The Complete Works of Brann, the Iconoclast — Volume 12 (2024)

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VOLUME XII

CONTENTS

A CHAPTER WRITTEN IN THE LIFE BLOOD OF W. C. BRANN AND THOS. E. DAVISOTHER STATEMENTSBRANN'S DEATHDAVIS FOLLOWS BRANNW. H. WARDTHE OBSEQUIESTHE LATEST TRAGEDYBRANN AND BAYLORTERRIFIC DEADLY CONFLICTTHE LATE TRAGEDYTHE PASSING OF WILLIAM COWPER BRANNREST—REST IN PEACEA MEMORIAL TO W. C. BRANNDEATH OF W. C. BRANNA PEN PICTURE OF BRANNSEMPER VIVATIM MEMORIAMBRANN'S BRAVE BATTLEBRANN IS NO MOREBRAVE AND BRAINY BRANNBRANN, OF THE ICONOCLASTA MARTYR TO FREE SPEECHEDITORIAL ETCHINGSSIMPLE STATEMENT OF FACTSLET THE PLAIN TRUTH BE TOLDTHE LAST LESSONSALMAGUNDITHE DEATH OF BRANNPRIVATE VENGEANCEBRANN, THE FOOLWILLIAM COWPER BRANNSPEAKING OF GALLBLUE AND GRAYHUMBUGS AND HUMBUGGERYBEAUTY AND THE BEASTBRANN'S REPLY TO SLATTERYTHE LOCAL OPTION LUNACYOLD GLORYTHE LONE STARSLAVE OR SOVEREIGNRAINBOW CHASERS

Extracts from The Waco "Weekly Tribune," Issue of
Saturday, April 2, 1898.

A CHAPTER WRITTEN IN THE LIFEBLOOD OF W. C. BRANN ANDTHOS. E. DAVIS.

THE STREET DUEL TO THE DEATHIN WACO STREETS.THERE ARE TWO MORE WIDOWSAND EIGHT MORE ORPHANS.

The Full Recital of the Double Tragedy, the Deaths, the
Burials and Subsequent Events—Will This End It?
In God's Name Let Us Hope It Will.

Died—At 1.55 o'clock A.M., April 2nd, W. C. BRANN.
Died—At 2.30 o'clock P.M., T. E. DAVIS.

Friday afternoon, November 19, 1897, marked astreet duel and tragedy in which two men were killed,one lost an arm, and an innocent by-stander was injured.Friday afternoon, April 1st, 1898, within an hour ofthe time of the first tragedy, and within a half block ofthe locality of the other, W. C. Brann and Tom E.Davis engaged in a street duel in which each of them wasmortally wounded, and three others received slightwounds. Four fatalities within five months of each otherare bloody records in the history of the city of Waco,all of which can be traced to the same source, all of whichwere born of the same cause. The publication lastyear in the ICONOCLAST and the incidents following thepublication are well known. They have been publishedfar and wide, the kidnaping of Brann, the assault uponhim by the Scarboroughs, the Gerald-Harris affair, andthe hurried departure of Brann on one occasion. Duringall these incidents Tom E. Davis was an outspoken citizenof Waco. He denounced the author of the ICONOCLASTarticles and said he should be run out of townand had continued throughout it all to condemn the"Apostle." This caused bad blood between them, andalthough Davis had remained in the city all the time,and Brann had been on the street constantly, there hadbeen no outbreak or conflict. Each knew the feeling ofthe other in the matter. Such are incidents precedingthe shooting and leading up to it.

. . .

To trace the movements of the two men during Fridayafternoon appears easy at first, but as the investigatorproceeds in his search for information he meets conflictingstatements. Tom Davis left his office on SouthFourth Street, No. 111, about 5 o'clock or a fewminutes later. Brann, accompanied by W. H. Ward, hisbusiness manager, is alleged to have been standing atthe corner of Fourth and Franklin Streets as Davispassed to the postoffice corner, en route to the transferstables. In his ante mortem statement Davis says thathe heard Brann remark, "There is the s——of a b——who caused my trouble." Davis didn't stop or resent theinsult, but passed on. Soon after he called on James I.Moore at his office in the Pacific Hotel building andtogether they were discussing the city campaign. Accordingto Mr. Moore's statement, he was standing with hisback to the south facing the door and was looking towardAustin Avenue. Davis was facing him, his back to theavenue, and in a position which prevented him seeinganyone approaching from Austin Avenue. Brann andhis companion approached coming south, and as theypassed, Mr. Moore says, Brann halted, looked himsquarely in the face and passed on. Davis did not seethe editor and his manager, as he chanced to turnjust as they came up and as it happened he kept his backto the "Apostle" and his companion. From Mr. Moore'soffice, Davis passed into the Pacific Hotel bar and thenceto his office. Brann and Ward soon after returned tothe Pacific; there they met Joe Earp of Laco, from thewestern part of the county, and the three walked togetherto Geo. Laneri's saloon. Brann and Ward passed intothe saloon, Earp remaining on the outside. They passedout within a short time and passed down Fourth Street tothe Cotton Belt ticket office. Thence on to the newsstandof Jake French, and while there the shooting occurred.

. . .

As to the shooting there are conflicting statements.As in every tragedy eye-witnesses differ and citizens ofequal reputation for veracity and conservatism telldifferent stories. They are all honest in what they say,they all believe they saw what they relate, but theconflict in statements is yet there.

Messrs. W. W. Dugger, Joe Earp, M. C. Insley andS. S. Hall agree as to the first shot. They say it wasfired by T. E. Davis at W. C. Brann, when Brann's backwas turned. Others say Ward participated in the shooting,while numbers say that Ward did not. Here a conflictoccurs. At any rate, the first shot was fired byDavis, and it was immediately returned by Brann. Wardgot between the two and in the firing he was shot in theright hand. Davis fell at the first shot from Brann'spistol and writhed in agony. He soon recovered presenceof mind and raising himself upon his elbow returnedthe fire, Brann standing off shooting into the prostrateform, while Davis with unsteady aim was returning thefire. Every bullet from the "Apostle's" pistol foundlodgment in the form of the duelist engaged with him.All was excitement. It was an hour, 6 P.M., when SouthFourth Street was crowded, and the rapid report of thepistols caused a stampede of pedestrians, each of whichfeared contact with a stray bullet. In it all there wasone who displayed his devotion to duty, his bravery andcoolness—Police Officer Sam S. Hall. Mr. Hall wasstanding near the insurance office of George Willig, notforty feet away. He turned at the first report, andseeing the duel in progress, bravely made his way towardthe men. Brann was shooting from the north, and itwas toward the north the officer started. Davis wasfacing north. At each fire of the gun Officer Hall wouldscreen himself in a doorway, dart out and rush to thenext, gradually nearing them. Officer Dave Durie wasacross the street, and he started also, but Officer Hallreached them first, but too late. Each man had finishedshooting, Davis had fallen back upon the pavement andhis pistol rolled from his hand. Brann was standing,pistol in hand, its six chambers empty, looking upon thelengthened form of his antagonist. He had not spoken.Wounded in three places, blood was soiling his linen andhis clothes. He was yet upon his feet, and Officer Hall,not knowing how serious were his wounds, started withhim to the city hall, being joined almost immediatelyby Officer Durie.

Davis was wounded in many places. Bullets hadplowed their way through flesh and bone, and unablehimself to move, blood flowing freely from various wounds,his friends lifted him tenderly and gave him comfort asbest they could, surgeons responding quickly to the call.

Ward had been in the midst of the fray, but receivedbut one wound, in the hand. He was between the twomen at one time and then sought safety against the wall.When the smoke cleared away he went to the Old Cornerdrug store to have his hand dressed. Here he was arrestedlater by Deputy-Sheriff James Lockwood.

During the shooting Eugene Kempner, a musician ofKansas City, was struck in the sole of the right foot bya stray bullet, and a street car motorman, Kennedy byname, was struck in the left leg by a bullet. Neither ofthese injuries are serious.

While in the news stand, Mr. Davis became consciousof approaching dissolution and desired to make an antemortem statement. Assistant County Attorney Sluderwas present, and County Clerk Joney Jones, and to themhe gave the following version of the affair:

DAVIS STATEMENT.

"I left my office and started to Manchester's liverystable. At the corner of Franklin and Fourth Streetspassed Brann and Ward. Brann remarked, there goesthe damn s—— of a b—— that has caused all my trouble.Passed on and went to Manchester's stable on somebusiness, then came back to Waite's saloon and stopped for adrink. I then started for my office, but near Haber'sstore on Bankers' Alley I met them again. They beganto curse and abuse me again.

"Went on to the office; they followed me and I wentto the urinal in the rear, then came to the front of theoffice. At the door Brann said, 'There comes the dirtycur and s—— of a b——; he will take anything.' Brannthen pulled his gun and I shot at him; my gun hung inthe scabbard. The reason he shot me was because I wasloyal to my town and always expressed myself. He murderedme. They both shot me after I fell. They shotin my back, blinded me and I could not see. I makethis statement, for I know I am dying. He has beentrying to kill me for three months."

* * *OTHER STATEMENTS.

EYE-WITNESSES GIVE SOMEWHAT CONFLICTING ACCOUNTS.

Joe Earp, a young fellow from the western part of thecounty, who was in town that day, said:

"I met Mr. Brann in front of the Pacific Hotel, andhaving heard of him and read after him, I was curiousto know him. It was our first meeting; in fact, the firsttime I had ever seen him. We talked together, Mr.Ward with us, to Laneri's saloon. They went inside andI left them. In a few minutes they came out and crossedthe street, going to the Cotton Belt ticket office. Theymoved together towards Austin Avenue, but half turned,conversing one with the other. They reached the newsstandand stopped. I saw a man whom I have been toldwas Tom E. Davis, come out a door and shoot. Brann'sback was turned to the man, and while I did not see thebullet strike him, I supposed he was shooting at Brann.Ward turned as soon as the shot was fired and reachedfor the pistol. Brann turned instantly, gun in hand,and commenced shooting. Ward got in between the twoand then jumped away, against the wall. Davis fell atBrann's first fire and rolled over a time or two, andraising himself on his elbow, returned Brann's fire. Theyemptied their pistols. When Davis fell Brann steppedback a short distance and then advanced toward Davis,shooting at him, but he never approached nearer than sixfeet. Ward never fired a shot. I saw the whole affair and neverdid he fire or produce a pistol. When theshooting was over a man came out of the office and tookDavis' pistol from the walk."

J. C. Patterson was seen. He stated:

"I was with R. H. Brown of Calvert. We walkedinto the street from the Pacific Hotel sidewalk, and werewalking north when we heard a shot. Three shots werefired quickly and I saw Davis fall. I remarked, 'Theyhave killed Tom Davis.' I saw two men shooting, orBrann had two pistols. Davis raised on his elbow andreturned the fire. I did not see the first shot."

Sherman Vaughan said:

"I was passing along Fourth Street and reached aspot just in front of Geo. Laneri's saloon. I heard a shot,and looking toward the place from whence the soundcame, I saw Tom Davis reeling backward toward the wallin front of his place of business. He either fell againstthe sign in front of his office or the wall, I could not tellwhich. Mr. Brann was standing some eight or ten feetfrom him with a pistol in his hand and smoke was betweenthem. Then followed a rapid succession of shots.I could not see Mr. Davis shoot for the smoke, but couldsee Mr. Brann plainly. Mr. Davis fell to the sidewalkand then almost rose to his feet and fell again. He thenrolled along the sidewalk towards the alley and musthave turned over half a dozen times. Then another man,whom I do not know, joined in, and he and Brann firedshot after shot at Mr. Davis as he rolled along thesidewalk. The police then came up and took Brann away.I did not see what became of the other man."

Mr. James I. Moore said:

"I had met Tom Davis in front of my office in thePacific Hotel building, and we discussed the proposedmeeting at the city hall. He and I walked out on thesidewalk just in front of my office. I stood at the southside of the door facing north and Mr. Davis stood directlyin front of me on the sidewalk by the wall. We wereabout two feet apart. While talking, W. C. Brann camedown the sidewalk from the direction of Austin Street.He advanced within two feet of Mr. Davis and myself andstopped; looked me squarely in the face and then at Mr.Davis. I did not speak to Brann and don't think Davissaw him until after he passed on. Brann passed on inthe direction of the postoffice. Almost immediately afterBrann left, Davis left me and walked up Fourth Streettowards his office, and I saw him cross the street to hisoffice. I then advanced to the edge of the sidewalk andstood there alone about four or five minutes, when Iheard a shot in the direction of Davis' office. I lookedthat way and three shots seemed to be fired almostsimultaneously. Davis fell to the sidewalk and writhed asif in terrible agony. Brann seemed to be nearest toDavis, a very large man being close in Brann's rear.This man, I learned afterwards, was W. H. Ward. WhileDavis was rolling on the sidewalk both of these men werevery rapidly firing upon Davis. They seemed to poketheir pistols almost against Davis' body as they fired.After the first four or five shots the smoke became toodense to see all that occurred. The first sight seemed tochill my blood and I became too horrified to move."

