



Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive)






                           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

------------------------------------------------------------------------




[Illustration: STEPHEN H. BRANCH’S ALLIGATOR.]

    ----------------------------------------------------------------

    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