It will be a great feast!—a revelry of wit, humor, and sentiment; a gathering together of all imaginable elements of greatness, from every quarter of the city, and it is only to be regretted that the Lord Mayor of London and him of Dublin cannot be sent, per the cable, to participate in the scene of self-glorification, it would afford them such an instructive lesson in the principles of municipal democracy. But as they are requested to dine simultaneously with our body corporate, so shall the Alligator, in an humble manner, it must be conceded, for we dine at our own expense—a consideration not entering into the heads of our authorities. At the exact moment when Simeon Draper cracks his sixth joke, the Alligator will honor Waterman with a command for “ein lager!”
Long Branch and Short Branch.
While Branch rusticates upon the Island, Long Branch has had the honor of a most distinguished assembly, lay, clerical and divine. While Alderman Clancy, pink of municipal Nestors, has consented to bloom away from Blossom Lodge, and here to perform the duties of the Mayoralty, his Honor, the great Puttyman, comfortably dozes to the music of Jersey musquitos, his repose only broken by the unwelcome intrusion of John McKeon—the leanest of Pharoah’s lean kine. His Honor and the inevitable John, although doubtlessly the master spirits of the mysterious conference held at the Branch, and which will probably be elucidated after the next election, however played second fiddle to Archbishop Hughes, a venerable prelate, who, well aware of the qualities of putty, can mould it at his will. What Peter Cooper does at the conference beyond yarning, it is difficult to imagine, his peculiarities being generally limited to that operation of the muscles. If these worthy gentlemen can conceive that they can use the Archbishop for their political purposes, they are slightly mistaken, for that enthusiastic prelate is too old a bird to be caught by any kind of chaff, and we doubt whether Puttyman & Co. can manufacture salt enough from the Atlantic ocean to be placed on his venerable tail. We may remind this scheming crew, that, some years ago Governor Seward and his private governor, Thurlow Weed, attempted a sale of the worthy Archbishop, who, in return for the compliment, bought himself in and sold out his would-be purchasers at a remarkably low figure. With this decided case before their eyes, we beg to caution poor Puttyman and Peter to keep their eyes skinned, otherwise they may be found embalmed within the new Cathedral.
All for a Quarter.
We read in the daily prints that a gentleman by the name of Hoey, while returning from Rockaway, in company with a gentleman and lady, in passing a turnpike gate, gave the girl, attending the bar, a coin which he presumed to be a good American quarter dollar, but which the girl pronounced to be bad. The turnpike man, who chances to be a justice of the peace, immediately caused the arrest of all parties, who were forced to send to Rockaway for bail. Even after the arrival of the bail the party were detained several hours from lack of the necessary printed blanks, while Mr. Justice and turnpike man Pearsall, copied the process from a musty law tome. It is needless to add that upon the appearance of Mr. Hoey and counsel from New York, all proceedings were dismissed as frivolous.
Gross as this outrage may appear at the first blush, and intense as was the stupidity of the Long Island Dogberry, it can be daily paralleled by the actions of our own law courts, especially when we extract our police magistrates from barrooms and grogeries. Now one question: Have we one single police magistrate in this city who ever swept out a lawyers office, much less ever studied the profession? They are doubtlessly intelligent and well-meaning men, but then they are not lawyers, and consequently unfit to be entrusted with the custody of our personal independence. No right can be dearer than that of free locomotion, and therefore we should be more particular in the selection of these judges, than those controlling the right of property. Imprisonment, like the dew of heaven, falls alike upon the rich and the poor, and no citizen should be jeopardized as to personal liberty and representation without the strongest possible precaution.
News from a Watering Place.
Peter Cooper, the learned, astute, and never to be forgotten Peter, finds it to be invaluable to his health, to snuff the sea breeze in the classic freshness of Long Branch. Archbishop John, fatigued with the cares of Cathedral dedication, found it likewise to his advantage to smell the air in the same locality, and for fear of want of amusement he brought with him the Vicar General of his diocese, and a brother of some order—probably of the Redemptorists, or of some other evangelical pawnbrokers. And a very strange peculiarity in the atmosphere brought to the self-same spot, our most illustrious municipal executive Daniel F. Tiemann. And being mutual acquaintances, on Sunday last, they enjoyed a most comfortable chat, regulating the moral, sanitary and religious condition of our citizens, when Peter suddenly disappeared, and his body was only recovered a few hours before nightfall, when he was discovered thoroughly impregnated with a speech, which he will probably transmit to posterity upon the walls of the Institute, but which in reality is the personal property of Archbishop Hughes. And on the morrow Peter, like his saintly namesake, being a fisher of fish as well as of men, went forth to angle with the Vicar General, and the tonsured monk, but what caught he beside religious truths, which ever hang like diamonds upon the voices of the Archbishop’s town friends, we regret to say we could not learn. There must be something over refreshing in the air of Long Branch, some resuscitating principle which can allure to that spot such a bevy of worthies, who, to while away their leisure, have probably settled in every manner, not only the Apostolic succession, but Mayor Tiemann’s re-election.
We would like some of our cotemporaries to tell us what the people have gained in the election of Daniel F. Tiemann and the defeat of Fernando Wood. The latter is a statesman, a fine lawyer, quick perception, brilliant talents, and with all the accusations against him, proved himself an able, efficient magistrate. But Tiemann, what shall the historian say of him? Echo answers write—on his tomb stone—“Here lies the paint manufacturer, Daniel F. Tiemann, who was unfortunately elected Mayor of New York, through a mistake of his friends. He’s gone—speak gently of his errors—the city debt mourns—the people they say—nothing.”