H. C. Chase, 509 North Ninth Street:

"I was standing at the alley near Geo. Laneri's saloonand heard somebody say, 'Look out!' I glanced acrossthe street and saw Tom Davis on the sidewalk. He had agun in his hand and fired at once. Brann and Wardwere a few feet distant. Brann had turned slightly,but his back was still towards Davis when the latter fired.Ward jumped back and grabbed at Davis' gun as thelatter fired the second time. Brann fired as soon as heturned around and at his second shot Davis fell backwards.Ward, it seemed to me, had gotten to one side ofDavis and was reaching for Davis' gun. As the latterfell back, Ward backed up to the building. He did nothave a gun and did not shoot."

M. C. Insley, shipping clerk for Brann:

"I was standing in the doorway of Sam French'scigar store as Brann and Ward reached it. They hadjust passed the doorway, going toward Austin Street,when Davis appeared with a gun in his hand. He firedat once. I could not see Brann at this time. Davisfired the first shot and immediately I heard another shot,I suppose from Brann, and almost simultaneously a secondshot from Davis. As the latter fired the first shot Wardjumped and grabbed the muzzle of Davis' gun. He letgo as the shot was fired. He did not have a gun. Ibacked away from the door. The shooting was thick andfast. Davis fell back at the door of French's as Brannfired the last shot and his gun dropped from his grasp.John Williams, who appeared quickly, grabbed it, andscreening himself with the door-facing of the cigar store,tried twice to shoot it and then somebody grabbed him."

W. W. Dugger, employed in the feed store of J. P.
Nichols, on North Second Street, said:

"I was talking with Policeman Sam Hall at the alleynext to the Cotton Belt ticket office when the first shotwas fired. We were close to the scene. I glancedinstantly in that direction and saw Tom Davis with asmoking pistol in his hand. At the same time I sawBrann turn around and face Davis, from whom he appearedto be distant about fifteen feet, I should judge.He fired and fired again almost at the same time. In themeantime, the man with Brann, whom I learned afterwardwas Ward, had rushed up and caught Davis and itseemed as if he struggled with him a moment. WhenBrann fired a second shot, Davis fell. Ward had turnedhim loose at this time. Davis rolled over and over onthe sidewalk and fired, I think, two shots while he wasdown. While he was rolling over, Brann kept shooting athim as fast as he could work the trigger. Mr. Ward didnot fire a shot. I saw the whole affair and know thathe did not and he did not exhibit a weapon of any kind.He slipped back close to the building when he let go ofDavis, and when the shooting was over walked up thestreet. I saw a man come out of Williams' place andmake an effort to get Davis' pistol. I can't say whetheror not he got it. I don't know where he went. Policemanhad reached the scene and arrested Brann."

Policeman Sam Hall said:

"I was standing in front of George Willig's office atthe alley and Fourth Street on the same side of the streetand say forty or forty-five feet away from the placewhere the shooting took place. I was talking to Mr.Dugger and was standing out on the sidewalk. Somefour or five minutes before the shooting occurred I lookedacross the street and saw Brann and Ward standing infront of the haberdasher store of L. Krauss, and at thattime Davis passed them and went on a couple of doorsand stepped inside of the storeroom at that point. Ithen looked away, not having any idea at all of anytrouble, but just happened to see them. The next thingI noticed was the men were close together in front ofFrench's newsstand with Davis between me and Brannand Ward. The first of the trouble I saw Davis had hispistol in his hand and instantly fired. Brann whirled andcommenced firing at Davis. I immediately started tothem, but had to work my way in and out of one door tothe other and work my way along the wall of the building,as Brann was shooting directly toward me all thetime. I hallooed several times at them to stop shooting,and just before I reached them Davis fell on the sidewalkand Brann was still shooting. Davis attempted torise and Ward caught Davis by the shoulders and pulledhim back down on the sidewalk. Davis turned with hisface towards Brann and kept trying to fire, but his pistolsnapped. I jumped over Davis and caught Brann andtook the pistol out of his hands. Brann's pistol is aColts .41, latest improved, and was loaded all aroundand all chambers were freshly fired. When I caughtBrann, Ward was standing up by the wall holding hishand that was shot. I saw Ward fire no shots and I sawno pistol in his hand. I then started with Brann to thecity hall, and as I crossed the street towards the CitizensNational Bank, Police Officer Durie came up and assistedme in taking Brann on to the city hall."

* * *BRANN'S DEATH.

IT CAME AS PEACEFULLY AS SLEEP TO A BABE.

After being taken to the city hall, Mr. Brann wasremoved to his home, where Drs. Foscue, Hale, Graves andC. E. Smith attended him. Soon after arriving there heappeared to have reacted from the shock and there wasevery indication of an improvement. At 11 o'clock therewas a change, hemorrhage of the lungs occurringfrequently. In addition to the immediate family circle anumber of devoted friends (and no man ever had more devotedfriends than Brann) were at the home, anxious to renderthe offices of friendship. At midnight the physicianssaid there was no chance and the family gathered aboutthe bedside. During the long minutes which followed, aloving wife and two children sat by that bedside andwatched the unconscious man. His life hung by a threadand while surgeon's science was being used to strengthenthe strand that held the life, Death's knife was on it.They watched by his side, and as they watched they sawhim seek sweet repose. The anguish of the wife andthose children was terrible, but they awaited the visitationto that happy home, kind friends being near to speaksweet words of comfort. At 1.55 A.M. he died. Hisfeatures showed no pain, and when life left his body, theface appeared as that of one in a sweet, peaceful sleep.

The remains of W. C. Brann were prepared earlySaturday morning and lay in state all day at the residenceon North Fifth Street. Hundreds of ladies visited thehome and viewed the face of the Apostle. It was naturalas life itself. He lay upon a catafalque in the parlorsat home and the visitors passed around the lifeless form,looked upon the face and passed out.

Surviving Mr. Brann are his wife and two children,
Grace, aged 11 years, and Willie, a son, aged 6 years.
Brann himself was 44 years old.

Mr. Brann came to Texas about twelve years ago andhas been engaged in the newspaper business ever since.He was connected in an editorial capacity with the GalvestonNews, Houston Post, San Antonio Express andWaco Daily News. In 1890, during the Hogg-Clarkcampaign, he established the ICONOCLAST in Austin, Texas,and made a fight for Hogg, making his first appearancein the character which has made him famous. The papersuspended publication and Mr. Brann accepted a positionon the San Antonio Express, which he held until thelatter part of 1894. He came to Waco in 1895 and beganeditorial writing on the Waco Daily News. He decidedto reestablish the ICONOCLAST and it has been a greatsuccess, reaching a phenomenal circulation, having readersall over this country. The tragedy of Friday canbe traced to the attack which was made on BaylorUniversity in the ICONOCLAST. It was in Brann's peculiarstyle, and attracted considerable attention throughoutthe country. Mr. Brann is a native of Southern Illinois.

* * *DAVIS FOLLOWS BRANN.

THE DEATH STRUGGLE AND KINDRED INCIDENTS.

While breaking hearts watched by Mr. Brann's bedsidethere was a loving wife, a dutiful son and kind friendssitting by the bedside of Tom E. Davis. For the firstsix hours Dr. J. C. J. King, Dr. Curtis and Dr. Oliveendeavored to bring their patient about. He wasperfectly conscious, but was yet suffering from the shock.At midnight he was no better and a change for theworse was soon noted. The patient would awake fromthe effect of opiates, talk with those about him and thenrelapse again into slumber. He knew his son and wife,friends who called and friends who spoke to him, but therewas rapid pulse and a labored breathing that indicatedthe approach of death. Throughout the small hours ofthe new-born day the wife sat by that couch, and with hersat kind friends. Everything known to science was doneto save the life that fleeting breath told was fast ebbingaway. There was not a continued loss of blood, butwith a perforated frame, the creature of nature couldnot exist, and it was evident he was fast nearing the end.The dawn of early morning found the faithful watchersyet at the bedside, and the rising sun peeped into the roomand shed a glow about the sick room, appearing to lightthe way for the soul which was soon to wing its flightto realms beyond. The circle about the couch enlarged,children of the wounded man gathering about their weepingmother, his sister and other relatives coming to watchand wait. During the early hours of the morning anduntil the forenoon was advanced, friends paced the lobbyof the Pacific hoping every moment for a report that thepatient was better. Each minute passed as an hour, andthe hours seemed as long drawn out days. Each reportfrom the sick room was "no change."

At noon it became evident that but a short timeremained. A. C. Riddle sat upon one side of the couchand Richard Selman at the other, the first rubbing theinjured portion of the wounded right arm, while the othermoistened the parched lips with constant applications ofcold water. By Mr. Riddle sat the weeping wife, soonto be a widow, and about the apartment were gatheredthe children. The last hour of the citizen was one whichwill never be forgotten by those who watched his lastmoments. Labored was the breathing and every breathwas a gasp and a groan. His children stood by the couchand saw the pain-racked form, and his wife held his handand prayed to the God of all people to spare him to herfor a longer time. Prayers were of no avail and tearsdid not soothe the pain. He was in agony, andaccompanied with that agony was a desire to say something.He relapsed into slumber at times and would at intervalsawake. His eyes would roll about the gathered friendsand relatives, and an unintelligible sound would escape.There seemed to be no control of the tongue except attimes he could utter the words, "Wife" and "Molly."The silence in the sick room was disturbed by the gaspof the dying man and the weeping of his family.

The hour of 2 o'clock came and the breath was shorterand harder. Little Nellie, 2 years of age, was broughtto the bedside, and looking at her father in childishinnocence smiled, and cried, "Mama, is that my papa?"Did papa hear those words? It is to be hoped he did.They rung out loud within the quiet room, the walls caughtthem and echoed the music of the child's voice, andprobably that music joined the music of the great beyond,where the soul was soon to be. If the ear of the dyingman, who gave every indication of consciousness, caughtthe words of his baby, his death was made happy, even withthe pain that racked his wounded form. He saw theanguish of the wife and children, it was to comfort themwith a last word that he sought to speak the last wordthat he could not utter. At 2.20 it was seen that deathwas upon him, and the rapid gasp for breath plunged theentire family into violent weeping. Mrs. Davis hadcontrolled herself as best she could. The long hours werespent in a labored effort to hold back the anguish of herbleeding heart, but when she saw her husband in the lastmoments of death she could control herself no longer.Death came at 2.30 o'clock.

The dissolution of Tom E. Davis was known upon thestreets within a few minutes and the regret of the peoplewas freely expressed.

Tom E. Davis was 42 years of age. He was bornin Waco and was the son of Judge James F. Davis, apioneer settler of Waco. Tribune readers who have livedhere twenty years or more will remember Judge Davis.From 1876 to 1878 he was one of the two justices of thepeace in Waco. He has followed the life of a railroadman for many years, but finally gave it up to locate inhis native city. He has been engaged in the real estatebusiness recently. He was well thought of in this city,had many friends, was a man of genial, jovial nature,and was a good citizen. His death is mourned by a largenumber. Surviving him is his wife and six children,James F., Flossie, Mattie, Lillian, Margery and Nellie,the eldest being sixteen and the youngest two years old.In addition to those mentioned, who were at the death-bed, was his sister, Mrs. Margaret Allen.

Saturday afternoon Drs. J. C. J. King, Frank Ross,A. M. Curtis and N. A. Olive made an examination ofthe wounds of T. E. Davis. Justice W. H. Davis had,viewed the body and the examination was made at therequest of Sheriff John W. Baker. They could tracefour bullets as having struck Mr. Davis. While therewere a number of wounds, the surgeons found that thesame bullet made more than one or two holes. Two werefound to have struck in the left shoulder about the sameplace. One of these came out at the back and the otherpassed around the chest wall and lodged near the spinenear the waist. One went externally in the chest andcame out of the arm-pit, and another made a flesh woundin the arm.

W. H. WARD.

HIS WOUNDS—ARRESTED AND HELD.

W. H. Ward, business manager for Brann's lecture tour,and an intimate friend of the Apostle, was arrestedFriday night, as stated above. Baker & Ross, and CharlesR. Sparks were retained as his attorneys and he wasarraigned before Justice W. H. Davis at once, on acharge of assault with intent to murder. Mr. Sparksappeared in court and waived all formalities and thequestion of the amount of the bond was discussed. Mr.Sparks suggested $4,000 and this was agreed upon andfixed by the justice. Mr. Waller S. Baker was out of thecity at the time, and after presenting a certified checkfor the amount of the bond, Mr. Sparks decided to awaitMr. Baker's return before acting in the matter. WhenMr. Baker arrived at 10.30 o'clock there was some talkon the streets of a mob, and it was decided that Wardwould be safer in jail awaiting developments. When Mr.Davis died Deputy Constable Cliff Torrence went beforeJustice Davis and made complaint charging murder.

