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Title: Stephen H. Branch's Alligator Vol. 1 no. 23, September 25, 1858
Author: Branch, Stephen H.
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Stephen H. Branch's Alligator Vol. 1 no. 23, September 25, 1858" ***

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                           Transcriber Notes

 Obvious printer errors, typos and missing punctuation fixed.
   Misspellings in the pupil’s speech in the Stephen and his Adult Pupil
   story have been retained, as have archaic spellings and inconsistent
   hyphenation.
 The table of contents has been created and added by the transcriber.
 A description of an illustration with no caption has been added.
 Italics are represented by underscores surrounding the _italic text_.
 Small capitals have been converted to ALL CAPS.

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

                Early Boyhood and its Merry           1
                  Pastimes.

                The Alligator Lives for Another       2
                  Week.

                Stephen and his Adult Pupil.          3

                Stephen H. Branch, in his Cell at     3
                  Blackwell’s Island—A Mournful
                  Scene.

                Advertisements                        4

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



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

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

  Volume I.—No. 23.    SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1858.    Price 2 Cents.



                 Early Boyhood and its Merry Pastimes.


I remember the woman’s school at four years old, and the merited
chastisement of the school marm; my desperate descent on the sugar bowl;
the military company of which I was commander; my annual cries in the
trundle bed at 12 o’clock and one second, A. M.: “I wish you merry
Christmas, Ma,—I wish you happy New Year, Pa,—now gim me cent;” with my
father’s: “Go to sleep, you young rascal, or I’ll come and spank you;”
the two cents I always got on the 4th of July, if I had been a good boy,
and the solitary penny if I hadn’t; the death of my mother of twins; the
copious tears of my father and Aunt Lucy; my grief at her sudden demise;
the country boarding school, and the blast of lightning that felled me
to the earth, while whittling on the summer green; my eyes soon open on
the glories of the lurid universe, and I scamper into the pretty
cottage, and bound into the arms of my aunt, who nearly smothers me with
affectionate embraces; the storm passes; a bow appears, with crimson
arrows, and lingers on the concave’s rosy verge, till Venus gleams
through the twilight leaves, when its gorgeous hues are vailed by the
revolving spheres, and it descends the dazzling west.

               Whose Archer follows the resplendent sun,
               Before whose darts the stormy Furies run;

the moon ascends the east in matchless splendor, and roams in tranquil
beauty through infinitude, spreading its snowy light on vale and mead,
that vie with lakes of liquid silver; my aunt lingers at my bed, while I
say my evening prayer, and invests my heart with sacred feelings; myself
and brother William, on our way to school, through a dreary wood, espy a
boy in a wagon, when I exclaim: “Why, Bill, there’s our brother Albert;”
Bill stares and says: “Steve, your perceptions are very foggy, and I
begin to think you aint got good sense;” I closely scan the boy, and
smile, but elicit no response, the little rogue riveting his bright blue
eyes on the vacant air; Bill passes on to school, with: “Steve, you are
raving mad, and I’m going to tell Aunt Freeman so;” when I address the
stranger thus: “Little boy, you look like my brother Albert, and this
horse and wagon resemble ours, and won’t you please to tell me if you
aint my brother Al, who lives far away from here, in a place called
Providence? I always dearly loved him, and I havn’t seen him for a long
time now, and I would like to see him very much; come, now, little boy,
aint you Ally Branch, and if you are, won’t you please to tell me so?”
Tears roll down his pale cheeks, followed by the sweetest smiles, (like
simultaneous rain and sunshine,) extending his arms, with: “How do you
do, dear brother Stevy;” I scream; dart into the wagon, and, placing my
arms around his neck, fondly kiss him. And then I made the woods ring
with my cries for Bill to return, and behold our dear brother, found so
mysteriously alone in the forest wild. Bill slowly returns; and I hear
the echo of a laugh, and see a man emerge from the monarch oaks, whom I
discern as father, whose playful stratagem blares brightly before my
enraptured vision. And with the velocity of light, I spring from the
wagon, and at a bound, am in the embraces of my adored father. The vail
slowly passes from the eyes of Bill, who stands like a statue in the dim
perspective, crying lustily over my triumphant conquest. We all shout
and wave our hands, and Willie bounds into Albert’s and father’s arms,
whose fervent kisses soon dispel his tears; when his crescent and
revolving eyes gently threaten to eclipse the sun and moon with
hilarious splendor; three happy brothers then rock the forest solitude
with merry vociferations, and run like deer, and sing like infant
Jubals, with sweet responses from congenial birds, prancing on the oaks’
majestic branches. And with hearts of gladness, we spring like hounds
into the wagon, and return to Aunt Freeman’s, and that I regard as one
of the happiest days of my early boyhood. On the following morn, we
leave for Providence, which I scarcely reach, ere our yard is a camp of
boys, eager to embrace their favorite commander, after his long
captivity in the desert wilds of Woodstock; myself and Albert soon go to
another country school; we board with a minister who has a large family,
and a small salary, which was tardily and scantily paid with very poor
provisions; myself and Al don’t like the fare; has fried pork too often
for breakfast, and pork and beans for dinner, with a cold cut of pork
and beans at nightfall; and we enter our solemn protest against so much
fried hog, and so many baked beans; we protest, too, against his not
fastening the doors and windows nights, as father does at home; we hear
strange noises nights, while abed; and respectfully implore him to put
locks on the doors, and nails in the windows, who refuses, and says,
that good boys are never afraid of robbers or assassins; we still hear
dreadful sounds at midnight; and bury ourselves, head and all, in the
bed clothes; sweat terribly, and nearly smother; grow pale; lose flesh;
get very weak; have cold night sweats; finally despair, and threaten to
leave for home; write long letters to father, full of bad writing and
spelling, who doesn’t answer them, because he can’t read them; we start
for Providence; our sacred host pursues us on a cadaverous horse, whose
ribs rattle, and captures us in the haunted woods, where, in old times,
a man was murdered, and two lovers hung themselves, because their
parents wouldn’t let them marry; I and Al were hurrying through this
dreadful wood, when old cadaverous and the parson pounce upon us, who
threatens to whip us if we don’t return, and cuts a switch for the
purpose; his eyes roll terribly, and, as I once heard he was slightly
insane at times, and, fearing he might murder me, I gave the wink to Al,
and we concluded to return, very gently shaking our heads and fists,
with threats of telling our father all about it some day, who was a
Justice of the Peace, and could lock up any body, and have them hung
beside; to silence our unceasing clamors, the parson gets some cheap
second-hand locks, and rusty nails, fastens the doors and windows
nights, and gives us fried liver twice a week for breakfast, and lets
pork and beans slide awhile, with very tender veal instead; don’t hear
strange sounds at night any more; sleep very soundly; don’t hear the
cheerless midnight winds as of yore; get fat as butter; are very
contented; Fourth of July close at hand; father comes after us; shed
tears of joy, and run and jump like wild cats, and get home alive once
more from a country boarding school; go to a party on the night of our
arrival; Oscar Rivulet and Clara Violet are there; at the party’s close,
I can’t find my hat, and while in its vigorous pursuit, Oscar takes the
arm of Clara, when I step up and whisper in his ear, that I will
chastise him the very next day for cutting me out; Oscar and Clara
depart; I find my hat in the oven, where Oscar doubtless put it, and
begin to cry with rage; to console me, my aunt places the arm of Flora
Rosebud in mine, who was a dashing little belle, with whom I slowly
ramble towards her home beneath a brilliant sky; soon after I bid Flora
good night, at her father’s door, a dark cloud rapidly arose and
obscured the moon, and I became afraid, and ran fleetly home, expecting
to meet an assassin at every corner’s turn, but when I heard the
cheerful watchman’s cry of “half-past eight o’clock, and all’s well,”
and beheld his noble form in the distance, my fears are tranquilized,
and I walk as erect and firm as the hero of many battles, and loudly
boast of my courage, after I get snugly in the trundle bed with Albert,
the shield of my father’s voice above me, to fortify my pretended valor.
On the following day, my step-mother struck me on the head with a jacket
with brass buttons, for my impudence at dinner in my father’s absence,
because she wouldn’t give me more boiled onions, of which I was very
fond; the blood flowed freely, and she was terrified lest I would bleed
to death, and she be hung; she dressed the wounds most tenderly, and
gave me plenty of onions and sugar, and warmly coaxed me not to tell
father when he came to tea, lest he would gently chide her for her
laceration of the skull of the prolific brain of the darling son who
bore his own father’s promising name of Stephen; and for many days she
gave me candy and peanuts, and gave me so many onions that I have
loathed them since; she even poulticed my lacerated head with boiled
onions, which I smell to this day; I had the ear-ache, and she even put
a small roast onion in my ear to check the pain; I once passed through
Weathersfield, (where onions are as thick as leaves in the Vale of
Vallambrosa,) whose atmosphere caused me to fertilize its streets with
bile; my step-mother finally stops my supplies of sweetmeats, and I
threaten to tell my father of her violent blow, and show him my scars,
when she surrendered, and gave me sweet things for a long period; and
she saved me many a whipping from my father, when I was mischievous,
lest I would tell and show the relics of her trouncing, which gave me a
boundless latitude for pranks until the scars all passed away; at this
time, my dog Watch was drowned, but he rose the ninth day, and I buried
him at the foot of my father’s garden, with funeral honors, a
neighboring dog, in traces, bearing his precious body to the grave, over
which I placed turf and stones in memory of a dog I dearly loved; after
the funeral, Cornelius Snow, nicknamed Flop, called me names, and I told
my father that “Flop Snow had called me names, and I meant to lick him
for it,” when my father effected a reconciliation, by allowing Cornelius
to call me Steve as long as I called him Flop. He had long been at the
head of my class, at school, and I had never been at the head, which
mortified my father, who told me if I would get above Flop through good
spelling, he would give me a sixpence; I tried long and hard, but I
couldn’t do it; so, on a very stormy day, while myself and Flop were the
only boys of our spelling class at school, I told him that if he would
make a mistake in spelling, and let me keep at the head until school was
over, I would give him three cents; Flop consented, and broke down on
beef, which he spelled _b-e-a-p-h-f-e_, for which the teacher boxed his
ears, and made him see ten thousand sparkling stars; I got sixpence from
my father, and gave Flop half of it; there was a full class the next
day, and down I went to the foot, my usual place; my father learned of
my collusion with Flop, and gave me a tremendous whipping; the next day
I went several miles down Providence river, in a canoe with Elias Smith
and Joseph Fuller, and was gone four days, and all the town was terribly
excited lest we were lost; but Mr. Proud, a neighbor, of whose peaches
and melons I was very fond, stuck to it like beeswax, that I would never
be drowned, while hemp grew in Kentucky; the day after my return, my
step-mother whips Albert for stealing a small lump of sugar, at about
11, A. M.; father usually came to dinner at 12, M.; Ally cried for a
long time; but he began to lull, and I was afraid he wouldn’t hold out
until father got home; so, I got Ally down cellar, and pinched him, and
pulled his hair, to make him keep it up, until father got home; it being
near twelve o’clock, and my step-mother knowing my influence over Ally,
told me if I would pacify him before father came to dinner, she would
give me as much sugar as I wanted for a whole week; I accepted the
bribe,—but Al overheard us, and declared that he would cry like thunder,
until father came, if I didn’t give him half the sugar; we finally
compromised, by allowing Ally a quarter of all the lumps I got; a few
days after, while returning from a Saturday excursion down the river, my
brother Bill cut up so, that the boat capsized, in very deep water, a
short distance from the shore; Jim Baker and myself got on the bottom of
the boat, while Bill’s feet and head were entangled in the ropes and
sail; Sam Thurber and others swam to the shore; Jim Baker and myself
couldn’t swim, and we expected to be lost; and we bellowed murder like
fury; amid this awful scene, the owner of the boat came down the shore,
and cried: “Pay for that boat, you rascals, pay for that boat;” he had
scarcely breathed these brutal words, when down went Jim Baker and
myself to the river’s bed; I rose to the surface first, and went down
again, when Jim grabbed my leg, and we came up together, and a noble
sailor seized and bore us to the shore, where we were put in barrels,
and pints of water squeezed out of us; Jim and myself open our dewy
eyes, shake hands, and walk home arm in arm, with the sailor behind,
thrashing the boat proprietor for demanding pay, instead of coming to
our rescue, whose unparalleled inhumanity the gallant tar couldn’t
tolerate. I went to bed, and had a horrid night-mare, and dreamed of
sharks and whales. On the day after the boat calamity of Jim Baker and
myself on Providence river, I arose with the glorious sun, ate a spare
repast, and went to school. My stomach yet complained of salt water, and
my head and books were at rapiers’ points. The teacher, SHAW, vainly
chides me for my indolence, and summons me before him, and demands my
spelling-book, and gives me _genuine_, which I spell “_gen-ner-wine_.”
The school is convulsed in the wildest screams. Shaw seizes his
lignumvitae ruler, darts through the aisles, rolls his big gray eyes,
and bangs the desks until the dust rises into clouds, when the mirthful
tumult is hushed into the silence of a tomb, and he bids me take my
seat, with furious cuffs of both ears. My brother Bill had been
snickering in his hat, and sleeve, and handkerchief, until he had
saturated them all with his hilarious tears, and, as I passed him on my
way to my seat, he burst into a _genuine_ Branch laugh, and all again
was chaos. The scholars were more uproarious than before, and Shaw rages
furiously, and calls up Bill, when all is silent terror, and every eye
is riveted on its book. Shaw demands Bill to extend his right hand,
which he declines to do, because he has a felon, and tender warts all
over his knuckles. Shaw then commands him to hold up his left hand, and
Bill obeys, when Shaw’s eyes flash sparks of fire, his cheeks are
deathly pale, and his ferule descends with tremendous violence

