Part 1

Transcriber Notes

Obvious printer errors and missing punctuation fixed. Archaic and inconsistent spelling retained. Unclear text in the ads in the original has been clarified by review of the same ads printed more clearly in other issues. The table of contents has been created and added by the transcriber. Italics are represented by underscores surrounding the _italic text_. Small capitals have been converted to ALL CAPS.

Life of Stephen H. Branch. 1

A Melodious Fragment! 2

Human Devils. 2

James Gordon Bennett’s 2 Editorial Career.

Peter Cooper’s Funny little 3 Grocery-Groggery, at the Corner of the Bowery and Stuyversant Street, in 1820.

Advertisements 4

Volume I.—No. 11.] SATURDAY, JULY 3, 1858. [Price 2 Cents.

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.

McDonald Clarke had the dyspepsia badly, and would board at the Graham House while his money lasted, and then Goss would request him to leave. At the table he always created infinite mirth. I often met him on the Battery, (with his pockets filled with stale Graham bread,) and at Mercer’s Dining Saloon, at the corner of Ann and Nassau, and on the steps of the Astor, and while rapidly promenading Broadway, with his eyes riveted on the ground. I also saw him every Sabbath in front of Dr. Taylor’s Grace Church, at the corner of Rector street and Broadway, where he used to await the arrival of Miss Jones, and almost stare her into fits, and to whom he addressed such lines as these through the public journals:

Her form’s elastic as a willow tree, Glorious in motion, when the winds are free: She moves with timid dignity and grace, While thought is thrilling through her sweet young face.