Mr. Ward had come down town Friday to meet hisbrother whom he was expecting to arrive from Tyler. Hejoined Mr. Brann on the street, and while they weretogether the tragedy occurred.

Mr. Ward was at Mr. Brann's burial Sunday afternoonaccompanied by Mr. Baker. His wounded handwas bandaged and in a sling. At the jail he had beencalled on by many friends and telegrams from various:points, proffering aid and sympathy, came to him. Wardwas greatly moved by the death of Brann. He did nottalk much of the tragedy, but to a Tribune reporter,who went to the jail Sunday to see him, Ward said:

"I do not at this time care to discuss the details. Iwish, however, to deny the statement that I participatedin the shooting or had a pistol. I did not expect adifficulty and the first shot startled me as a thunder-clapin a clear sky. I turned to Davis with pistol drawn andgrasped the muzzle of the weapon and was shot in thehand. I regret the death of my friend, but cannot discussthe details of the tragedy."

Messrs. Waller S. Baker and Charles R. Sparks statethat after the shooting they went to Mr. Brann'sresidence and in the presence of outside witnesses foundWard's pistol. It was loaded all round and showed noindication of having been discharged.

Mr. Ward had been associated with Brann for sometime. They were co-workers on the Waco News andwhen the Apostle began lecturing Ward became hismanager. They had been firm friends and when Ward wasin the city he made his home with Mr. Brann, and thetwo were always together. Ward is well liked by thosewho know him and he has a number of friends throughoutthe country. He is a man of fine physique, is a dignified,courteous gentleman.

While there was for a short time talk of a mob Fridaynight, Sheriff Baker believed that cool judgment wouldprevail and that nothing would be attempted. He wasprepared, however, to protect his prisoner, had troublebeen precipitated, and a number of citizens volunteeredtheir assistance had danger threatened.

THE OBSEQUIES.

BRANN AND DAVIS LAID TO REST SUNDAY.

Beneath two mounds, each banked with flowers, one inOakwood, the other in First Street Cemetery, were laidthe victims of Friday's tragedy Sunday afternoon. Neverwere two funerals in this city more largely attended, andnever was the dead followed to a last resting place bysorrowing friends with the reverence that was shownyesterday. At each home, the Davis residence in the FifthWard, and the Brann residence on North Fifth Street,friends began to gather shortly after noon, and theycrowded through the two homes, on the lawn of one andabout the yard of the other. Each man had his friends,and each had hosts of them, and they desired to showby their attendance at this last service their devotion tothose friends who were now gone to the great beyond.Each procession was a long one, the Davis cortege movedfrom the home on Dallas Street to Elm, thence west onElm to the suspension bridge. When the hearse, whichwas preceded by vehicles covering three blocks, containingKnights of the Maccabees, turned into Elm Street, vehicleswere yet falling in line at the home, the processionextending more than a dozen blocks in length. Allclasses and conditions of men were in the line, from thelowest to the highest, citizens of Waco joining in therespect to the citizen whose tragic death was known. Hewas well liked, and being liked, they sorrowfully joinedin this tribute to his memory. There were services atthe home, conducted by Rev. Austin Crouch, of East WacoBaptist Church. Dr. Nelms was to participate, but asudden illness prevented him being present. The servicecommenced by the singing by the choir of Some SweetDay. Those composing the choir were Messrs. W. T.Millman, W. E. Brittain, W. R. Covington, J. S.Henderson, Mrs. McDonald and Misses Josie Davis, NannieHuff and Shirley Faulkner, all of the East WacoBaptist Church.

After the reading of the 23rd Psalm by Rev. AustinCrouch, followed by the singing of Nearer My God toThee by the choir, Mr. Crouch began a short talk, whichwent deep into the hearts of his hearers and was a beautifultribute to the noble characteristics of the deceased.

He began by quoting the poem, The Hour of Death, byMrs. Hemans, to illustrate the thought that man cannotreckon upon the hour of the coming of death.

He drew attention to the fact that "it was said ofMoses that he died when his eye was not dim nor hisnatural strength abated." He said it had been thuswith the deceased, he having been taken from life in theprime of manhood, aged 42. He referred to him as aloving husband and devoted father, and possessing thelove of a host of friends, as the vast concourse assembledabout his bier testified.

Mr. Crouch then referred with words full oftenderness and pathos to the wife and six children whom thehusband and father had left when taken from life, andin this connection quoted from Tennyson's In Memoriam,the lines:

"I hold it true whate'er befalls;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all."

Touching upon the characteristics of the deceased, Mr.Crouch eulogized his devotion to his family, his loyaltyto his friends and his willingness always to sacrificeanything to them. He said of him that he was a goodcitizen, who for the last several years had devoted much oftime and talents to upholding all the virtues of goodcitizenship, adding that it was not often that one met a mannowadays who could be called a good citizen.

Mr. Crouch closed a talk that was well chosen andeffectively delivered by warning his hearers that theywere but mortal and to be prepared for the hour ofdeath. With his final words he commended the lovedones of the deceased to the mercy and care of AlmightyGod.

The song, The Unclouded Day, closed the services atthe house.

When the procession reached the cemetery impressiveservices, according to the ritual of the order, wereconducted by Commander Ben Richards of Artesian Tent,Knights of the Maccabees, a final prayer was offered byRev. Crouch and the body of Tom Davis was lowered torest. The floral tributes were beautiful. Friends broughtcut flowers and evergreens, and two large designs especiallywere noticed. One was a large wreath of red and whiteflowers, twined with crepe, the red, white and black beingthe colors of the Maccabees. This was sent by ArtesianTent No. 6, of which the deceased was a member. Theother was a large anchor, fully four feet in lengthcomposed of yellow roses and white carnations. It was ahuge piece, beautifully made, and testified the friendshipof him who sent it, Mr. Connor. The pallbearers wereJudge W. H. Jenkins, J. E. Boynton, T. B. Williams,J. N. Harris, A. C. Riddle, J. K. Rose, J. H. Gouldy,W. H. Deaton, Robt. Wright, S. F. Kirksey, Major A.Symes and James I. Moore.

. . .

The funeral of W. C. Brann did not move promptly onthe hour. It had been fixed for 3 P.M., but there was somedelay. During the moments just preceding the funeralservices Mrs. Brann went upon the lawn herself,accompanied by a friend, and she directed the cutting ofcertain buds and roses which had been favorites of herdeparted husband, and when the services were held inthe parlor she placed this collection of cut flowers uponthe head of the casket. The entire place was crowdedwith sympathetic friends, and by her side were Mr. Brann'ssister and her husband, who came to Waco to attend thefuneral, being summoned from their Fort Worth home.A brass quartette, composed of L. N. Griffin, first cornet;J. C. Arratt, second cornet; H. C. Collier, trombone;Fred Podgen, baritone horn, rendered sweet sacred music,one selection being Nearer My God to Thee. Mrs. TeklaWeslow Kempner sung Mr. Brann's favorite selection,The Bridge. The service was conducted by Rev. FrankPage of the Episcopal Church.

The procession was a very long one. It extended allalong Fifth Street from the house, and when AustinAvenue was reached a large number dropped out of theline, as was done in the Ross, co*ke and Harris funerals,and proceeded to Oakwood by other streets. A brassband preceded the procession, playing martial music.The street was lined with pedestrians and vehicles, some ofwhom stood for thirty minutes waiting for the cortege.The delay was occasioned, however, at the home. Soonafter the services were concluded, Mrs. Brann requestedthat the casket be opened again, and her request wascomplied with. For a few minutes she was alone withher dead, and in that few minutes she gazed for the lasttime upon her companion, her loved one and her husband.When the procession reached the cemetery it was foundthat a large number had preceded the cortege to thegrave, many vehicles and persons on foot being in waiting. Alarge number went on the cars, three cars leaving the home.

The services at the grave consisted of an address by
Mr. J. D. Shaw, friend of the deceased. He said:

"My friends and friends of W. C. Brann: I come thisevening at the request of Mr. Brann's family to laytribute upon his grave. I speak as a friend living for afriend dead. No ordinary man has fallen in the personof W. C. Brann. Nature fashioned him to be a poweramong his fellow men. By industry, by hard study, bycareful observation, by diligent research, by interminableeffort, he rose from comparative obscurity to teach andimpress the civilized world. In the person of W. C.Brann we have an illustration of what may be expectedin a country like ours. He was a natural product of ourAmerican democracy. He was a star that rose by dintof his own effort, his own determination, surrounded bycirc*mstances that invited merit from the common people,from the whole people. W. C. Brann was a cosmopolitancharacter. He could never be confined within thelimits of a party or a creed. So great was his grasp,so far-reaching his thought, that he lived in the worldand not in a mere party. He was found always withthat party or with that sect that represented what hethought to be right and true. A peculiarity of this manwas his dual personality. Few people fully understoodhim in this respect. As a bold genius, as an intellectualgiant, as a man armed and equipped with intellectualfire, and as a man with a noble ambition to stand bythe right, he was a sworn foe of hypocrisy and fraud.And when he took into his brave hands the pen, he madefraud and hypocrisy quake and tremble. Burning wordscame from his tongue, scorching and branding every fraud.Men looked upon him then as a hard man, as a heartlessman because he told them the truth. But the other sideof this man's individuality, I, for one, have had theopportunity to see. He could not only sow intellectually;he was not only able to entertain the civilized world withburning words, with thoughts that were winged and thatwent like lightning, but he was a man of heart and ofhonor, and a man of the warmest and most generouslove. He could go towards the skies intellectually, butin his heart he lived close to nature. He loved nature.He loved the very trees under whose shade he rested. Heloved the little birds that sang in the trees, the grassupon which he walked, the flowers that bedecked theforest. And he loved his fellow man. He had a warm,generous heart and affection that went out to the poorand those who were needy. W. C. Brann was neverknown to attack a man who was a man. It was the strongand the defiant that he branded, and not the weak andthe needy or the deserving. For these he was the friend.I knew this man, not only as the editor of the ICONOCLAST,not only as the utterer of grand and entertainingsentences, but I knew him as a man whose palm was stretchedout to the man who was in need. Few men have beenmore generous with their charity than my neighbor andmy friend whom we lay away to-day. No man within myknowledge ever presented the world with a purer, a nobler,a loftier home character than W. C. Brann. Oh! how heloved his wife and his dear little children—not only thechildren that were living, but the child that was dead.How ardently he strove to support, maintain and blessthem. And what a friend they have lost. No man everapproached W. C. Brann for a penny that he did notrespond, and from his beautiful home no beggar was everturned away. I am afraid many people who only knewMr. Brann as a genius, as a man of eloquence and powerwith the pen, knew little of him as a man of heart andaffection. But, I, as his friend, as a friend of his wifeand his fatherless children, I thank the people of Wacoto-day that they have testified of their affection for thisman. We shall never see his like again here, perhaps.He was a rising star. How soon that star has set! But,my dear friends, he has left a memory. He has madehis impression upon the world and we will never forgethim. Let me then say, for I must be brief, I am remindedby the stormy elements about us that I must not detainyou longer, let me say in conclusion that Brann is notdead. His burning words still live, and his thoughts willyet remain to affect the world, and we will never forgethim. And I say to his wife and children, though to-dayyou feel crushed by this great sorrow, I know byexperience that our dead do not pass away from our minds.They grow more beautiful the longer we live. We rememberthem with greater pleasure, more tenderly, they willalways be just like they had been. They never change.The little girl that you laid away in Houston is to-day inyour mind just what she was then. And the dear husbandthat you lay away now will always be just what he is to-day. No changes can come. He is fixed in the memory.

"Now, my friends, in behalf of Mrs. Brann and herchildren, let me thank you for this presence, for thisdemonstration of your appreciation of this man who hasso suddenly, so unexpectedly, fallen in our midst. Let uscherish his memory, remember his virtue, and imitate hisdaring courage in defiance of that which he thought wasevil and wrong. He was not without his faults. Noneof us are. He was always ready and willing to admit that.No man was more willing to answer for his work thanW. C. Brann. Therefore I ask for him that judgmentto-day we shall all crave of one another when we shallhave passed away. We will now lay his body in thegrave, we will cover it with mother earth, and upon itplace these flowers as a testimonial of our love andaffection for him."

At the grave, the bouquet which Mrs. Brann had laidon the casket before leaving home was returned to her,and just before the casket was lowered into the grave,she stepped forward and lovingly placed the floral pieceupon the casket and it was closed in the grave. Therewas a large number of floral offerings. Flowers werethere in profusion. But as at the other funeral, twopieces were especially noticeable. One was a huge brokenwheel, full three feet in diameter, all in white, composedof lilies of the valley, hyacinths and roses. It was thegift of the employees of the ICONOCLAST, and WilliamMarion Reedy of St. Louis. The Knight Printing Companysent a large anchor about three feet long, whichwas composed of pink carnations and white roses. Thefollowing were the pallbearers: J. W. Shaw, G. B. Gerald,D. R. Wallace, L. Eyth, Waller S. Baker, Dr. J. W. Hale,H. B. Mistrot, John D. Mayfield and James M. Drake.

