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: