_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?