
to have chosen "a mournful muse, soft pity to infuse," and
to have persuaded his old constituents that "the heat and
collision produced by the necessary differences of opinion
among men, during a period of fourteen years, had passed
off with him—that he was not conscious of having an enemy
among them; that, certainly, he did not feel enmity to any
himself;" and to have expressed himself on this occasion in
such a manner as to have hushed in a moment the jarring
strings, and by a few words of tenderness to have blotted
out a hundred bitter recollections, and melted hearts which
had been steeled against him, changed the current of long
years of adverse feeling, and forced unwilling tears down the
cheeks of hatred itself, was the highest effort of genius; and
those tears will be received by the sentinels, who guard the
temple of Fame, as an offering, which entitles the author to
take his position as an orator by the side of the immortal
Henry.

Mr. Sawyer, who was an associate with Mr. Randolph for

sixteen years in Congress, and who, as we have before stated,
wrote a biographical sketch of him, expresses the opinion
that he "wanted the profound views of a great statesman;
wanted consistency of political conduct." He says: "His
fame is founded entirely upon his talents as an orator." But
he does not speak in unqualified praise even of his oratory.
He characterizes it as "more splendid than solid. He was
listened to," he says, "with undivided attention;" but, according
to his view, the mind was "fascinated by the ease,
the grace, the fluency, and the pleasing emphatic delivery of
the speaker, not chained and carried captive in the triumphant
march of a gigantic intellect, by the depth of research
and the force of reasoning."

We do not now propose to discuss Mr. Randolph's claims
to statesmanship, but we feel compelled to differ with the
biographer with regard to his oratory.

After enumerating the bad qualities of his heart, and expressing
the opinion that there were no redeeming virtues,
except "some of a negative" kind, we could but be disappointed
when he spoke disparagingly of the noble qualities
of his head.

We were highly gratified at the manner in which Mr.
Baldwin speaks of our distinguished countryman, when he
says he was "not only a consistent statesman, but a great
man." But we are confident that even Mr. Baldwin fails to
do the great Virginia orator justice when he expresses the
opinion that "Henry Clay was the more eloquent of the
two."

The reason which he assigns for this opinion is this: He
claims that Mr. Clay "spoke with more enthusiasm, with
more loftiness, with better adaptation to the hearts of men;
and this he says is the most effective office of eloquence. It
takes more than brains to make a man. To convince the

judgment, you must often do more than show it a good reason.
You must enlist the heart, for it sways the brains."

From all the information which we can gather, we are
forced to differ from the learned critic. Mr. Randolph was
a most enthusiastic man. His deep feeling and highly excitable
imagination was a marked feature of his intellectual
constitution. It is difficult to conceive how an individual of
his temperament could fail to speak with the greatest enthusiasm.
But, to speak with enthusiasm, we submit, it is not
necessary to indulge in "sudden bursts of passionate emotion,"
in an "unpruned luxuriance of gesticulation."

An orator may be enthusiastic, and still pronounce his
words "trippingly on the tongue, not sawing the air too
much with his hands, but using all gently; for in the very
torrent, tempest, and, as we may say, whirlwind of the passions,
you must acquire and beget a temperance that may
give it smoothness."

This is precisely the character which has been given to
Mr. Randolph's oratory. He spoke so clearly, and with
such perfect pronunciation, that as far as his voice could be
heard his words could be distinguished. "An accurate ear
could discern, as he went along, commas, semi-colons, colons,
periods, exclamation and interrogation points, all in their
proper places." One of the gentlemen who has furnished
us with interesting data upon this subject, states that "his
manner was deliberate, beyond that of any speaker he had
ever heard, not only every word and syllable, but it seemed
that every letter of every syllable in every word was distinctly
sounded."

And still we contend he spoke with enthusiasm, with a
warm imagination and feelings wrought up to the highest
pitch of excitement. The last speech he ever made to the
people of Charlotte was the effect of the most enthusiastic

and unheard of devotion to an idea. Nothing else could
have roused his palsied faculties and set his worn-out frame
in motion.

Mr. Clay had the art of making men in love with his
views and with himself. Mr. Randolph may not have had
the same talent to an equal degree, but that does not affect
the question whether he spoke with as much enthusiasm.

As to "loftiness," we should not suppose that the "grave
and sublime" address delivered at Prince Edward by Mr.
Randolph, in which he took such "an able and eloquent
view of the politics of that day," was ever surpassed by Mr.
Clay. This was the opinion of some who had heard both,
and would be, we imagine, the opinion of a majority.

As to "enlisting the heart, and thereby swaying the
brains," after all the evidence we have adduced of the
ability of Mr. Randolph to excite the tender sensibilities of
his audience, it is hardly necessary to enlarge. We think
we have shown him equal to Henry in pathos, and that is
sufficient. We must be permitted, however, to observe that
it would be difficult to persuade those enemies of Mr. Randolph,
who shed tears of sympathy for him, that Mr. Clay,
or any other man, could have so drowned their senses, so
intoxicated their brains.

It does not alter the case that Mr. Randolph did not
choose to speak often in that strain. A few instances are
sufficient to establish his capacity; as to how often he
exerted it, it is immaterial.

"In particular passages," continues the gifted writer, last
quoted, "he was brilliant as Curran and Grattan; in all, he
was interesting, enchaining attention, gratifying an exquisite
taste, imparting instruction, and frequently moulding conviction;
but the permanent impression left was not so strong."

Now, as we have argued, this "permanent" impression is

not the criterion of eloquence. When we are comparing
the eloquence of two great orators, the question is not the
permanent impression, but the instantaneous impression. As
in the case of Mr. Henry, one of our witnesses, of whom
we have already spoken, we do not inquire whether the
speaker advanced arguments which stood the test of his
sober reason a month afterwards; but did the orator overpower
his reason for the moment, and seize upon his imagination
with such force as to make him actually feel that he
was rolling a great weight upon him?

In the case of the jury, which Mr. Henry addressed, they
acquitted the prisoner at the bar, under the immediate effects
of his speech. It is useless to inquire how strong was the
impression of innocence a few days afterwards. The work
of the orator was done. Mr. Bouldin, another of our witnesses,
does not inform us how strong was the permanent
impression made upon him and others by the great speech
of Mr. Randolph at Prince Edward Court-house; but it is
sufficient that he states, when he concluded, he found himself
walking and musing without any aim or object—an evidence
that all his senses had been completely absorbed, and that
he had been wholly under the mental influence of another.
We are not informed whether Mr. Hoge's judgment was so
well addressed by arguments that he voted for Mr. Randolph
at the polls; but we are told that while listening to his
speech he sat with his mouth wide open, and remained in
that state for several minutes after the speaker had retired
from the stand. The individual, who thought the orator
"almost a god" at the moment, may have taken him for a
devil the next day; but still the powerful illusion created at
the time is proof of eloquence of the highest degree. The
feeling of sympathy which came over Mr. Randolph himself,
while Henry was speaking, was momentary, and yet it

is adduced as a proof that "Henry's deceit in eloquence
was deeper than the bottom of the sea."

But is it entirely certain that Mr. Clay surpassed Mr.
Randolph in the "permanent impression?" If one of his
old constituents were interrogated on this point, he would
say, Mr. Randolph's eloquence, at a distance of thirty years,
still haunts his mind; and if he chanced to be one of the
victims of his eloquence of scorn, when brought to the confessional
he would be forced to acknowledge that his wounds
were still bleeding, that his memory, in reviewing the dark
passages of his life, would forget the bitter words of all inferior
men, and dwell with hopeless persistency upon the
inflictions of that long, bony finger.

When Mr. Sawyer states that, as an orator, Mr. Randolph
was more "splendid than solid," we confess we do not know
his precise meaning. Solidity is not the criterion of eloquence.
If he had said that as a logician he was "more
splendid than solid, we should not be at a loss to understand
him. We suspect that Mr. Sawyer was criticising Mr. Randolph's
printed speeches instead of his oratory. But, even
on this hypothesis, in our humble opinion, he is mistaken.
His speeches are more "solid" than "splendid." As an
orator he was perfect; but the most of the splendor vanished
the moment his words were printed. We look upon them
as we would the instrument of some celebrated musician
who had departed this life. The keys are in place and
strings in repair, but the music is wanting.

Though we can form very little idea of Mr. Randolph's
splendor as an orator, the solid part of the performance remains.
We should like to be informed whose speeches were
more "solid" than Mr. Randolph's. Mr. Baldwin tells us
truly, that "most largely developed of all his faculties, probably,
was his quick, clear and deep comprehension." One

of our own witnesses states, that he "thought more philosophically
and profoundly than any man he ever saw;"
another, that "his conceptions were vast and powerful;"
and still another, that he took an "able view of the politics
of the day;" and yet another will come forward and testify,
that "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."

We have expressed the opinion that a speaker is not
obliged to be argumentative in order to be solid. In his
public addresses or his private conversations he may be
deep and mould conviction too, and still not go through the
form of a single argument. Mr. Randolph's speeches are
filled with as much good, sound sense as any man's we ever
read, and contain as many ideas in a single page. For,
while some consume much time in laying down premises
and advancing to conclusions step by step, he arrived at
his conclusion at once, and condensed a long argument into
a few words.

If Mr. Sawyer meant to say that Mr. Randolph was too
scattering, that he wanted connection and continuity, we
refer him to the fable of the caterpillar and the horseman.
The critic speaks as if he had a book of his orations in his
hands and was reading them at leisure. The man who reads
a speech with a view of estimating oratorical excellence forgets
that he cannot be hurried along with the speaker as his
auditors were, that he cannot assume the same state of feeling
which the orator addressed.

But if he has no better means of estimating the genius of
the orator than his printed speeches, the effect produced by
the first rapid perusal is the surest test. "It requires repeated
perusal and reflection," says Mr. Macaulay, "to decide

rightly on any other portion of literature. But with
respect to the works of which the merit depends on their
instantaneous effect, the most hasty judgment is likely to be
the best."

This being the case, we should do the orator an injustice
if we go back to correct an argument or exaggerated statement,
or to expose sophistry, or to exclude extraneous matter;
because fallacies of that description are supposed to
have been overlooked by the hearers in the bustle of the
mental faculties, which are hurried along from point to point
by the new scenes presented in the kaleidoscope-world of
the orator.

There is no record of more powerful effects produced
upon an audience by any man than those we have mentioned
in the case of Mr. Randolph. If, therefore, we be
correct in stating that the merit of oratory consists in its
immediate effect, if he who sways the multitude at the time
be an orator, then we have no hesitation in pronouncing
John Randolph as great an orator as ever lived.