There has generally been some prominent local “crank” flourishin’ around New York, amusin’ people, startlin’ people and keepin’ his name in the newspapers. George the Count Johannes and George Francis Train have been prominent local cranks. But before either was Stephen H. Branch, who had more “method in his madness.”
Branch seemed born, among other things, for the express purpose of spillin’, or causin’ to be spilled, printer’s ink. He was always writin’ about himself or somebody else, generally himself, and was always hauntin’ the newspaper offices, and makin’ the editors’ lives burdens to ‘em, tryin’ to get his writin’s published. If the editors didn’t publish his stuff, woe to ‘em–they would never hear the last of what they had lost by their stupidity, etc., or what would have happened if. And if the editors did publish his stuff, then still more woe to ‘em–and to the public–for then Stephen would “bob up serenely” and insist upon answerin’ anybody who would answer him, and there was always some fool as big as himself, and so there was no end to him. He was a sort of perennial two-legged publication.
According to his own account, Stephen H. Branch, as he invariably signed himself, was born in Providence, R. I. His mother was a Yankee belle, Miss Lucrecia Loomis, and his father was a village grocer and a country “judge,” descended direct from Roger Williams and Governor Jenks. His Branch ancestors all had “fit into the Revolution,” and his grandfather had been the biggest drum major in the Continental army, and the man who had made the most noise in it, which was highly probable, judgin’ from his descendant.
An uncle of Stephen had been a tailor–Nicholas–and of this tailor, Stephen told a queer story, which he certainly believed himself. Nicholas had never studied tailorin’, but considered himself divinely inspired in that direction, and so cut clothes by inspiration. This did very well for a while, but one day a “hard customer,” the bad man of the village, had experienced religion and was goin’ to make a public statement of his religious “experience” for the benefit of his fellows, and so ordered a new suit of clothes from Nicholas to tell it in. Somehow Nicholas’s inspiration gave out just at this critical time, and he made a pair of pants for the converted old sinner which fit him so badly that instead of goin’ to the meetin’ house to pray and preach, he went over to the tailor’s to curse and swear at him, went on a big drunk, and never showed up any more.
This made Nicholas so full of remorse and shame that he gave up tailorin’ and turned missionary, and from all accounts, made a better missionary than he did tailor by long odds, and converted over a hundred old reprobates to make up for the one he had lost.
Stephen told this story so often that he got to believe it, and for all I know it may be as true as anythin’ else he said about himself, or his ancestors.
Stephen’s father, “Judge” Branch, had a partner in his grocery called Olney, who married well in after years, became quite distinguished, and gave Stephen a lift every now and then. Stephen was one of eight children, and ran off from home, and havin’ educated himself by close application, tried school teachin’ a while, then sailorin’, and finally drifted to New York, where he settled, so far as he could ever be said to “settle,” and got jobs in assistin’ local politicians whose education had been neglected; then studied law after a fashion and dabbled a little in politics on his own hook.
He ran for Alderman in the Third ward and was certain of election; issued flamin’ circulars about what he was goin’ to do when he was elected, and then found out that he hadn’t been elected, but had been “sold out.”
Then he went to California and wrote a series of letters from the South, in which he dealt largely in alligators, and got to be nicknamed “Alligator Branch.”
Returnin’ a few years later he formed a sort of partnership with Alfred Carson, chief engineer of the old Volunteer Fire Department, and, in conjunction with this veteran, fought tooth and nail against the practice, then coming into vogue, of usin’ the Fire Department as a political machine. This controversy embroiled Branch with Matsell, then chief of the police, and Dick Connolly and George H. Purser, and made things around the City Hall very lively.
Then he wrote some red hot papers for the Sunday Mercury, and afterwards started a paper of his own which he called “The Alligator,” which he made so bitterly personal that he was prosecuted criminally for libel, and was convicted and sentenced to a year’s imprisonment on Blackwell’s Island.
Branch deserves honorable mention for his conduct as juryman on an important occasion. He was foreman of the inquest on the big fire on Hague street in which six persons were burnt to death, and discharged his duties in this position fearlessly, although he could have feathered his pockets by bein’ just a little blind to certain facts that were developed in the inquest.
But the three most interestin’ points to my notion in Steve Branch’s variegated career were his experiences as peddler, his views on worms, and his tussle with Horace Greeley.
At one time in his life he went round New York city here peddlin’. And what do you think he peddled? Why, you would never guess unless I told you. He peddled tuition–peddled education. He went round from house to house offerin’ to educate servant girls. He held it was a shame that the poor servants couldn’t get a chance for learnin’, and as they hadn’t the time or the will to go after education ‘emselves, why he conceived the idea of bringin’ education, or as much learnin’ as he could carry around inside of him, to ‘em–carrying it to their very doors–down to the very basement. The very a-basement of learning, truly.