                      On the vacant air,
                      As Bill’s hand wan’t there!

The scholars roar again, and clap their little hands, and stamp their
feet in the wildest ecstacy, when Shaw bellows like a rabid bull, and
gesticulates fatality to the rebellious scholars, whose eyes fall
quickly on their books, and all violently move their pallid lips, with
pretense of study, while a terrible revenge rankles in their hearts, for
Shaw’s cruel treatment of Bill, who has so many warts and a felon, with
salt water still gurgling in his ocean belly. At Shaw’s wrathful behest,
Bill again raises his trembling hand, and keeps his eye fastened on
Shaw’s; and as the ruler nears his palm, he dodges, when Shaw flies to
his scholastic throne for his cow-skin, and descends his ramparts with
the pomposity of a king, calmly surveying his juvenile and affrighted
subjects, and directs Bill to remove his jacket, who firmly declines.
Shaw seizes him, and Bill cries murder; the girls weep and faint, and
water is sprinkled on their cheeks and foreheads; the boys shake their
fists, and dare each other to rush to Bill’s rescue, but Shaw threatens
them with utter annihilation if they interfere, and the belligerent and
affrighted boys leave poor Bill to his unhappy fate.—Fortunately for
Bill, Shaw is short, and of very slender mould. Bill is stout, knows
well the physical weakness of his adversary, and proves himself fully
equal to the awful crisis before him. For, while Shaw strives to get
Bill across his knees to switch and spank him, Bill, by a sudden and
very elastic movement, gets between, and coils himself, like a snake,
around Shaw’s legs, and pinches, and bites, and tears his pants, and
finally trips him, and down they go, with Bill on Shaw, and with both
hands so firmly and desperately clenched in Shaw’s white cravat, as to
make his tongue protrude. The girls faintly titter, while the stoutest
and bravest boys bang their desks, and wildly shout with joy. The
panting combatants spring to the floor, and, like two roosters, have a
moment’s respite; Shaw is pale, and trembles with shame, and relents,
and in feeble and broken accents, directs Bill to take his seat; the
silence of a Capulet pervades the school, when my tremendous horse laugh
breaks the calm; the scholars scream again with frantic contortions;
Shaw’s eyes roll like a demon’s, and his voice rises high above the
universal clamor, which slowly subsides, and all is still again; Shaw
then comes on tiptoe to my desk, and grabs and drags me to the aisle,
with one hand clutched in my throat, and the other in my long hair, when
I grab him in a tender spot, and make him squeal; and so severe and
unrelenting is my grasp, that he gladly gives freedom to my throat and
hair, and implores, in tones of excruciating agony, to release my hands.
I slowly do so, when he re-seizes me, and, dragging me several feet by
my hair, kicks away the scuttle, and casts me headlong beneath the
schoolhouse, closing the scuttle over me; I can hardly sit upright in my
new abode; all is darkness; I smell the awful perfume of a dead skunk;
little mice squeal, and run over me, and nibble at my mouth and nose,
and big and hungry rats approach, and violently attack me, which I keep
at bay with my feet and hands, and hideous yells, and they finally
scamper to their holes, while a myriad of mice remain to torment me; I
chew tobacco, to drown my abject sorrow; it is the first cud that ever
graced my mouth; I cover it with the fragment of a newspaper, to prevent
my giddy exhiliration through a too strong taste of tobacco; I soon got
deathly sick, and thump and scream for Shaw to let me out, who heeds not
my piteous cries; I am desperate, and resting my hands and feet on the
ground, I get an irresistible purchase, and with a mighty movement of my
back, I burst the scuttle with a tremendous crash, and dart from my
narrow and dreary cavern into the schoolroom, and run down the aisle,
vomiting at every step; the scholars are nearly gone; as I approach the
door, Shaw grabs me, when I belch the purest bile plump in his face,
which, of course, was purely accidental; Shaw is blinded with tobacco
bile, and wipes his cheeks, and nose, and mouth, and eyes, and commands
me to go to his desk; I refuse; he then expostulates, and breathes kind
words, which allay my anger, and check the flow of tobacco and salt
water bile; I go to his desk; he dismisses the few scholars that remain,
save my weeping brother Bill, curled in the corner; Shaw laments the sad
occurrence; hopes we will be better boys, and permits us to go home; on
our arrival, father is at tea, listening to brother Albert’s version of
the story; Bill and myself seat ourselves at table, when father directs
each to give his melancholy narrative; Bill is hungry, and slowly
begins, and lacks vivacity, and the impatient father turns to me for the
rapid and vivid analysis of the horrid scholastic anarchy and rencontre
then flying on exaggeration’s wide-spread wings, and distracting the
peaceful firesides of Providence; I swallow the delicious food already
in my mouth; cleanse my throat with a prolonged swallow of commingled
tea and sugar, and tell my story in a nervous strain; my father’s eyes
are large, and fixed on mine, throughout my exciting narrative, at whose
close, he gets his hat and cane and autumnal mantle, and bids myself and
Bill to follow him; we penetrate the pitchy darkness, and after varied
street meanderings in the turbulent and piercing evening winds, we
ascend the steps, and tap at the door of Shaw; we enter his pale
presence, who is extremely courteous to father, who is a member of the
Visiting School Committee, and invested with power of a teacher’s
dismissal, which Shaw now fears; father opens his deadly batteries, and
Shaw, perceiving no possible escape, pleads extenuation for the violent
temper that nature gave him; spoke of William as a very good and
studious boy, (a truth,) and of Stephen as a meritorious and
enthusiastic youth, who dearly loved his books, (a lie,) and deeply
regretted that his heated passion led him to the chastisement of
William, and the incarceration of Stephen; and declared in tones of warm
sincerity, that if father would forgive him, he would never whip nor
imprison us again, but lead us up the hill of science through gentle and
persuasive means; father pities and admires his humility, and, rising to
depart, directs Shaw to inform him every Friday by letter, how many days
William and Stephen have played the truant during the week, and with
what facility we recite our lessons, and what our general conduct is;
Shaw’s eyes flash joy at these delightful and magnanimous behests, while
the eyes of Bill and myself flash guilt and fury at Shaw’s apparent
conquest, because all our future sport is spoiled, and mine, especially,
as I played truant about twice a week, and Bill once a month; and
because I seldom got my lessons well; Shaw and father extend their
hands, and shake a warm good night: and while they linger at the outer
door in friendly conversation, I slyly crawl through father’s legs, to
get into the street as soon as possible, and away from Shaw’s victorious
presence; the last shake of hands transpire between father and Shaw, who
slowly closes the door with a beatific smile; father, myself, and Bill
muffle ourselves in our fervent garments; it snows and blows very hard;
and, as we walk slowly homeward against the snow and wind, father
delivers an affectionate and mournful lecture, gently chiding us for the
trouble we had caused him, and the rapid increase of his snowy locks;
kindly warning us that we were constantly exposed to the sad fate of
orphans, our tender mother being already gone forever; and with a
trembling voice implored us to be good boys, to study hard, to be kind
and obedient to Mr. Shaw, to cultivate manly virtues, and strive to
become intellectual giants, and the pillars of our country, in peace or
war, after the fathers of his generation had passed from the field of
action. We both wept bitterly, and besought our dear and indulgent
father to forgive the past, with assurances of our efforts to please him
and our teacher in the future. We reach home, and father kindles a
crackling, hickory fire, and gives us cider and walnuts, and tells us
pretty stories, and puts on extra bed clothes, because the night is so
piercing cold, and tucks our bed at the sides, to keep out the biting
air, and then directs us to clasp and raise our little hands to God, and
say after him our evening prayer of

