Part 1

CONTENTS

PAGE

LIFE OF STEPHEN H. BRANCH. 2

STEPHEN H. BRANCH’S ALLIGATOR. 6

FRA DIAVOLO AND HIS ITALIAN BRIGANDS. 7

ICE CREAM. 7

OUR COUNTRY’S RUIN. 9

DEV’L-IN A BAKERY. 10

FOR PALE STUDENTS, AND ROMANTIC VIRGINS. 11

STEPHEN H. BRANCH’S ALLIGATOR.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by STEPHEN H. BRANCH, In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

Life of Stephen H. Branch.

John Horsewell was a poor boy, and had duck legs. My brother William was taller and older than John, and had a new suit of clothes, with which I clad John from head to foot. Bill’s hat and boots were too large for John, and his coat on John nearly grazed the ground. I put on my Sunday suit, and off we went to Boston, forty miles distant. We quarrelled on the road, in a deep wood, and I demanded John to take off Bill’s clothes, at which he called me hard names, and I left him, and directed my steps towards Providence, leaving him reclining on the embankment of the forest road. I wandered half a mile at a quick and revengeful pace; but as twilight was approaching, and I heard the bark of a dog, with lungs of thunder, I became alarmed, and hurried back to John, and craved his pardon, and we lingered until the stage arrived, when we took passage for Boston, reaching the Marlboro’ Hotel at midnight. Mr. Barker was the host, and, on our inquiry for lamps to retire, he exclaimed: “Who are you, and whence came you?” John was disconcerted, but I was cool, and replied: “Our names are Branch and Horsewell, and we are from Providence.” “Did you visit Boston with the permission of your father and mother?” “No, sir.” “You ran away, then?” “No, sir; we walked away.” “What can you do in Boston in your clouts?” “Learn a trade, sir.” “Have you any money?” “Forty cents, sir.” “Bob: Take these brats to your room, and make a bunk on the floor, and lock the door, and watch their movements closely until morning, when I will put them in the poor house or county jail.” And off we tramped to bed, up four flights of stairs, and were locked in until Bob came to bed, when we snored terribly, pretending to be in a doze so profound, that a cannon could not arouse us. John cried all night, and at daylight we crawled softly from our hard nests, while Bob was asleep, and softly turned the key, and descended the stairs in our stockings, and fled for our lives. We went to the market, and got a cheap breakfast, and then sought the theatre, where we saw Mac Cready announced as “Hamlet.” We ardently desired to go, but had not sufficient money; and away we trudge to Brattle street, and exchange our new clothes for worthless rags, with five dollars besides. We then return to the theatre, and linger on its steps until the performance begins, when we purchase tickets, and rush, with about forty negroes, up stairs into the gallery, like a gang of maniacs, (so wild was our common joy,) where we witness a vast plain of woolly heads that resemble the Black Sea. The heat was intense, and we perspired like cotton slaves, and the stench was as intolerable as cholera malaria. During the day, we engaged lodgings with a little colored barber, opposite the theatre, for nine-pence each a night. At the close of the performance we thumped a long period before he let us in, and then we found him partially intoxicated. In the morning, we strolled on the Common, and John became homesick, and besought me to return to Providence; and he cried and implored so hard, that I yielded; and while engaging our passage, a young man named James Baker recognised us, and desired me to remain in Boston under his protection, to which I assented, but John departed for Providence. I went to board with Jim Baker in Theatre Alley, with Mrs. Charnock, a superannuated actress, and afterwards at the Sun Tavern and other places, for which we did not pay our board, and walked to Salem, where I wrote to father for money, which he sent me, and I returned to Providence. He received me with intense affection, and I wept with commingled joy and sorrow at my return, and his anguish at my dishonorable absence. At about ten years old, John Horsewell and myself stole some pigeons from Dexter Spencer’s barn, and we were caught with them in our hats. Father took my hand, and led me to the wharf, where ships could float, and suspended me over the water, until I had a slight fit, when he carried me home. It was baking day, and aunt Lucy was very angry because he did not drown me, and in her wrath, while he was absent, she took out the pies and brown bread, and put me in the oven head foremost, and nearly baked me. A few seconds more in the oven, and I would have smothered. I told father when he came to dinner, and he boxed Aunt Lucy’s ears severely, and demanded her to instantly surrender the dress and bonnet he gave her the day previous. But she cried so hard, and wrung her hands so piteously, that he soon restored them, lest she would have cramps in the stomach, with which she was often dangerously afflicted, through her excessive fondness for cheese and hard-shell clams, of which she often ate until she could scarcely breathe. A month later, I stole some peaches and currents from Captain Prouds’ garden, and old junk and iron from the ship yards. Father was a Justice of the Peace, and took me to jail, and put me in a cell; but I screamed so fearfully, that he restored me to liberty in about five minutes; and when I emerged from the dungeon, I sprang upon his bosom, and kissed him as tenderly as a cow laps her calf, and I also kissed the turnkey, whose keys terribly scared me. I soon went to a country boarding school, and terrified the farmers for miles around, who petitioned father to come after me, who visited the unsophisticated countrymen, and strove to tranquilise their nerves with the assurance that I would not contaminate their children, nor desolate their fields and orchards, and that it was the crows and not me that pilfered their early crops of fruits and vegetation. But they shook their heads, and besought him to restore the wonted quiet