It was an idea worthy a genius or a good fairy, but, somehow, the very class it was designed to bless didn’t take to it kindly. The very servant girls he wanted to educate slammed the door in his face, called him hard names, and then stayed out half the night in area-ways flirtin’ with the policeman.
But funnier than even his peddlin’ education were Stephen H. Branch’s views on worms. According to Branch all genius was worms. The more worms in a man the more genius. It was these worms in a man that made him restless and eager to do somethin’ to raise him above his fellows.
Accordin’ to this theory, Alexander, Caesar and Napoleon were simply three men that had worms, and had ‘em bad. It was the worms that made Frederick the Great. It was the worms in an American citizen that made him want to be President. It was the worms in the New Yorker that made him want to be Mayor or Alderman. Branch himself, accordin’ to his own account, had been “born with worms.” There may be somethin’ in this theory after all. A good many men of so-called “genius” have, to my notion, acted as if they had worms. And there is a good point about this theory: the moment genius gets too big for its breeches it can be at once given its quietus by a bottle of vermifuge. Unwholesome ambition can be got rid of, just like unwholesome anythin’ else, at the drug store.
But perhaps the funniest thing of all, in the whole eccentric career of this crank Branch, was his night and fight with Horace Greeley.
Years ago, the first week in May was known as anniversary week, when all the “isms” and “ites” from all over the country would flock to New York to have a pow wow at the Tabernacle, or some church or hall. Lots of queer-lookin’ strangers used to be seen then in the metropolis, and with their long hair, and long coats, and broad-brimmed hats, big spectacles and cotton umbrellas, would mark a period in our yearly history.
Horace Greeley, then in full feather on the Tribune, took a great interest in this anniversary week, and one time undertook to advise all strangers comin’ to town for these exercises to stop at the old Graham House, where they had the celebrated Graham bread, which Horace was so fond of, and which he regarded as so healthy. A good many people took this advice, and so the Graham House, in Barclay street, got full to overflowin’; so full that Greeley himself, tryin’ to get a room there one night, was unable to get an apartment all to himself, but was compelled to share the bed of Steven H. Branch.
The editor and the crank–or should I say the two cranks?–got arguin’, and then got to lyin’ down, or tryin’ to. But the bed, which had originally been too small for Branch himself, was of course a deal too small for Branch and Greeley both, and as the night was raw, and the bed coverin’ thin, there was scanty accommodation for two. Branch, desirous of bein’ polite, made Greeley–who got into bed first–the offer of the best half of the bed and of the bed clothes. But Horace not only took all Stephen offered him, but tried for more.
By the time Branch got into bed he found he had only the extreme edge of the bed left to get into, and no bed clothes at all. All the rest of the bed and all the clothes were under and over Greeley.
Even a philosopher don’t like this sort of thing, and even Stephen demurred, and tried to shove Horace along in the bed and tugged at the bed clothes. But Horace held on to the sheets, quilt, and particularly the thin and only blanket, like he did to bran bread and abolitionism, and wouldn’t budge or be budged, though he pretended to be fast asleep and snorin’.
Do what he could, Stephen couldn’t do anything with Horace, and for several mortal hours the crank lay literally on the outside of the bed shiverin’, while the editor lay on the inside, tucked tightly in and sweetly snorin’.
At last, human nature couldn’t stand it, or lay it, any longer, and Stephen determined on redress. He got it.
He quickly arose, leavin’ Horace to think, if he thought at all while snorin’, that he had abandoned the unequal struggle, and sat by the window awhile, and put his bare feet out of the window. Then, when his feet were as cold as ice he lay down on the bed once more, and quietly laid bare enough of the unsuspectin’ Horace’s body for his feet to cover. Then he covered that portion of the editor’s exposed anatomy with his icy feet and pressed ‘em firmly. It was enough. With a yell the editor awoke in real earnest, swearin’ as vehemently as he did later on in the McFarland trial.
Horace and Stephen shared the bed and bed clothes “jointly” the rest of the night.
[Editor’s notes: “Anniversary Week” was an event that took place during the first week of May, in 1840s New York. It brought together many different reform groups: Temperance advocates, abolitionists, vegetarians, etc.
The Graham House was an 1840s boarding house at 63 Barclay Street, run by abolitionist Roswell Goss. Horace Greeley often stayed there, as it was close to the offices of the New York Tribune. It served vegetarian meals, and prohibited the use of tobacco and alcohol. It was named in honor of Graham bread, the foundation of the Graham Diet of Sylvester Graham.
Though the idea of adult men sharing a room and bed for convenience is alien to more modern senses of personal space, it was not unusual up to the 19th century; many children grew up sharing a bed with their siblings or parents; and inns, when full, offered patrons the option of sharing a room with a stranger.]
