Urbana union. [volume] (Urbana, Ohio) 1862-1872, 1868-02-05
8tisffllang.
Broadway and its Celebrities.
Bryant, Forrest, Greeley, Stewart, Bennett
and Vanderbilt.

these bright November days. The whole
American and much of the European
world seems streaming through the great
thoughfare. The November sunshine
falls on the gilded shops, the chaotic
crowd, the brilliant equipages, the lum-
bering stages, the heavy trucks, the fair
women in splendid toilets, the spruceIy
attired men daintily gloved and perfum-
ed, humming an opera air, and strugg-
ling through the throng to Exchange
place or Hanover square.
Its soft glory comes to all aike-to
Stewards dry goods palaces, and the beg
gar resting beneath their shade to the
roof of the Reform Societies and that
temple of thieves, the City Hall; to the
elaborate French chateau windows Of the
Herald and the brown spire of old st.
Paups to the grim granite front of the
historic Astor, and the latest architec-
tural deformity the Leow Bridge.
So it descends upon the radiant bells,
whose life is an Odor of self-aduIation,
and the Wretched parish, whose haggard
cheek and holloWeye mirror her despair.
So upon the pretty flower girl and the
brutal rowdy, who elbows his way to
Houston street and taints air with his
poisoned breath.
THE HUMAN MAELsTROM.
Heroes and celebrities ara swallowed
up in Broadway; lost sight of in the
undistinguished mass. Whales become
minnows there, and lions from the coun-
try roar as gently as sucking lambs
No one cares for your badges or laurels
or titles in that whirl Of humanity. The
best known men in the republic are new
er regarded or looked at Any pedes-
trian will crowd them into the gutter ;
any carman will run than down. We
can see whom we please if we walk there.
But we must know the famous people in
timately or we shall not be able to re-
cognizs them. In that troubled sea they
make no wave above their fellows.
TIE POET.
This tall, 1.-THE, wiry patriarchal look
ing man, with locks and beard like the
driven snow, yet quick and elastic in his
movement as youth of twenty, is Will
liam Cullen Bryant. He has just re-
turned from Europe aud is on his way
to the Evening Post Office from his Long
Island home, He has been looking on
a poem for the Atlantic, and his weeks
of toll have failed to satisfy him. Such
work with him is almost agony, and I
do not wonder he writes so little when
every iambie IS the product Of labor in
excess, Not one CT the thousands he
passes are conscious who he is, and yet
the name Of Bryant is household word.
THETRAGEDIAN.
Striking heavily and pompously in
the direction Of Broome street, with the
traces of disease in his giant frame, his
brow massive and moody, his chin like
a prize fighters, a curl Of scOrn and bit
terness about his lips, is Edwin Forrest,
the great American tragedian. He is
on lis way to rehearsal at the Broadway
Theatre, and he PAGES the sidewalk as if
it were the Roman forum. and he Vir,
ginius pleading for his daughter before
the licentious APpius.
THE JOURNALIST.
Bent forward; with shutting gait, hat
on the back of his head, his thin, light
locks struggling about his linen spotless,
but awry, his pantaloons too short, his
boots large and fat, stumbles Horace
Greeley, the best knoEn man in America.
His coat is full of papers that present
their printed margins to the air. His
eyes are turned inward seeing some of
the many who bow and say, Good morn
ing, Mr.. Greeley Unconscious, alb
stracted, full of ideas, aud resolved on
endless work, he plunges below Cham
bers street, across the City Hall Park,
toward the Tribune Office, the chief god
of his idoIatry. He glances at the clock
in the cupola as he goes by, quickens
his step, and disappears in Spruce street.
THE MILLIONAIRE,
Not far behind Greeley, Broadway,
was a gray-haired, rather slender some
what stopping figure, giving the
impression of constant anxiety and
labor. That thin, firm, compact face
might represent more than sixty years,
and yet the gait and evident vigor Of the
man. would not indicate more than fifty.
Work is a passion with him, and rest
stagDation. Thirty years ago he sold
auction bought laces in little shop in
Reade street. Now he is fworth millions,
and is the richest man in the United
States. He enters his wholesale estab-
lishment at the corner of Chambers
stree. There is no sign over the door
or on the building anywhere, but every
body knows it is A. r. Stewards,
THE sKEPTIC.
At the Astor House comes that rather
bent form with an outcropping feeble
ness, as it moves across the street. The
hair is white, the face aged. and yet
not venerable. A sinister expression,
not relieved by the cast in tho eye; a
hard expression lurking in the corners
Of his mouth, with a mocking skeptic-
ism ell about the features, are what you
could expect from James Gordon Ben
nett, phenomenal creature, and yet
far better and kinder than the world
thinks him. The name is printed along
the Thames and Seine and Danube, not
less than on the Hudson; and yet the
bearer Of it is hardly known outside of