Who was the magician who had evoked all this by a wave of his wand? Howcould smiling Mr. Blocque roll in luxury thus, when everybody else wasstarving? How could my host wear broadcloth, and drink champagneand smoke Havanas, when ragged clothing, musty bacon, and newapple-abomination, were the order of the day with all others?
These questions puzzled me extremely; but there was the magician beforeus, smiling in the most friendly manner, and pressing his rich wineson his guests, as they sat around the polished mahogany smokingtheir cigars. Elegantly clad servants hovered noiselessly behind theconvives--the wine circulated--the fragrant smoke rose--the conversationbecame general--and all was animation.
"No, sir!" says Mr. Torpedo, puffing fiercely at his cigar, "thePresident never will assign Johnston to command again, sir! You call Mr.Davis 'pig-headed,' Mr. Croker--you are wrong, sir! You do injustice tothe pigs, sir! Pigs are not insane, sir!"
And Mr. Torpedo sucks at his cigar, as though he were a vampire,extracting the blood of his victim.
Mr. Croker sips his wine; he is large and portly; ruddy and pompous;his watch seals jingle; and he rounds his periods with the air of amillionaire, who is accustomed to be listened to with deference.
"You are right, my dear, sir," says Mr. Croker, clearing his throat."The government has assuredly been administered, from its veryinception, in a manner which the most enthusiastic adherents of theExecutive will scarcely venture to characterize as either judicious orconstitutional. In the year which has just elapsed, things have beenmanaged in a manner which must excite universal reprobation. Even thealleged performances of the army are problematical, and--"
"I beg your pardon, sir," says Colonel Desperade, twirling his mustachein a warlike manner; "do I understand you to call in question the nerveof our brave soldiers, or the generalship of our great commander?"
"I do, sir," says Mr. Croker, staring haughtily at the speaker. "I amnot of those enthusiasts who consider General Lee a great soldier. Hehas succeeded in defensive campaigns, but is deficient in genius--and Iwill add, sir, as you seem to be surprised at my remarks, sir, that inmy opinion the Southern Confederacy will be overwhelmed, sir, and theSouth compelled to return to the Union, sir!"
"Upon what do you ground that extraordinary assumption, may I ask, sir?"
"On common sense and experience, sir," returns Mr. Croker, severely;"look at the currency--debased until the dollar is merely a piece ofpaper. Look at prices--coffee, twenty dollars a pound, and sugar thesame. Look at the army starving--the people losing heart--and strong,able-bodied men," adds Mr. Croker, looking at Colonel Desperade,"lurking about the cities, and keeping out of the way of bullets."
The mustached warrior looks ferocious--his eyes dart flame.
"And who causes the high prices, sir? Who makes the money a rag? Ianswer--the forestallers and engrossers--do you know any, sir?"
"I do not, sir!"
"That is singular!" And Colonel Desperade twirls his mustachesatirically--looking at the pompous Mr. Croker in a manner which makesthat worthy turn scarlet.
I was laughing to myself quietly, and listening for the expectedoutbreak, when Mr. Blocque interposed with his winning voice.
"What are you discussing, gentlemen?" he said, with his charming smile."But first tell me your opinion of this Madeira and those cigars. Myagent writes me word that he used every exertion to procure the best.Still, I am not entirely pleased with either the wine or brand ofcigars, and hope you will excuse them. Were you speaking of our greatPresident, Mr. Torpedo? And you, Mr. Croker--I think you were referringto the present state of affairs. They appear to me more hopeful than atany previous time, and his Excellency, President Davis, is guiding thehelm of state with extraordinary courage and good judgment. I know someof you differ with me in these views, my friends. But let us not becensorious--let us look on the bright side. The troubles of the countryare great, and we of the South are suffering every privation--but wemust bear up, gentlemen; we must keep brave hearts, and endure allthings. Let us live on dry bread if it comes to that, and bravely fightto the last! Let us cheerfully endure hardships, and oppose the enemyat all points. Our present troubles and privations will soon come toan end--we shall again be surrounded by the comforts and luxuries oflife--and generations now unborn will bless our names, and pity oursufferings in these days that try men's souls!"
