In the latter part of September, 1849, a
pale faced man, dressed in shabby black, came
to a printing office in the city of Philadelphia,
and obtained employment as a Compositor.
It was one of those printing offices which,
from garret to cellar, abound with the evidences
of life, bustle, and business. From the
power-presses underground, to the Compositor's
room in the sky, this establishment was
devoted to setting type, printing books, papers
and handbills, folding, stitching, binding — and

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we're not sure — but stereotyping in the bargain.
You could hand in your MSS. at one
door, and get your book, bound and lettered,
at another.

Whether this huge building was situated up
an alley, or on a public street, is a question
which, at the present moment, does not need
an answer.

Let us enter the Compositor's room on the
fourth story. The rain beats with a gloomy
patter against its many windows. It is a long
room, narrow in proportion to its width, with
“cases” stationed near each window. In front
of each case (there were eight or ten in all)
stands a compositor, working in silence at his
task; and in the centre of the room, near a
huge slab of black marble elevated on a table,
you behold the foreman, who is engaged in
making up the form.

The pale compositor in the shabby dress
is at his case in one corner, the light from the
window falling over his projecting forehead.
He does his work — goes to his meals — returns
again — and in the same quiet unobtrusive
manner.

Now among the compositors in this office
there is at least one boy compositor to every
man. The boys are employed to do men's
work, in a bungling manner, at half wages.
The men, thus thrown out of employ, may
get drunk or steal, but that is no business of
the Proprietor. He, good man, is employed
in printing tracts, books, and newspapers —
and among his greatest patrons are certain benevolent
societies, who give away tracts and
books, and print newspapers at $1.00 per year.
Thus liberal, these societies must have their
printing done at half price. The Proprietor
cannot afford to pay full wages; he employs
one half boys, and makes up the rest by cutting
down the wages of the girls in the bindery.
Thus he is enabled to print “The Gospel
Christian” (a weekly paper) together with
omnibus loads of tracts and books, at something
lower than half price. So glorious a
thing is a Benevolent or Religious (!) Society,
which gives away the life and bread of book-binder
girls and printers.

Now on the day on which we behold these
compositors, men and boys, at their work,
(while the Foreman. Mr. Snick, a wiry little

ker under his chin, is making up the form of
“The Gospel Christian”) an event, rather important
to the comprehension of our Narrative,
is fast maturing towards completion.

The hour of twelve arrives; the pale compositor
takes his hat and coat, and goes to his
dinner. The Foreman disappears into the
lower story. But the other compositors, men
and boys, gathered around the “imposing
stone,” (as the black marble slab is styled) mingle
in rapid conversation, and hold what may
be termed a Council of War.

“You don't say so?” whispers a tall compositor—
“By Jove! I thought something of
that kind was the matter!”

“I never liked his looks—” adds one of
the boys — a very promising youth, who take
a pugilistic entertainment with one of the other
boys, whenever the Foreman turns his back.

“Nor I — he has a downcast look!” adds
another:

“His eyes are too deep set!”

“He never speaks to any one, in a voice
above his breath.”

While the compositors — boys and men —
thus deliver their opinions, there is one who
does not speak until all the others have concluded.
He is a thin, slender personage —
grown pale from working late at night on a
daily paper — and with dull eyes, that seem to
have had all their life boiled out of them, over
a slow fire.

“Why don't you speak, Corny?” asks one
of the boys—“Why don't you give your
opinion about the new compositor?”

Conscious that he has an important secret in
his possession, Mr. Corny Walput folds his
arms, and looks at his companions with a wink
of his boiled eyes, and a twist of his colorless
lips.

“What's the name of the new compositor?”
he asks.

“Trottle — Job Trottle,” responds one of
the boys.

“Where did he come from?” continued Mr.
Walput.

“From Washington. He says he's been
employed in the Union office,” was the answer.

Mr. Corny Walput put his thumb to his
nose.

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Job Trottle, and he didn't come from
Washington.”

“Who is he?” the compositors cried in a
breath.

But Mr. Corny Walput was mysterious.
Winking and twisting his mouth, he bade his
companions “Wait until the Foreman comes—
wait until Snick comes. Then I'll show
you fireworks.”

They did wait until the foreman came. But
while they discussed their dinners (and most
of them brought their dinners with them) they
did not forget to also discuss the pale-faced
compositor in the shabby black coat.

At length, about one o'clock, “Mr. Job
Trottle” returned, and took his place quietly
at his case, amid the winks, nods and whispers
of the other compositors. The pugilistic youth
was particularly happy in making ugly faces;
nature had done a great deal for him, but he
assisted nature.

