January 2011

It would be possible to describe the American Civil War as the disastrous result of an ill-advised political maneuver which somehow got out of the control of the men who had started it. Unfortunately, it is just possible that the same melancholy remark may yet be made about the Civil War’s centennial.

With the general idea of giving this centennial proper observance there can be little quarrel. The Civil War was after all America’s most profound and meaningful single experience since the winning of national independence. It changed the course of American history; it helped to define the American character and the American ideal; it gave us an imperishable and completely unforgettable body of legend.

John Randolph of Roanoke was a second cousin of Edmund Randolph, President Washington’s first Attorney General and second Secretary of State. It would be difficult to say which of the two careers was the more tragic. There could have been no more striking contrast than that between the two men—the elder, gentle and reflective, his endowments promising happiness and success: the other pursued from childhood by his inner furies. Edmund suffered from the sudden impact of events outside himself. John's defeat came from within.

On the site of St. Pierre today are many gaping ruins, with trees growing between the roofless walls. Though the town has been partially resettled it has never regained its vibrancy. Overlooking the bay is a small white building with a pillared entrance. It is a museum built and maintained largely by American citizens; here are many mementos of the great eruption, as well as of other volcanic explosions all over the world. The curator, an aged Martiniquais named Joseph Bonnet-Durival, was living just outside St. Pierre on that terrible May morning in 1902. He recently recalled his experience: