his wardrobe, that there is not the slightest foundation for the rumor that Mr. Palmer wore red flannel next to his person. This mistake has probably arisen from the fact that he was seen dressed in scarlet at a fourth of July celebration. We are able to state, from the very best authority, that cotton and not wool was the raw material from which his dress on that occasion was fabricated, his outer garment having been a superb specimen of domestic calico; and that he assumed it for three especial reasons-firstly, in honor of the day-secondly, to encourage our infant manufactures, in the cause of which his exertions had always been active-and thirdly, because he had received a special invitation to dine with the common council. Pot Pie Palmer was an autocrat within his own realms of humor. He had no peer in the joyous art. His whim-whams were his own, and he was the only professed wit that ever lived who was not addicted to plagiarism. He was a knight-errant in the cause of jollity. His worshipped ladye-love was an intellectual abstraction, the disembodied spirit of fun, and wo to the challenger who was bold enough to call her good qualities in question. It was rough tilting with the old but gallant knight. We have been witness to more than one tournament in which an essenced carpet knight cried craven, and left the ancient warrior in full possession of the field. But gentleness was the ordinary wont, as it was the nature of Pot Pie Palmer. He knew that to be the sad burden of his merry song, was a nine days' melancholy immortality even to the humblest, and it went to his heart to see a man laugh on the wrong side of his mouth. His humors were all in the spirit of kindness, He carried no heart-stain away on his blade;" or if he incautiously inflicted a wound, he was ever ready to pour into it the oil and wine of a merry whim, so that its smart was scarcely felt before it was healed. Pot Pie was a poet; for where humor is, poetry cannot be far off. They are akin to each other; and if their relationship be not sisterly, it is only so far removed as to make their union more thrillingly delightful. No one could tell where his songs came from, and it was a fair presumption that they were his own. He has been considered by many the only perfect specimen of an improvisatore that this country has ever produced. His lays were always an echo to the passing scenes around him. Like the last minstrel, he had songs for all ears. The sooty chimney-sweep who walked by, chanting his cheery song, was answered in notes that spoke gladness to his heart, and the poor fuliginous blackamoor passed on, piping away more merrily than ever. The anomalous biped who drove a clam-cart, would needs stop a moment for a word of kindness from Pot Pie, and he would be sure to get it, for the Palmer was not a proud man. In the expansive character of his humor, he knew no distinctions. Even in his jokes with his brother bellmen, there was no assumption of superiority. He disdained to triumph over their dulness, and he rather sought to instil into their bosoms a portion of his own fire. It was a part, nay the very essence of his calling, to receive from the tenants of the underground apartments of the houses where he had the honor to call, those superfluous vegetable particles which are discarded-especially in warm weather-from the alimentary preparations of well-regulated families. There was a smile resting on his cheek-a smile of benevolence-as the dusky lady of the lower cabinet transferred her odorous stores into his capacious cart; a graceful touch of his time-worn and dilapidated ram-beaver, and a loud compliment was roared forth in tones that made the passers-by prick 1 up their ears, and the dingy female would rush in evident confusion down the cellar-steps, seemingly abashed at the warmth of his flattery, while at the next moment there would peal up from the depths, a ringing laugh that told how the joyous spirit of the negress had been gladdened, and that the bellman had uttered the very sentiment that was nearest her heart. He had his delicate allusions when the buxom grisette or simpering chambermaid presented herself at the door, half coy and half longing for a word of kindness, or perchance of flattery, and they were sure never to go away unsatisfied. though there were tossings of pretty heads, and pert flings of well-rounded fo ms, and blushes which seemed to speak more of shame than of pleasure, you would be sure if you gave a glance the moment after at the upper casements, to see faces peering forth, glowing with laughter and delight. For Palmer's genius resembled that of Rabelais, for his humor was equally broad and equally uncontrollable. We have said that he was a poet, a streetminstrel of the very first rank. He threw a grace, beyond the reach of art, over the unwashed beauties of a scavenger's cart. It was to him a triumphal chariot, a car of honor: he needed no heralds to precede its march, no followers to swell its train; for he made music enough to trumpet the coming of a score of conquerors, and the boys followed him in crowds as closely as if they had been slaves chained to his chariot. He was to the lean and solemn beast that drew him on with the measured pace of an arimal in authority, like the merry Sancho to his dappled ass. There never was a more practical antithesis than the horse and his master; and it must have been a dull beast that would not have caught a portion of the whim and spirit of such a companion. Unfortunately, the pedigree of Palmer's steed has been lost; and it will continue to be an unsettled point whether he came honestly by his dulness, or whether nature had made him dull in one of her pranksome moods. It is still more uncertain whether Palmer selected him out of compassion, or for the sake of making the stupidity of the animal a foil to his own merry humors. Palmer carried us back to the latter part of the middle ages, when ladye love and minstrel rhyme were the ambition and the ruling passion of the bardwarriors of the time. The love of song was part of his nature; and he was enough of a modern to know that a song was worth little without a fitting accompaniment. With a boldness and originality that marked the character of the man, he selected an instrument devoted to any other purpose than that of music; and so great did his skill become, aided by an excellent ear and a perfect command of hand, that, had he possessed the advantages of admission into fashionable society, there is every reason to believe that the humble bell would soon have rivalled the ambitious violin. He was the Paganini of bellthe Apollo of street-music. He modulated the harmony of voice and hand with such peculiar skill, that the separate sounds flowed into each other as if they had been poured forth together from the same melodious fount. No harsh discord jarred upon the ear-no false note could be detected. His voice was naturally deficient in softness, and ill-adapted to express the tender emotions; but he had cultivated it so admirably, and managed its powers with such peculiar skill, that none could tell what might have been its original defects. He preferred the old and simple ballad style to the scientific quavering of more modern times. In his day, we had no Italian opera, and he was without a rival. men, Palmer was a public man, and it is in his public character we speak of him. Little is known of his 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. Green be the laurels on the Palmer's brow. To 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?" 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 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 semaling 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, "1.cre 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 Ther. S. Any. 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, The Come, gaze on the pride Of the old German land. Of the past and the present, And as sweet as a song, Roll murm'ring along. From its source on the mount 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, 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. And fain thou wouldst linger AN OUTLINE SKETCH. Lord D. yawned. Why did the young young ford 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 futter 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, and- murmured her sweet voice timidly. 66 I hate news.' Happy dog!" "He will be delighted with Rome an 1 Naples." "Rome and Naples," echoed D., in a musing voice. "Italy is a delightful, heavenly spot," continued his cousin, anxious to lead him into conversation. "So I'm told," said Lord D., abstractedly. "It is the garden of the world," rejoined Rosalie. Lord D. opened his eyes. He evidently was just struck with an idea. Young lords with ten thousand a year are not often troubled with ideas. sprang from his seat. He paced the apartment twice. His countenance glowed. His eyes sparkled. "Rose-" "Cousin-" He What a beautiful break. Rose trembled to the heart. Could it be possible that he was He took her hand. He kissed it, eagerly, earnestly, and enthusiastically. She blushed and turned away her face in graceful confusion. "Rose!" "Dear, dear cousin!"— "I have ma le up my mind." "Charles!” "To-morrow!" "Heavens!" "I will start for Italy." 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. What! Rose? the little sunshiny Rose-the cheerful philosopher-the logical-the studious-the-thethe--!" 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 moun tain 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 mo ment, 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 "I swear." Enough. I thank you-hide it in your bosom. God bless you-my-England-never see-home-again-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 shuldering 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. "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 be hind him a kerchief-dashed the rowels into the flanks of the snorting steed, and was presently lost in the winding paths of the forest. The midnight moon was shining silently into the apartment, as Lord D.'s eyes closed in sleep, after having lain for some time lost in thought upon his couch. His senses gradually melted into dreams. "Ah Rosalie. Dear Rosalie." The maiden suddenly grasped his throat with the ferocity of a fiend, when--ha! no Rosalie-but the iron gripe of a muscular arm dragged him from the bed, and shook his idle dreams to air. 66 Bind the villain!" said a hoarse voice. "Away, away to the duke's!" Bewildered, indignant, alarmed, the astonished lord found himself bound, and borne to a carriage-the beautiful and soft fragments of Italian scenery flew by the coach windows. If you would freeze the heart of an Englishman, and yet suffocate him with anger, thrust him into a dungeon. Lord D. never was so unceremoniously assisted to a change of location. A black-browed, 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. Night, deep night. How silent! How sublime! The fated lord lay watching the sky, through the iron grating of his cell. 66 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: England! Rosalie, my girl, see—” Again on her lashes tears stood glittering. |