and confidence of the parish, by my immediate departure for some distant region. Father succumbed, and we left for Providence, where I became the very youthful clerk of Norman White, who is now an extensive type and paper merchant in Beekman street, with whom I remained until I left for New York with Jim Baker in the steamer Washington, Captain Bunker, concealing ourselves in the water closets until the boat passed Newport, when we appeared on deck, and strutted as boldly and proudly as Robert Macaire and his companion. But the Captain soon discovered us to be impostors, and made us pass pine wood to the firemen for our passage. Jim was older and stronger than me, and the Captain and first mate made him work like a slave; but I was seasick, and vomited dreadfully all over the deck, and the firemen, and passengers; and as the Captain slowly passed me, I belched a copious volley of the most bitter bile plumply in his face, for which he severely shook me, and made me express my sorrow for the dire calamity and apparent insult, and drove me down below, where I implored the Cook to throw me overboard, and relieve me from my deathly sickness. The nigger Cook laughed uproariously over my misfortunes, and declined my request, and brought me a stew composed of pork, molasses, and onions, for my dinner; and, as I smelt, and inhaled, and gazed upon the nauseous dish, I let fly a torrent of bile into the darkey’s face, who run for his life, and molested me no more during the voyage, and I never saw Sambo again. We arrived in New York, at Fulton market, and went to Holts’ Eating House, and ate heartily, and Jim Baker went in pursuit of work as a segar maker, and I tagged on behind. He got employment, and we boarded in Fulton street, near Broadway. I soon got a situation as bar keeper, with Mr. Saunders, in Laurens street, next to the theatre, and soon afterwards went a few doors above, in the basement, as bartender for Mr. Gilman. I then became a waiter in a New York and Albany steamboat, and afterwards in a Hartford steamer. I then went to an Intelligence office (whoso proprietor strove to cheat me), and for 50 cents got a situation with Wm. Chapman, No. 60 Pine street, at $2 a week, and boarded in Water street, near Beekman. Wm. H. Stansbury was Mr. Chapman’s book-keeper, who left soon after I came, and went with James Brooks, of the “_New York Express_,” as book-keeper, where he is now. This was in 1826. My duties consisted in helping William Chapman softly draw his coat over his rheumatic shoulders, and going to the Post Office, and copying letters. I told Mr. Chapman that I had to pay two dollars a week for board, and that he must increase my salary, or I could not remain. He said that he could get a boy for less than two dollars a week, and I left him, and got a place with two brothers, named Morton, in Front street, for two dollars and twenty-five cents a week. While passing the sailor hat store of Mr. Leary, Mr. Leary’s mother called me into the store, and said: “Little boy, if you will take this bottle, and go to the grocery and get me some gin, I will give you some pennies.” When I returned with the gin, she asked me if I would like to be a clerk for Mr. Leary. I said that I would come for my board and clothes. She told me to call in the evening and arrange the compensation with Mr. Leary, who would then be in the store. I did so, and on the following day I told the Messrs. Morton that I must leave them, as two dollars and twenty-five cents a week could not buy my food and clothes, and pay for washing my two shirts and two pairs of stockings. Mr. Leary, his wife, mother, children, and myself, were packed like pork in two small rooms in the rear of the store, which were used as kitchens, bed-rooms, parlors, wash-rooms and everything else, which rendered the atmosphere slightly dense and foggy, and perhaps impure, and in the night we often had skull collisions, and tumbled over each other, which strongly resembled a rough and tumble cabin scene in a terrific storm. I might have endured all this, but to make fires, open store, sell hats to drunken sailors, run errands, and take care of squalling children, so taxed my patience, and wasted my pale and naturally delicate form, that I resolved to leave instanter, and, with the Pilgrim’s heavy burden, away I flew in pursuit of employment. Mr. Leary now keeps a hat store in the Astor House, whose boys are wealthy merchants in Exchange Place, whom I often remind of the days when I bore them in my arms, and spanked them when they squalled. From Leary’s I went to the Harpers in Cliff street, and was placed in the pressing and folding room, in the upper story. I boarded with Fletcher (the youngest of the Harpers) in Batavia street, between James and Roosevelt. The firm then consisted of John, James, and Wesley Harper. Fletcher was the foreman of the composing room, (where I was ultimately placed), who corrected my earliest errors in the printer’s stick—and a precious job he had of it—consuming more of his valuable time than my composition was worth. Fletcher was a fireman, and recently married, and rather wild, and had two children, one of whom was the partner of Raymond, Wesley and Jones, of the “_New York Daily Times_,” at the origin of that Journal, whom I often fondled in my arms in his infancy, who was a very pretty child, though rather lively for one so extremely young, whose extraordinary vivacity I attributed to worms. Wesley Harper was incomparably modest and susceptible in those days, and visited and married a lady residing with Fletcher, who was connected with his wife. While they were courting up stairs, the servant girl, myself, and other apprentices often annoyed them with our funny tricks; but Wesley and Fletcher did not dare complain of us to John and James Harper, as the courtship of Wesley was without the knowledge of the elder Harpers. The servant of Fletcher imparted to us this precious secret, and we long teased the timid lovers with impunity, in which the mischievous servant participated with great hilarity.

