THE EDITOR IN HIS SANCTUM.

Knocking at the door of the journalist's house on Broad Street, nearly opposite the "African church," I was admitted by a negro servant, sent up my name, and was invited by Mr. Daniel to ascend to his sanctum on the second story.

I went up, and found him leaning back in a high chair of black horsehair, in an apartment commanding a view southward of James River and Chesterfield. On a table beside him were books and papers--the furniture of the room was plain and simple.

He greeted me with great cordiality, bowing very courteously, and offering 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--his eyes as black and sparkling; but his long, black hair, as straight as an Indian's, and worn behind his ears, when I first knew him, was close-cut now; and his upper lip was covered by a black mustache. His dress was simple and exceedingly neat. It was impossible not to see that the famous journalist was a gentleman.

As I had visited him purely upon a matter of business, I dispatched it, and then rose to take my departure. But he urged me with persistent cordiality, not to desert him. He saw few persons, he said; I must stay and dine with him. I had business? Then I could attend to it, and would do him the favor to return.

Looking at my watch, I found that it was nearly two o'clock--he had informed me that he dined at four--and, not to detain the reader with these details, recurring to a very retentive memory, I found myself, two hours afterward, seated at table with the editor of the _Examiner_.

The table was of ancient, and brilliantly-polished mahogany. The dinner consisted of only two or three dishes, but these were of the best quality, excellently cooked, and served upon china of the most costly description. Coffee followed--then a great luxury--and, not only the sugar-dish, cream-jug and other pieces of the service were of silver; the waiter upon which they rested was of the same material--heavy, antique, and richly carved.

We lingered at table throughout the entire afternoon, my host having resisted every attempt which I made to depart, by taking my hat from my hand, and thrusting upon me another excellent Havana cigar. Cordiality so extreme, in one who bore the reputation of a man-hater, was at least something _piquant_--and as my host had appealed to my weak side, by greatly praising a slight literary performance of mine ("he would be proud," he a.s.sured me, "to have it thought that _he_ had written it),"

I yielded, surrendered my hat, lit the cigar offered me, and we went on talking.

I still recall that conversation, the last but one which I ever had with this singular man. Unfortunately, it does not concern the narrative I now write, and I would not like to record his denunciations and invective directed at the Government. He handled it without mercy, and his comments upon the character of President Davis were exceedingly bitter. One of these was laughable for the grim humor of the idea.

Opening a volume of Voltaire--whose complete works he had just purchased--he showed me a pa.s.sage in one of the infidel dramas of the great Frenchman, where King David, on his death-bed, after invoking maledictions upon his opponents, declares that "having forgiven all his enemies _en bon Juif_, he is ready to die."

A grim smile came to the face of the journalist, as he showed me the pa.s.sage.

"That suits Mr. Davis exactly," he said. "He forgives his enemies _en bon Juif_! I believe I will make an editorial, and quote the pa.s.sage on him--but he wouldn't understand it!"

That was bitter--was it not, reader? I raised my pen to draw a line through the incident, but it can do no harm now.

The solitary journalist-politician spoke freely of himself and his intentions for the future. With a few pa.s.sages from our talk on this point, I will terminate my account of the interview.

"You see I am here chained to the pen," he said, "and, luckily, I have that which defies the conscript officers, if the Government takes a fancy to order editors into the ranks."

Smiling slightly as he spoke, he showed me his right hand, the fingers of which he could scarcely bend.

"I was wounded at Cold Harbor, in June, 1862," he added; "not much wounded either; but sufficient to prevent me from handling a sword or musket. It is a trifle. I should like to be able to show an honorable scar[1] in this cause, and I am sorry I left the army. By this time I might have, been a brigadier--perhaps a major-general."[2]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

"Possibly," I replied; "but the position of an editor is a powerful one."

"Do you think so?"

"Don't you?"

"Yes, colonel; but what good is the _Examiner_ doing? What can all the papers in the Confederacy effect? Besides, I like to command men. I love power."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

I laughed.

"I would recommend the philosophic view of things," I said. "Why not take the good the G.o.ds provide? As a soldier, you would be in fetters--whatever your rank--to say nothing of the bullet that might cut short your career. And yet this life of the brain is wearing too,--"

"But my health is all the better for it," he said. "A friend was here to see me the other day, and I startled him by the observation 'I shall live to eat the goose that eats the gra.s.s over your grave.'[1] When he inquired my meaning, I replied, 'For two reasons--I come of a long-lived race, and have an infallible sign of longevity; I never dream, and my sleep is always sound and refreshing.'"[2]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

"Do you believe in that dictum?" I said.

"Thoroughly," he replied, laughing. "I shall live long, in spite of the enmities which would destroy me in an instant, if the secret foes I have could only accomplish their end without danger to themselves."

"You do not really believe, surely, that you have such foes?"

"Not believe it? I know it. _You_ have them, colonel, too. How long do you think you would live, if your enemies had their way with you?

Perhaps you think you have no enemies who hate you enough to kill you.

You are greatly mistaken--every man has his enemies. I have them by the thousand, and I have no doubt you, too, have them, though they are probably not so numerous as mine."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"But their enmity comes to nothing."

"Because to indulge it, would bring them into trouble," he replied.

"Neither your enemies or mine would run the risk of murdering us in open day; but suppose they could kill us by simply _wishing it?_ I should drop down dead before your eyes--and you would fall a corpse in Main Street before you reached your home!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"A gloomy view enough, but I dare not deny it."

"It would be useless, colonel. That is the way men are made. For myself, I distrust all of them--or nearly all."

He uttered the words with intense bitterness, and for a moment remained silent.

"This is gloomy talk," he said, "and will not amuse you. Let us change the topic. When I am not discussing public affairs--the doings of this wretched administration, and the old man of the sea astride upon the country's back--I ought to try and amuse myself."

"You find the _Examiner_ a heavy weight upon you?"

"It is a mill-stone around my neck."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"Why not throw it off, if you find it onerous?"

"Because I look to this journal as a father does to an only son--as my pet, my pride, and the support and honor of myself and my name in the future."

"You are proud of it."