Part 1

CONTENTS PAGE

JAMES GORDON BENNETT, HORACE GREELEY, AND HENRY J. RAYMOND. 2

EARLY YEARS—SENATOR HENRY B. ANTHONY. 4

THE PATIENT AND DOCTOR. 5

WAR WITH GREAT BRITAIN. 7

TREMENDOUS DISPLAY OF CRINOLINE. 7

A QUEER LETTER. 7

LIFE OF STEPHEN H. BRANCH. 9

Volume I.—No. 8.] SATURDAY, JUNE 12, 1858. [Price 2 Cents.

James Gordon Bennett, Horace Greeley, and Henry J. Raymond.

I shall review the editorial career of these men, (whom I regard as extremely vicious,) and I shall begin with Bennett, because he is the eldest and biggest villain of the trio. I have written for the _Herald_ since I was a student at Cambridge in 1836, for which I have received only $250. I have written for the _Times_ nearly since its advent, for which I have received nothing. I have written for the _Tribune_ since the first year of its existence, for which I have received nothing but infinite detraction. So, in all I may say of these ungrateful scoundrels, I shall evince no ingratitude or treachery. Bennett’s face is the reflection of hell and the prince of devils. In conversation, he is obscene and blasphemous, and thoroughly wicked in every thought, and to listen to his obscenity, and blasphemy, and corrupt suggestions, in his old age, makes one shudder with horror to the inner temples of the soul. He is a low and cunning Scotchman, of a large brain, of superficial cultivation—has no critical knowledge of grammar, and his orthography is quite imperfect—could accurately define Websters “science,” only as it represents the mode of extortion—has read very little—is an unnaturalized alien, and a monarchist of the deepest dye. His leading motive, since he acquired his almighty dollar position as a journalist, has been to corrupt the people, and thus subvert our institutions, and cast us again into the embraces of British despots, whom he still loves, and will ever recognize as his native masters. His wife permanently resides in Europe, and the son who bears his name was educated in London, Paris, and Vienna,—and Bennett himself has passed most of his latter years in Europe, with flying visits to America to black mail private citizens and the politicians in our Municipal, State, and National elections. As incontrovertible evidence of his sympathy with corruptionists, he never wrote a syllable in favor of the election of an honorable man to office. In the abstract, he prates of virtue, and has always denounced public rogues as no other man in America, but concretely and in the assassin’s ambush, he toils from choice and for a cash consideration to elect prison birds for our rulers. As long as the candidate for office holds him through a beautiful woman, or will jingle gold before his eyes, he will sustain him, and magnify him into a human god; but the moment she ceases to fondle, and caress, and hug, and kiss his hideous features, or her beauty fades, or her paramour falls through penury, or the loss of the public confidence,—when one or all of these calamities transpire, he seeks new victims, and tramples the old like spiders, as he now does George Law and Fernando Wood, and others, whom he has bled of half a million. And when Mariposa fails to yield its wonted supply of gold, he will abandon Fremont, and support some notorious scamp for President, who is a perjured alien, or a great national plunderer, or a dastard traitor to the Union of our Fathers,—provided the candidate will give him $100,000 in cash, with the promise of a first-class Foreign Mission. There is a married woman alternately in the Metropolis and its suburbs, to whom Bennett has long been an abject slave. And there is a woman alternately in Washington and its suburbs, to whom President Buchanan himself is a Russian serf. Bennett and Buchanan, while I write, are in the embraces of two cunning and bewitching ladies, who control the destinies of America. It was through the fascinations and machinations of these two women, that George Law and Fernando Wood ultimately fell, never to rise; and it was through these two Cleopatras that the English and Jewish alien, Abraham D. Russell and Daniel E. Sickles were elected to the Judiciary and Congress, and will be again, as long as James Buchanan, James Gordon Bennett, Judge Russell, Daniel E. Sickles, and the two lovely ladies in question rule the destinies of the White House, and meet in its gorgeous halls, and around its festive tables. Dan Sickles could pull Buchanan’s nose with impunity, and Judge Russell could pinch Bennett’s big proboscis, and he would not dare breathe the faintest murmur. Pretty women ruled the Egyptians, Grecians, Romans, English, French, Germans, Spaniards, and Italians, and why should they not rule the Americans? Bennett’s Corporation plunder and his black mail of politicians and private citizens will appal the city and country, when I disclose his prodigious operations, and place Frederick Hudson, (his smooth Private Secretary,) and his brother Edward W. Hudson, (the author of the _Herald_ Money Articles,) in the infamous position of their master. Bennett and Fred and Ned Hudson originated the Parker Vein and Potosi villanies, through which my brother William was reduced to beggary and ceaseless illness, for which I will haunt them to their capulets, and beyond, if possible. And now, as the _Alligator’s_ jaws are limited, they cannot hold more of Bennett’s and the two Hudsons’ carcases to-day, but he will bite them mighty hard next week, and take larger chunks from their black mail hides, at his second lunge. And when my _Alligator’s_ fangs reach Greeley and Raymond, he will revel and grin and snap his jaws, and fatten his belly, as though he was basking on the fertile borders of the Chagres.

