men, that can furnish an instance of its possessor having arrayed it in poetry and beauty; and to Pot Pie Palmer belongs the undivided and undisputed honor.

"Green be the laurels on the Palmer's brow!"

But, says some cynical critic, "where be the jests of your Yorick, where is the recorded or remembered proof of his wit, his music, or his poetry? Let us have some single specimen of those powers which you are applauding to the echo, or at least furnish us with some traits from which we can picture to ourselves the moral physiognomy of the man?" To this we have several answers. The fame of Pot Pie Palmer, to be secure, must rest chiefly on tradition. A dim legendary immortality will outlast all other kinds of fame, for no one can call its title in question. Its very dimness invests it with a soft poetic halo that lingers over and brightens it, giving it the enchantment of distance, and arraying it with mystic beauty. We abhor a downright matter of fact, palpable reputation, for as sure as it is tangible, it is equally sure to be meddled with, and perhaps pulled to pieces. We wish to preserve, if possible, the fabric of Palmer's fame, from the touch of hands that would but discompose its delicate and fairy handiwork. Besides, we are fearful of marring a good joke by repeating it awkwardly. The spirit and soul of the Palmer are necessary to him who would repeat the Palmer's jokes. His was unwritten humor. We have sought diligently, but without success, for some account of VOL. II. 23

his private life, but we have completely failed in our search. We are enabled to state, however, on the very best authority, that the Pot Pie papers, which have been preserved with religious care by his family, will in due time either be given to the public, or made use of as the basis of an article in the next edition of American Biography; and we think that Palmer's chance for fame is at least on a par with nine out of ten of those who figure in that department of the Dictionary of Universal Knowledge.

Poor old Pot Pie! The memory of the kindhearted and joyous old man is sweet and savory. We think of him as one of those who were pleasant in their lives; while in his death he and his jests were not divided. They went down to the tomb together. Time, the beautifier, has already shed its soft lustre over the recollection of his humble cart and its odoriferous contents; and we think of it as sending forth to the pure air a perfume like the aroma breathed from a field of spices. We look in vain for a successor to fill the place left vacant by his departure; for a voice as blithe and cheery as his; for so cunning a hand; for a visage that beamed forth more mirth than Joe Miller ever wrote; for taste in vestimental architecture so arabesque and grotesque, and yet in such admirable unison with the humor of the man; for that intuitive perception of the character of human clay as never to throw away a jest upon a fruitless soil; and for so plentiful a garner of the seeds of mirth

as to scatter them in daily profusion, while, like the oil of the widow's cruise, they never wasted. We do not think of him as of a hoary Silenus, mirthful from the effect of bacchanalian orgies, or as the Momus of this nether world, most witty when most ill-natured, or as of George Buchanan, or any other king's fool, for there is degradation connected with these jesters-but as the admirable Crichton of his time, the glass of fashion and the mould of form to the corporation scavengers, "the rose of the fair state," as one whose combination and whose form were such that, of all his class, we can select him alone and say, "here was a bellman." Glorious old Pot Pie.

"His name is now a portion in the batch
Of the heroic dough which baking Time
Kneads for consuming ages—and the chime
Of Fame's old bells, long as they truly ring,
Shall tell of him."

THE BEECH-TREE.

BY ROBERT M. BIRD.

THERE's a hill by the Schuylkill, the river of hearts,
And a beech-tree that grows on its side,

In a nook that is lovely when sunshine departs,
And twilight creeps over the tide :

How sweet, at that moment, to steal through the grove,

In the shade of that beech to recline,

And dream of the maiden who gave it her love,

And left it thus hallow'd in mine.

Here's the rock that she sat on, the spray that she held,
When she bent round its gray trunk with me;
And smiled, as with soft, timid eyes, she beheld
The name I had carved on the tree;-

So carved that the letters should look to the west,
As well their dear magic became,

So that when the dim sunshine was sinking to rest,
The last ray should fall on her name.

The singing-thrush moans on that beech-tree at morn,
The winds through the laurel-bush sigh,
And afar comes the sound of the waterman's horn,
And the hum of the water-fall nigh.

No echoes there wake but are magical, each,

Like words, on my spirit they fall;

They speak of the hours when we came to the beech, And listen'd together to all.

And oh, when the shadows creep out from the wood,
When the breeze stirs no more on the spray,
And the sunbeam of autumn that plays on the flood,
Is melting, each moment, away;

How dear, at that moment, to steal through the grove,
In the shade of that beech to recline,

And dream of the maiden who gave it her love,
And left it thus hallow'd in mine.