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.