Next entered Mr. Snick. Complacent with
a good dinner, and twirling that bit of whisker,
under his chin, Mr. Snick resumed his place
at the imposing stone. Corny approached —
they exchanged whispers — Snick opened his
yes, and Corny pointed to the silent compostor.
Then Snick grew red in the face, and
pale again, whispering “My goodness!” three
times, in a voice of evident horror. Corny
resumed his whispers, and then Snick hurried
down stairs, and had a little private talk with
the Proprietor. When Snick came back, his
face was glowing with excitement; he stepped
over the floor with the consciousness that all
eyes were fixed upon him. He twirled that
fragmentary whisker with almost a savage air.
The compositors, boys and men, ceased their
labors — all save the silent one, who, with
downcast head, worked away in his corner.

“Eh — ah — ehem!” and Snick tapped the
silent compositor on the shoulder — “Mr.
Trottle! I think you said your name was
Trottle?'

The silent compositor had been setting upon
an article for the “Gospel Christian,” entitled
“The Gospel nature of the Gallows.” He
turned, as Mr. Snick spoke, and looked at
him, like a man who has been disturbed in the
midst of a reverie. His projecting brow, pale
cheeks, and eyes deep sunken, were half in
light and half in shadow.

“What did you say, Sir?” he said in a low
voice, and with the manner of an absent man.

“I think that you said your name was Job
Trottle?” said Mr. Snick, very slowly.

“I did, and so it is,” and the silent compositor
turned to his task again.

Mr. Snick seemed for a moment confounded
by the quiet manner of the individual. Gathering
courage, (and with Corny at his back, attended
by one boy and two men) he again
tapped “Mr. Job Trottle” on the arm.

“No, Sir,” he said, in a voice between a
bluster and a whine — “No, Sir. Your name
aint Job Trottle, but it is Elijah Watson. Do
you hear that, Sir, Elijah Watson?”

The silent compositor started, as though a
sharp pain had smote him in the heart. His
face grew red as blood. He surveyed Mr.
Snick, while his eyes seemed at once to sink
deeper in their sockets, and flash up with a
sinister glare.

“Yes,” continued Snick, gathering courage
from the compositors, who, man and boy, had
ranged themselves at his back (the pugilistic
youth making frightful faces all the while;)
“Yes, your name is Elijah Watson, and you
haven't come from Washington, but you have
come from the Eastern Penitentiary, where
you've been spendin' four years for passing
counterfeit money. Now, what do you think
of your brass, to come and pass yourself off
as an honest man? In this here office, too,
where nothing but moral, well-behaved people
are tolerated — why —”

Snick paused for breath, and the silent compositor
stood with one arm resting on his case,
while he took a hurried glance at the group
before him. His face flushed, and was pale
again; there was a straining at the muscles of
his throat, and then he turned his face toward
the window. What was passing in his heart,
God only knows.

Snick, taking this for a sign of cowardice,
resumed his elegant strain —

“To come here, in the office of the Gospel
Christian (not mentioning any quantity of tracts
and books which are published under this roof)
and pass yourself off as an honest man! Why,
I never heard of—”

“How did type settin' go out yonder?” interrupted
the pugilistic youth.

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Corny —“has a depressin' influence on the
sperrits, I'm told?”

The convict turned, and cast his eye toward
the nail where his coat was hanging. He was
deathly pale; the muscles of his face were
knit; he shook from head to foot.

“Let me pass you, if you please,” he said
in a very low voice — the tone of a man who
is endeavoring to choke down some violent
burst of passion.

Mr. Snick didn't like the expression of his
deep sunken eye, so he let him pass. And the
compositors gave way, Corny slinking in the
background, while the pugilistic youth, in the
extreme van, kept up his pantomime of frightful
faces.

The convict did not speak, but turning his
back upon them all, walked quietly across the
floor, and put on his coat, and drew his cap
over his brows. Then, still keeping his face
toward the wall, he walked across the floor
and descended the stairway, drawing his cap
deeply over his brows, as he disappeared from
view.

This silence — this struggling of the poor
wretch with his emotion — this exit made without
a word, and without even asking for the
money which was due him — was not without
its effect upon foreman and compositors.

“Come back,” cried Snick, running to the
head of the stairs — “I owe you two dollars
and a half—”

But the convict was gone beyond the reach
of his voice. One of the compositors, not
quite so virtuous as the rest (though he had tacitly
assented to the moral of this scene)
whispered to Snick — received two dollars and
a half in silver — and, without hat or coat,
rapidly descended the stairway. He passed
through press-room, bindery and ware-room,
in his eager search after the convict; and his
search being fruitless, he descended the long
dark stairway which led to the street.

Up and down the street he looked, and to
the right and left, but the convict had disappeared.

“Well,” ejaculated the compositor, as he
stood clinking the half dollars in his hands —
“The face of that fellow has left quite an impression
on me. I think it would been just as
well if Corny had kept his tongue, and Snick
had minded his own business.”

And so it would.

We shall see the “silent compositor” again.