* * *THE LATEST TRAGEDY.

(Editorial appearing in the Waco Weekly Tribune,issue April 9, 1898, and written by Hon. A. R. McCollum,editor, and State Senator of the Texas Legislature.)

What use to write, or read or talk of the tragic deathsof Brann and Davis unless those who survive are to drawfrom the tragedy lessons which, rightly applied, will bringpeace and good to society and especially to thiscommunity? If not this, then far better silence. In the newscolumns of the paper we have told the story of the battleto the death, fought on the public streets, of the deathscenes and burial. And all over this land, where newspapersare printed, the story has been told and millionshave read. There will be no adequate estimate of the effectthe reading will have upon the minds of the millions. Itis certain that the most patent result will be to discreditthis community in the esteem of the people whose goodopinion our people would like to have, and to react in waysthat will affect the material welfare of this city and verylikely of the county, too. Beyond all question thedeplorable events of last year, opening with October, haveoperated to the detriment of Waco, and beyond all questionthe latest chapter of blood and violence will intensifythe distrust, unless it is evidenced that this is to be theend, and that hereafter peace and order are to prevail, andthe sacredness of human life be more assured. This iswhy we say it is little use to write or discuss the passingof Brann and Davis, beyond rendering the tributes of loveand affection, unless our people are to learn from thedeaths the lessons of forbearance and tolerance andsubordination of passion and prejudice to the nobler andbetter ends and aims of life. Asperity and bitterness mustbe buried in the graves with the dead.

Brann and Davis have gone to a judgment higher thanthat of men, and both, we venture to hope and believe, havefound how true it is that God is Mercy, as well as justice.For our part, we would rather let them rest in peace andnot essay an analysis of their attributes and actions. Wewill say this of Brann, that though he could write with apen of vitriol, in his private life he could be and was asgentle as a woman, and his aspirations were those ofgenerosity and kindness, of faithfulness to friends. His homelife—with wife and children—was a poem that neverended till he died. His genius was superhuman. As Mr.Shaw truly said in his remarks at the grave, it is notlikely that we shall ever see his like again in thiscommunity. Davis was cast in a different mold mentally, aman of quite another type. He was sturdy and practicaland took the world precisely as he found it. It was indeeda strange fate that brought these two men face to facein deadly conflict and made of Davis the instrument to putan end to Brann's earthly career. Both men loved andwere beloved. Widows and orphans mourn them. Let thedead rest in peace, for good can be said of each.

It is the manifest duty of this community to forbearfrom discussion of what might have been, or who sowedthe wind that brought the whirlwind. At the best, yearsof patience, unselfish, earnest work will be needed to restoreour city to the place it might hold in the esteem of men.The fool will say: "It makes no difference what othersthink." It is a fool's consolation and a fool's argument,for the cold truth is that not alone the prestige and goodrepute of our fair city have been marred, but materialprogress and prosperity have been affected. Population,capital, skill, brawn, industry, morality hold aloof—notwholly, of course, yet to a degree that is material andunfortunate. It is possible to remedy this, but not untilwe prove to the world that toleration and peace are to rulehere, and that human life is not to be held as the cheapestthing society has to lose.

The following account of the mobbing of Brann in thefall preceding his death (see Brann's article "Ropes,Revolvers and Religion" in Vol. X.) is taken from theWaco Tribune for October 9, 1897 It is reproducedhere to enable the reader to better interpret thecirc*mstances of Brann's death.

BRANN AND BAYLOR.

As to the Brann-Baylor episode, the old adage, "twowrongs will not make a right," is certainly applicable to it.Brann's article on Baylor University was wholly indefensible—essentially ill-timed and could not possibly havewrought any good, either to Baylor or the cause ofmorality in general. It merited the protest and indignationit evoked, and we question if Brann, when he wrote it,really appreciated its full import, for, had he reflected,he would have known that he placed his friends at adisadvantage, in that men who hold the views respectingvirtuous womanhood that most Southern men (and himselfincluded) do could not defend the article. And Brann isa man who we have always found to be true to his friend;not one to place a friend in an embarrassing or unpleasantposition. He illustrated how a wonderfully brilliant manmay astonish the world and himself, too, by perpetratinga grave blunder or mistake. We cannot understand howhe came to print the article.

And as for the course of the Baylor students who laidforcible hands on Brann and by mob power compelled himto sign humiliating admissions and apologies, their coursewas about as grave a blunder as was Brann's. It is notpalliation to argue how indignant they were and hownatural their indignation. Perhaps those in authority atBaylor who are said to have known beforehand the purposeof the student mob and quietly winked at—if theydid not openly commend it—are more to blame than theboys who did the work, for the older heads were naturallyexpected to display the wisdom of mature years. It is thetruth that the authorities who condoned and the studentswho perpetrated the lawlessness are equally beyond thepale of defense.

It was thus that two wrongs and not one right weredone. All the parties to the wrong will have to take theconsequence. Brann has impaired the prestige of theICONOCLAST, students and university authorities havebrought unnecessary reproach on Baylor, given itundesirable notoriety. Baylor is part and parcel of Waco.All of us, regardless of creed, helped to rear it. Its goodname and welfare are matters of concern to all.

Brann, if he knew of disgraceful facts or episodesconnected with Baylor, should have given names, dates andspecific details. And some student, professor, patron orfriend of Baylor—someone with a daughter, sister orfemale relative there—thus vested with the God-given rightof resenting slurs on the virtue of girl students, shouldhave been found willing to deal with Brann personally, andsomewhere else than on the university grounds with Brannhelpless and bulldozed. Any man thus acting with defenseof his womankind as his plea may, if his pretensions arevalid, always risk public opinion and jury verdicts in thiscounty.

We hope this matter will end where it is. Nobody wantsto see Brann driven away from Waco, nor do we believesuch a thing can be done. Men will be found in amplenumbers to maintain his right to dwell here. He is abrilliant man, who can be distinctly useful as a writer.On his part he owes something to the community whichis willing to maintain his every right—to the friends whoare still his friends even if he makes a mistake, and thatis to remember that Baylor University is part and parcelof Waco, and that the reputable element of society heredoes not share his views concerning the disrepute allegedto attach to Baylor. Most of us wish Brann well; mostof us wish Baylor well.

It has been said that this is a matter of "religious"differences and prejudices. It is not so, save whereindividuals want and see fit to make it so. It has been said"personal liberty" and bigotry are involved in thismatter. We fail to comprehend how or wherein. God knowsthere is not a spot on the globe where there is morediversity of opinion, more freedom of expression and actionas to religion than in this town. Once more, we hopethe matter is ended and for good.

. . .

Since the above was put in type the assault made byJudge Scarborough, R. H. Hamilton and George Scarboroughon Mr. Brann has occurred. Judge Scarboroughhas a daughter, George Scarborough a sister, who hasrecently been a student and is now a member of the facultyat Baylor. It will thus be understood how Brann's articlecould aggrieve the father and brother. If either one hadtaken a shotgun and killed Brann on sight, public opinionwould have held such a course far more commendable thanthe policy adopted. If either one had challenged him,given him a show for his life, and in the duel killed him,public sentiment would have condoned such a step and nojury in this county would award any penalty for theslaying. But the overpowering attack by three men wasitself a mob attack—three may constitute a mob as wellas ten or twenty. Of course there will be some to defendthe trio of assaulters, but the consensus of public opinionwill be against it and by the greater part of our peopleit will be regarded as essentially unfair. It has not served,so far as we can see, any good purpose, but to thecontrary has intensified the bitter feeling existing here.Brann's friends never indorsed his article on Baylor, butthis assault justified their indignation. As for JudgeScarborough, we must regret his act and express surprisethat he got his consent to such a course. As for Hamilton,his participation is altogether indefensible.

* * *The following is the account of the shooting of Brannfrom the Waco "Times-Herald." See the editorial for theattitude of this paper. The ante-mortem statement ofDavis, and the statements of Moore, Hall and ShermanVaughan are identical in both papers and are therefore notrepeated. The "Times-Herald" gave no statements fromEarp, Petterson, Chase, Insley nor Dugger. Note otherstatements not given in the "Tribune."

TERRIFIC, DEADLY CONFLICT

A Fearful Street Fight, in Which W. C. Brann and Tom
E. Davis Were Riddled With Pistol Shots and
William H. Ward Shot through the Hand.

BRANN, EDITOR OF ICONOCLAST, DEAD.

The Life of Tom E. Davis, the Well-known Real Estate
Man of Waco, Hangs by a Slender Thread, With
Almost Every Chance Against Him.

BRANN-BAYLOR AFFAIR THE CAUSE.

A Motorman and Musician Wounded by Flying Missiles—
Ward in Jail on a Charge of Assault to Murder—
The City Thrown Into a Whirlwind of Excitement
Over the Fearful Affair and Happy Homes Made Sad.

At this writing, 9 o'clock, W. C. Brann, editor of Brann'sICONOCLAST, and Tom E. Davis, a prominent real estateman of this city, lie dangerously wounded with a likelihoodof their dying at any moment. William H. Ward, anemployee of W. C. Brann, is shot through the right hand.Sigh Kennedy, a motorman on the street car line, is shotin the right knee, and Kepler, a traveling musician, is shotin the right foot. The three men last named are onlyslightly wounded.

W. C. Brann is shot through the left groin, in the rightfoot and through the middle of the back about the lowerpart of the shoulder blade, ranged upward and outward,coming out at the front side near the point where thearm joins the body.

Tom E. Davis is shot twice in the right arm, the ballsgoing through the arm, leaving four holes, one in the upperleft arm near the shoulder on the outer part of the arm.This ball ranged to the back and came out just a littleways in the left shoulder. Another shot took effect inthe right breast, near the nipple, ranged outward andbackward, coming out of the back near the side. Anothershot took effect in the back, near the right side, about thewaistband, ranged outward and downward and lodged justover the spine, just under the skin. Another shot tookeffect just under the right arm, ranged backward, comingout about six inches in the back. This made a total ofsix shots that took effect in Davis' body.

From best information obtained, the cause of the troubledates back to the old Brann-Baylor affair. It was duringthis trouble that Mr. Davis was an outspoken advocate forBaylor and had made the same statement that scores ofother people in Waco are accredited with having madethat "Brann is a scoundrel and ought to be run out oftown." Mr. Davis was fearless and outspoken, and Mr.Brann learned of the stand he took.

Yesterday it seems that Mr. Brann, in company withMr. W. H. Ward, an employee of his, made it convenientto come in contact with Mr. Davis, and one of them,supposed to be Mr. Brann, cursed Mr. Davis as he passedthem. Mr. Davis had been out on the street where he hadjust been passed by the men a couple of times and returnedto his office on Fourth Street, between Franklin and AustinStreets. He had been in his office only a minute or sowhen Messrs. Brann and Ward passed, with Brann on theinside. As the two men passed Mr. Davis says that oneof them remarked in a loud voice, "There is the damnedcowardly son of a ——. He will take anything," to whichMr. Davis replied, "Are you scoundrels talking about me?"

The shooting followed immediately. When the shootingended Davis was taken into French's newsstand and severalphysicians were called in, opiates were administered,and it looked as if Davis would die at any moment. Hetalked some to his friends, frequently saying, "They havegot me; I am bound to go."

County Clerk Joney Jones was present, and all beingfearful that Davis might die at any moment, Mr. Jonestook his ante mortem statement, which is given below.

Mr. Brann was taken to the city hall by Officers SamHall and Durie, where he was laid upon a couch and otherphysicians attended him until 7:20 o'clock, when he wastaken home, being accompanied by physicians and friends.

Ward, Kennedy and Kepler all repaired to the drugstores and had their wounds dressed.

Something near an hour after the shooting Mrs. Davisand her children came from their home in East Waco tothe side of the wounded husband and father. At darkDavis was removed to the Pacific hotel, where Dr. J. C. J.King attended him in his official capacity. Mrs. Daviswas with her husband and numerous friends were presentto administer every want.

Mr. Ward employed an attorney. Justice W. H. Daviswas called up by telephone and about 9 o'clock he openedcourt in his courtroom. Mr. Ward, through his attorney,waived all formalities, preliminaries and examination andwas granted bond in the sum of $4,000, which he failedto give and went to jail.

From the moment the first shot was fired citizens rushedto the scene from every part of the city, and in a momentafter the firing had ceased there were fully one thousandpersons on Fourth Street surging around French's newsstand,while there were two-thirds that number at the cityhall where Mr. Brann was being attended to, and up untilafter midnight the streets were filled with hundreds andhundreds of citizens grouped here and there in all of thehotels and on the street corners discussing the one absorbingquestion—"The shooting."

At midnight both Mr. Davis and Mr. Brann were alive,with the former resting much easier.

