_Stephen._—What do you first wish to learn?
_Pupil._—I desire first to review my figures.
_S._—How far have you cyphered?
_P._—I went through the book several times, when I was a boy.
_S._—Whose Arithmetic did you study?
_P._—Mr. Dollbay’s.
_S._—Daboll’s, I suppose, you mean.
_P._—Ah, yes, it was Daboll’s; and I remember him very well. He was a
fine man, and understood figures very well.
_S._—Then you went through his book several times?
_P._—O yes, I can take my oath of that.
_S._—How much is twice nothing?
_P._—That is two, of course.
_S._—How much is nothing times two?
_P._—That is two.
_S._—How much is one-half times one?
_P._—One.
_S._—How much is four and a-half times four and a-half?
_P._ (scratching his head)—That must be about thirteen.
_S._—How much is three-quarters times five-eights?
_P._—I never saw that in Daboll, and to be candid, Mr. Branch, I have
long been accustomed to rush of blood to the head, and I had a slight
rush just now, and I guess I won’t go any farther in figures to-day; but
I would like to renew my Grammar studies.
_S._—Very well: whose Grammar did you study in boyhood?
_P._—Mr. Murphy’s.
_S._—I presume you mean Lindley Murray’s?
_P._—Ah, yes, it was Murray’s, and he once dined at my father’s.
_S._—As it is absolutely essential to understand spelling, before
Grammar, I will first examine you in a few words, before we embark in
Grammar. Can you spell well, sir?
_P._—Yes; and I hope you don’t mean to insult me with such a question.
_S._—Certainly not. Spell Grammar?
_P._—Gramer.
_S._—No.
_P._—Gramar.
_S._—No.
_P._—How do yau spell it, then?
_S._—Grammar.
_P._—That’s the way I spelt it.
_S._—No, sir.
_P._—If I didd’t, I intended to.
_S._—That may be. Spell sloop?
_P._—Slupe.
_S._—No.
_P._—That’s the way old Captain Tallman spelt it, when I was a boy.
_S._—It is spelt sloop in these days.
_P._—Ah, yes, that’s correct, I remember.
_S._—Spell dough?
_P._—Doe.
_S._—No.
_P._—My grandmother used to spell it so.
_S._—It is spelt dough.
_S._—Spell God?
_P._—Gorde.
_S._—No.
_P._ (is silent for some seconds, and grows pale, and sweats
profusely)—Merciful Heaven! And do you say Gorde is incorrect?
_S._—I do. It is spelt God.
_P._—Ah, yes, I was mistaken. That’s the way I have always spelt it.
_S._—Spell scholar?
_P._—Skoller.
_S._—No.
_P._—Skollar.
_S._—No.
_P._—That’s the way I always spelt it, and I’ll bet a dollar that’s the
way to spell it.
_S._—That’s a bet.
_P._—How shall we decide it?
_S._—Have you got a dictionary?
_P._—Yes. (Examines it.) Well, I declare, you have won the dollar. What
a curious way to spell scholar, to put _ch_ for _k_. Mr. Branch: who
invented language?
_S._—The Egyptians.
_P._—What old fools they must have been?
_S._—Those Egyptians who discovered the alphabet, were the wisest
linguists of the human race. And those Arabians who discovered the
digits, were the profoundest mathematicians. And, as you can neither
spell nor cypher well, I advise you to defer your arithmetic and grammar
lessons until you learn orthography.
_P._—I don’t know what you mean by linguist, nor by digits. And what on
earth do you mean by orthography?
_S._—Orthography means spelling.
_P._—Ah, yes, I thought that was it. Now, Mr. Branch, I am in public
life, as you know, and I am very anxious to make a good speech and write
a good letter; and, in order to do that, I must understand Grammar. And
I think I can spell well enough to study Grammar, Mr. Branch. You have
only examined me in a few words, and because I slightly broke down on
them, you must not suppose that I can’t spell well enough to study
Grammar. Just try me in a few more words.
_S._—Spell alderman?
_P._—Oldermon.
_S._—No.
_P._—Olldermone.
_S._—No.
_P._—How, then?
_S._—Alderman.
_P._—Ah, yes. That’s the way I was just agoing to spell it.
_S._—Spell Common Council?
_P._—Komon Kounsil.
_S._—No, sir. It is spelt Common Council.
_P._—Is it possible?
_S._—Yes. And now spell municipal?
_P._—Dam if I don’t give that up; for, although I have been a member of
the municiple government, I nover could spell that awful word without
looking at the dictionary two or three times; and it always took me a
mighty long time to find municiple, even in the dictionary. Now, do try
me on some easier word than that,—won’t you, Mr. Branch?
_S._—Spell Mayor?
_P._—Mare.
_S._—No.
_P._—How, then?
_S._—Mayor.
_P._—Ah, yes,—I forgot. That’s it exactly.
_S._—Spell contracts?
_P._—I can spell that fast enough. Kontrax.
_S._—No.
_P._—Kontracks.
_S._—No. It is spelt contracts.
