University of Virginia Library

BIOGRAPHY OF JACOB HAYS.[1]

— Shaks.

— 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
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[2] 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
minutiæ 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 stomach.

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 passing,
that 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,
That he can discover “undivulged crime”—that
when a store has been robbed, he, without stop 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”
at the same moment? No matter how, so long as
the public reap the benefit; and well may that
public apostrophize him in the words of the poet:

But it is principally as a literary man that we
would speak of Mr. Hays. True, his poetry is
“unwritten,” as is also his prose; and he has invariably
expressed a decided contempt for philosophy,

music, rhetoric, the belles letters, the fine arts, and
in fact all species of composition excepting bailiff's
warrants and bills of indictment—but what of that?
The constitution of his mind is, even unknown to
himself, decidedly poetical. And here I may be
allowed to avail myself of another peculiarity of
modern biography, namely, that of describing a
man by what he is not. Mr. Hays has not the
graphic power or antiquarian lore of Sir Walter
Scott—nor the glittering imagery or voluptuous
tenderness of Moore—nor the delicacy and polish
of Rogers—nor the spirit of Campbell—nor the sentimentalism
of Miss Landon—nor the depth and
purity of thought and intimate acquaintance with
nature of Bryant—nor the brilliant style and playful
humor of Halleck—no, he is more in the petit
larceny manner of Crabbe, with a slight touch of
Byronic power and gloom. He is familiarly acquainted
with all those interesting scenes of vice
and poverty so fondly dwelt upon by that reverend
chronicler of little villany, and if ever he can be
prevailed upon to publish, there will doubtless be
found a remarkable similarity in their works. His
height is about five feet seven inches, but who
makes his clothes we have as yet been unable to
ascertain. His countenance is strongly marked,
and forcibly brings to mind the lines of Byron when
describing his Corsair:
Yet with all his great qualities, it is to be doubted
whether he is much to be envied. His situation
certainly has its disadvantages. Pure and blameless
as his life is, his society is not courted—no man
boasts of his friendship, and few indeed like even
to own him for an intimate acquaintance. Wherever
he goes his slightest action is watched and criticized;
and if he happen carelessly to lay his hand
upon a gentleman's shoulder and whisper something
in his ear, even that man, as if there were
contamination in his touch, is seldom or never seen
afterwards in decent society. Such things cannot
fail to prey upon his feelings. But when did ever
greatness exist without some penalty attached
to it?

The first time that ever Hays was pointed out
to me, was one summer afternoon, when acting
in his official capacity in the city-hall. The room
was crowded in every part, and as he entered with
a luckless wretch in his gripe, a low suppressed

murmur ran through the hall, as if some superior
being had alighted in the midst of them. He
placed the prisoner at the bar—a poor coatless individual,
with scarcely any edging and no roof
to his hat—to stand his trial for bigamy, and then,
in a loud, authoritative tone, called out for “silence,”
and there was silence. Again he spoke—“hats off
there!” and the multitude became uncovered; after
which he took his handkerchief out of his left-hand
coat pocket, wiped his face, put it back again,
looked sternly around, and then sat down. The
scene was awful and impressive; but the odor
was disagreeable in consequence of the heat acting
upon a large quantity of animal matter congregated
together. My olfactory organs were always
lamentably acute: I was obliged to retire, and
from that time to this, I have seen nothing,
though I have heard much of the subject of this
brief and imperfect, but, I trust, honest and impartial
memoir.

Health and happiness be with thee, thou prince
of constables—thou guardian of innocence—thou
terror of evil doers and little boys! May thy years
be many and thy sorrows few—may thy life be
like a long and cloudless summer's day, and may
thy salary be increased! And when at last the

summons comes from which there is no escaping
—when the warrant arrives upon which no bail
can be put in—when thou thyself, that hast
“wanted” so many, art in turn “wanted and
must go,”