VI. — AN EDITORIAL IN THE EXAMINER.
On the following morning I opened the Examiner, and the first article which I saw was the following one, on
THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER.
“We owe to the kindness of SHEM’S Express Company, which has charge
of the line between the front door of the State Department and the
back door of the Tuileries kitchen, the advance sheets of a new
novel by VICTUS HAUTGOUT, which bears the striking title, Les
Fortunés, and which consists of five parts—ABRAHAM, ISAAC, JACOB,
JUDAH, and BENJAMIN. Of course, the discerning reader will not
suppose for a moment that there is any connection between Les
Fortunés and Les Misérables; between the chaste style of
HAUTGOUT and the extravaganzas of HUGO; whose works, in former
days, were not considered fit reading for an Anglo-Saxon public,
whose latest and most corrupt fiction owes its success (let us
hope) rather to the dearth of new literature than to the vitiated
taste of the Southern people. How great the difference between the
two authors is, can best be appreciated by comparing the
description of the gamin in Marius, with the following extracts
from HAUTGOUT’S portraiture of the BLOCKADE-RUNNER:—
“Yankeedom has a bird, and the crocodile has a bird. The
crocodile’s bird is called the Trochilus. Yankeedom’s bird is
called the blockade-runner. Yankeedom is the crocodile. The
blockade-runner is the Trochilus.
“Couple these two ideas—Yankeedom and the crocodile. They are
worth the coupling. The crocodile is asleep. He does not sleep on
both ears; he sleeps with one eye open; his jaws are also open.
Rows of teeth appear, sharped, fanged, pointed, murderous,
carnivorous, omnivorous. Some of the teeth are wanting: say a
dozen. Who knocked those teeth out? A demon. What demon?
Or perhaps an angel. What angel? The angel is secession: the
demon is rebellion. ORMUZD and AHRIMAN: BALDUR and LOKI:
the DEVIL and ST. DUNSTAN. So we go.
“The Trochilus picks the crocodile’s teeth. Does the crocodile
object? Not he. He likes to have his teeth picked. It is good for
his health. It promotes his digestion. It is, on the whole, a
sanitary measure. ‘Feed yourself,’ he says, ‘my good Trochilus, on
the broken meats which lie between my grinders. Feed your little
ones at home. I shan’t snap you up unless I get very hungry. There
are Confederates enough. Why should I eat you?’
“This little creature—this Trochilus obsidionalis—this
blockade-running tomtit—is full of joy. He has rich food to eat
every day. He goes to the show every evening, when he is not on
duty. He has a fine shirt on his back; patent-leather boots on his
feet; the pick and choice of a dozen houses. He is of any
age—chiefly of the conscript age; ranges singly or in couples;
haunts auction houses; dodges enrolling officers; eats
canvass-backs; smells of greenbacks; swears allegiance to both
sides; keeps faith with neither; is hand and glove with ABE’S
detectives as well as with WINDER’S Plugs; smuggles in an ounce of
quinine for the Confederate Government, and smuggles out a pound of
gold for the Lincolnites; fishes in troubled waters; runs with the
hare and hunts with the hounds; sings Yankee Doodle through one
nostril, and My Maryland through the other; is on good terms with
everybody—especially with himself—and, withal, is as great a
rascal as goes unhung.
“He has sports of his own; roguish tricks of his own, of which a
hearty hatred of humdrum, honest people is the basis. He has his
own occupations, such as running for hacks, which he hires at
fabulous prices; crossing the Potomac in all kinds of weather;
rubbing off Yankee trade-marks and putting English labels in their
stead. He has a currency of his own, slips of green paper, which
have an unvarying and well regulated circulation throughout this
gipsy band.
“He is never satisfied with his pantaloons unless they have a
watch-fob, and never satisfied with his watch-fob unless it
contains a gold watch. Sometimes he has two watch-fobs; sometimes
a score.
“This rosy child of Richmond lives, develops, gets into and out of
scrapes—a merry witness of our social unrealities. He looks on
ready to laugh; ready also for something else, for pocketing
whatever he can lay his hands on. Whoever you are, you that call
yourselves Honor, Justice, Patriotism, Independence, Freedom,
Candour, Honesty, Right, beware of the grinning blockade-runner.
He is growing. He will continue to grow.
“Of what clay is he made? Part Baltimore street-dirt, part James
River mud, best part and worst part sacred soil of Palestine. What
will become of him in the hands of the potter, chance? Heaven
grant that he may be ground into his original powder before he is
stuck up on our mantel-pieces as a costly vase, in which the
choice flowers of our civilization can but wither and die.”
Admire that grim humor, reader—the firm stroke with which this Aristophanes of 1864 drew my friend, Mr. Blocque. See how he reproduced every trait, delineated the worthy in his exact colors, and, at the foot of the picture, wrote, as it were, “Here is going to be the founder of ‘one of the old families,’—one of the ornaments of the future, who will come out of the war rich, and be a costly vase, not a vessel of dishonor, as at present.”
Grim satirist! You saw far, and I think we want you to-day!