Early Years—Senator Henry B. Anthony.

When I was in the Providence Post Office, Henry B. Anthony was a student of Brown University, whose noble father resided in Coventry, and the pale and delicate Henry would descend College Hill at evening shades, and present his sweet little face at the Post Office window, and inquire in solicitous and music tones: “Good Stephen, did my dear father or mother write me to-day?” And if I said yes, his tiny face reflected the innocent hilarity of childhood. But if I said no, he would depart in silence, with tears careering on his brilliant and intellectual eyes. One summer evening, while in the doorway of the Post Office, we had a long political disputation. Henry was a Whig and I a Democrat. He was a Hamiltonian, and I a Jeffersonian. Samuel and Joseph Bridgham, Wm. Henry Manton, Giles Eaton, David Perkins, Halsey Creighton, Edward Hazard, Nathan F. Dixon, George Rivers, and other students of Brown University, were there, and most of them were Whigs, and opposed to Gen. Jackson, who was then President. We had a very exciting discussion, and the students applauded as we warmed and glowed and rounded our periods; but Henry received the most applause, and I the most hisses. I endured all this with composure; but when Henry corrected my pronunciation of the military word “corps,” (kore,) which I pronounced like corpse, (korps,) a dead body,—he brought blushes to my cheeks, and copious blood to my brain, and the conquest was his, and I retired into the Post Office, and studied dictionary for some time, and resolved to acquire the principles of the English language. And from that memorable evening, I have been a laborious student. When this same Henry B. Anthony became Governor of Rhode Island, my father was the Senator from Providence County, which is the second honor of the State Administration, and the duties more arduous than those of the Governor himself. And father has told me that Henry often consulted him during his Gubernatorial Administration. When poor father died, I called on Henry at the _Providence Journal_ office, who received me with the cordiality of a brother, and said: “Stephen: My father has recently died, and I profoundly sympathize with you, as I know what it is to lose a good father like mine. As to your father, Rhode Island never had a wiser nor a better citizen, nor a purer patriot,—and years will roll ere she will rear a man of his integrity and penetration. Our whole State is in tears, and will ever cherish him with warm affection.” Henry was elected an American Senator last week from Rhode Island, and here am I, with a dagger and revolver in my hand, exposing the robbers and parricides of my country, and with not one truly reliable friend in all the world; and even the few dollars that I recently received from the Corporation for public services, are in ceaseless danger through the stealth of heartless and greedy wretches, whose avarice will never be satiated until they have wrested the very last farthing from trembling hands that are in constant peril of paralysis. And now, dear Henry, receive my most affectionate congratulation on mounting the ladder of your highest ambition. But if you join the plunderers and traitors of the Senate, and be recreant to truth and justice—to Greene and Perry—to the Rhode Island Line, so fondly cherished by Washington—and to our dear native soil, and to the loved stars of our glorious canopy, and of the long, dark, cold, dreary, and sleepless nights of the Revolution,—if you be recreant to these sacred lights of our early years, I will paralyze you with execrations,—and if I survive you, I will trample and blight the verdure that blushes over your odious and accursed mausoleum.

The Patient and Doctor—The First Interview.

_Patient_—Doctor, I have got the piles and dyspepsia most awfully. I have taken lots of medicine, and it has made me more costive, and caused my head to ache worse than ever. Now, Doctor, what on earth shall I do to cure me of the piles and dyspepsia?

_Doctor_—Buy BRANCH’S ALLIGATOR.

_Patient_—What kind of medicine is that?

_Doctor_—It ain’t medicine. It is a pepper.

_Patient_—What kind of pepper?

_Doctor_—A darn funny pepper.

_Patient_—How can that cure the piles and dyspepsia?

_Doctor_—It will make you laugh and cry at the same time, and move your bowels, and it actually gave one of my patients the diarrhœa and hysteric cramps in the stomach last week.