(To be continued to the mournful eve of our last gasp)

Stephen H. Branch’s Alligator.

NEW YORK, SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1858.

LISTEN!—On Saturday last we arose with the glorious sun, and went to our printing office, and found the printer’s devil asleep in his dingy bunk. We applied a bodkin, and he sprang at us like a tiger. We grappled, and discovering that he had an Editorial Alligator by the throat, he released his grasp. We then banged the gong, and the printers appeared, like the imps in Robert the Devil, from the infernal regions. We then placed our leviathan form on the press, and lit the faggots, and puff, puff, went the machinery, like the drums and trumpets in Musard’s Express Train Gallop. We filled our carpet bag with Alligators, and flew like a whirlwind to the wholesale newspaper merchants in Beekman, Nassau, and Ann streets, where we found a plumed battalion awaiting the advent of the Alligator. The wholesalers, and retailers, and newsboys approached us in platoons, and clasped our fervent hands until they squeezed them into icicles, and we cried for quarter, and returned to our printing office, for another carpet bag of Alligators, which we sold on our way to Ann street, and returned again, and again, and yet again, for Alligators, until the weary sun retired to his downy bed in the bleak peach and potato fields of the Jerseys. Our printing office was besieged throughout the day, for Alligators, and on our return from Ann street the second time, we found our office stairs so thronged with applicants for Alligators, that we had to meander a dark alley, and ascend a ladder, and enter our office through a window. During the day, several bloody collisions transpired on the stairs, between the newsboys, in their struggles for the Alligators, as they emanated from our electric presses; and in one of the desperate conflicts, the Police were summoned to preserve the public peace. And, altogether it was a most laborious and exciting day for us, and at early twilight we were weary and worn, and retired soon after the curfew strains expired on the evening air. But we had an awful nightmare, in which we soliloquised in tones so stentorian, (about newsboys and Alligators,) as to arouse and terrify a venerable nervous gentleman in the next apartment, who thought we were either fighting or dying, and he rapped against the wall with his poker until he awoke us. While on the eve of our emergence from the nightmare, we dreamed that a colossus spider was devouring our proboscis, at which we levelled a Hyer blow,