Mr. Blocque ceased, and smoothing down his snowy shirt bosom, pushed thewine. At the same moment, an alabaster clock on the marble mantelpiecestruck seven.
"So late?" said Colonel Desperade. "I have an appointment at the waroffice!"
Mr. Blocque drew out a magnificent gold watch.
"The clock is fast," he said, "keep your seats, gentlemen,--unless youfancy going to the theatre. My private box is at your disposal, andcarriages will be ready in a few minutes."
As the charming little gentleman spoke, he led the way back to thedrawing-room--the folding doors flanked by silent and respectfulservants as the guests passed in.
In five minutes, coffee and liqueurs were served; both were superb, thewhite sugar sparkled like crystal in the silver dish, and the cream inthe solid jug was yellow and as thick as a syrup.
"Shall it be the theatre, gentlemen?" said Mr. Blocque, with winningsmiles. "We can amuse ourselves with cards for an hour, as the curtaindoes not rise before eight."
And he pointed to a silver basket on the centre table of carved walnut,surmounted by a slab of variegated marble. I looked, and saw thecrowning wonder. The silver basket contained piles of gold coin andgreenbacks! Not a trace of a Confederate note was visible in the mass!
Packs of fresh cards were brought quickly by a servant, on a silverwaiter; the guests helped themselves to the coin and bank notes; in tenminutes they were playing furiously.
As I do not play, I rose and took my leave. Mr. Blocque accompanied meto the door, smiling sweetly to the last.
"Come again very soon, my dear colonel," he said, squeezing my hand, "mypoor house, and all in it, is at your service at all times!"
I thanked my host, shook hands, and went out into thedarkness,--determined never to return.
I had had an excellent dinner, and, physically, had never felt better.Morally, I must say, I felt contaminated, for, unfortunately, Ihad begun to think of Lee's hungry soldiers, lying in rags, in thePetersburg trenches.
"Eight o'clock! All is well!" came from the sentinel, as I passed by thecapitol.
IV.
JOHN M. DANIEL.
On the day after this scene, a trifling matter of business led me tocall on John M. Daniel, editor of the _Examiner_.
The career of this singular personage had been as remarkable as hischaracter. He was not a stranger to me. I had known him in 1849 or '50,when I accompanied my father on a visit to Richmond, and I still recallthe striking appearance of the individual at that time. He had come, apoor boy of gentle birth, from the bleak hills of Stafford, to the cityof Richmond, to seek his fortune, and, finding nothing better to do, hadaccepted the position of librarian to the Richmond library, waiting forsomething to "turn up," and ready to grasp it. About the same time,that experienced journalist, the late B.M. De Witt, had founded the_Examiner_. He, no doubt, saw the eminent talents of the youth fromStafford, and the result had been an invitation to assist in theeditorial department of the journal.
Going to the Richmond library, to procure for my father some volume forreference, I had made the acquaintance of the youthful journalist.At the first glance, I felt that I was in the presence of an originalcharacter. His labors on the _Examiner_ had just commenced. He wasseated, half-reclining, in an arm-chair, surrounded by "exchanges," fromwhich he clipped paragraphs, throwing the papers, as soon as he had doneso, in a pile upon the floor. His black eyes, long black hair, brushedbehind the ears, and thin, sallow cheeks, were not agreeable; but theymade up a striking physiognomy. The black eyes glittered with a sullenfire; the thin lips were wreathed with a sardonic smile; and I wasinformed that the youth lived the life of a _solitaire_, volun
tarilyabsenting himself from society, to give his days and nights toexhausting study.
He read every thing, it was said--history, poetry, political economy,and theology. Swift was said to be his literary divinity, and Rabelaiswas at his elbow always. Poor, uneducated, ignorant of nearly everything, he was educating himself for the future--sharpening, by attritionwith the strongest minds in all literatures, ancient and modern, thattrenchant weapon which afterward flashed its superb lightnings in theheated atmosphere of the great epoch in which he figured.
Bitter, misanthropic, solitary; burning the midnight lamp, instead ofmoving among his fellows in the sunshine, he yet possessed hardy virtuesand a high pride of gentleman. He hated the world at large, it was said,but loved his few friends with an ardor which shrank at nothing. One ofthem owed a sum of money--and Daniel went on foot, twenty-two miles, toPetersburg, paid it, and returned in the same manner. Afterward he wentin person to Charlottesville, to purchase a house for the use ofanother friend of limited means. For his friends he was thus willing tosacrifice his convenience and his means, without thought of return.All who were not his friends, he is said to have hated or despised.An acquaintance was in his room one day, and showed him a valuablepen-knife. Daniel admired it, and the gentleman said "You may have it,if you like it." Daniel turned upon him, scowled at him, his lip curled,and he replied, "What do you expect me to do for you?"
His other virtues were self-denial, and a proud independence. At thelibrary, he lived on bread and tea--often making the tea himself. Toopoor to possess a chamber, he slept on a lounge in the public room. Hewould owe no man any thing, asked no favors, and fawned on nobody. Hewould fight his own fight, make his own way; with the intellect heavenhad sent him, carve out his own future, unassisted. The sallow youth,groaning under dyspepsia, with scarce a friend, and nothing but hisbrain, promised himself that he would one day rise from his low estate,and wield the thunderbolts of power, as one born to grasp and hurl them.
He was not mistaken, and did not overestimate his powers. When I sawhim in 1849 or '50, he was obscurest of the obscure. Two or three yearsafterward he had made the _Examiner_ one of the great powers of thepolitical world, and was living in a palace at Turin, minister toSardinia. He had achieved this success in life by the sheer force of hischaracter; by the vigor and recklessness of his pen, and the intensityof his invective. Commencing his editorial career, apparently, with thetheory that, in order to rise into notice, he must spare nothing andno one, he had entered the arena of partisan politics like a full armedgladiator; and soon the whole country resounded with the blows which hestruck. Bitter personality is a feeble phrase to describe the animus ofthe writer in those days. There was something incredibly exasperating inhis comments on political opponents. He flayed and roasted them alive.It was like thrusting a blazing torch into the raw flesh of his victims.Nor was it simple "abuse." The satirist was too intelligent to rely uponthat. It was his scorching wit which made opponents shrink. His scalpeldivided the arteries, and touched the vitals of the living subject.Personal peculiarities were satirized with unfailing acumen. The readersof the _Examiner_, in those days, will still recall the tremendousflaying which he administered to his adversaries. It may almost be said,that when the remorseless editor had finished with these gentlemen,there was "nothing of them left"--what lay before him was a bleeding andmortally wounded victim. And what was worse, all the world was laughing.Those who looked with utter disapproval upon his ferocious course,were still unable to resist the influence of his mordant humor. Theydenounced the _Examiner_ without stint, but they subscribed to it, andread it every morning. "Have you seen the _Examiner_ to-day?" asked thefriend whom you met on the street. "John M. Daniel is down on Blank!"said A to B, rubbing his hands and laughing. Blank may have been thepersonal acquaintance and friend of Mr. A, but there was no resistingthe cartoon of him, traced by the pen of the satirist! The portraitmight be a caricature, but it was a terrible likeness! The long nosewas very long; the round shoulders, very round; the cast in the eye, afrightful squint; but the individual was unmistakable. The bitter humorof the artist had caught and embodied every weakness. Thenceforth,the unfortunate adversary went on his way before all eyes, the markof suppressed ridicule and laughing whispers. Whether you approvedor disapproved, you read those tremendous satires. Not to see the_Examiner_ in those days was to miss a part of the history of the times.The whole political world felt the presence of a _power_ in journalism.Into all the recesses of the body politic, those shafts of ridicule ordenunciation penetrated. That venomous invective pierced the hardestpanoply. For the first time in American journalism, the world saw thefull force of ridicule; and tasted a bitterness of invective unknownsince the days of Swift.
Out of these personal attacks grew numerous duels. The butts of theeditor's ridicule sent him defiances, and he was engaged in severalaffairs, which, however, resulted in nothing, or nearly nothing, as Ibelieve he was wounded only once. They did not induce him to change hiscourse. He seemed to have marked out his career in cold blood, andwas plainly resolved to adhere to his programme--to write himself intopower. In this he fully succeeded. By dint of slashing and flaying,he attracted the attention of all. Then his vigorous and masculineintellect riveted the spell. Hated, feared, admired, publiclystigmatized as one who "ruled Virginia with a rod of iron," he hadreached his aim; and soon the material results of success came. Thedirector of that great political engine, the Richmond _Examiner_, foundno difficulty in securing the position which he desired; and he receivedthe appointment of minister to Sardinia, which he accepted, selling hisnewspaper, but reserving the right to resume editorial control of it onhis return.