In his last days, he often came to the Graham House, and Goss was very kind to him, and did not charge him for his meals. He called on Sunday morning, when all were at church save myself. I was ill, in the rocking chair, and for an hour he amused me with his incoherent flights of eloquence, and the recitation of his choicest poetry. He came several times during the week. On a stormy evening, while I was seated by the stove, he rushed in and took a seat beside me, and wept aloud, and spoke of his intense affection for Miss Jones, (the daughter of the wealthy Banker, and President of the Chemical Bank,) whom he supposed was ardently in love with him. He said that he had been twice invited to her parties, but that on ringing the bell, he was twice ejected by the servant. The cards of invitation were forgeries, but those who imposed on McDonald, assured him that they were genuine, and were written by Miss Jones. I strove in vain to disabuse McDonald’s mind, who said he should make the third attempt the following week, and, if possible, he would have an interview with the precious object of his affection. On the afternoon of the following Sunday, he came to the Graham House, and violently rang the bell, and dashed into the parlor, greatly excited, and took a seat on the sofa, where I was reclining, and exclaimed: “Why, Branch, people call me crazy. But you don’t think I’m crazy, do you, Branch? I know you don’t. You love me, don’t you, Branch? I know you do. Heigh ho! I’m not long for this world. I’m going to Heaven in a few days, where I shall fare better than among the unkind people of this world. Yes, I rambled through Greenwood, last week, by the Silver Lake, and selected the lovely and romantic spot where my poor bones will soon repose and wither. (His tears now began to fall like summer rain.) And there will be the sacred bells, and the Grace Church exercises, conducted by the pure and eloquent Dr. Taylor, and the mournful music, and solemn procession, and the Sexton’s dreary hearse and spade, and the pale white monument. And those who now deny me bread, and call me crazy, and trifle with my affections, will then sadly miss me, and my beautiful poetry, and lament my melancholy fate. And they will come and stand before my monument in Greenwood’s Silver Dell, and weep, and profoundly regret that they always neglected poor McDonald Clarke. Yes, Branch, I see my snowy monument by the Silver Lake, and I shall soon be there. O God! Yes, I shall too soon be in that dismal vale. But you will come and see me, won’t you, Branch? I know you will. I know you will, O God! O God! My destiny is very hard.” And he buried his face with both hands, and cried with all the simplicity of childhood, and I strove to restrain my tears, lest he would not cease his lamentation, if he saw my eyes moistened with nature’s sympathising waters. And I breathed kind words into his lacerated heart, and he leaned his head upon my shoulder, and was silent for some minutes, when he sprang to his feet, and said he would like a bath, and went to the bathing room. In half an hour, he returned, went to the tea table, ate sparingly, came into the parlor, went to the window, and knelt and prayed in whisper tones. The clouds had suddenly dispersed, and the moon was full, whose soft rays rested on the sad face of McDonald. He then got the Bible, and read a chapter, and was absorbed in a second prayer, just above a whisper, when a transient boarder (from Boston) entered the parlor, and sat on the sofa, and began a spirited conversation with a friend who had long been waiting for him. McDonald, while engaged in prayer, in a kneeling posture, sprang to his feet, and rushed towards the two gentlemen in lively conversation on the sofa, and told them that if they did not cease to laugh, and talk so loudly, he would smite them on the spot. They were amazed and terrified, and dared not speak. McDonald then rapidly paced the parlor, and exclaimed: “I am only 40 years old, with nearly half the period often allotted to man yet to run, and I am near my journey’s close.” And then, with a sudden halt in the centre of the parlor, he again riveted his wild eyes on the gentlemen seated on the sofa, who had excited his ire, and stamped, and most violently exclaimed: “How dare you talk and laugh in God’s holy hour? This is the all-glorious Sabbath, and it is sacrilege to talk and laugh beyond a whisper. Do it again, and as sure as my name is McDonald Clarke, I will paralyse you where you sit. Silence, I say, (stamping,) silence!” The two gentlemen then arose, and left the parlor, in pursuit of Mr. Goss, and McDonald went to the window, and delivered a glowing apostrophe to the moon and stars, and asked me to play sacred music on the piano, which I did, and he strove to sing, but his voice was severely weakened, and nearly lost, by his nervous excitement, and through his severe anathema of the two gentlemen who had just left the parlor. As I played, he stood beside me, and hummed and beat time with his hands. I closed the piano, and he went to the window, and prayed again, and breathed the most eloquent and touching soliloquy I ever heard. Such melting pathos and purity of language never flowed from human lips. He rose to the highest inspiration in his allusion to his departed mother, and his anticipated joy at his early reunion with her in Heaven. I have always regretted that I had no pencil and paper on this sad occasion, so that I could have preserved his supernatural soliloquies, which impressed me with the profoundest solemnity. Mr. Goss now came into the parlor, and asked McDonald where he boarded, and he said he had no home. Goss then asked him if he had any friends. He said that James Gordon Bennett was his friend, and had been kind and generous towards him, and had given him money and apparel, and published his poetry in the _Herald_. He also said that he ate, and sometimes slept, at a Dentist’s in Park Place, and that he would now go there. I asked him if I should accompany him, and he warmly thanked me, and he put on his cloak and cap, and very carefully adjusted his large red comforter around his neck, and took my arm, and I accompanied him to the residence of his dentist friend in Park Place. I rang the bell, and the servant came, and said the dentist was out, and McDonald then shook my hand, and bade me an affectionate good night, and walked in and closed the door, which was my last communion with poor McDonald Clarke. I called the next day, and the servant told me that McDonald left in half an hour after my departure on the previous night, and had not returned. I went in pursuit of him, but could not find him. The next I heard of him was through the newspapers, which stated that he was found at midnight, by a Policeman, in Broadway, near St. Paul’s Church, in a terrible storm, and in a state of raving insanity, with his apparel partially gone,—that he was conveyed to the Tombs,—that neither the Policemen nor any of the officers at the Tombs knew McDonald, nor was he sane enough to disclose his name,—that on going to feed him in the morning, his place of confinement was partially filled with icy water, (in which he was bathing himself,) which had been running all night, and which gave him a chill of death,—that he was finally recognised by one of the Tombs’ officers, and conveyed to the Alms House Hospital, where he soon died. I called to see him before he died, but he did not know me. His reason entirely returned just prior to his death, when he called for a custard, (of which he was always extremely fond,) and he ate a little, and said he was glad his hour had come, as he was tired of earth. He bade his nurse an affectionate farewell, and died without a contortion or a moan. His sudden and pauper death produced great excitement, and the newspapers severely lashed his murderers, who strove to make him think that Miss Jones loved him dearly, and had invited him to her aristocratic parties. But the names of the villains were not published, (as they should have been,) because they belonged to the upper circles. Some kind friends erected a monument to his memory, on the very spot McDonald had selected, by the Silver Lake in Greenwood, for which they received much praise. And thus closes my sad allusion to poor McDonald Clarke.