                   “Now I lay me down to sleep,
                   I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
                   If I should die before I wake,
                   I pray the Lord my soul to take;”

and then gives us a parting kiss, and pats our little foreheads, and
breathes sweet tones of affection until he passes from our view. Bill
and myself make good resolves for the future, and breathe a fond “good
night!” and then embrace the tranquil slumber and innocent dreams of
early boyhood.


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                        Office—114 Nassau Street

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

                             THE ALLIGATOR.

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

                New York, Saturday, September 25, 1858.

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                 The Alligator Lives for Another Week.


The Ladies have saved the ALLIGATOR for six days more, in which God made
the gorgeous realms of infinitude! Last week, I proclaimed that unless
advance subscribers or patriots came to the rescue of the wounded and
bleeding ALLIGATOR, he must soon expire amid the tumultuous exultations
of his proscriptive adversaries. The gentlemen responded in companies,
but the ladies in battalions, and soothed and rescued the poor ALLIGATOR
from the jaws of immediate death.[1] Without the sympathy of woman, man
soon droops, and totters, and expires. Woman is the prolific source of
all that glorifies the cottages, and mansions, and palaces of the globe.
And her benevolence ameliorates the poor, and oppressed, and
disconsolate in every region of the earth. From Eve to Mary, the mother
of Washington, the history of woman is a brilliant constellation.
Without the pure and patriotic Mary, there would have been no
Washington,—and without Washington, the Americans would have had no
country, and the oppressed of all lands no asylum of liberty and
prosperity. In the sacred bosom of her family, woman is like the queen
of night amid the pretty stars. In our infant years, she nourishes, and
shields, and cheers us in our precarious journey to maturer years. She
imparts the first kiss, and moulds the first prayer, and is prouder of
her offspring than a queen of her throne. As the child buds, and blooms,
and blossoms, and ascends the hill of moral and scholastic science, she
watches every pace with breathless solicitude. And in penury or
affluence, in bondage or freedom, in power or on the scaffold, she
clings with intense affection to the adored objects of her creation.
Every family is a dominion. The father is a king, and the mother a
queen, and the children their subjects. The same laws govern a family as
a kingdom. Judicious penalties follow disobedience, and a good mother
imbues the heart and mind of her offspring with humanity and wisdom that
govern the world. And over all presides a Being of beneficence and
ubiquity, who wields the destinies of a Universe. Woman, under God, is
the source of all that cheers and ennobles man in his weary pilgrimage
from the cradle to the grave, and to her sympathies am I greatly
indebted for my recent liberation from captivity and the partial
resurrection of my declining fortunes. God bless her, then, and in my
sacred orisons and soliloquies, on land or ocean, I will ever cherish
her with those grateful emotions that I inherited from the genial heart
of my departed mother.