His ambition was thus gratified--for the moment at least. The unknownyouth, living once on bread and tea, and too poor to possess a bed, wasnow a foreign minister; had an Italian count for his _chef de cuisine_;and drew a salary which enabled him to return, some years afterward, tothe United States with savings amounting to $30,000.
It was a contrast to his past. The sallow youth was _M. le ministre_!The garret in Richmond had been turned into a marble palace in Turin.He had a nobleman for a cook, instead of making his own tea. And the_Examiner_ had done all that for him!
When war became imminent, he returned to Virginia, and resumed controlof the _Examiner_. With the exception of brief military service withGeneral Floyd, and on the staff of A.P. Hill, in the battles aroundRichmond, when he was slightly wounded in the right arm, he remained ineditorial harness until his death.
As soon as he grasped the helm of the _Examiner_ again, that greatbattleship trembled and obeyed him. It had been powerful before, it wasnow a mighty engine, dragging every thing in its wake. Commencing bysupporting the Government, it soon became bitterly inimical to PresidentDavis and the whole administration. The invective in which it indulgedwas not so violent as in the past, but it was even more powerful anddangerous. Every department was lashed, in those brief, terse sentenceswhich all will remember--sentences summing up volumes in a paragraph,condensing oceans of gall into a drop of ink. Under these mortal stabs,delivered coolly and deliberately, the authors of public abuses shrank,recoiled, and sought safety in silence. They writhed, but knew the powerof their adversary too well to reply to him. When once or twice theydid so, his rejoinder was more mortal than his first attack. Thewhole country read the _Examiner_, from the chief officers of theadministration to the humblest soldier in the trenches. It shaped theopinions of thousands, and this great influence was not due to trick orchance. It was not because it denounced the Executive in terms of thebitterest invective; because it descended like a wild boar on the abusesor inefficiency of the departments; but because this journal, more,perhaps, than any other in the South, spoke the public sentiment,uttered its views with fearless candor, and conveyed those views inwords so terse, pointed, and trenchant--in such forcible and excellentEnglish--that the thought of the writer was driven home, and remainedfixed in the dullest apprehension.
The _Examiner_, in one word, had become the cont
rolling power, almost,of the epoch. Its views had become those even of men who bitterlystigmatized its course. You might disapprove of its editorials often,and regret their appearance--as I did--but it was impossible not tobe carried onward by the hardy logic of the writer: impossible not toadmire the Swift-like pith and vigor of this man, who seemed to havere-discovered the lost well of undefiled English.
When I went to see John M. Daniel, thus, in this summer of 1864, it wasnot a mere journalist whom I visited, but a historic character. For itwas given to him, invisible behind the scenes, to shape, in no smalldegree, the destiny of the country, by moulding the views and opinionsof the actors who contended on the public arena.
Was that influence for good or for evil? Let others answer. To-day thisman is dead, and the cause for which he fought with his pen has failed.I reproduce his figure and some scenes of that great cause--make yourown comments, reader.
V.
THE EDITOR IN HIS SANCTUM.
Knocking at the door of the journalist's house on Broad Street, nearlyopposite the "African church," I was admitted by a negro servant, sentup my name, and was invited by Mr. Daniel to ascend to his sanctum onthe second story.
I went up, and found him leaning back in a high chair of blackhorsehair, in an apartment commanding a view southward of James Riverand Chesterfield. On a table beside him were books and papers--thefurniture of the room was plain and simple.
He greeted me with great cordiality, bowing very courteously, andoffering me a cigar. I had not seen him since his return from Europe,and looked at him with some curiosity. He was as sallow as before--hiseyes as black and sparkling; but his long, black hair, as straight as anIndian's, and worn behind his ears, when I first knew him, was close-cutnow; and his upper lip was covered by a black mustache. His dress wassimple and exceedingly neat. It was impossible not to see that thefamous journalist was a gentleman.
Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins. Page 23
