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Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 36. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones), chapter 1.6 (search)
y of his utterance that they wept like children, and when he closed one of his most ardent admirers, as he sank into his arms, exclaimed, The sun has set in all his glory. This speech was replied to by that remarkable and eccentric genius, John Randolph of Roanoke. Henry's sun was set, but Randolph's on this occasion rose above the horizon in matchless splendor. Edmund Pendleton. While Henry was the orator of the Convention, Pendleton was its master spirit. His dignity of mien, his vRandolph's on this occasion rose above the horizon in matchless splendor. Edmund Pendleton. While Henry was the orator of the Convention, Pendleton was its master spirit. His dignity of mien, his venerable age, his carefulness in dress bespoke him no ordinary man. He had some years previously been thrown from his horse and had his hip dislocated and neither stood or walked without assistance. By unanimous consent he was called to preside over the deliberations of this august body. With grave Aspect he rose, and in his rising seem'd A pillar of state; deep on his front engraven Deliberation sat, and public care, And princely counsel in his face yet shone Majestic. The occasion of th
Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 36. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones), chapter 1.39 (search)
lied against it, but that it was above. Because she was true to her own tradition, Virginia deserved to be called by James Russell Lowell, Mother of States and unpolluted men. Those unpolluted men had the self-respect which springs from respect for others, and is rewarded by respect of others. So grew Virginia, as grows a high-born tree; spreading by slow degrees in the vital air of sympathy—a sympathy, wide and warm as her own tender sky. At the first flight of the Eagle of Union, John Randolph, of Roanoke, saw what he called the poison under the wings. Through his life he fought with the gift divine of genius to expel it. Few there were who could withstand the power of that piercing eye. He knew how to impale the avowed high motive for the action that was mean; how, with a lash of flame to strip selfishness of all disguises; and they who writhed under his wrath abhorred the terrible truth of his veracious scorn. The simulation of the ethics of love by the ethics of lust has
Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 36. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones), New England forced slavery. (search)
ion of Northern States which met at Harrisburg to outline the tariff of 1828, known as the Bill of Abomination was the confirmation of Jefferson's forebodings. Had parliament granted to the colonies the right to appear by representatives (easily outnumbered by the rest of the commons), how nugatory would have been the colonial vote. So specious was the scheme to make the South the milch cow for the North. Real consent of the governed would be violated at the threshold. I will, said John Randolph, put it in the power of no man or set of men who ever lived, or who ever shall live, to tax me without my consent. It is wholly immaterial whether this is done, without my having any representation at all, or, as it was done in the case of the tariff law, by a phalanx, stern and inexorable, who, have the majority and having the power, prescribe to me the law I shall obey * * * The whole slave-holding country, the whole of it from the Potomac to Mexico, was placed under the ban and anath
Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 36. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones), Constitution and the Constitution. (search)
Who rose in Congress to call for an investigation? Who grew hysterical over that? The misery before their eyes, said Randolph; they cannot see—their philanthrophy acts only at a distance. In the Taylor and Cass campaign of 1848, Lincoln spoke der similar conditions would philanthropy in the Philippines receive a vote of confidence like this? Have seen, said John Randolph, the dissolution of many friendships, such at least as were so called; but I have seen that of the master and slave einto the heart and habit of a race. Not quite two years ago, hard by the plantations once owned by Patrick Henry and John Randolph, I could have pointed you to the home of one, whose former slaves, with a reverence not assumed, but real, still add welter of the sensual beatitudes, after all, is but a shining robe of rottenness, which differs in size chiefly from John Randolph's rotten herring in the moonlight, which shines and stinks, and stinks and shines. The old question confronts you. W