_P._—I begin to think my memory is getting bad, for I once could spell
all these words. And I have had so many contracts from the Corporation,
and have written that word so often, that I am sure I used to spell it
correctly. Now give me one more easy word, and if I break down, dam if I
don’t surrender.
_S._—Spell Cable?
_P._—I have got a few shares in that precious stock, and I’ll bet $5 I
can spell it correctly.
_S._—Done.
_P._—Kabell.
_S._—No. It is spelt cable.
_P._—There’s a V. And now, although I have spelt several words
incorrectly, yet, as I am growing old, I desire to learn as fast as
possible; and I want you to give me grammar lessons and teach me
spelling at the same time. And if you will learn me very fast, I will
let you have one share in the Atlantic Cable, for your instructions.
_S._—I would rather have the cash, as I cannot believe that a cord about
the circumference of my thumb can permanently connect the hemispheres.
_P._—Very well, sir. I have perfect confidence in the Cable enterprise,
and I don’t care about parting with my stock. So I will pay you in cash
for your tuition. Now please give me a lesson in grammar.
_S._—Well, I will strive to gratify you,—although I again assure you,
that orthography is the basis of grammar, and we shall encounter ruinous
obstacles in the construction of the grammatical pyramid, in the absence
of orthography and orthœpy.
_P._—For the land’s sake, what is the meaning of the last word?
_S._—Orthœpy means pronunciation.
_P._—How queer your jaw opens and closes, when you pronounce that
strange word.
_S._—I suppose so. I will now give you the first lesson in grammar.
_P._—Let me first take a good stiff horn of brandy to brace my nerves.
(Drinks.) Now, sir, I am ready for Grammar, which, I repeat, I studied
when a boy; and I only desire to review what I know already.
_S._—How many parts of speech are there?
_P._—What do you mean by that?
_S._—I mean, into how many parts of speech is language divided?
_P._—Well, by golly, I don’t know exactly,—but, from the immense number
of words in the Bible, and in all the books at the Harpers, and in the
Historical Society, and in all the newspapers, I should think there must
be, at the lowest calculation, about five hundred million parts of
speech.
_S._—There are only nine parts of speech.
_P._—I begin to think you are crazy; for, do you think you can humbug me
by saying that there are only nine different words, or parts of speech,
in the English language? I shall consider it to be my duty to have you
put in the Lunatic Asylum, if you talk in that way.
_S._—I still assert that there are only nine parts of speech, which are:
a noun, article, adjective, pronoun, verb, adverb, preposition,
conjunction, and interjection.
_P._—Ah, yes, I recollect.
_S._—Well, what part of speech is iron?
_P._—As near as I can recollect, iron is the seventh, and it may
possibly be the ninth part of speech.
_S._—No, sir,—it is one of the nine parts of speech I just mentioned.
_P._—Ah, yes, excuse me,—I understand. Well, iron must be a conjunction,
because it can be heated and spliced.
_S._—Iron is a noun.
_P._—Ah, yes, I recollect perfectly well that iron is a noun, and I am
surprised that I did not remember it, as I have long dealt in fron, and
know all about it.
_S._—That will do for to-day, and I will resume your grammar lessons
to-morrow. Good day, sir.
_P._—Good day. I am much pleased wite my progress in grammar, and I will
see you again to-morrow with much pleasure. Good day, sir.
[_Exeunt_,
Stephen H. Branch, in his Cell at Blackwell’s Island—A Mournful Scene.
_A lovely Family, at the iron door, peeping through its small
perforations._
_The Father._—What is your name, sir?
_Stephen._—My name is Branch.
_Father._—For what are you confined?
_Stephen._—For an alleged libel.
_Father._—On whom?
_Stephen._—On Mayor Daniel F. Tiemann, Simeon Draper, and Isaac Bell,
Jr.
_Father._—What is the period of your imprisonment?
_Stephen._—One year. I think I have seen you before. What is your name,
sir?
_Father._—H——d.
_Stephen._—Where do you reside?
_Father._—In Charleston, South Carolina.
_Stephen._—Ah! The dearest associations of my life are connected with
two students bearing your name, who were from Charleston.
_Father._—My wife and children: I think the keeper has directed us to
the Lunatic Asylum, instead of the abode of convicts. Let us go and ask
the keeper to show us to the prison.
_Stephen._—Stop, sir. I now most positively discern the relics of your
early features. Were you a student at Cambridge in 1835?
_Father._—I was.
_Stephen._—And your brother also, who was rescued from a watery grave in
Boston Harbor?
_Father_ (_leans against the iron door, and his frame trembles, and his
face assumes a deathly palor_).—God of Heaven! And are you the son of
Judge Stephen Branch, of Providence, Rhode Island?
_Stephen._—I am, sir.
_Father_ (_wiping sweat from his forehead and tears from his
cheeks_).—Dear Stephen: Give me your hand, after our long separation.
Alas! my poor brother is dead, whose life you saved in that dreadful
squall, in Boston Harbor, twenty-three years ago. (_All weep, and his
eldest daughter sobs aloud._)
_Stephen._—Where and when did your noble brother die?
_Father._—In Switzerland, ten years since; and in his last days he spoke
most kindly of you.
