THE LITTLE, HARD-FACED OLD GENTLEMAN.

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

From the Diary of an Editor.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

I was passing from my office one day, to indulge
myself with a walk, when a little, hard-faced old
man, with a black coat, broad-brimmed hat, velvet
breeches, shoes and buckles, and gold-headed cane,
stopped me, standing directly in my path. I looked
at him. He looked at me. I crossed my hands
before me patiently, forced my features into a civil
smile, and waited the development of his intentions;
not being distinctly certain, from his firm, determined
expression, whether he was “a spirit of health
or goblin damned,” and whether his intents were
“wicked or charitable”—that is, whether he came to
discontinue or subscribe, to pay a bill or present one,
to offer a communication or a pistol, to shake me by
the hand or pull me by the nose. Editors now-a-days
must always be on their guard. For my part,
I am peaceable, and much attached to life, and
should esteem it exceedingly disagreeable to be
either shot or horsewhipped. I am not built for
action, but love to sail in quiet waters; cordially
eschewing gales, waves, water-spouts, sea-serpents,
earthquakes, tornadoes, and all such matters, both

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

on sea and land. My antipathy to a horsewhip is
an inheritance from boyhood. It carried me across
Cæsar's bridge, and through Virgil and Horace. I
am indebted to it for a tolerable understanding of
grammar, arithmetic, geography, and other occult
sciences. It enlightened me not a little upon many
algebraic processes, which, to speak truth, presented,
otherwise, but slender claims to my consideration.
It disciplined me into a uniform propriety of manners,
and instilled into my bosom early rudiments
of wisdom, and principles of virtue. In my maturer
years, the contingencies of life have thrust me,
rather abruptly, if not reluctantly, into the editorial
fraternity, (heaven bless them, I mean them no disrespect,)
and in the same candor which distinguishes
my former acknowledgments, I confess that visions
of this instrument have occasionally obtruded
themselves, somewhat forcibly upon my fancy, in the
paroxysms of an article, dampening the glow of
composition, and causing certain qualifying interlineations
and prudent erasures, prompted by the
representations of memory or the whispers of prudence.
The reader must not fancy, from the form
of my expression, that I have ever been horsewhipped.
I have hitherto escaped, (for which heaven
be praised!) although my horizon has been darkened
by many a cloudy threat and thundering denunciation.

Nose-pulling is another disagreeable branch of
the editorial business. To have any part of one
pulled is annoying; but there is a dignity about the

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

nose impatient even of observation or remark; while
the act of taking hold of it with the thumb and
finger, is worse than murder, and can only be washed
out with blood. Kicking, cuffing, being turned
out of doors, being abused in the papers, &c., are
bad, but these are mere minor considerations. Indeed
many of my brother editors rather pique
themselves upon some of them, as a soldier does
on the scars obtained in fighting the battles of his
country. They fancy that, thereby, they are invested
with claims upon their party, and suffer indefinite
dreams of political eminence to be awakened
in their bosoms. I have seen a fellow draw his hat
fiercely down over his brow, and strut about, with
insufferable importance, on the strength of having
been thoroughly kicked by the enemy.

This is a long digression, but it passed rapidly
through my mind, as the little, hard-faced old gentleman
stood before me, looking at me with a piercing
glance and a resolute air. At length, unlike a
ghost, he spoke first:

“You are the editor?”—&c.

A slight motion of acquiescence with my head,
and an affirmative wave of my hand, a little leaning
toward the majestic, announced to my unknown
friend the accuracy of his conjecture.

The little old gentleman's face relaxed—he took
off his broad-brimmed hat and laid it down with his
cane carefully on the table, then seized my hand
and shook it heartily. People are so polite and friendly
when about to ask a favour.

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

“My dear sir,” said he, “this is a pleasure I have
long sought vainly. You must know, sir, I am the
editor of a theatrical weekly—a neat thing in its
way—here's the last number.” He fumbled about
in his pocket, and produced a red-covered pamphlet.

“I have been some time publishing it, and, though
it is admitted by all acquainted with its merits, to
be clearly the best thing of the kind ever started
this side of the Atlantic, yet people do not seem to
take much notice of it. Indeed, my friends tell me,
that the public are not fully aware of its existence.
Pray let me be indebted to you for a notice. I wish
to get fairly afloat. You see, I have been too diffident
about it. We modest fellows allow our inferiors
to pass us often. I will leave this number with you.
Pray, pray give it a good notice.”

He placed in my hands the eleventh number of
the “North American Thespian Magazine,” devoted
to the drama, and also to literature, science,
history, and the arts. On reading over the prospectus,
I found it vastly comprehensive, embracing pretty
much every subject in the world. If so extensive
a plan were decently filled up in the details, the
“North American Thespian Magazine” was certainly
worth the annual subscription money, which was
only one dollar. I said so under my “literary notices,”
in the next impression of my journal; and, although
I had not actually read the work, yet it sparkled so
with asterisks, dashes, and notes of admiration,
that it looked interesting. I added in my critique,
that it was elegantly got up, that its typographical

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

execution reflected credit on the publishers, that its
failure would be a grievous reproach to the city, that
its editor was a scholar, a writer, and a gentleman,
and was favorably known to the literary circles by
the eloquence, wit, and feeling of his former productions.
What those productions were, I should have
been rather puzzled to say, never having read, or
even heard of them. This, however, was the cant
criticism of the day, which is so exorbitant and unmeaning,
and so universally cast in one mould, that
I was in some tribulation, on reading over the article
in print, to find that I had omitted the words
“native genius,” which possess a kind of commonlaw-right
to a place in all articles on American literary
productions. Forth, however, it went to the
world, and I experienced a philanthropic emotion in
fancying how pleased the little hard-faced old gentleman
would be, with these flattering encomiums
on his “Thespian Magazine.”

The very day my paper was out, as I was sitting
“full fathom five” deep in an article on “the advantages
of virtue,” (an interesting theme, upon my
views of which I rather flattered myself,) I was startled
by three knocks at the door, and my “come in”
exhibited to view the broad-brimmed hat of the hardfaced
old gentleman, with his breeches, buckles,
gold-headed cane, and all. He laid aside his hat and
cane with the air of a man who has walked a great
way, and means to rest himself a while. I was very
busy. It was one of my inspired moments. Half of
a brilliant idea was already committed to paper.

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

There it lay—a fragment—a flower cut off in the
bud—a mere outline—an embryo; and my imagination
cooling like a piece of red-hot iron in the open
air. I raised my eyes to the old gentleman, with a
look of solemn silence, retaining my pen ready for
action, with my little finger extended, and hinting
in every way, that I was “not i' the vein.” I kept my
lips closed. I dipped the pen in the ink-stand several
times, and held it hovering over the sheet. It would
not do. The old gentleman was not to be driven off
his ground by shakes of the pen, ink-drops, or little
fingers. He fumbled about in his pockets, and drew
forth the red-covered “North American Thespian
Magazine,” devoted to the drama, &c., number
twelve. He wanted “a good notice. The last was
rather general. I had not specified its peculiar
claims upon the public. I had copied nothing.
That sort of critique did no good. He begged me
to read this carefully—to analyze it—to give it a
candid examination.” I was borne down by his emphatic
manner; and being naturally of a civil deportment
as well as, at that particular moment, in an
impatient, feverish hurry to get on with my treatise
on the “advantages of virtue,” which I felt now
oozing out of my subsiding brain with an alarming
rapidity, I promised to read, notice, investigate, analyze
to the uttermost extent of his wishes, or at least
of my ability.

I could scarcely keep myself screwed down to common
courtesy till the moment of his departure; a
proceeding which he accomplished with a most

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

commendable self-possession and deliberate politeness.
When he was fairly gone, I poked my head out, and
called my boy.

“Peter.”

“Sir.”

“Did you see that little old gentleman, Peter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Should you know him again, Peter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, if he ever come here again, Peter, tell him
I am not in.”

“Yes, sir.”

I re-entered my little study, and closed the door
after me with a slam, which could only have been
perceptible to those who knew my ordinary still and
mild manner. There might have been also a slight
accent in my way of turning the key, and (candor
is a merit!) I could not repress a brief exclamation
of displeasure at the little old gentleman with his
magazine, who had broken in so provokingly upon
my “essay on virtue.” `Virtue or no virtue,' thought,
I, `I wish him to the d—.'

My room is on the ground-floor, and a window
adjoining the street lets in upon me the light and
air through a heavy crimson curtain, near which I
sit and scribble. I was just enlarging upon the necessity
of resignation, while the frown yet lingered
on my brow, and was writing myself into a more
calm and complacent mood, when—another knock
at the door. As I opened it, I heard Peter's voice
asserting, sturdily, that I had “gone out.” Never

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

dreaming of my old enemy, I betrayed too much of
my person to withdraw, and I was recognized, and
pounced upon by the little old gentleman, who had
come back to inform me, that he intended, as soon
as the increase of his subscription would permit, to
enlarge and improve the “North American Thespian
Magazine,” and to employ all the writers in
town. “I intend also,”—said he, and he was in the
act of again laying aside that everlasting hat and
cane, when a cry of fire in the neighborhood, and
the smell of the burning rafters attracted him into
the street, where, as I feared, he escaped unhurt.
In many respects fires are calamities; but I never
saw a more forcible exemplification of Shakspeare's
remark, “there is some spirit of good in things evil,”
than in the relief afforded me on the present occasion.
I wrote, after that, with my door locked. This
I knew was, from the confined air, prejudicial to my
health; but what was dyspepsy or consumption
to that little hard-faced old gentleman—to those
breeches—to that broad-brimmed hat—to those
buckles—to that gold-headed cane!

“Remember, Peter,” said I, the second morning
after the foregoing, “I have gone out.”

“Where have you gone?” inquired Peter, with
grave simplicity. “They always ask me where
you have gone, sir. The little man with the hat,
was here last night, and wanted to go after you.”

“Forbid it heaven! I have gone to Albany, Peter,
on business.”

I can hear in my room pretty much what passes

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

in the adjoining one, where visiters first enter from
the street. I had scarcely got comfortably seated,
in a rare mood for poetry, giving the last touches to
a poem, which, whatever might be the merits of
Byron and Moore, I did not think altogether indifferent,
when I heard the little old gentleman's voice
inquiring for me.

“I must see him; I have important business,” it
said.

“He has gone out,” replied Peter, in an under
tone, in which I could detect the consciousness that
he was uttering a bouncer.

“But I must see him,” said the voice.

“The scoundrel!” muttered I.

“He is not in town, sir,” said Peter.

“I will not detain him a single minute. It is of
the greatest importance. He would be very sorry,
very, should he miss me.”

I held my breath—there was a pause—I gave
myself up for lost—when Peter replied firmly,

“He is in Albany, sir. Went off at five o'clock
this morning.”

“Be back soon?”

“Don't know.”

“Where does he stay?”

“Don't know.”

“I'll call to-morrow.”

I heard his retreating footsteps, and inwardly resolved
to give Peter a half-dollar, although he deserved
to be horsewhipped for his readiness at deception.
I laughed aloud triumphantly, and

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

slapped my hand down upon my knee with the feelings
of a fugitive debtor, who, hotly pursued by a sheriff's
officer, escapes over the line into another county and
snaps his fingers at Monsieur Bailiff. I was aroused
from my merry mood of reverie by a touch on my
shoulder. I turned suddenly. It was the hardfaced
little old gentleman, peeping in from the
street. His broad-brimmed hat and two-thirds of
his face were just lifted above the window-sill.
He was evidently standing on tiptoe; and the window
being open, he had put aside the curtain,
and was soliciting my attention with the end of his
cane.

“Ah!” said he, “is it you? Well, I thought it
was you. Though I wasn't sure. I won't interrupt
you. Here are the proofs of number thirteen;
you'll find something glorious in that—just the thing
for you—don't forget me next week—good by. I'll
see you again in a day or two.”

I shall not cast a gloom over my readers by dwelling
upon my feelings. Surely, surely, there are
sympathetic bosoms among them. To them I appeal.
I said nothing. Few could have detected
any thing violent or extraordinary in my manner,
as I took the proofs from the end of the little old
gentleman's cane, and laid them calmly on the
table. I did not write any more about “virtue” that
morning. It was out of the question. Indeed my
mind scarcely recovered from the shock for several
days.

When my nerves are in any way irritated, I find

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

a walk in the woods a soothing and agreeable sedative.
Accordingly, the next afternoon, I wound up
the affairs of the day earlier than usual, and set out
for a ramble through the groves and along the shore
of Hoboken. I was soon on one of the abrupt acclivities,
where, through the deep rich foliage of the
intertwining branches, I overlooked the Hudson, the
wide bay, and the superb, steepled city, stretching
in a level line of magnificence upon the shining
waters, softened with an overhanging canopy of
thin haze. I gazed at the picture, and contemplated
the rivalry of nature with art, striving which
could most delight. As my eye moved from ship
to ship, from island to island, and from shore to
shore—now reposing on the distant blue, then revelling
in the nearer luxuriance of the forest green,
I heard a step in the grass, and a little ragged fellow
came up, and asked me if I was the editor of
the ——. I was about replying to him affirmatively,
when his words arrested my attention. “A
little gentleman with a hat and cane,” he said, “had
been inquiring for the editor, &c., at the adjoining
hotel, and had given him sixpence to run up into
the woods and find him.” I rushed precipitately,
as I thought, into the thickest recesses of the wood.
The path, however, being very circuitous, I suddenly
came into it, and nearly ran against a person
whom it needed no second glance to recognize, although
his back was luckily toward me. The hat,
the breeches, the cane, were enough. If not, part
of a red-covered pamphlet, sticking out of the

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

coatpocket, was. “It must be number thirteen!” I exclaimed;
and as the little old gentleman was sauntering
north, I shaped my course with all possible
celerity in a southerly direction.

In order to protect myself for the future, I took
precautionary measures; and in addition to having
myself denied, I kept the window down, and made
my egress and ingress through a door round the
corner, as Peter told me he had several times seen
the little old gentleman, with a package in his
hand, standing opposite the one through which we
usually entered, and looking at the office wistfully.

By means of these arrangements, I succeeded in
preserving my solitude inviolate, when, to my indignation,
I received several letters, from different parts
of the country, written by my friends, and pressing
upon me, at the solicitation of the little old gentleman,
the propriety of giving the “Thespian Magazine”
a good notice. I tore the letters, each one as
I read them, into three pieces, and dropped them
under the table. Business calling me, soon after,
to Philadelphia, I stepped on board the steamboat,
exhilarated with the idea that I was to have at
least two or three weeks respite. I reached the
place of my destination about five o'clock in the
afternoon. It was lovely weather. The water
spread out like unrippled glass, and the sky was
painted with a thousand varying shadows of crimson
and gold. The boat touched the shore, and
while I was watching the change of a lovely cloud,
I heard the splash of a heavy body plunged into

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

the water. A sudden sensation ran along the
crowd, which rushed from all quarters towards the
spot; the ladies shrieked, and turned away their
heads; and I perceived that a man had fallen from
the deck, and was struggling in the tide, with only
one hand held convulsively above the surface. Being
a practised swimmer, I hesitated not a moment,
but flung off my hat and coat, and sprang to his
rescue. With some difficulty I succeeded in bearing
him to a boat and dragging him from the
stream. I had no sooner done so, than to my horror
and astonishment, I found I had saved the
little hard-faced old gentleman. His snuff-colored
breeches were dripping before me—his broad-brimmed
hat floated on the current—but his cane (thank
heaven!) had sunk for ever. He suffered no other
ill consequences from the catastrophe, than some
injury to his garments and the loss of his cane.
His gratitude for my exertions knew no bounds.
He assured me of his conviction that the slight acquaintance
previously existing between us, would
now be ripened into intimacy, and informed me of
his intention to lodge at the same hotel with me.
He had come to Philadelphia to see about a plate
for his sixteenth number, which was to surpass all
its predecessors, and of which he would let me have
an early copy, that I might notice it as it deserved.