(To be continued to my last sun.)

A Melodious Fragment!

TO ALL WHO LOVE ENTRANCING MUSIC.

READER:—Did you ever behold the tumultuous excitement of the populace at a Race Course, as the furious steeds neared the judge’s stand on the last heat? Then go and see Gazzaniga’s reflection of the passions at the Academy of Music, and behold the glow and palor, and joy and terror, and stamps and screams of the excited and enraptured multitudes. Did you ever see the moon emerge from a tranquil ocean, or the sun descend a wild horison? Then see Gazzaniga. Did you ever see a peerless virgin at the altar, or on her journey to the sepulchre? Then see Gazzaniga. Do you remember the merry laugh of childhood, or your fond mother’s gentle tones? Then see Gazzaniga. Do you lament Ophelia’s sadness and mournful destiny, and the fatal grief of Portia at the absence of Brutus? Then see Gazzaniga. Do you love the murmurs of the rivulet, or of summer zephyrs on the moonlight waters? Then see Gazzaniga. Do you love the melody of the birds, and the hues of the pastures, and the romance of the forest, and the perfume of the foliage, and the silence of the wilderness, and the beauty of the vales, and the majesty of the mountains? Then see Gazzaniga. Do you love the security of a calm, or the sublimity of a storm? Then see Gazzaniga. Have you seen Niagara or Vesuvius, and admired and trembled in their glorious and awful presence? Then see Gazzaniga. Have you read and dreamed of Antony and Cleopatra? Then see Brignoli and Gazzaniga. Have you read Cæsar’s hatred of Cassius and Horace Greeley, and his love of Matsell and fat men? Then see Ullman and Armodio. Do you love to roam in dells and caves and deserts? Do you love the pensive meditations of genius in cavern solitudes? Do you love to gaze at Heaven’s Panorama, in the silence and glory of midnight? Do you love your parent’s admonitions, and the sweet tones of your brothers and sisters, and wives and children? Do you remember your early love, and pleasant rambles with your devoted and beauteous Juliet? Do you love to witness the reflection of your own heart? Do you love to shed tears of joy at the triumph of the virtuous, and to paralyse the vicious with your terrible execrations? Have you breathed Italian skies, and wandered by Italian streams, and fondly lingered on Italian sunsets? O then go and see and hear Gazzaniga, whose mighty soul reflects the smiles and tears—lovers and misanthropes—beauties and melodies—calms and storms—rainbows and landscapes—plains and mountains—cataracts and volcanoes—thunder and lightning—rain and hail—tornadoes and earthquakes—witches and angels—devils and demons—ghosts and hobgoblins, and suns and globes and caravans of Universal Nature. O Gazzaniga! Thy tranquil music is the echo of a Choir of Angels, and thy frenzied strain is the yell of a gang of devils. More than a thousand millions of human pilgrims rove in the romantic paths of earth, but in all this mighty throng, on its march to a common sepulchre, there is but one Gazzaniga in the delightful realms of melody.

Stephen H. Branch’s Alligator.

NEW YORK, SATURDAY, JULY 3, 1858.

STEPHEN H. BRANCH’S “ALLIGATOR” CAN BE obtained at all hours, (day or night,) at wholesale and retail, at No. 128 Nassau Street, Near Beekman Street, and opposite Ross & Tousey’s News Depot, New York.

Human Devils.

