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[Illustration: STEPHEN H. BRANCH’S ALLIGATOR.]
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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.)
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A Melodious Fragment!