E. P. NORWOOD.

Mr. E. P. Norwood said:

"Just prior to the shooting I had walked up FourthStreet, passing Messrs. Brann and Ward standing in frontof Krauss' store, near Bankers' Alley, when I met HermannStrauss, who insisted that I go back across the alleyto Laneri's saloon. As we went back I saw Brann andWard still standing where they were and at that momentTom Davis had just come up the sidewalk in front ofLaneri's and, leaving Bankers' Alley without crossing it,he went immediately to his office.

"In a moment I saw Brann and Ward go directly toDavis' office. I thought nothing unusual of this, notknowing that any difficulty was liable to occur and went in toLaneri's to take a drink. In a moment or so I heard twoor three shots fired, and I immediately ran to the door.When I got where I could see the men I saw Davis on theground and Brann and Ward standing up firing at him.I am positive that Ward fired one shot, if not two shots;he ceased and Brann continued firing until an officer rushedright into the shooting and caught Brann."

JOHN SLEEPER.

Mr. John Sleeper was an eye-witness and made thefollowing statement:

"I was standing in the Fourth Street entrance to mystore and was looking south on Fourth Street, and sawMr. Brann and Mr. Ward coming up the sidewalk fromthe alley in front of the Cotton Belt ticket office, and thenturned and looked north towards Austin Street. Andwhile looking in that direction I heard three pistol shotsalmost simultaneously, and turned and looked in the directionfrom which the pistol shots came, and saw Mr. TomDavis reeling and falling to the sidewalk and Mr. Brannfiring upon him. Mr. Davis fell to the ground almost ina heap and rolled over as many as four times. Mr. Wardhanded Mr. Brann a pistol and Brann stepped forwardtowards Davis and began firing on him as he was rollingupon the sidewalk. Brann and Ward then turned andwalked away on Fourth Street towards Austin Street toa point directly opposite my door, where I was standing,when two police officers came across Fourth Street fromthe direction of the Citizens National Bank, and as theycame up to Brann he remarked: 'Gentlemen, I am shot,'but Ward said nothing. I noticed blood flowing fromWard's right hand as if he was wounded in it. I did notsee Mr. Davis or Mr. Ward either shoot at any time."

AB VAUGHAN.

Mr. Ab Vaughan, a well-known man about town, saysthat while crossing Fourth Street from the Cotton Beltticket office towards the Pacific Hotel, he passed Brannand Ward in the street, on the east side of the streetrailway track, and that he overheard one of them sayto the other, "I wouldn't do it," though which one spokehe was unable to say. He paid no attention to the remarkat the time, and stepped into the Pacific Saloon.The next instant he heard the reports of a pistol,followed in rapid succession by a number of other shots.

W. O. BROWN.

Mr. W. O. Brown made the following statement:

"A few minutes before 6 o'clock I was at the PacificHotel bar, in company with W. C. Brann. We conversedtogether for fifteen or twenty minutes, during the courseof which Baylor University was discussed as well as thetrouble attendant upon his Philippics against it. Beforeparting, Mr. Brann remarked in rather a sneering way:'I expect to get killed, but when I am, Baylor will havebecome a thing of the past,' or words to that effect. Weseparated, and I walked down Fourth Street to Austin,where I met my wife and a lady friend in our phaeton,and after a moment's conversation with her, entered abuggy with Mr. C. M. Clisbee, and started to the operahouse. Just as we turned the corner I heard a pistolshot, perhaps two, and turning my head saw Tom Davisfall to the sidewalk. I jumped from the buggy and rantowards my wife's phaeton, fearing her horse would takefright, but finding my fears groundless hastened to thescene of the shooting, and there found Tom Davis lyingon the sidewalk, and assisted in carrying him into French'snewsstand. I heard several shots fired after I saw Davisfall, but who fired them I am unable to say."

JUDGE J. W. DAVIS.

Judge John W. Davis said:

"I was standing on Fourth Street just below the PacificHotel entrance, talking to a number of gentlemen, amongthem John W. Marshall. I heard a pistol shot up FourthStreet and turned and saw in front of W. F. Williams& Co.'s office what appeared to be several men in a scuffle.The larger man was falling toward the street. Shotswere fired into him as he was falling and continued afterhe was lying on the sidewalk and was rolling over. Theshots were fired in such rapid succession that it seemedimpossible for them to have come from one pistol. I didnot recognize the participants at first, but thought thatthe man falling was Tom Davis. After eight or ten shotshad been fired I recognized W. C. Brann with a policeman.I could not tell what was the relative position ofthe party. They all seemed to be in a clump."

J. W. WILLIAMS.

John W. Williams says:

"Just a few moments before the shooting Tom Daviscame into our office, that of Williams & Co., and saidhello to Tom Sparks, who was talking to me. He thenturned and went out. In a moment I heard a click asthough a pistol was being co*cked and at that timerecognized the voice of Davis saying something like "don'ttalk to me." At the same time I saw the tail of Davis'coat go back as if he was trying to draw his pistol.Rapid shooting followed as if from several pistols. WhenI reached the door I saw Ward either shoot or pushDavis down, his hand being almost or quite against Davisand Davis between me and him. At the same time as thepush or shot from Ward I saw Brann fire. And thefiring was continued by Brann, Davis at this time strugglingon the ground or sidewalk and called out to methat he was murdered. I got his pistol. Branncontinued to fire and snapped his pistol several times afterDavis was down. The shots were fired very rapidly andas I was looking at and watching Brann so intently Icannot say whether Ward was shooting or not as I wasnot looking at him."

W. S. GILLESPIE.

Mr. W. S. Gillespie said:

"I was sitting in my office a few minutes prior to theshooting and noticed Mr. Brann and Mr. Ward, hisbusiness manager, standing across the street on the cornerof Bankers' Alley in very earnest conversation, lookingacross the street as if watching some one or something,and finally came across to the corner in front of my officeand after they passed going north towards Austin StreetI heard the rapid firing of guns and ran out and foundT. E. Davis lying on the sidewalk, and I went up to himand asked him if he was very badly hurt, and he remarked,'They have assassinated me; they have murderedme,' and friends came up to my assistance and he wasconveyed to French's cigar store.

B. H. KIRK.

Mr. B. H. Kirk said:

"At the time of the shooting I was on the sidewalk infront of Mr. Mackey's office. I noticed W. C. Brann andW. H. Ward together crossing Fourth Street from thedirection of Krauss' store and walking towards TomDavis' office. A moment or two after I heard two shotsfired very near together, and, looking, saw Tom Davison the sidewalk in front of his office in the act of falling;as he lay on the sidewalk two more shots were fired intohim. After these last two shots Davis rolled over andfired at Brann and I thought hit him in the breast. Afterthat several more shots were fired into Davis. Brannand Ward were about three feet from Davis during thefiring, standing near the outside of the sidewalk andperhaps a little nearer to Austin Street. I cannot sayI saw W. H. Ward fire, but my impression is that allthree were shooting."

B. H. KINGSBURY.

B. H. Kingsbury said:

"I was standing close to the telephone post betweenPacific Hotel bar and Mose's newsstand when I heard oneor two shots fired almost together. I exclaimed: 'TomDavis is killed,' for I saw him on the sidewalk in front ofhis office struggling and rolling. As Davis lay on thesidewalk, dead, as I thought, there were two men shootingat him. These men I learn were W. C. Brann and hisbody-guard, W. H. Ward. While so shooting at Davis,Brann was in front of Ward and both were firing. I donot know if Davis fired before he was down.

LATER.

Later.—At 1 A.M. a Times-Herald reporter visited thehome of Mr. Brann and found him dying. At 10.30 o'clockhe had a hemorrhage of the lungs, which filled one of themup and the lung was still bleeding at 1 A.M., and hisvitality was fast ebbing away. Dr. M. L. Graves saidthat the sufferer could not possibly live longer than twohours and was liable to die at any moment.

At 1 A.M. Mr. Tom Davis had not rallied from theeffects of his wounds and but little hope was entertainedfor his recovery. Mr. Davis has wonderful vitality andhis great strength may yet pull him through, thoughthere is but the faintest hope that it will. Dr. King isstill at his bedside doing all that is possible for him to do.

Later.—At 1.55 o'clock this morning W. C. Brann, thenoted editor of Brann's ICONOCLAST, breathed his last.Just before the end came his family and intimate friendswere gathered about him. His lungs were filled from theinternal hemorrhage and he passed peacefully away.

3 A.M.—At this hour Mr. Tom E. Davis is rapidlysinking and it is thought that the end is near at hand.It may be possible for the wounded man to live as long astwo hours; but all hope has fled and the end is watchedfor which may come at any minute. His physicians sayhe is dying.

* * *(Editorial)

THE LATE TRAGEDY.

The details of the awful tragedy of Friday evening areyet fresh in the minds of the people of Waco, and it isbootless to recount them. Two of the principals theretohave passed to the beyond and a third is in the hands ofthe outraged law. And with him let the law deal. Inlife Captain Davis was our friend. His assailant wasour enemy. In death they take on the proportions ofcommon humanity. Upon the bier of one we will laythe myrtle of never-dying remembrance. Over the coffinof the other let the mantle of forgetfulness rest. TheTimes-Herald makes no war upon the dead.

It is not with the dead we deal to-day, but the living—the citizenship, the municipality, the people of Wacowho must suffer, who must endure, and who must survivethe blow that has fallen upon us. Not because two bravemen are dead, but because of the stain of blood guiltinessthat has again besmirched our fair escutcheon. Thistragedy has harmed Waco almost beyond the power ofmen to help; because it has again been blazoned to theworld that here human life is cheapened; that men's passionsrule rather than the written law and that our Christiancivilization is but the thinnest veneer atop of the savage.

Yet out of this may yet come a blessing to Waco. Ifit shall teach men to rule their passions and their speech;if it shall show us the way to lean upon the arm of thelaw rather than upon the might of our own strength; ifit shall make us more tolerant of the opinions of ourneighbor; if it shall incline us to encourage the publicweal, rather than private animosities, the shadow oftragedy may yet pass and the sunlight of humanity prevail.

The Times has no heart for moralizing. It will addno pang to the grief of those who mourn. It asks of thepeople of Waco that upon the two new mounds made inOakland to-day the seeds of forgetfulness may spring intoverdure, covering feud and hiding passion, and that thedead past will bury its dead, leaving to the present hope,and to the future fruition.

Here follow the contents of the May, 1898, ICONOCLASTpublished by Brann's friends after his death.

THE PASSING OF WILLIAM COWPER BRANN.

BY G. P. GERALD.

Poetic legend says that on a moonlight night, twothousand years ago, along the shores of the gulf of Patras,a mighty voice was heard, crying "Great Pan is dead!"And from the mountains and the valleys, the woods andgrottoes, where stood the altars of those who worshipedat the shrine of Pan, was reechoed back the cry, "GreatPan is dead!" On the second of April, when the wingedlightning bore over a continent, and to foreign lands beyondthe sea, the news that W. C. Brann of the ICONOCLASTwas dead, in every land where his writings areknown, from men and women who worship at the shrineof genius, went up the wailing cry, "Brann of theICONOCLAST is dead." Oh, death! thou grim and imperiousmaster of us all, how dreadful to the living are your silentdarts, that are ever striking with impartial hand the oldman in his dotage, the strong man in his prime, the braveman in his courage and the craven in his fear.

W. C. Brann was 43 years of age, and had just arrivedat that period when he was beginning to realize the hopesand aspirations of years, when he was stricken down amidthe rejoicings of many and the sorrows of many thousandsmore. He was born in Coles County, Illinois, and at theage of two and a half years, by the death of his mother,was placed with a sister some two years older than himself,in the care of Mr. Hawkins and his wife, who livedon a farm in that county. He remained with them tenyears, and then, longing to be something more than afarm hand, he packed his small belongings in a little boxand at night, when all was still, he took the box underhis arm and went out into the lonely darkness of themoonless night, without money, friends or education, tocommence the struggle which ended in his untimely deathat Waco.

Mr. Brann always spoke in the most kindly terms ofMr. and Mrs. Hawkins, and when he purchased his homein this city, he offered to share it with them, but havinggrown old and being comfortably situated they did notdesire to change.

The first place he secured was that of a bell boy in ahotel, and from that passed on to other situations,realizing all the time, what every proud spirited boy woulddo under the circ*mstances, the bitterness that friendlessness,ignorance and poverty bring to the struggle of life.Among other things he learned the trade of painter andgrainer, also that of printer, all the time storing his mindwith what scraps of education that his life of poverty andtoil permitted. After he gathered sufficient education hebecame a newspaper writer, and in 1877, at Rochelle,Ill., was married to Miss Carrie Martin, who, with twochildren, Grace and William Carlyle, "Little Billy," aswe call him, survive him. After the death of Mrs. Brann'smother, he took to his home one of her sisters, now Mrs.Marple of Fort Worth, and although often driven to themost desperate straits to make a living, he proved to herto be both a brother and a father. He continued hisnewspaper career in Illinois and Missouri, until somethirteen years ago, when he came to Texas, and graduallybecame known by his connection with various papers ofthe State. For a short time he had an interest in a papercalled the ICONOCLAST, published in Austin, but he soonfound himself back at his old trade, that of driving hispen for others. At last, worn out by long years ofunremitting and generally poorly requited toil, wearied withwaiting for opportunity to write as he wished but couldnot do as an employee of others, he determined to againstrike out for himself, as he had done in his early boyhood,and in 1894 came to this city and established the ICONOCLAST,which was a success from its first issue, and continuedto grow in circulation as he grew in reputationas a writer, until the copy that witnessed his death reachedan issue of nearly 90,000.

