Money is always a coward, and commonly a fool. Also its instinct is the weak instinct of corruption. Its attitude toward a public is ever that of the threatening, bullying, bragging terrorist, who will either rule or ruin. It works by fear, and resorts to every quack device. It will gnash its jaws, lash its tail, spout fire and smoke in the face of a quailing world. And yet all this tail-lashing and jaw-gnashing and fire-spouting is a sham. Money, for all its appearance of ferocity, is no more perilous to folk who face it than is the fire-spouting, jaw-gnashing, tail-lashing papier-maché dragon of grand opera. Attack it, and what follows? A couple of rueful supernumeraries crawl abjectly, if grumblingly, from its papier-maché stomach—the complete yet harmless reason of the jaw-gnashing, fire-spouting, tail-lashing from which a frightened world shrunk back.
Besides these furious matters, Money does another lying thing. It seeks to teach the public to regard it as the palpitant heart of the country itself.
“I am the seat of life!” cries Money. “Touch me, and you die!”
The advantage of this lie is clear; that is, if the lie win credit. Being the heart, however corrupt, no law surgery may reach it. If Money were the hand of a people, or the fingers on that hand, then it might be dealt with. It could be statute-lanced or poulticed or even amputated, and no threat to life ensue. Money foresees this; and, with that lying cunning which is ever the scoundrel sword and shield of cowards, it declares itself to be the heart. Thus is it safeguarded against the honest least correction of communal saw and knife. Being the heart, its vileness may be deplored but cannot be mended. For who is the mediciner that shall handle the heart to any result save death?
And yet while Money thus proclaims itself the nation's heart it lies. It is not even so reputable a member as the hand. At the most it comes to be no more than just a thumb, or a forefinger, and the farthest possible remove from any source of life. Folk who would aid their money-throttled hour must remember these things.
Banker Biddle and the Bank, now when the General advances upon them, go through that furious charlatanry of jaw-gnashing, tail-lashing, and fire-spouting. The General is unconvinced, unterrified. His hawk eyes pierce the miserable masquerade. He knows the Bank for a dragon of paper and pretense, and does not hesitate.
Failing to arouse his personal-political fear, Banker Biddle and the Bank attempt to stay the General by proclaiming a peril to the country at large.
“We are the throbbing heart of all prosperity!” they cry.
The General recognizes the lie. He knows that prosperity comes from the rain and the sun and the soil, and not from banks or bankers. As well might the two-bushel sacks declare themselves to be the harvest reason of a nation's wheat. The General continues his advance. There shall be no evasion, no hiding, no safety by lies; masks are not to avail nor pretenses protect.
The General in his attack on Banker Biddle and the Bank displays a genius even with that which he employed against the English at New Orleans. Banker Biddle and the Bank are the petted custodians of all the millions of Government. The General “removes” those millions—a yellow mountain of gold! Incidentally, he dismisses a weak-kneed Secretary of the Treasury as a preliminary.