_His Wife_ (_in profuse tears_).—Have you a wife, Mr. Branch?
_Stephen._—Neither wife, nor child, nor parents, nor hardly a relative
on earth. And I am glad they have gone down to their happy graves. And I
almost wish that I was reposing by their side. The earth is no place for
me, nor for those who expose the licentious officials and plundering
monsters of this age, who allure spotless females into the horrors of
prostitution, and drive the friendless masses into cellars and attics
and crowded and pestilential habitations, and into the inclement
atmosphere.
_Wife._—But why rejoice over the eternal departure of nearly all your
kindred?
_Stephen._—Because it would have blighted their health and fondest hopes
to have beheld me in a felon’s dungeon.
_Wife._—But you have committed no crime?
_Stephen._—I could not do that. And I am in prison, because I have
exposed the crimes, and resisted the gilded bribes of official
plunderers for a dozen years, and utterly refused to join them in their
various deeds of infamy. I could have been affluent, and had my liberty,
if I had joined the public thieves, and shared their plunder. And if my
parents were alive, although they would rejoice at my exposure of
vicious public men, yet they would weep over the cruelty of those who
consigned me to this dungeon, without an honorable trial, and rudely
thrust me into the chain-gang of the quarries, and even yearn for my
life.
_Wife._—Yours seems a hard fate?
_Stephen._—Yes; mine is indeed a mournful destiny.
_Her Eldest Daughter_ (_whose lovely eyes gleam with tears_).—I weep
over your misfortunes. I have often heard my dear uncle, whose life you
saved at the peril of your own, speak of you in tones of deep affection,
and here is a diamond breastpin he gave me in Switzerland, on the Lake
of Geneva, on a tranquil moonlight evening, only ten days before his
soul’s departure for the spirit realms. Take it, dear Mr. Branch, and
keep it in remembrance of his affectionate niece. To no other being
would I present a sacred gift of my departed uncle.
_Stephen_ (_with overwhelming emotion_).—Please accept my profoundest
gratitude for your precious donation, which I will wear near a heart
that dearly loved your departed uncle, with whom I passed some of the
happiest hours of my life.
_The Youngest Daughter_ (_who is about ten years old_).—Dear Mr. Branch:
Will you take this sweet rose from me, and let me kiss you through the
grate?
_Stephen._—O God! This is too much for my poor nerves. (_I shed copious
tears, and all weep._) Yes, my pretty little girl, you can kiss me
through the grate. (_And her father holds her up, and I place my pale,
and cold, and haggard cheek to a perforation of my cell door, and this
affectionate little girl imprints a fervent kiss, which I cordially
reciprocate._)
_Father._—God has blessed me with great prosperity, and I will devote my
fortune to your restoration to liberty.
_Stephen._—Mr. Ashmead, my able and faithful Counsel, assures me that I
will soon emerge from prison, through the Supreme Judiciary. I most
sincerely thank you for your extraordinary generosity, and for the visit
of yourself and wife, and daughters, whom I will cherish all my days.
_Father._—When you obtain your liberty, you must come to Charleston,
where you will be received with our warmest hospitality.
_Wife._—If you come, you shall never leave us.
_Eldest Daughter._—You shall have the vacant seat of my uncle at our
table.
_Youngest Daughter._—Yes; and I will kiss you again—won’t I mother?—when
you come to Charleston.
_Mother._—Yes, my dear child; and you shall give him the sweetest rose
in our garden.
_Youngest Daughter._—That I will, and pretty flowers, too.
_Father._—Good by, Mr. Branch. (_Strives to get his hand through the
perforated door, but can clasp my fingers with but two of his._) Good
by, sir—good by.
_Wife._—Good by, Mr. Branch. I hope you will be restored to freedom.
_Eldest Daughter._—Good by, Mr. Branch. I shall think of you with
kindness, after I am gone, and I shall yearn to see you at our home in
Carolina.
_Youngest Daughter._—Good by, dear Mr. Branch, and I want you to give me
another kiss before I go. (_I kiss her, and receive many in return._)
Good by, and you must not forget to come to Charleston, when these bad
men let you out of prison. Good by, dear Mr. Branch, and I hope you will
not be lonely and cry much after we have gone far away from you. Good
by, Mr. Branch.
_Stephen._—Farewell, kind friends, and may God ever bless you for your
noble sympathy. (_All go, and I prostrate myself on my cot, and am in
prayers and tears long after their mournful departure._)
------------------------------------
I cut these lines from a newspaper when I was a boy. I think they bore
the Christian name of a lady. I am no poet, and do not know their merit.
Perhaps Bryant or Prentrice can discern their beauties. Let pure and
pensive and wild enthusiasts scan them for congenial spirits, and I
think they will preserve these curious meditations which have been in my
scrap-book since I was a pale youth, with my classic satchel, in the
schools of Rhode Island. Those editors who copy these lines must not
credit them to STEPHEN H. BRANCH, but they should say that they came
from the jaws of his ALLIGATOR, as their author is unknown, and as that
Animal introduces them to the public for the first time in thirty years: