When I was a little boy, a classic youth passed me, on a bright summer day, in Westminster street, in Providence, Rhode Island, whose name was Sylvester S. Southworth. His cheeks were so rosy, and his form so beautiful, and his face so graceful, that I paused and gazed until he descended my farthest horizon. In later years, I formed his acquaintance, and he became my friend, and in all my vicissitudes, he has evinced the fidelity of an affectionate brother. When William Tell was about to hurl an arrow at the temples of his child, he inquired, in the presence of Gesler: “Have I a friend here?” when a brave youth leaped forth, and exclaimed: “Yes, Tell, you have,” which thrilled the populace with delight, and made Gesler tremble. On Wednesday last, when in custody of the Sheriff, and in pursuit of bail, I looked in the direction of Heaven, and I could see a friend there, in the spirit of my lamented Father, but in the cheerless pavement, and in the cold faces of the multitude, I could discern no friend, and my poor heart was bereft of its wonted buoyancy. But when Mr. Joyce, the kind hearted Sheriff, accompanied me to the editorial room of Sylvester S. Southworth, of the _New York Mercury_, and I inquired: “Have I a friend here?” he sprang and seized my hands, and exclaimed: “Yes, Branch, you have,” and he became my bail, and my heart bounded from the gloom of a dungeon, to the liberty of a mountain. For twenty years, I have gratuitously written for the public journals of New York. For seven years, I wrote the Reports of Alfred Carson, against Municipal thieves, including Mayor Tiemann, who was then an Alderman. For two years, I pursued George W. Matsell, Richard B. Connolly, George H. Purser, and other perjured aliens. What I have suffered through severe toil and illness and penury, in my pursuit of public plunderers, and unnaturalized aliens, no inspired mind can ever truly describe. For three months past, I have exposed such bogus philanthropists and public thieves and rakes as Peter Cooper and Mayor Tiemann and Simeon Draper. And I most solemnly swear, that I will never cease my exposition of public robbers and villains of every grade, until the arrow of death penetrates the core of my heart. The Press and the People may conspire against me, and a Jury may soon consign me to the solitude of a dungeon, but while I enjoy the blessings of liberty, I will hurl shafts of political death at such monsters as Cooper and Tiemann and Draper, who have bamboozled and plundered the people for thirty successive years. So, come on, ye incarnate demons, and (through power and gold and bribes, and packed juries, and your official vassals and ruffians,) drag your victim to a prison or the scaffold, but God has erected a wall between you and my soul, that the sabres and bullets and verdicts of your hired assassins can never penetrate.