When pure blood oozed from our nose, Like water from Sikesy’s hose,

which aroused us, and we darted into the bath room, and applied the healing Croton without effect, and had to dam our nostrils with putty, which checked the copious effusion of blood, but which made us talk in nosy and twangy accents. In about an hour, the putty became thoroughly saturated and drippy, and we had to make fresh applications, and ultimately the putty dam was victorious. But our eyes are rather crimson, and we have fearful rumbling sounds in our ears, resembling distant thunder, and the bugle in the mountains, and we fear our nostrils are in a state of inundation, and that our blood will effect a passage through our eyes or ears, and rush wildly into the open air. But we checked the blood, and leaped into our couch, and off we went, like a patriotic rocket, into a slumber like that of the pure and sweet Amena, in the chamber of Rudolpho, and was no farther molested with horrible dreams of the newsboys and Alligators.

Fra Diavolo and his Italian Brigands.

Three hundred and sixteen thousand dollars have been drawn from the Municipal Treasury, for printing the worthless Records of the County Clerk’s office, and nearly as much for the Register’s Records. Who got the $550,000 for which there is nothing valuable to show? Can the smooth, and glossy, and sweetly-scented Connolly, or Wetmore, (or Busteed and his kinsman, Doane,) or Nathan, or Nelson tell us? Of course they can, as they were the corrupt disbursers of this prodigious plunder. Speak, then, ye infernal robbers of the toiling millions, whom ye bamboozle, and starve, and disease, and jam, and ram, and smother in cellars and attics and tenement houses, and whose devoted wives and virgin daughters you drive unto prostitution for food and rent and medicine and apparel. You consummate these pernicious wrongs and oppressions through your Janus and Judas professions of democracy, which no more resemble Jefferson’s, Madison’s, Calhoun’s and Jackson’s political creed, than your sleek hair, and fancy apparel, and thievish propensities resemble the simple garb and integrity of those democratic legions, whose votes you literally steal through your honied political heresies, and the lavish expenditure of the very money you steal from the people, through such jobs as the Record printing. With fast horses, wines, and costly gluttony, and daubed all over with pomatum, you revel high in your dazzling Persian Pavilions, whose construction and gilded furniture, and luscious viands, are stolen directly from the honorable and deluded millions. These are truths, and we will proclaim them from the steeples of the metropolis, and strive to arouse a people who slumber on the confines of volcanoes, while thieves, and rapes, and incendiaries, and midnight assassins are softly crawling towards their throats. Your perjured alienage we might extenuate, but your robbery of the honest and laborious masses we will expose and combat, if we rot in the dungeons of Blackwell’s or Sing Sing. The purest editors of this thievish age are too pliable, and politic, and mercenary for the public welfare; but we will dissect your robbery, if we are crucified with spikes, and our limbs are chopped and hacked with a butcher’s axe, and our flesh, blood, bones and marrow burned to cinders, and our ashes cast upon the whirlwind for annihilation. The axe and faggot we defy. God only do we fear. So, come on, ye teeming caverns of infernal thieves, and seize, and incarcerate, and butcher, and strive to annihilate our mortal scabbard, but you shall not have the soul, which will elude your wicked and revengeful grasp, and have eternal succor in the realms of purity and bliss, if, in its mortal pilgrimage, it be true to God and his pilfered, oppressed, and misanthropic children.

Ice Cream.