_Patient_—Where can I find it?

_Doctor_—At any depot in the city.

_Patient_—I will try it. How much shall I pay you for your medical advice?

_Doctor_—Only one dollar.

_Patient_—There it is. Good day, Doctor.

_Doctor_—Good day.

_Patient_—(stumbles going down the steps)—It looks awful cloudy, Doctor.

_Doctor_—Quite so. It looks like rain.

_Patient_—Yes, rather. Good day, Doctor.

_Doctor_—Good day. Call again.

_Patient_—I will. [_Exeunt._]

SECOND INTERVIEW.

_Patient_—Good morning, Doctor.

_Doctor_—How do you do?

_Patient_—I am so weak I can hardly stand.

_Doctor_—It must be owing to the warm weather.

_Patient_—No it ain’t. I have been reading _Branch’s Alligator_, and I have got the dysentery so bad that I fear I shall lose my entrails and die before sundown, if you don’t give me something to stop it. Why, lord bless your dear soul, Doctor, I was up all last night, and have been out ten times to-day. O do relieve and save me, Doctor. Only give me back my piles and dyspepsia again, and I’ll be satisfied. The dysentery is more dangerous than either, and I’m not prepared to die. I joined the Church at the time Awful Gardner and Ex-Alderman Wesley Smith did, but I didn’t hold on, and I am worse now than I was before I joined the Old Dutch Church in Fulton street. Do save me, Doctor, do. O do! All this trouble has come upon me, because you told me to read _Branch’s Alligator_, which made me laugh so, that my bowels got under way, and I couldn’t stop them. Do save me, dear Doctor.

_Doctor_—Do you ever read the _Herald_, _Times_, or _Tribune_?

_Patient_—No. I consider it a sin to read those papers.

_Doctor_—Why?

_Patient_—Because they lie and black mail so, and deceive and sell the people, and plunder them, and erect such elegant buildings with their plunder. They never could make so much money by honorable industry.

_Doctor_—Well, now, you go and buy a copy of the _Herald_, _Times_, and _Tribune_, and go home and read the editorials, and the letters of their Albany and Washington correspondents, and their mercenary Wall street money articles, and read their billingsgate of each other, and their horrible black mail articles, and they will so thrill your blood, as to produce an instant reaction, and you will soon be more costive than before you read _Branch’s Alligator_.

_Patient_—I’ll do it. How much shall I pay you for your advice?

_Doctor_—Not a cent.

_Patient_—You are too generous, Doctor.

_Doctor_—Not at all. Those editors ain’t worth a cent, only what they steal from the government, and the politicians, and the people. They don’t make a millionth as much on their paper and advertisements, as they do on black mail. They are the source of all governmental evil.

_Patient_—Them’s my sentiments exactly. Good morning. Doctor.

_Doctor_—Good morning, patient. [_Exeunt._]

THIRD INTERVIEW.

_Patient_—Good evening, Doctor.

_Doctor_—Good evening.

_Patient_—Well, Doctor, the _Herald_, _Times_, and _Tribune_ have cured me. I swow, Doctor, how Bennett, Greeley, and Raymond can lie. I read their fibs, white and black, and their billingsgate of each other, and their abuse of private citizens, and contractors, and politicians, (which seemed like polite invitations for interested parties to walk up to their gilded offices and settle,) until my blood run cold, and icicles formed in my veins, and my zig-zag circulation flew about and rushed from my toes, fingers, nose, ears, heart, and liver, into my skull, until my dysentery was reduced from ten to four times a day; and then I put ice on my head, and a poultice over my navel, and bathed my spleen with brandy, and went to bed, and slept like Rip Van Winkle, and I now feel as well as I did at my birth,—and I have come to express my gratitude, and pay you a standing fee for disclosing the important secret, that I can always cure the piles and dysentery by reading the abominable lies and black mail editorials of the _Herald_, _Times_, and _Tribune_.

_Doctor_—I am of a costive nature, and never have the piles nor dysentery, and therefore never read those disreputable newspapers; but if I ever should have the cholera, or violent diarrhœa, I should read those public journals for my life, as I have cured dysentery patients for years by recommending the perusal of those journals for only half an hour. And I shall always recommend _Branch’s Alligator_ for costiveness.

_Patient_—Don’t mention the _Alligator_, if you please, Doctor, because I fear it will start my bowels, and again set them in a terrible and dangerous commotion. So, good night, Doctor, and may God forever bless you.