Some $10,000 have been expended in building fences, and improving the forest grounds at the corner of Fourteenth and Fifteenth streets and the Sixth Avenue? We have received a card, heralding a “Palace Garden,” signed by De Forest and Tisdale, Proprietors. Mr. De Forest was the Treasurer of the Crystal Palace Ball, and Mr. Tisdale is the Treasurer of the Hunter Woodis Benevolent Society. A few loaves of John Hecker’s bread, distributed among the poor, was the only charitable result of the Academy of Music Ball, and none of John Hecker’s bread, nor of any baker, nor any necessaries of life were distributed among the indigent, as the result of the mighty and lucrative Crystal Palace Ball. Both of those Balls were given by the public—for the benefit of the Poor—in the name of the self-constituted members of the Hunter Woodis Society, and De Forest and Tisdale, who control the vast receipts of that Society, now open an Ice Cream and Lager Bier Saloon on a scale of unprecedented magnitude and magnificence, while the poor creatures are starving, who own all the surplus funds in the vile grasp of the Hunter Woodis Society, and of the outside scamps, who partially control those pauper funds. De Forest and Tisdale (who thrice cunningly assured me that all the members of the Hunter Woodis Society were Know Nothings) beckoned me last week to their gorgeous chariot on Broadway, and told me that they were “snags,” and through dagger eyes, and ferocious gestures, and stunning declamation, threatened my utter annihilation, for my recent exposure of their plunder of our generous citizens, and the private paupers, whose funds they withhold and squander. If one of the huge villains of these devilish days in which my lot is cast approaches me with menacing look or attitude, he will be a dead thief before he can implore the God of truth and justice and mercy to forgive him for his awful crimes. Where the $40,000 that were doubtless received by the Managers and Treasurers of the Academy of Music and Crystal Palace Balls; and where their vast private collections have all mysteriously vanished, will never be disclosed to the poor of this, nor of coming generations, but, at the Throne of God, these consummate villains and infernal scamps will have to confront the famishing creatures they have robbed and starved, when they will be convicted, and condemned, and hurled from Heaven’s resplendent heights into a gulph of yelling devils, who will pinch them, and prick them, and bite them, and lance them, and roast them through wasteless ages.

O, what I hear, and what I see, Makes me from earth yearn to be free.

James Gordon Bennett’s Editorial Career.

_Bennett and John Kelly._

_Bennett_—John, the wall cracked again yesterday, and I fear this old ruin will soon fall, and bury us in death. So, after you have folded those papers, you can take them and the broom, and I will take my memorandum book and easy slippers, and we will go to the new quarters that I hired yesterday in Broadway. The rent is very cheap, and I am not to pay it until the end of the month, which is a godsend in these days of poverty.

_John_—I have only got fifty papers to fold, and I will soon be ready.

_Bennett_—Hurry, Johnny, for the building may fall before we get out. (John folds papers mighty fast.)

_John_—I am ready, sir.

_Bennett_—Come on then. (They depart for Broadway, with all their luggage, consisting of fifty _Heralds_, a broom, memorandum book, and Bennett’s easy slippers.)

_Enter Landlord._

_Landlord_—Mr. Bennett, I told you that you could pay your rent at the end of the month, but I have concluded to require it in advance.

_Bennett_—I have not the money to spare, but I will let you have my watch as security.

_Landlord_—I have no pawnbroker’s license, and I fear it would be a violation of the law to take a watch in pawn.

_Bennett_—I have let Anderson & Ward have it as security for the payment of my papers some fifty times, and they have not been arrested.

_Landlord_—Is it gold or silver?

_Bennett_—Silver.

_Landlord_—What is its value?

_Bennett_—Twenty dollars.

_Landlord_—Does it keep good time?

_Bennett_—It goes well, don’t it, Johnny (giving him a wink.)

_John_—Yes, sir. (May God forgive me for this lie.)

_Landlord_—I will take it, but you must try to pay the rent before the close of the month.

_Bennett_—I will, sir. Our circulation is rapidly increasing, ain’t it, Johnny?

_John_ (pale as death)—Y-e-s, s-i-r. (O, Heavenly Father, do forgive me for another lie.)

_Landlord_—Good day, Mr. Bennett, and may success attend your enterprise.

_Bennett_—Good by, sir, but don’t call again until the very last week in the month.

_Landlord_—I will be as lenient as I can. Good day. (He goes.)

_Bennett_—John, why did you say y-e-s, s-i-r? This is no time to drawl your words. And I saw your lips quiver, and your eyes and arms directed to Heaven, as though you were engaged in silent prayer. This won’t do, sir. My case is desperate. Can’t you lie, in matters of business, without invoking the celestial pardon? If you can’t, you will soon ruin me. What say you, John?

_John_—My parents will not let me tell lies. They would kill me, if they caught me in the two lies I have told for you to-day. They are extremely indigent, but they are as honest as poor Burns, the great poet of your native land, who said:

“The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor, Is king o’ men for a’ that.”

And who also said:

“O, wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us!”

_Bennett_ (stamping the floor)—Darm it, boy, this is no time for poetry. Hang Burns, who was an old fool, and lived on air, like all the poets. I prefer Richard, who said:

“I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die.”

Or Iago:

“This is the night, That either makes me, or fordoes me quite.”

Or Ophelia, with whose beautiful aphorism I closed my leading editorial, in the first number of the _Herald_:

“Lord, we know that we are, But know not what we may be.”

But darm the rhyme. We want bread and butter. I have been starving on truth and poetry, and I intend to lie, and cheat, and black mail, during the residue of my days. Do you understand me?

_John_—Yes, sir, but I can’t lie. I had rather be poor, and tell the truth, than lie, and cheat, and wrong my fellow creatures, and be loathed by my parents, and be despised by myself, and by others, and have sleepless nights, and be in constant fear of death, and be in danger of a prison or the scaffold. So, you had better get another boy.

_Bennett_—I am sorry to part with you, dear Johnny, because you have been so true and kind to me.

_John_—I would like to remain, but I must leave, if you require me to lie. And yet I dread to inform my poor father and mother that I have left you, and have no means to aid them. But I had rather go hungry than tell lies, and I hope and believe that my parents will forgive me for leaving you.

_Bennett_—I fear you are too conscientious to be my associate in the reckless and unscrupulous career of journalism before me, and therefore I shall advertise for another boy to-morrow.

_John_—Very well, sir. (John takes his hat to go.)

_Bennett_—Don’t go until I get another boy.

_John_—I must go now, because you have proclaimed yourself a dishonest man, and I should be unhappy if I remained longer in your presence.

_Bennett_—How much do I owe you?

_John_—Nothing.

_Bennett_—Yes I do.

_John_—You can have it, because I fear you did not get it honestly, and I do not want it. (John goes.)

_Bennett_ (soliloquises)—This boy’s rebuke is terrible. And now I am alone. O God! if I only had his integrity, I would make any sacrifice. That boy has got the principles of Washington in his breast, and the world will hear of him. No earthly power can crush the love of truth in the heart of that dear little boy. And now what shall I do? His merited castigation has unnerved and unmanned me. I know not which way to turn. I have but little money. I cannot get another boy so faithful as Johnny. I must strive to sell my papers in the stores alone, now that Johnny is gone, and, if I fail, I am forever ruined. But this won’t do. I must not despair. I must rally. (He arises, and paces his office rapidly, with compressed jaws and lips, and distended nostrils, and clenched fingers, and ferocious gesticulation.) I must not whine now. I must cut and smash, and detract and terrify the innocent, and levy thousands on the affluent, or I am forever lost. I have no associate, nor friend, nor kindred in all this land, and I can only degrade myself, as my aged parents are in the deep mountain glades of Scotland, and can never hear of my degradation. So I will be a devil. I will advertise for another boy, and if I get one who will conspire with me in my contemplated villainy, my fortunes will yet be vast. (He writes an advertisement, and puts it in the _New York Sun_.)

(To be continued.)

Peter Cooper’s Funny little Grocery-Groggery, at the Corner of the Bowery and Stuyversant Street, in 1820.

PETER BEHIND THE COUNTER.

_Enter Female Customer._

_Customer_—I want two candles, and a quart of soft soap, and a pint of gin.

_Peter_—There’s the candles, and there’s the soap, and now I will get the gin. (Measures it.) And there’s the gin.

_Customer_—Put it all down on the book.

_Peter_—I will only put it on the slate, as I want you to pay me by Saturday evening.

_Customer_—O, certainly. (She goes.)

_Enter Jim, a Darkey._

_Jim_—Mr. Cooper, I want a plug of tobacco, and a glass of rum, and I will pay you on Saturday night, when I get my week’s wages.