clown We are like the unpoetical A cowslip by the river's brim So in our eyes, a collector of ashes is simply a collector of ashes, and that is all we know or care about him. No Napoleon of his order has arisen among this class. No man of his time has sprung, phenixlike, from the ashes. Had the noisy tin-trumpet, instead of the clanging bell, been the emblem of Palmer's office, how would its base and common notes have been softened and melted into melody, till they spoke such eloquent music as even, in these latter days, visits not the ears of common mortals. Even the fame of poor Willis might have been dimmed; and the Kent-bugle, which he charmed into the utterance of such melting melody, might have been pronounced an inferior instrument to the mellow horn, when breathing the airs and variations of Pot Pie Palmer. The dull man of ashes, though possessing, as the emblem of his calling, a musical instrument, the very mention of which awakens a hundred stirring associations, has so far neglected the advantages of his situation, as to make himself the most unpoetical and unendurable of street-bores. Is there a milkman in the land who is distinguished for any thing beyond a peculiar art in mixing liquors, and for combining, with a greater or less degree of skill, lacteal and aqueous fluids? We have never seen the man. Descend in the scale. The sooty sweep, though he has a special license from the corporation to sing when and where he pleases, though the only street minstrel acknowledged and protected by our laws, is still regarded by the public eye as the poorest and humblest of all God's creatures; and there is no instance on record of his having, even in his most climbing ambition, aspired to any other elevation than the chimney-top. In brief, there is no humble public employment, no low dignity of office, with the single exception of that of the corporation bellmen, 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 private life, or the secret motives and hidden springs | fact, vulgar dustman. The To form a correct estimate of the powers of one who, in one of the humblest pursuits of life-a pursuit calculated to beget and keep alive narrow and sordid views, to check all noble aspirations, all ambition for fame in the eyes of the world, and to lessen a man in his own eyes, had the spirit to soar above the common duties of his calling, to create himself a name, and to make himself the lion of his day, the wonder of his time, outrivalling all cotemporary lions and all imported wonders, and who had the ability to effect all this, we must place the bellman and his calling alongside of other men whose situations in life, in point of conventional respectability, are on a par with his. The collectors of anthracite coal-dust are as ambitious as he was to make a noise in the world, and they blow their trumpets as loudly as if they aspired to imitate the example of the conqueror of Jericho, and to make the walls of our city to crumble before their blast. But, like ranting actors, they only split the ears of the groundlings. There is nothing poetical in the shrill blast of their horns; and we have never seen one of them whom our imagination could body forth into any other shape than that of an everyday matter of Green be the laurels on the Palmer's brow. But, says some cynical critic, "where are 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 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. have sought diligently, but without success, for some account of 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 We papers, which have been preserved with religious care by his family, will in due time either be given to the public, or inade 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 cruse, 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 THEODORE S. FAY. THEODORE S. FAY was born in the city of New York. After receiving a liberal education he studied law, and at an early age commenced a literary career as a contributor to the New York Mirror, of which he subsequently became one of the editors. In 1832 he published Dreams and Reveries of a Quiet Man, a collection in two volumes of his articles in the Mirror, including a series of papers on New York society entitled the Little Genius. The remaining portion is occupied with tales, essays, and editorial comments on the passing events of city life. Mr. Fay sailed for Europe in 1833, and passed the three following years in travel. During his absence he wrote a record of his wanderings with the title of The Minute Book, and in 1835 published his first novel, Norman Leslie. The incidents of the plot are derived from those of a murder which occurred in New York at the commencement of the century, the public interest in which was greatly increased by the array of legal talent enlisted in the trial of the case; Burr, Hamilton, and Edward Livingston appearing for the prisoner, and Cadwallader D. Colden, the District Attorney, for the state. The novel is In 1837 Mr. Fay received the appointment of Secretary of Legation at Berlin, a post he retained, to the great gratification of all American travellers who visited that city, until 1853, when he was promoted to the post of Minister Resident at Berne, where he still remains. In 1840 he published a second novel, The Countess Ida, the scenes of which are laid in Europe. The plot involves the discouragement of the practice of duelling by exhibiting a hero who, possessed of undisputed personal bravery, displays a higher degree of courage in refusing to accept, or be led into offering a challenge. This was followed in 1843 by a novel of similar length and similar purpose, entitled Hoboken, a Romance of New York. The selection of this locality, which has obtained a celebrity in national annals as well as the records of the society of the adjoining city, in connexion with this miserable remnant of the barbarous uses of rude and lawless times, shows his earnestness in the denunciation of the evil. Mr. Fay has since published Robert Rueful and Sidney Clifton, two short tales, and in 1851 a poetical romance entitled Ulric, or The Voices, the design of which is to show that the temptings of the evil one, the "voices" of the poem, may be driven back by resolute endeavor and Christian faith. The scene is laid in the early days of the Reformation, but has little to do with the historic events of the period. Ulric is a young noble of Germany, and the action of the poem occurs among the beautiful scenes and picturesque castles of the Rhine, advantages of which the author avails himself in many passages of effective description. THE RHINE-FROM ULRIC. Oh come, gentle pilgrim, From far distant strand, Come, gaze on the pride Of the old German land. Of the past and the present, As soft as a smile, And as sweet as a song, Its famous old billows Roll murm'ring along. It flashes with beauty Escaped from a bow; Its hill-sides that crown, It then sweeps in grandeur By castle and town. And when, from the red Gleaming tow'rs of Mayence Enchanted thou'rt borne In bewildering trance, By death-breathing ruin, By life-giving wine By thy dark-frowning turrets, To where the half magic On the crowds at its base, Of the ancient Cologne, While in rapture thy dazzled And wondering eyes Scarce follow the pictures, As bright, as they rise, As the dreams of thy youth, Which thou vainly wouldst stay, But they float, from thy longings, Like shadows away. Thou wilt find on the banks Of the wonderful stream, Full many a spot That an Eden doth seem. That thou canst not inhabit And fain thou wouldst linger AN OUTLINE SKETCH. The young Lord D. yawned. Why did the young lord yawn? He had recently come into ten thousand a year. His home was a palace. His sisters were angels. His cousin was-in love with him. He, himself, was an Apollo. His horses might have drawn the chariot of Phoebus, but in their journey around the globe, would never have crossed above grounds more Eden-like than his. Around him were streams, lawns, groves, and fountains. He could hunt, fish, ride, read, flirt, sleep, swim, drink, muse, write, or lounge. All the appliances of affluence were at his command. The young Lord D. was the admiration and envy of all the country. The young Lord D.'s step sent a palpitating flutter through many a lovely bosom. His smile awakened many a dream of bliss and wealth. The Lady S.,--that queenly woman, with her majestic bearing, and her train of dying adorers, grew lovelier and livelier beneath the spell of his smile; and even Ellen B.,-the modest, beautiful creature, with her large, timid, tender blue eyes, and her pouting red lips-that rose bud-sighed audibly, only the day before, when he left the room-and yet-and yet the young Lord D. yawned. It was a rich still hour. The afternoon sunlight overspread all nature. Earth, sky, lake, and air were full of its dying glory, as it streamed into the apartment where they were sitting, through the folinge of a magnificent oak, and the caressing tendrils of a profuse vine, that half buried the verandah beneath its heavy masses of foliage. "I am tired to death," said the sleepy lord. His cousin Rosalie sighed. "The package of papers from London is full of news, andmurmured her sweet voice timidly. "I hate news." Ocean! Superb-endless-sublime, rolling, tumbling, dashing, heaving, foaming--cælum undique et undique pontus. Lord D. gazed around. The white cliffs of Dover were fading in the distance. Farewell, England. It is a sweet melancholy, this bidding adieu to a mass-a speck in the horizon-a mere cloud, yet which contains in its airy and dim outline all that you ever knew of existence. "Noble England!" ejaculated Lord D., " and dear mother--Ellen B.--pretty fawn-Rose too--sweet pretty dear Rose-what could mean those glittering drops that hung upon her lashes when I said adieu? Can it be that -pshaw-I am a coxcomb. Rose? the little sunshiny Rose-the cheerful philosopher-the logical-the studious-the-the the--!" What! Alas! alas! What are logic, study, cheerfulness, philosophy, sunshine, to a warm-hearted girl of twenty-in love? Lord D. went below. Italy is a paradise. Surely Adam looked on such skies, such rivers, such woods, such mountains, such fields How lavish, how bright, how rich is every thing around. Lord D. guided his horse up a mountain near Rome. The sun had just set; the warm heavens stretched above him perfectly unclouded; what a time to muse! what a place! The young nobleman fell into a reverie, which, the next moment, was broken by a shout of terror-the clashing of arms-a pistol shot, and a groan. He flew to the spot. A youth of twenty lay at the root of a tall tree, weltering in his blood. The assassin, terrified at the sight of a stranger, fled. "I die," murmured the youth, with ashy lips. "Can I aid you?" asked Lord D., thrilling with horror and compassion. "Take this box. It contains jewels, and a secret, which I would not have revealed for the world. Carry it to England, to the Duke of R. Open it not, no matter what happens. Swear never to reveal to any human being that you possess it swear." I swear." Enough. I thank you--hide it in your bosom. God bless you-my-England-never see-homeagain-never, nev-." The full round moon, beautifully bright, went solemnly up the azure track of sky. Lord D. dashed a tear from his eye, as he gazed on the pallid features of the youth, who stretched himself out in the last shuddering agony and convulsion of death. He placed his hand upon the stranger's bosom. The heart had ceased to beat. No longer the crimson gore flowed from the wound. The light foam stood on his pale lips. 66 And he has a mother," said the chilled nobleman -"and a once happy home. For their sake, as well as his, his wishes shall be obeyed." The tread of horses' feet came to his ear, and shouts and confused voices. Lord D. thought the fugitive ruffian was returning with more of the gang. "Shall I fly like a coward?" was his first thought; but again, he said, "why should I waste my life upon a set of banditti ?" He sprang to his saddle, in his hurry leaving behind him a kerchief-dashed the rowels into the flanks of the snorting steed, and was presently lost in the winding paths of the forest. He lay for hours on a little straw. By-and-by some one came in with a lamp. "Pray, friend, where am I?" The stranger loosened his cord, and motioned him to put on his clothes. He did so-unable to repress the occasional explosion of an honest, heartfelt execration. When his toilet was completed, his guide took him by the arm, and led him through a long corridor, till, lo! a blaze of sunshiny daylight dazzled his eyes. "You are accused of murder," said the duke, in French. "Merciful Providence!" ejaculated D. "Your victim was found weltering in his blood at your feet. You left this kerchief on his body. It bears your name. By your hand he fell. You have been traced to your lodgings. You must die.” A witness rushed forward to bear testimony in favor of the prisoner. Lord D. could not be the perpetrator of such a crime. He was a nobleman of honor and wealth. "Where are his letters?" He had brought none. "What is the result of the search which I ordered to be made at his lodgings?" "This box, my lord duke, and-" The box was opened. It contained a set of superb jewels, the miniature of the murdered youth, and of a fair creature, probably his mistress. Lord D. started. By heavens, it is Rosalie! I am thunderstruck." "Enough," said the duke, "guilt is written in every feature. Wretch, murderer! To the block with him. To-morrow at daybreak let his doom be executed. Nay, sir, lower that high bearing, those fiery and flashing eyes, that haughty and commanding frown. Not thus should you meet your Creator." Night, deep night. How silent! How sublime! The fated lord lay watching the sky, through the iron grating of his cell. "Ah, flash on, myriads of overhanging worldsye suns, whose blaze is quenched by immeasurable distance. To-morrow just so with your calm, bright, everlasting faces, ye will look down upon my grave. Jupiter, brilliant orb! How lustrous: How wonderful! Ha! the north star-ever constant. Axis on which revolves this stupendous, heavenly globe. How often at home I have watched thy beams, with Rosalie on my arm. Rosalie, dear Rosalie-" "I come to save you," said a soft, sweet voice. "What! Boy-who art thou? Why dost-" The young stranger took off his cap. No-yes! That forehead--those eyes-enchanting girl-angel-" Hush!" said