Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins Part 58

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 t.i.tle, _Les Fortunes_, 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 Fortunes_ and _Les Miserables_; 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 tomt.i.t--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 canva.s.s-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 sc.r.a.pes--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!

VII.

UNDER THE CROSSED SWORDS.

I had dined with Mr. Blocque; two days afterward I went to sup with Judge Conway.

Does the reader remember his appearance at Culpeper Court-House, on the night of the ball after the review in June, 1863? On that evening he had excited my astonishment by abruptly terminating the interview between his daughter and Captain Davenant; and I little supposed that I would ever penetrate the motive of that action, or become intimate with the performer.

Yet the chance of war had decreed that both events should occur. All will be, in due time, explained to the reader's satisfaction; at present we will simply make the acquaintance of one of the most distinguished statesmen of the epoch.

My friendly relations with the judge came about in a very simple manner. He was an intimate a.s.sociate of the gentleman at whose house I was staying; had taken great interest in my recovery after Yellow Tavern; and therefore had done me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me.

On the day to which we have now come, Judge Conway had made a speech of surpa.s.sing eloquence, in Congress, on the condition of the country, and I had listened, thrilling at the brave voice which rang out its sonorous, "All's well!" amid the storm. I was now going to call on the statesman to express my admiration of his eloquent appeal, and converse upon the exciting topics of the hour.

I found him in a mansion not far from the splendid residence of Mr.

Blocque. Here he occupied "apartments," or rather a single room,--and, in 1864, my dear reader, that was a very common mode of living.

Like others, Judge Conway was too poor to occupy a whole house,--even too poor to board. He had a single apartment, containing a few chairs and a bed; was waited on by a maid; and, I think, prepared his own meals, which were plain to poverty.

He met me at the door of his bare and poor-looking apartment, extending his hand with the gracious and stately courtesy of the ancient regime.

His figure was small, slight, and bent by age; his face, thin and pale; his hair nearly white, and falling in long curls upon his shoulders; under the gray brows sparkled keen, penetrating, but benignant eyes.

As I pressed the hand of my host, and looked around the poor apartment, I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound bitterness. Two days before I had dined at the table of a peddling blockade-runner, who ate canva.s.s-backs, drank champagne, wore "fine linen," and, dodging the conscript officers, revelled in luxury and plenty. And now here before me was a gentleman of ancient lineage, whose ancestors had been famous, who had himself played a great part in the history of the commonwealth,--and this gentleman was poor, lived in lodgings, had scarce a penny; he had been wealthy, and was still the owner of great possessions; but the bare land was all that was left him for support.

He had been surrounded with luxury, but had sacrificed all to the cause. He had had two gallant sons, but they had fallen at the first Mana.s.sas--their crossed swords were above his poor bare mantel-piece.

From the splendid table of the sneaking blockade-runner, I had come to the poverty-stricken apartment of this great statesman and high-bred gentleman. "Oh, Juvenal!" I muttered, "it is your satires, not the bucolics of Virgil, that suit this epoch!"

The old statesman pointed, with all the grace of a n.o.bleman, to a bare rocking-chair, and received my congratulations upon his speech with modest simplicity.

"I am glad that my views are honored by your good opinion, colonel," he said, "and that you approve of the tone of them. I am naturally given to invective--a habit derived from my friend, the late Mr. Randolph; but the country wants encouragement."

"And yet not to satirize is so hard, my dear sir!"

"Very hard."

"Think of the army depleted--the soldiers starving--the finances in ruin, and entire destruction threatening us!"

The old statesman was silent. A moment afterward he raised his head, and with his thin finger pointed to the crossed swords above his mantelpiece.

"I try to bear and forbear since I lost my poor boys," he said. "They died for their country--I ought to live for it, and do what I can in my sphere--to suppress my bitterness, and try to utter words of good cheer. But we are discussing gloomy topics. Let us come to more cheerful matters. I am in very good spirits to-day. My daughters have come to make me a visit," and the old face glowed with smiles; its expression was quite charming.

"I see you do not appreciate that great treat, my dear colonel," he added, smiling. "You are yet unmarried, though I rejoice to hear you are soon to be united to a daughter of my old friend, Colonel Beverly, of "The Oaks." Some day I hope you will know the great charm of paternity. This morning I was lonely--this evening I am no longer so.

Georgia and Virginia have come up from my house, "Five Forks," escorted by my faithful old Juba, and they burst in upon me like the sunshine!"

The words had scarcely been uttered when a tap came at the door; a voice said, "May we come in, papa?" and a moment afterward the door opened, and admitted Miss Georgia Conway and her sister Virginia.

Miss Georgia was the same tall and superb beauty, with the dark hair and eyes; Miss Virginia the same winning little blonde, with the blue eyes, and the smiles which made her lips resemble rose-buds. The young ladies were clad in poor, faded-looking calicoes, and the slippers on the small feet, peeping from their skirts, were full of holes. Such was the appearance presented in that summer of 1864, my dear reader, by two of the most elegant and "aristocratic" young ladies of Virginia!

But you did not look at the calicoes, and soon forgot the holes in the shoes. My bow was such as I should have bestowed on two princesses, and the young ladies received it with a grace and courtesy which were charming.

In ten minutes we were all talking like old friends, and the young ladies were making tea.

This was soon ready; some bread, without b.u.t.ter, was placed upon the little table; and the meal was the most cheerful and happy imaginable.

"Oh, my dear Mr. Blocque!" I could not help saying to myself, "keep your champagne, and canva.s.s-backs, and every luxury, and welcome! I like dry bread and tea, with this company, better!"

I have not room to repeat the charming words, mingled with laughter, of the young women, on that evening. Their presence was truly like sunshine, and you could see the reflection of it upon the old statesman's countenance.

Only once that countenance was overshadowed. I had uttered the name of Willie Davenant, by accident; and then all at once remembering the scene at Culpeper Court-House, had looked quietly at Judge Conway and Miss Virginia. A deep frown was on his face--that of the young girl was crimson with blushes, and two tears came to her eyes, as she caught her father's glance of displeasure.

I hastened to change the topic--to banish the dangerous subject; and in a few moments everybody was smiling once more. Miss Georgia, in her stately and amusing way, was relating their experiences from a scouting party of the enemy, at "Five Forks."

"I heard something of this from old Juba," said the Judge; "you do not mention your deliverer, however."