_Doctor_—Good night, sir.

_Patient_—Remember me kindly to your wife and children, Doctor.

_Doctor_—I will.

_Patient_—Good night.

_Doctor_—Good night. [_Exeunt._]

The Doctor closes the door, and Patient skips up the street, singing, _a la Bayadere_:

Happy am I, From piles I’m free, Why are not all Merry like me?

Stephen H. Branch’s Alligator.

NEW YORK, SATURDAY, JUNE 12, 1858.

War with Great Britain.

Don’t let the grannies and daddies get dangerously nervous over the bloody rumors from Washington. Drink your tea, good matrons, and take your snuff, old gentlemen, as strong as ever, and talk as serenely and happily of other days, as though we were to have perpetual peace. There will be no war between parent and child, so long as New York and Liverpool exist in mutual interest and brotherly affection. For these two cities, with their mighty commerce, are the peaceful arbiters of nations, and will be, after all who now behold the Universe have returned to ashes, and coming generations cannot find their mortal caverns.

Tremendous Display of Crinoline.

[WALLACK’S THEATRE JUST OUT—A DRIZZLING RAIN.]

_Omnibus Driver_—Broadway—ride up?

_Dad_ (on sidewalk)—I say, driver, have you got room for all my family?

_Driver_—How many have you got?

_Dad_—Myself and two female children—two girls in their teens, and my wife and mother.

_Driver_—Yes, daddy, I can accommodate you, as I have just got room for yourself, old boy, and your two female children, and two kegs, and your two girls in their teens, and two barrels, and for your wife and mother, and two hogsheads. Jump in, old cock, with all your tribes and trappings.

_Dad_—Thank you, driver, thank you,—but darn your impudent reflections about crinoline. But it rains, and I’m anxious to get home, and I’ll forgive your facetious comments this time. There, now, get in wife, and mother, and girls, and children—get in as fast as possible, and get out of the rain, and save your bonnets, and shawls, and silks, and kegs, barrels, and hogsheads, that our waggish driver prates of with such truthful severity.

_Driver_ (peeping through the hole)—Are you all right inside, daddy? Crinoline all nicely arranged and tucked in? eh? old cock?

_Dad_—Go ahead, you rascal. I’ll tell Mayor Tiemann and Peter Cooper of your didos, and have you arrested.

_Driver_—Laughs, and snaps his whip, and away they go.

A Queer Letter.

NEW YORK, May 28th, 1858.

STEPHEN H. BRANCH, ESQ.—

_Dear Sir_,—As a reader of your rapacious ALLIGATOR, and a warm sympathiser with you throughout your misfortunes, I think I am entitled to make a suggestion, which I believe to be for your own good. I want to praise the manner in which you have conducted your Journal thus far, and it is because I do not, wish to see it unworthy of consideration that I have taken the liberty to write to you—a perfect stranger, as far as personal acquaintance goes. Your sanguinary and characteristic fearless attacks on the magnates of Tammany and the City Hall have won you great favor among the honest and peaceful citizens of New York, as well as elsewhere, but I am of opinion that an attack on the city press would only be productive of serious mischief to yourself. In your latest number, you mention the apparent slight of the ALLIGATOR by Bennett, Greeley, and Raymond, and avow your intention to “let up” on them in your next. I seriously advise you not to do it. It will hurt you. Only a week since you spoke of your unwillingness to attack and expose Russell, because he is Bennett’s friend, _who aided you in your misfortunes_. It may hurt the man’s feelings somewhat to see his friends or relations calumniated or condemned, but it is much worse (and savors of ingratitude in the assailant) to be set upon himself. Besides, if you wake the wrath of these three Leviathans, it will take a bigger and stronger animal than the ALLIGATOR to extinguish it. It is therefore a matter of policy in you not to weaken yourself by entering into a war with the _Herald_, _Times_, or _Tribune_. You are yet weak, and need all the help you can possibly obtain. You know yourself that newspapers are not established in a day, however high their aim or select their contributions, and to be drawn into a controversy with the papers named, will be almost fatal to your editorial prospects.

Again: they may have reasons for not noticing your paper, as a press of business, neglect, overlooking, and so forth, and may, when a more convenient season presents itself, give you a highly flavored puff. Would it not be better to ask them privately to speak favorably of your new enterprise, than to attempt to force them to do it by a public attack in your paper?

Yours very respectfully, and with sincere wishes for your welfare,

R. P. C.

(Private.)