V. — 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 assured 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 passage 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 passage.
“That suits Mr. Davis exactly,” he said. “He forgives his enemies en bon Juif! I believe I will make an editorial, and quote the passage 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 passages 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 gods 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 grass 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.”
“It has made me, and it will do more for me hereafter than it has ever done yet.”
He paused, and then went on, with a glow in his swarthy face:
“Every man has his cherished object in this world, colonel. Mine is the success and glory of the Examiner. I intend to make of it what the London Times is in England, and the world—a great power, which shall lay down the law, control cabinets, mould parties, and direct events. It has given me much trouble to establish it, but ça ira now! From the Examiner I expect to realize the great dream of my life.”
“The dream of your life? What is that?—if I may ask without intrusion.”
“Oh! I make no secret of it, and as a gentleman speaking to a gentleman, can say what I could not in the society of roturiers or common people. My family is an old and honorable one in Virginia—this, by way of explanation only, I beg you to note. We are thus, people of old descent, but my branch of the family is ruined. My object is to reinstate it; and you will perhaps compare me to the scheming young politician in Bulwer’s ‘My Novel,’ who seeks to restore the family fortunes, and brighten up the lonely old house—in Yorkshire, is it? You remember?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, I always sympathized with that character. He is morally bad, you say: granted; but he is resolute and brave—and his object is noble.”
“I agree with you, the object is noble.”
“I am glad you think so, colonel. I see I speak to one who has the old Virginia feeling. You respect family.”
“Who does not? There are those who profess to care naught for it, but it is because they are new-comers.”
“Yes,” was the journalist’s reply, “mushrooms—and very dirty ones!”
I laughed at the speaker’s grimace.
“For my own part,” I said, “I do not pretend to be indifferent whether or not my father was a gentleman. I bow as politely to the new-comer as if it were the Conqueror he came over with; but still I am glad my father was a gentleman. I hope no one will quarrel with that.”
“You are mistaken. They will hate you for it.”
“You are right—but I interrupted you.”
“I am glad the interruption came, colonel, for it gave you an opportunity of showing me that my views and your own are in exact accord on this subject. I will proceed, therefore, without ceremony, to tell you what I design doing some day.”
I listened with attention. It is always interesting to look into the recesses of a remarkable man’s character. This human being was notable in an epoch filled with notabilities; and chance was about to give me an insight into his secret thoughts.
He twirled a paper-cutter in his fingers, reflected a moment, and said:—
“I am still young—not very young either, for I will soon be forty—but I know no young man who has better prospects than myself, and few who have done so well. I suppose I am worth now nearly $100,000 in good money. I have more gold coin than I know what to do with. The Examiner is very valuable property, and is destined to be much more so. I expect to live long, and if I do, I shall be rich. When I am rich, I shall buy the old family estate in Stafford County, and shall add to it all the land for miles around. I shall build a house to my fancy, and, with all my possessions walled in, I shall teach these people what they never knew—how to live like a gentleman."{1}
{Footnote 1: This paragraph is in Mr. J.M. Daniel’s words.}
The glow had deepened on the sallow face. It was easy to see that the speaker had unfolded to me the dream of his life.
“Your scheme is one,” I said, “which takes my fancy greatly. But why do you intend to wall in your property?”
“To keep out those wolves called men.”
“Ah! I forgot. You do not like those bipeds without feathers.”
“I like some of them, colonel; but the majority are worse than my dogs, Fanny and Frank, yonder. Sometimes I think they are human—they bite each other so!”
I laughed. There was something piquant in the grim humor of this singular personage.
“What is your ideal man?” I said, “for, doubtless, you have such an ideal?”
“Yes. I like a man of bronze, who does not snivel or weep. I like Wigfall for his physique and his magnificent courage. It is the genuine thing. There is no put on there. He has native pluck—the actual article—and it is no strain on him to exhibit it. The grit is in him, and you can’t shake him."{1}
{Footnote 1: This paragraph is in Mr. J.M. Daniel’s words.}
“You would admit your men of bronze, then, into the walled-up domain in Stafford?”
“I don’t know,” he said grimly. “With my violin, a good cook, English books and papers—I hate your Yankee trash—and occasional travel, I think I could get through life without very great ennui. I do not expect to be governor of Virginia for ten years yet!”
And smiling, the journalist said:—
“Let us change the subject. What are people talking about? I never ask what is the news.{1} Is any thing said of evacuating Virginia? That is a pernicious idea!{2} Whom have you seen lately?”
{Footnote 1: His words.}
{Footnote 2: His words.}
“A queer set,” I said.
And I gave him an account of my dinner at Mr. Blocque’s.
“What a little wretch!” he said. “I think I will run a pin through that bug, and impale him. He would make a fine dish served up à la Victor Hugo. You have read Les Misérables yonder? It is a trashy affair.”
And taking up the elegantly bound volume, which must have cost him a considerable sum, he quietly pitched it out of the window.
As he did so, the printer’s devil appeared at the door, holding proof in his hand.
“You see I am never safe from intrusion, colonel. This Examiner newspaper keeps me at the oar.”
I rose and put on my hat.
“Come and see me again soon, if it suits your convenience,” he said. “I am going to write an editorial, and I think I will serve up your host, Blocque.”
“Do not use his name.”
“Be tranquil. He will be the type only.”
And, escorting me to the door, Mr. Daniel bestowed a courteous bow upon me, which I returned. Then the door closed.