Rosalie, laying her finger upon her lip. Ocean-again-the deep, magnificent ocean-and life and freedom. Blow, grateful breeze-on, on, over the washing billows, light-winked bark. Ha! land ahead! Eng land! Rosalie, my girl, see-" which he was in the habit of going to bed at night and getting up in the morning, and other miscellaneous and useful information carefully selected and judiciously arranged. Indeed, it is whispered that the editors of this paper* intend to take Longworth's Directory for the groundwork, and give the private history of all the city alphabetically, without "fear or favor-love or affection." In Europe there exists an absolute biographical mania, and they are manufacturing lives of poets, painters, play-actors, peers, pugilists, pick-pockets, horse jockeys, and their horses, together with a great many people that are scarcely known to have existed at all. And the fashion now is not only to shadow forth the grand and striking outlines of a great man's character, and hold to view those qualities which elevated him above his species, but to go into the minutiae of his private life, and note down all the trivial expressions and every-day occurrences in which, of course, he merely spoke and acted like any ordinary man. This not only affords employment for the exercise of the small curiosity and meddling propensities of his officious biographer, but is also highly gratifying to the general reader, inasmuch as it elevates him mightily in his own opinion to see it put on record that great men ate, drank, slept, walked, and sometimes talked just as he does. In giving the biography of the high constable of this city, I shall by all means avoid descending to undignified particulars; though I deem it important to state, before proceeding further, that there is not the slightest foundation for the report afloat that Mr. Hays has left off eating buckwheat cakes in a morning, in consequence of their lying too heavily on his sto mach. THE author of two volumes, entitled Crayon Mr. Cox, after writing for a number of years for the Mirror, returned to England. His circumstances, we believe, were prosperous. He occasionally sent a genial letter in his old style to his friend Morris's Home Journal, where his acquaintances one day, we think in 1851, were pained to read his obituary. BIOGRAPHY OF JACOB HAYS. We shall not look upon his like again. SHAKESPEARE. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to your acquaintance, Baron Nabem, a person who has a very taking way with him.-Tom and Jerry. Perhaps there is no species of composition so generally interesting and truly delightful as minute and indiscriminate biography, and it is pleasant to perceive how this taste is gradually increasing. The time is apparently not far distant when every man will be found busy writing the life of his neighbor, and expect to have his own written in return, interspersed with original anecdotes, extracts from epistolary correspondence, the exact hours at Where the subject of the present memoir was born, can be but of little consequence; who were his father and mother, of still less; and how he was bred and educated, of none at all. I shall therefore pass over this division of his existence in eloquent silence, and come at once to the period when he attained the acmé of constabulatory power and dignity by being created high constable of this city and its suburbs; and it may be remarked, in passthat the honorable the corporation, during their long and unsatisfactory career, never made an appointment more creditable to themselves, more beneficial to the city, more honorable to the country at large, more imposing in the eye of foreign nations, more disagreeable to all rogues, nor more gratifying to honest men, than that of the gentleman whom we are biographizing, to the high office he now holds. His acuteness and vigilance have become proverbial; and there is not a misdeed committed by any member of this community, but he is speedily admonished that he will "have old Hays [as he is affectionately and familiarly termed] after him." Indeed, it is supposed by many that he is gifted with supernatural attributes, and can see things that are hid from mortal ken; or how, it is contended, is it possible that he should, as he does, Bring forth the secret'st man of blood? That he can discover " undivulged crime"-that when a store has been robbed, he, without step or hesitation, can march directly to the house where the goods are concealed, and say, "these are they" -or, when a gentleman's pocket has been picked, that, from a crowd of unsavory miscreants he can, with unerring judgment, lay his hand upon one and exclaim "you're wanted!"-or, how is it that he is gifted with that strange principle of ubiquity that makes him "here, and there, and everywhere" The New York Mirror. |