Footnote 1:

  If the ALLIGATOR dies, advance subscriptions will immediately be
  returned to my generous patrons, with my fervent wishes for their
  prosperity.

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


WILLIAM MACRAE is the only person authorised to collect subscriptions
for the “_Alligator_.” And here is his likeness, that when he calls to
solicit subscribers, all may know him by a comparison of this accurate
engraving with his living face. My Office is at No. 114 Nassau street,
second story, front room, where advance subscriptions will also be most
gratefully received.

                                                    STEPHEN H. BRANCH.

[Illustration: William Macrae]

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The tomb of Franklin—if a palm flag-stone with the earth can be so
called—is concealed from the public view by a venerable brick wall at
the corner of Fifth and Mulberry streets, Philadelphia. The remains of
the lightning philosopher are deposited there in the old burial ground
belonging to Christ Church. An appropriate monument has been
accidentally reared above them, in the shape of a telegraphic post, and
the lightning is at constant play over, if not under the eye of the man
who first chained it to the earth.



                      Stephen and his Adult Pupil.


                           THE FIRST LESSON.

_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:


                         MIDNIGHT MEDITATIONS.

         Earth lies dumb before me, and the shadows
       Of midnight cast their dim forms athwart it.
       Quiet is brooding o’er a silent world,
       And the soft hush of slumber seals each lid.
       Night is too fair for sleep: with me thought wakes
       And treads in distant paths, where human step
       Ne’er left an echo on the vacant air.
       The gorgeous canopy of heaven is wrapped
       In silvery haze: Gems of uncounted wealth
       Bestud the lofty concave; and the bright
       Moon seems rolling like a silvery ball
       Across the trackless æther, mantling the earth
       In glory;—while her mellowed light
       Falls on my spirit with a holy calm, like that
       Of heaven. Tell us—why are we chained to earth?
       ’Tis far too gross for the immortal mind,
       Which yearns for higher realms, and pants in vain
       For the full measure of perfection. Oh!
       I have gazed upon night’s starry volume,
       Till I have read long lessons of delight,
       And drank the raptures of another world.
       Thought, living thought, burns to embrace the whole
       Of those deep mysteries eternity
       Conceals from mortal understanding; and
       The mind speaks out, and questions every beam
       Which falls from the bright reservoir of heaven—
       Interrogates each plant and breathing thing—
       Retires within itself, and calls up every
       Faculty—sends powerful fancy forth to
       Search through untrod regions, but spends its pow’rs
       Unsatisfied, till it sinks down at last
       Exhausted by its own intensity.

         O for a walk among those stars of light,
       Where grandeur fills immensity! I long
       To fling my soul upon the pinions of
       Eternity, and revel in the blaze
       Of glory unrevealed—to gaze upon
       The light that emanates from God’s vast throne,
       And hear the music of the rolling spheres
       As they revolve in mystic circles round
       The deep centre of unknown attraction.
       Spirits of heaven are hov’ring round me,
       And breathe sweet songs of rapture in my ear.
       The rustle of their wings is like the sigh
       Of leaves, when the soft zephyr moves among
       Their quiv’ring branches. Their hallowed voices
       Wake the eternity within me, and warm
       Aspirations rise from my heart’s altar
       To the great throne of Uncreated Power,
       The wings of seraphim seem wafting me
       In thought far through the bright and boundless ether.
       O for the freedom of unbodied life!
       To rove where thought ne’er ventured—where fancy
       Halts, her swift wing wearied in its lofty flight.

         I gaze upon the stars, and drink the full
       Glory of the midnight heavens—and breathe
       The breath of spiritual existence
       Till my soul beats, like a captive bird,
       Against its prison grates, and longs to soar away, and mix
       With immortality.

                         Are not the stars
       Immortal? Do they not live forever
       In a joy of light? Have they not looked down
       From age to age upon this distant world
       And watched its evolutions? Viewed its face
       Change beneath the whelming flood—its cities
       Sink beneath the earthquake’s shock—its mountains
       Belch destruction—its boasted empires fall—
       Its armies crushed in battle—its proud kings
       Fade from earth—its ancient monumental
       Grandeur crumble into dust? Yet they roll on,
       Creatures of life, a beaming essence,
       A mysterious throng of heavenly
       Pageantry. But is there not a region
       Far above that envious height; above
       The stars; where beings live forever, and
       No darkness comes; where light exists for ages,
       Unborrowed from the sun; where storms dim not
       Its brightness? and where rapture never dies?
       Yes, far above the sky-bound ceiling, there
       Is light—eternal light—joy unsubdued,
       And everlasting life!

                             Is there such a
       Thing as sin? I feel it not. This is a
       Holy hour. Nothing exists to me but
       Heaven, and heaven’s pure habitants; all worldly
       Thoughts are drowned in high communing. Is there
       Such a thing as pain? I know it not, who
       Oft have known it. Heaven’s high-wrought happiness
       Is mine. This is a peaceful hour, and I
       Could deem myself already entered on
       Immortal ground, did not this clog of clay
       Assure me I am yet of earth, and have,
       Perchance, long years of pain, and wo, and sin
       To witness, and the dark vale of death is
       Yet unpassed by me, though ever near. Well,
       If it must be so, welcome the hour that
       Breaks these mortal shackles, and lets loose my
       Spirit on the wings of life, to find its
       Native element and long sought home, if
       Heaven at last be mine. Congenial spirits
       Of unknown existence! would that your forms
       Could be perceived by mortal eyes, that I
       Might hold sweet converse with you, and forget
       That I am mortal.

                         Oh! there is that
       Within, which tells me I was destined for
       A higher sphere; that heaven was made for me;
       For _all_—if we accept the gift, and mount
       Faith’s ladder, as the word of life directs
       This life is not our destiny; ’tis but
       A prelude to a state eternal, a
       Mere beginning of existence, when once
       Begun, that ne’er shall cease to be. Life! Life!
       What art thou _now_—what art thou doomed to be?
       A shade; a substance; dream; reality;
       A blessing or a curse; a moment here;
       Hereafter an eternity! Dread thought,
       Eternity! Eternity! My soul
       Is lost in that vast subject, and I shrink
       Appalled from the unmeasured time to come.
       No more I ask to know its hidden space;
       ’Twill soon unfold to me, and I shall dwell
       Forever in its changeless realm; no more
       To feel emotions known on earth, or think
       As now I think, or live as now I live;
       ’Till then, “the mysteries of fate are hid,”
       And all lie buried in a world to come.

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                             FALL ELECTION.

                          STATE OF NEW-YORK,            }
                  OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF STATE,     }
                                ALBANY, August 2, 1858. }

_To the Sheriff of the County of New York_:

SIR—NOTICE IS HEREBY GIVEN, THAT AT THE GENERAL Election to be held in
this State on the Tuesday succeeding the first Monday in November next,
the following officers are to be elected, to wit:

A GOVERNOR, in the place of John A. King;

A LIEUTENANT GOVERNOR, in the place of Henry R. Selden;

A CANAL COMMISSIONER, in the place of Samuel B. Ruggles, appointed in
place of Samuel S. Whallon, deceased;

AN INSPECTOR OF STATE PRISONS, in the place of William A. Russell;

All whose terms of office will expire on the last day of December next.

A REPRESENTATIVE in the Thirty-sixth Congress of the United States, for
the Third Congressional District, composed of the First, Second, Third,
Fifth and Eighth Wards in the city of New York;

A REPRESENTATIVE in the Thirty-sixth Congress of the United States, for
the Fourth Congressional District, composed of the Fourth, Sixth, Tenth
and Fourteenth Wards in the city of New York;

A REPRESENTATIVE in the Thirty-sixth Congress of the United States, for
the Fifth Congressional District, composed of the Seventh and Thirteenth
Wards of the city of New York, and the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth
and Sixteenth Wards of Brooklyn;

A REPRESENTATIVE in the Thirty-sixth Congress of the United States, for
the Sixth Congressional District, composed of the Eleventh, Fifteenth
and Seventeenth Wards in the City of New York;

A REPRESENTATIVE in the Thirty-sixth Congress of the United States, for
the Seventh Congressional District, composed of the Ninth, Sixteenth,
and Twentieth Wards in the City of New York;

And also, a REPRESENTATIVE in the Thirty-sixth Congress of the United
States for the Eighth Congressional District, composed of the Twelfth,
Eighteenth, Nineteenth, Twenty-first, and Twenty-second Wards in the
City of New York.


          COUNTY OFFICERS ALSO TO BE ELECTED FOR SAID COUNTY.

SEVENTEEN MEMBERS OF ASSEMBLY;

A SHERIFF, in the place of James C. Willett;

A COUNTY CLERK, in the place of Richard B. Connolly;

FOUR CORONERS, in the place of Frederick W. Perry, Edward Connery,
Robert Gamble and Samuel C. Hills;

All whose terms of office will expire on the last day of December next.

The attention of Inspectors of Election and County Canvassers is
directed to Chapter 320 of Laws of 1858, a copy of which is printed, for
instructions in regard to their duties under said law, “submitting the
question of calling a Convention to revise the Constitution and amend
the same to the people of the State.”


                               CHAP. 320.

AN ACT to submit the question of calling a Convention to revise the
    Constitution and amend the same, to the People of the State:

Passed April 17, 1858—three-fifths being present.

_The People of the State of New York, represented in Senate and
    Assembly, do enact as follows_:

SECTION 1. The Inspectors of Election in each town, ward, and election
district in this State, at the annual election to be held in November
next, shall provide a proper box to receive the ballots of the citizens
of this State entitled to vote for members of the Legislature at such
election. On such ballot shall be written or printed, or partly written
and printed, by those voters who are in favor of a Convention, the
words: “Shall there be a Convention to Revise the Constitution and amend
the same? Yes.” And by those voters who are opposed thereto, the words:
“Shall there be a Convention to Revise the Constitution and amend the
same? No.” And all citizens entitled to vote as aforesaid shall be
allowed to vote by ballot as aforesaid, in the election district in
which he resides, and not elsewhere.

§2. So much of the articles one, two and three, of title four, of
chapter one hundred and thirty, of an act entitled “An act respecting
elections other than for militia and town officer,” passed April fifth,
eighteen hundred and forty-two, and the acts amending the same, as
regulates the manner of conducting elections and challenges oaths to be
administered, and inquiries to be made, of persons offering to vote,
shall be deemed applicable to the votes to be given or offered under the
act; and the manner of voting and challenges, and the penalties for
false swearing, prescribed by law, are hereby declared in full force and
effect in voting or offering to vote under this act.

§3. The said votes given for and against a convention, in pursuance of
this act, shall be canvassed by the Inspectors of the several election
districts or polls of the said election in the manner prescribed by law,
and as provided in article four, of title four, of chapter one hundred
and thirty of the said act, passed April fifth, eighteen hundred and
forty-two, and the acts amending the same, as far as the same are
applicable; and such canvass shall be completed by ascertaining the
whole number of votes given in each election district or poll for a
convention, and the whole number of votes given against such convention,
in the form aforesaid; and the result being found, the inspectors shall
make a statement in words, at full length, of the number of ballots
received in relation to such convention, and shall also state in words,
at full length, the whole number of ballots having thereon the words,
“Shall there be a Convention to revise the Constitution and amend the
same? No.” Such statements as aforesaid shall contain a caption, stating
the day on which, and the number of the district, the town or ward, and
the county at which the election was held, and at the end thereof a
certificate that such statement is correct in all respects, which
certificate shall be subscribed by all the inspectors, and a true copy
of such statement shall be immediately filed by them in the office of
the clerk of the town or city.

§4. The original statements, duly certified as aforesaid, shall be
delivered by the inspectors, or one of them to be deputed for that
purpose, to the supervisor, or, in case there be no supervisor, or he
shall be disabled from attending the board of canvassers, then to one of
the assessors of the town or ward, within twenty-four hours after the
same shall have been subscribed by such inspectors, to be disposed of as
other statements at such election, are now required by law.

§5. So much of articles first, second, third, and fourth, of title
fifth, of chapter one hundred and thirty, of the act entitled, “An act
respecting elections other than for militia and town officers,” and the
acts amending the same, as regulates the duties of County Canvassers and
their proceedings, and the duty of County Clerks, and the Secretary of
State, and the Board of State Canvassers, shall be applied to the
canvassing and ascertaining the will of the people of this State in
relation to the proposed convention; and if it shall appear that a
majority of the votes or ballots given in and returned as aforesaid are
against a convention, then the said canvassers are required to certify
and declare that fact by a certificate, subscribed by them, and filed
with the Secretary of State; but if it shall appear by the said canvass
that a majority of the ballots or votes given as aforesaid are for a
convention, then they shall by like certificates, to be filed as
aforesaid, declare that fact; and the said Secretary shall communicate a
copy of such certificate to both branches of the Legislature, at the
opening of the next session thereof. Yours, respectfully,

                                 GIDEON J. TUCKER, Secretary of State.

                                                 SHERIFF’S OFFICE, }

                                         NEW YORK, August 4, 1858. }

The above is published pursuant to the notice of the Secretary of State,
and the requirements of the Statute in such case made and provided.





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