Stephen H. Branch's Alligator, Vol. 1 no. 11, July 3, 1858

Transcriber Notes
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.
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.