The world, for several generations, has been discussingwhether Shakespeare wrote the plays that bear his name,thousands believing that it was impossible for a man whohad no more education than Shakespeare had in his youth,to have exhibited the varied knowledge and learning thatcharacterize his works, therefore these attribute them toSir Francis Bacon, one of the most brilliant and besteducated men of his time. All the evidence goes to showthat at the age of 18, when Shakespeare married, thathe had acquired with a "little Latin and less Greek," theordinary education accorded to the sons of the well-to-domiddle-class Englishmen of his time, of which his fatherwas one. At 18 Mr. Brann had barely secured the rudimentsof an English education, and had he lived to theage of Shakespeare, there is no telling to what heights,intellectually, he would have risen. From a slightknowledge of his hopes and aspirations, I can say, that whilehe dearly loved the ICONOCLAST, as a vehicle by whichhe could convey to the world his thoughts, he had aspirationsthat went far beyond it, and proposed that duringthe next ten nor twelve years, after his mind had beenfully stored for the work, to leave as a legacy to theworld, in a continuous work, his conception of the wrongsdone to humanity, the evils that spring from them andthe remedies to be applied. And all who have read himclosely and noticed how, month by month, he grew greaterand brighter, will surely join in saying, that the loss ofsuch a work from such a man, at the meridian of hisintellectual life, is only second, if not equal, to the lossof the unwritten volumes of Buckle's "History of Civilization."

Alas! that such a man, with such a great futurebefore him should have died standing on the very thresholdof his work.

In the private relations of life Mr. Brann was asextraordinary as in his public career; he presented thatcombination that is so rare that even novelists do not attemptto paint it, the combination of the lover and the husband,and as a father, a friend, a lover of humanity, with abroad mantle of charity for all, he had few equals.

While he wrote in prose, he was a poet, and of himcan be truly said:

"The thoughts that stir the poet's heart
Are not the thoughts that others feel,
From the world's creed they are all apart,
And oftener work his woe than weal.

They are born of high imaginings,
Kindled to life by passion's fire,
As o'er earth's dross his fancy flings
The golden dreams that wrap his lyre."

As a writer, Mr. Brann had his faults, but they werethe heritage of this God-given son of genius, and withthem he climbed the heights and died among the greatest,both of the living and the dead. And had he lived tenyears longer, in all probability, the intellectual worldwould have held him as the grandest writer that thisearth has ever known since the days when old Homerpainted the matchless beauty of the bride of Menelaus,and told of the godlike courage of the Greek and Trojanas they fought for her, from the Scamander to the sea.While the ignorant, the bigoted and intolerant arerejoicing in his death and garnishing his grave with the slimeof their slander, they may be assured that his name andwritings will live until the English language dies, andwhen W. C. Brann is dead and forgotten, so will beSterne, Smollet, Fielding, Swift, Pope, Steele, Addison,Goldsmith, Shakespeare, Ben and Sam Johnson, Byron,Shelley, Keats, Carlyle, George Eliot and all that mightyhost that have made the English language what it is. Thelanguage that the little tribe of the Angles brought fromthe forest of Germany to Britain swallowed the Britain,and survived the Norman conquest, and then absorbedboth the conqueror and his language. And in the deadcenturies of over a thousand years, in every generationhas produced some mighty intellect to speed it on in buildingup the bulwarks of human rights and human liberty,until they have grown so high that despots turn fromit with loathing, and slaves cannot speak it. The languageof the Magna Charta and the Declaration of AmericanIndependence, the two instruments that have spread thebread of liberty before a hungry world. And as a writerof this language, with all its mighty past and greaterfuture. W. C. Brann had few equals and no superiors.

I have been asked, both before and since his death,what were his religious opinions, and while every man'sreligious opinions are his own, and no one has the rightto question them, I will say he was a Deist something afterthe manner of Thomas Paine, and for the benefit ofsome of our professors and preachers, who do not knowthe difference between an Atheist and a Deist, I will saythat a Deist is one who believes in one God, and rejectsall forms of so-called revealed religion. Mr. Brann lovednature and when he looked upon it, he saw nature's God,that with eternal fingers has written his message on earthand sky, so that savage and civilized, Christian and Infidelalike could read, that has by immutable and unvaryinglaws, regulated the bloom of the flowers, thecourse of the winds, and the fall of the leaf, as well asthe revolutions of the countless millions of worlds thatare ever speeding through the unmeasurable realms ofspace. He believed that this mighty power, that mencall God, could perpetuate man in the hereafter as easilyas he had placed him here, and while he, like many others,knew that all his hopes and faith did not furnish oneatom of real proof as to what lies beyond the gates ofdeath, still he hoped for the brighter and better life, andwhen that beautiful smile overspread his face when hedied, those who beheld it felt that he had realized hishopes, and in the shadowy realm that bounds the Stygianriver had met his little girl Inez, whose untimely deathat the age of barely 12 years, had worked such havocin his heart. Mr. Brann loved nature, not only whenthe gorgeous god of day threw over earth and sky theflashing strands of his golden hair, but in the night timewhen all else was wrapped in the arms of sleep, the twinsister of death; and the belated passer-by of his homeoften saw the gleam of his cigar as he sat or walkedupon the lawn, in the small hours of the night: and atsuch time I know there came through his soul the thoughts,if not the words, of that death-devoted Greek, who to thequestion from the woman that he loved, "O, Ion, shallwe meet again," answered, "I have asked that dreadfulquestion of the hills that look eternal. Of the clearstreams that flow on forever. Of the bright stars amidwhose fields of azure my raised spirit has walked in glory.All, all are dumb."

But when I gaze upon thy face, I feel that there issomething in the love that mantles through its beautythat cannot wholly perish, we shall meet again, Clemanthe.But it was not the name of Clemanthe that passed hislips, it was ever "Inez, darling Inez, we shall meet again."

I here reproduce in his own words an extract appropriateto this subject. It is from the ICONOCLAST ofMarch, 1896, and an article headed "Beecher on the Bible":

"I know nothing of the future; I spend no timespeculating upon it—I am overwhelmed by the Past and atdeath grips with the Present. At the grave God drawsthe line between the two eternities. Never has living manlifted the somber veil of Death and looked beyond.

"There is a Deity. I have felt his presence. I haveheard his voice, I have been cradled in his imperial robe.All that is, or was, or can ever be, is but "the visiblegarment of God." I seek to know nothing of his plansand purposes. I ask no written covenant with God, forhe is my Father. I will trust him without requiring priestsor prophets to indorse his note. As I write, my littleson awake, alarmed by some unusual noise, and comegroping through the darkness to my door. He sees thelight shining through the transom, returns to his trundle-bed and lies down to peaceful dreams. He knows thatbeyond that gleam his father keeps watch and ward, andhe asks no more. Through a thousand celestial transomsstreams the light of God. Why should I fear the sleepof Death, the unknown terrors of that starless night, thewaves of the river Styx? Why should I seek assurancefrom the lips of men that the wisdom, love and powerof my heavenly Father will not fail?"

Like the lowly Judean carpenter who gave his life in aprotest against the wrongs which wealth and power haddone to his fellow man, he was hated by the Phariseesand hypocrites, but he never cast a stone at the poor andunfortunate, but was ever ready to support the weakbattling in the cause of right against the cohorts of thewrong.

He was not only a poet, but was a prophet and apriest; not the prophet and priest of orthodoxy, that hashanded down to us through the ages, written in the bloodof slaughtered millions, that dark story of forked-taileddemons and flaming hells, that has given us a God thatloves us better than an earthly father can, yet permitsus in the sight of his great white throne to writhe andsuffer through the endless ages of eternity in the flamesof hell. But he was a priest and prophet of a greaterand grander faith, that in the evolution of the unborncenturies yet to come, will strip from the Godhead allof the horrid concepts, born of the puny hate of manfor his fellow man.

Mr. Brann was a man of the highest moral courage,no one doubted this, but some doubted whether he hadthat kind of physical courage that is necessary tocontend with mobs and assassins, but when the hour came—when, without the slightest warning or anticipation ordanger, the death wound tore through his back, witha coolness that few even of the bravest of men wouldhave possessed under the circ*mstances, with a couragethat could have led the Irish exiles, in that desperate anddeathless charge on the bloody heights of Fontenoy, heturned and fired every bullet of his pistol into the bodyof his assassin.

I will briefly sketch here some of the main facts thatled to his death, not only justice to the dead, but to hisliving friends who only knew him as a writer and havebeen compelled to read in the newspapers the loathsomeand lying slanders sent out against him from thiscity.

The origin is to be found in the visit to this city ofex-Priest Slattery, who, for gross immorality, had beenkicked out of the fold of the Catholic church. He wasaccompanied by a woman fully as bad as he, and thesetwo saints set up to lecture, and the substance of theirlecture was briefly this, that convents and female schoolsunder the charge of the sisters, were but bawdy housesto satisfy the lust of the Catholic priesthood. Mr. Brann,who heard, in the opera house in this city, these vileslanders flung amid thunders of applause, mostly from a gangof blackguards from and around Baylor University, outragedby the wrong done the pure and stainless womenwhose vows bar them from the slightest hope of rewardon earth, yet devote their lives in and out of the conventwalls to soothing the sorrows and relieving the sufferingsof humanity, attempted to reply in their defense, and forthis he was hooted and nearly mobbed by this preciouslot of curs and had to be escorted from the opera houseby the police. After the Antonio Tiexeria scandal cameout, and he saw the poor girl reduced to ruin, standingbarely on the verge of womanhood, desolate and friendlessin a foreign land, with his whole sympathetic naturearoused in her behalf, he certainly struck some hardblows at Baylor. In his repeated thrusts he made one atthe professors which is believed by many to have cut fardeeper than anything ever said about the Brazilian girl,and that was his proposition to open a night school fortheir benefit. In last October ICONOCLAST, in aparagraph, he expressed the hope that Baylor would notcontinue to manufacture ministers and Magdalens. Forthis he was twice mobbed, and it is claimed eventuallymurdered.

Since Mr. Brann's assassination I have seen it chargedin some papers, notably one bearing the word Christianat its head, that he was killed because he had slanderedhis slayer's daughter, and then follows a lot of hypocriticalrot about regretting bloodshed, but that there was anunwritten law that required the death of a man whowould slander the female relatives of another. A greaterfalsehood was never published in even a pious Christianweekly. He never mentioned the name of any woman connectedwith Baylor except the Brazilian girl, and her casewas in the courts, and while his friends deeply regrettedhis unfortunate expression it neither justified his mobbingor his murder. And in the judgment of all fair-mindedmen, under the circ*mstances could have been more readilyconstrued to mean Antonio Tiexera than any other womanon earth, for within Baylor's sacred precincts she hadbeen reduced to that condition to which, when a womanarrives, men call her a Magdalene. If this was the motivethat prompted his slayer, I ask why he did not appealto the unwritten law sooner; he who appeals to it mustdo so at the first information has been conveyed to himthat the wrong has been done and he cannot wait formonths and then use it as a defense, and I do not hesitateto say that hundreds besides myself in this city do notbelieve that this prompted his assassin, except to be usedas an excuse.

Mr. Brann loved Waco as he never loved any otherplace; for he knew that within its borders could be foundas many brave, liberal-hearted men, pure and noble womenas could be found in any other spot on earth with the samepopulation. He loved it, for he said that here was thefirst place he ever found a real home, and here was theplace he had for the first time been recompensed for histoil by receiving over a bare subsistence. Now, did Wacolove Mr. Brann, or did it hold him the foul slandererof her purest and best, as some claimed him to be? Letus see. Every effort was made to throw cold water onany turnout to his funeral; it was told around the citythat no women would attend and that no flowers wouldbe sent, but what was the result? From his home to thecemetery the sidewalks were crowded, save at BaylorUniversity, the place that is responsible for his death, andhundreds of men and women who had no carriages walkedfrom his home over two miles to the cemetery, and whenthe long funeral cortege passed within the gates, aroundhis grave was a sea of human faces unequaled in numbersever before gathered around any other grave in Waco.Yet Waco had lately laid to rest within that cemeterya man whom she dearly loved and on whom Texas hadbeen proud to confer her high places, a man who in bygoneyears had so gallantly led her sons on so many bloodyfields. As to the flowers, no greater profusion was everseen on any other grave in Waco, or, perhaps, in Texas,a tribute that the pure and stainless women of Waco paidto the martyred dead. At his funeral was noticed a greaternumber, both from the city and county, of the sun-kissedsons of toil than had ever been gathered here around anyother grave. Why were they there in such numbers?Why did they bow their manly heads o'er the coffin ofthe dead? I will answer for them. It was because theyknew that the dead man loved the land that they, theirsires and their grandsires loved; that he was seeking touproot the evils, both socially and politically, that are sorapidly overrunning it; that all the gold of earth, or theplaudits of those who feel themselves the grand and greatcould not win him from his task of defending a people'srights against those who were seeking to strike them down,and if he had made an error in a paragraph subject toa double construction, that above all else on earth in hisheart he sought

"But the ruin of the bad, the righting of the wrongand ill."

He was followed to his grave by hundreds of men whobut a few years ago had given of their money liberallyto build up the new Baylor, many of whose wives, daughtersand sisters had been educated there. Is it reasonableto suppose that these men who clung to him in life withhooks of steel, and followed him to his grave with tears,are such cravens that, alike in life and death, they wouldstand by the man who had foully slandered their wives,daughters and sisters' fame? Out upon such a supposition,it can only find lodgment in a breast that holds thatthe Yahoo of Swift is a true picture of the human race,and that the lowest of the type is living here. If Mr.Brann was the slanderer of women, why did so many ofthem, from the hundreds that crowded the lawn aroundhis home, lead their children up to his coffin, and thosethat were not able to look into it they would raise upin their arms that they might look into the dead faceof the Prince of the Imperial Realm of Language.

Mr. Brann was no slanderer of women, no man onearth had a greater veneration for the good and pure ormore sympathy for the fallen, and he would have diedbefore he would have wronged intentionally either class.In this case he had struck in behalf of a poor andunfortunate girl who had been grievously wronged at Baylor,and it used to be held, and is yet held in some communities,that the man who strikes in the defense of a defenselesswoman exhibits the highest trait of chivalry, even if hehad made a mistake in striking, but here in Waco, withits Christian schools and churches, and its so-called Christiancivilization it was rewarded first by mobs and then by murder.

He was a man who was incapable of malice, he borenone for injuries that most men would have rewarded thecowardly perpetrators by shooting them down like theyhave their prototype, the sneaking wolf; this arose fromthe innate tenderness of the man who shrunk from thetaking of life, even of an animal, unless it was necessary.

I have used no words of sympathy for his wife, fortime and not words can soothe sorrow such as hers, butfor the benefit of those at a distance who were herhusband's friends I will say that she has the sympathy ofall the men and women of this city, irrespective of churchor creed, who are not the indorsers and abettors of mobsand assassins, and I am glad to say that this collectionof hyena-hearted human vultures, though far too many,are in the minority.

Now, to the dead friend of humanity, the eternal foeto wrong and hypocrisy, I bid adieu forever here, andfor aught I know, for hereafter. The greedy grave, whosehungry mouth is never filled, has claimed him, and in thearms of old earth, the last mother of us all, we have laidhim to sleep, as peacefully as in infancy he slept uponhis mother's breast, indifferent alike in death as in lifeto the human ghouls who pursued him. Never again willhis splendid intellect drive a pen. "In thoughts thatbreathe and words that burn" against the serried ranksof injustice and of wrong. Others will follow in hisfootsteps, and battle as faithfully as he for the cause ofright, but, alas, none are clad like him in the Milan mailof intellectuality, against which the cloth-yard shafts offoes could rattle but could never pierce. Now, that forhim the restless dream of life has closed, I know that everyadmirer of his genius, no matter of what faith or of nofaith at all, will join me in the wish that for him deathdid not bring oblivion's dreamless sleep, where Letheanwaves forever wash the pallid brow of death, but Elysianfields in which he met in joy the loved ones that had gonebefore and will await in peace the loved ones that areleft behind.

"O Jerusalem, Jerusalem! Thou that killeth theprophets and stoneth them that are sent unto thee."

* * *REST—REST IN PEACE.

BY W. H. WARD.

There comes, I think, in the life of every man a timewhen feeble words come faintly up for utterance—whenthe human soul refuses to ease tell its agony in emptyphrases—when neither tongue can tell nor pen portraythe gloom which o'ershadows the spirit engulfed in woe.This suffering may be selfish, or be merged in a generalsorrow. As I write the simple sentence, Brann is dead,a pall settles over my spirit, and, groping blindly in thedark, I feel there remains on earth scarce a single rayof light. I knew this man, and to know him was tolove him—knew his faults and his virtues; loved him inspite of one and for the other. His faults were human;his virtues were Godlike. For years we trod togetherLife's unequal pathway—at times I felt that I stayedhis falling steps, and my own feet have strayed oftand again has his firm hand led me back into the light.He was to me a delightful study, for which I found neverfailing recompense. I have watched his majestic mindexpand as the florist watches the budding beauty of aflower, ever growing in its unfolding loveliness. I havelived with him in his home, surrounded by those whomhe loved—seen him joy with their gladness, while hisheart contracted with every pain that approached hisloved ones—have stood with him on the banks of somemighty river, and watched the evening sun throw its chainof fire across the bosom of the waters, while his poeticspirit reveled in the beauties of the sunset sky. Underthe shadow of Lookout, I have gazed with him upon thosebeetling crags, where the fate of a nation was in partdecided, while he thanked God fervently that the heart ofthe nation yet beat steady and strong—have strolled withhim in the forests when vernal nature spread its gloriouscarpet for the foot of man—have felt his great heartexpand to receive every subtle impression of beauty andtenderness from nature's matchless canvas—have seen thisman against whom the anathema of infidelity and atheismhave gone forth, humbly bow to worship God in his handiwork.For him, as for us all, there were times when theearth was darkened with doubt; but there were moments,I know, when his aspiring soul mounted the clouds andcaught some reflex of the great white light that breakson the throne of God. It has been charged that he hadneither faith nor religion. In justice to the memory ofthe dead, I deny the charge. He had a faith as nobleas it was unfaltering—that truth was eternal and the loveof justice could never utterly fade from the hearts ofmen. His religion was simple still, though confined byneither church nor creed—'twas the fatherhood of Godand the brotherhood of Man. As he loved truth andjustice even so did he despise falsehood—declaring that hehated all "who loveth or maketh a lie." He loved hisfellows as few men have done. The great desire of hisheart, and no small part of his lifework, was devotedto the alleviation of human suffering. In his nature hewas frank and open as the day—generous to a fault. Ido not believe that he gave his affection fondly orfoolishly. If those whom he loved failed to reach his highstandard, it was not his fault. His was a great heartand he gave its tenderness with a princely hand, feelinghimself rich in giving—glorying in his own munificence.No man could have been the recipient of this rich bountywithout feeling himself ennobled by the gift. He had thefaculty of attracting to him all whom he considered worthyof his affection. He possessed in a rare degree that which,for want of a better name, we term personal magnetism.Intellectually, he was a meteor that shot athwart theliterary firmament, leaving a train of fire behind to markhis course. Within a period of four years, in an inlandTexas town, he built up a magazine which was readby a large percentage of the English-speaking people.He had at the time of his death a larger clientele of readersthan any living writer. For years he did all of the workof the ICONOCLAST himself, but of late he had gatheredabout him a corps of contributors in whose genius hehimself reveled—a "bunch of pansy blossoms," he fondlytermed them, whose beauty and fragrance would, hedeclared, delight the literary world. The hand that heldthese blossoms is now folded across a pulseless breast;but the silken skein of his affection will yet serve to bindthe flowers together. The bright particular star of theIconoclastic galaxy is dimmed, but the blended light ofthe others may still serve to illumine the dark places oflife, and, in so doing, help to achieve that betterment ofman for which their chief toiled so earnestly, battled sobravely and hoped so ardently. The poor and oppressedhave lost a friend and protector—true womanhood haslost one of its ablest defenders—liberty its bravestchampion—his country a hero, ever ready to fight for aredress of her wrongs. He was a humanitarian in thebroadest and best sense of the word. In his heart therelived ever a hope that the time might yet come, in thisfair land of ours, when there would be "neither amillionaire nor a mendicant—a master nor a slave." In lifehe was dear to me, his memory is dearer still, nay, 'tissacred. I would not play Boswell to any Johnson, butthis was my friend, tender, loving and loyal to me, andnow that he is dead I come to lay this tribute in thedust at his feet. He has been judged oftenest and mostunjustly, as men usually are, by those who knew him least.Beneath the iron corselet which confronted the eyes ofthe world there beat in this man's breast a heart tenderas a child's, and as loving as a woman's, that throbbedin agony for every ill to which humanity is heir. Iremember in the early morning once he came into my roomand silently beckoned me to his study. There in the vinesat the window, scarce three feet from his desk, sat oneof our Southern Orioles—a feathered songster, trillingforth the gladness of his heart in song. Brann watchedthe bird and drank in the music of his song. I saw hisface light up with exquisite tenderness, and I knew thathe accepted this matin song of the bird as a message fromhis Maker. I trust I may be pardoned for relating thissimple incident, but it served to show me the man asfew things could have done. I know 'tis true that: "Assnowflakes fall to the earth unperceived and are gatheredtogether in a pile, so do the seemingly unimportant eventsof life succeed one another. No single flake creates asensible change on the pile, and no single act constitutes,however much it may exhibit, a man's character." Butit is from simple things that the sum of life is made up—from those acts which are most spontaneous and usuallyleast observed that human nature may best be determinedand most justly estimated. This man made no preachmentof his virtues, believing that "the years are seldomunjust." He was the Navarre of modern journalism, andhis white plume ever showed in the thickest of the fight.It was his strong hand that taught the "doubtful battlewhere to rage"; 'twas his to enchain friendship and inspirefollowers. Had he battled for a creed as he foughtfor a faith, his bones would have been canonized. Hadhe struggled for a party as he stood for the State, nopolitical preferment would have been held beyond hisreach. Had he lived in another age, among other people,his body would have been inurned in the Valhalla of theBrave. As it is, all that is mortal of him occupies onlyso much of Texas soil as may serve as "paste and coverof his bones." Little does he reck of this, and his friendsshould not repine, for the same prairie breezes that waftincense of flowers over the graves of Travis, Bowie andCrockett, sing a sad requiem over the final resting placeof Brann. The aspiring soul has found its fixed abodeamong the stars; his Titanic intellect which, here on earthyever struggled for the light, now bathes in the effulgenceof the Sun. His heart, ever unquiet because of the woesof his kind, now knows that peace which "passeth theunderstanding of man." The hand of the All-Father hasforever soothed the heart-hunger and unrest of life fromhis troubled breast. That hand which swept, at will, everycord of the harp of life, has fallen nerveless, but its musicwill yet linger in the hearts of men until love of truthand beauty shall utterly fade from the earth. A longgood-night to thee, Brave Heart, thy better part hasfound the better place; to that which is mortal andremains with us, we say, Rest—Rest in Peace.

A MEMORIAL TO W. C. BRANN.

It has been suggested that the friends and admirers ofMr. Brann join in a contribution to mark the spot wherehe sleeps. It is proposed, if this meets the approval offriends, that it be a granite vase, some four or five feethigh, surmounted either by a life size statue in bronze ormarble of the dead, holding in his hand a copy of theICONOCLAST, as if offering it to the passer-by, and theword ICONOCLAST upon it in letters sufficiently large tobe read at a distance of twenty feet. It is said by thosewho claim to know that such a memorial can be erectedat a cost of some $3,000 or $4,000.

Many of his friends would not approve, and neitherwould he if he could express himself, of anything thatwould require any large expenditure of money while somany thousands of worthy men and women are strugglingin vain to secure the bare necessities of life, these holdingthat costly monuments can do the dead no good, and arein bad taste in the living. There can be no doubt thatthousands in the years to come will seek his grave to laytheir offerings upon the shrine of genius, and while hiswill be marked I wish to say in this connection to thoseasking in what condition Mrs. Brann is left financiallythat while she will have sufficient to keep the wolf fromhers and her children's door if properly managed, thatshe will not have over a tithe of what it has been publishedthat she would.

Submitting these few words for the consideration ofhis friends, I can say if a response sufficiently favorablecome, then the proper steps will be taken to carry it out;if not, nothing more will be said, at least not from me;and as his friend I would not approve of keeping standingin the ICONOCLAST a list of subscribers to the fund; ifthe suggestion is carried out it will be time enough topublish it when the work is finished and the statueunveiled. G. B. GERALD.

. . .

The man who takes up Brann's work will only succeed,not replace him. He was a star of the first magnitude,and such bodies are not created in an hour—not alwaysin an age. He who attempts an imitation, however cleverhis work, would stand before the world, self-confessed, afailure from the first. Booth, in his favorite characterinspired us—Joe Jefferson could only prompt us tolaughter. Yet, is not Jefferson without genius in his way?There is no reason, however, why he who follows maynot be as loyal to the faith, as courageous in the fight,as Brann was known and acknowledged to be. The Chiefis dead, but did not die until he had blazoned the wayfor those who dare follow where he so bravely led.

. . .

In life Brann often said he wanted no mourning wornfor him, save that which enshrouded the hearts of hisfamily and friends—that the mere trappings of woe werebut its "limbs and outward flourishes," which, too often,failed to reach the heart.

* * *SPEAKING OF BRANN.

Died Fighting April 2, 1898.

Where now is all his thundering?
He has "fall'n on stillness" in the Spring,
And even echo answers not,
"In that dim land where all things are forgot,"
His surging sentences, his cadenced chimes
Of speech that through the seven climes
Wooed the many to rapt listening.

Soothed by the wind of the dead men's feet,
He lies in slumber senseless-sweet.
His fame, his wife's and children's tears,
The issue that made up his manly years,
His hates and loves the burgeoning Earth receives,
And list, "a little noiseless noise among the leaves"
Of southern springtime pity does entreat.

A fighter's faults were his, but strong
The blows he struck at throned Wrong;
Beauty he loved as ever love the brave;
The April air breathes beauty o'er his grave.
Truth he pursued. Lo, he has found her now:
She kissed the kiss of peace upon his brow.
His ears are filled with Silence's sweet song.

Fighting he died, marched into the Night,
His banner blazing with his bravery's light.
"Shot from behind," the story goes,
To glorify him and to damn his foes.
The foes he fought were Cowardice and Fraud;
They have prevailed again, but, O Lord God,
Thou wilt raise up still others for Thy fight.

Rejoicing loud is in the House of Sham,
Bigots to themselves make deep salaam,
Shoddydom rubs its ringed hands in glee,
The Ogre's scandal-scourged at each pink tea,
Pecksniff's pray that he has gone to swell
The galaxy of bravery and brains in Hell—
Great joy in small souls all not worth a damn!

But where men think, feel, as men can,
"Bon voyage through the dark, good man!"
They call and take up his pen-lance
And brandish it again 'gainst Ignorance
In power fortified with a myriad lies
And every great-heart, fine-soul cries
As pledge of fealty, "Here's to you, Brann!"

What tho' he hear no rumor of our hail!
What tho' we follow searching for that Grail
A bettered world with less of woe and pain,
And better gods than Privilege and Gain,
Out in the darkness, by assassins sped,
'Tis better far to join defeated dead
Than share success with him whose soul's for sale.

—WILLIAM MARION REEDY, in St. Louis Mirror.

* * *DEATH OF W. C. BRANN.

What a sable pall was flung over the spirits of countlessthousands who heard last week that Editor W. C. Brann,of the ICONOCLAST, was no more. "The heavens seemhung in black and the clouds are wrung of their stars,"wrote a St. Paul friend who idolized the apostolic seer.

The world is dark with excess of grief for the immortalsoul of an illimitable genius has been sent to its makerand scattered with the star dust of the eidouranionWilliam C. Brann was an apostle. Like Christ, like Lincolnand others whom we deify, he was misunderstood andreviled, and a cowardly bullet pierced him in the back, amartyrdom of which he had a premonition.

The head and front of his offending was strict adherenceto the truth, though the heavens fall. He knew no fear,but was never the aggressor.

The lamented Brann was an educator, and an emancipatorof human liberty and human thought. The hypocritestood in awe of his judgment. When he indicted himto be arraigned before the great bar of public opinion hedipped his pen in acid that seared the eyeballs, and wrotetheir sentence diluted with worm-wood and gall. It isnot small wonder that the Judas Iscariots and the lemurstrembled at his power.

Brann's tragic exit from this vale of tears isinspiration now for jackals to attack his name. Like the dull,dull ass they are not afraid to kick the dead lion, whiletheir ears wave to the seventh heaven of delight. In earthlife they feared his name, but like ghouls they now godown into the grave to besmirch his memory. And this,too, from those who profess to follow the teachings of themeek and lowly Nazarene.

Strange as it may seem to the hypocrite, Brann was areligious man. His creed was the religion of humanity.His biographers, if they do him justice, will write hisname with the blood of the lamb high up on the flying scroll.

Brann's friends, and they are legion, should not repineif he is not canonized as his bones are hearsed in death,for "whenever was a god found agreeable to everybody?The regular way is to lynch, as the Baylorites did, tohang, to kill, to crucify and excoriate and trample themunder their stupid hoofs, cloven or webbed, as the case maybe, for a century or two; and then take to braying overthem when you discover their divine origin, still in a verylong-eared manner!" So speaks the sarcastic man, inhis wild way, very mournful truths.

Brann was as the "life-tree, Igdrasil, wide-waving andmany-toned, with fimbriated tendrils down deep in theDeath-Kingdoms, among the oldest dead dust of men andwith boughs reaching always beyond the stars and everchangeless as the immutable empyrean of eternal hope."

They could better spare the whole State of Texas thanWilliam C. Brann. While the galled jades winced beneaththe scorpion whips of his satire, and would have preferredfireballs, they felt the potency of his dynamics and scurriedto the soldier works of the masters for a glint of mentalpabulum they had never known before.

The editor of The Sunday Eye is in receipt of manyletters from admirers of the late lamented genius. Theyare rich in anathema and maranatha of Brann's heartlessand cruel detractors. With one accord they have expressedthe wish that I excoriate the revilers who desecratedby bludgeon words the sacrosanct acre of God inwhich reposes the mortal tenement of the sacred scribe.

I do not believe as Mr. Charles Campbell, of Anchor,does, that they should be gibbeted high as Haman. Nordo I think as Mr. C. E. Stewart, of Minier, does, that theyshould be lashed naked through the world and lambastedtill death ends the heart throbs. I believe that they shouldbe permitted to live until they have read the great geniusand learned to understand and exalt him. It would makethem better for it, religion would not suffer by it, thoughBaylor sank a thousand leagues beneath the seven-huedregions of Tartarus.

The ICONOCLAST minced no words. When it dealt bodyblows they landed in the brisket and affected the solarplexus in a very apprehensive way.

Lincoln was gentle and generous, Ingersoll was brilliantand broad, but Brann was all this and greater. Hisuntimely death was a distinctive loss to the march ofcivilization and a gain to the shams of hypocrisy which takesnow a new grip on the English language to batter downthe shackles Brann had welded about them with public opinion.

Brann was a reformer who meant reform. He worehis heart upon his sleeve, but would be cruel to be just.He endured mental anguish great as was suffered in thegarden of Gethsemane. As the sweetest perfume exhalesfrom a crushed, blooming rose so the sweeter and noblersentiments welled up from the perennial spring of hisfountains of love when most bruised and racked with pain.

I have no fear of his acceptance on the right hand upthere where men are judged by their deeds and not bysemblance of better things that a canting world maysimulate. He is in Valhalla with the other battling heroeswhere the alabaster boxes of eternal love are showeredupon the halo of their brighter radiance. Brann wroteto catch the wide world's attention that he might teachthem gentler things than feculent shocks. He was essentiallyan ascetic devoted to uplifting in his own sure way.

All the classes came trippingly to his and all the dogmas,all the purlieus of sociology and political economy wereas an open book to him. When he soared to the sunhe never dropped into the sea from Icarian wings. Hisiconoclasm was the decadence of the social cesspool andthe expurgation of money power which he believed wasthe ne plus ultra of anarchy and the genius of diabolicperfidy. He preached as he felt, tender and terrible,loving and vehement, a strange commingling of Titanicvulgate and cooing peace. Brann was eccentric but allgenius must have a certain leeway without being dubbedQuixotic. He was a man whose loftiest ideality was purityin womanhood. He adored children and was in manyrespects child-like. He was as

"The long light that shakes across the lake,
Where the cataract leaps in its glory."

Friend Brann, through blinding mist of sympathetictears, I say adieu.—Geo. L. Hutchin, in the BloomingtonEye.

* * *A PEN PICTURE OF BRANN

It is hard for me to realize that Brann is dead. It seemsonly yesterday night that he sat opposite me at table,and talked of his plans and projects and spoke so hopefully,so boyishly of the future that he was never to realize.

For a long time I had a curiosity to see Brann, of theICONOCLAST. His pyrotechnic vocabulary, his strangeadmixture of erudition and slang, his almost womanlysympathy and the more than Apache ferocity with whichhe pursued his enemies, the tender and poetic metaphorthat gemmed his iron prose, and the singular blending ofoptimism and pessimism that characterized most of hiswork suggested an anomaly that appealed to the imagination,and I was anxious to see what Brann looked like.

I had an opportunity when he came here to lecture. Iknew his business manager, Mr. Ward, who figured in thedreadful duel in which he lost his life, and who was, atthat time, arranging his lecture dates. Ward is a bigTexan, over six feet high, and I suppose he weighs allof two hundred pounds. He is a lawyer who drifted intojournalism years ago, and under a somewhat rough-and-ready exterior there is not much trouble in finding thegentleman and the scholar. Well, Ward introduced me toBrann, and after a while the three of us foregathered ina private room of a down-town cafe, and stayed there forseveral hours that I remember with unmixed delight.

Looking back at the episode, I have difficulty in framingmy impressions of the famous Texan editor. I think theprincipal thing that struck me was his lack of pose andaffection. All through his talk, and he was in high spiritsand talked a great deal, there were sparks of delightfulnaivete.

"I want to pull out of the ICONOCLAST as much as Ican," he said. "And since we have made enough moneyto do so, I have bought a great many outside contributions.My idea," he continued, "is this: As long as Iwrote most everything in the publication myself it wasstrictly a one-man paper; and if anything should havehappened to me it would have been worth nothing to mywife and family. What I am trying to do now is toorganize a corps of contributors who can keep it up if Ishould be taken away."

Had he any suspicion of the prophecy that lurked inthese words? Perhaps he had; for when I suggested tohim the advisability of leaving Waco, with its petty localdissensions and the personal dangers incident to them, heshook his head.

"I got together $11,000 not long ago," he said, "andput it into a house. It is the first money worth talkingabout that I ever had, and I feel that the investment tiesme, more or less, to Waco. But aside from that," he wenton to say, "I am a little afraid that the ICONOCLASTwould lose its characteristic flavor if I moved it to oneof the big Eastern cities. You will remember that thatexperiment was tried with the Arkansas Traveller, whichwas moved from Little Rock to Chicago, and promptly fellflat. The same thing happened to the Texas Siftings,when it was taken from Austin to New York. I am inclinedto believe that a publication acquires a savor of thesoil in which it springs, and it is a mighty risky businessto try to transplant it."

He told me of Col. Gerald, who had killed the Harrisbrothers only a few weeks before. "Gerald is a wonderfulold man," he said. "He is over sixty, but he is as straightas a pine. He has a light mustache and chin beard, andeyes the color of the blue you see in old china. He don'tknow what fear is. He thinks it is some kind of a diseaselike smallpox or appendicitis, and only know that he hasnever had it." Between talk we ate oysters and drank a littlebeer. Brann impressed me as being a very temperate man.

The conversation drifted frequently to his plans for thefuture. "I've been roasted a good deal for the go-as-you-please style of the ICONOCLAST," he said, "and, betweenourselves, wish I could have refined its style a trifle. Butif I had done so we would never have gone over the 100,000mark as we did last week. However, I'm tired of it," hesaid slowly, "most infernally tired. I am anxious nextyear to devote myself to a higher class of work. I havea novel about half done, and also a play, and I am veryhopeful that they may both succeed."

It was long after midnight when we parted. He saidthat he expected to be back "one of these days."

Poor Brann! It sickens one's soul to think of the valueof such a life as his as against that of his slayer. GoodGod! His little finger was worth all the Texas pot-housepoliticians and Baylor University pharisees that couldbe lined up between her and Orion.—O. H. S., in theLooking Glass.

* * *SEMPER VIVAT IN MEMORIAM.

Now that partisan hate has succeeded in hounding to hisdeath America's most eloquent champion of humanity; hasdriven to the verge of insanity an adoring wife, andthrown o'er the roseate lives of two tender, clingingchildren the black pall of a sorrow that will forever embittertheir hearts, perchance it will pause; will remember theteachings of that other "friend of humanity" who, nearlynineteen hundred years ago, was crucified for daring tofight what he believed to be wrong; whose religion may besummed up in one word—"forgiveness."

Brann's enemies were professed followers of this Christ.With tearful eyes and uplifted, supplicating faces theybesought the God of Justice to—in the beautiful languageof the prayer left us by his Son—"lead us not into temptation"and "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive thosewho trespass against us"; and the next day passedresolutions congratulating a mob of brutal ruffians forfrightening a sick woman nearly to death, kidnaping herdefenseless husband and forcing him—under threats ofinstant death—to retract what they knew to be the truth.A few weeks later, they were "resoluting" and"sympathizing" and formulating plans for the erection of amonument to the memory of two would-be assassins whowere killed while attempting to carry out their cowardlywork. Oh, Christianity!—that thy cloak—pure as polarsnow—must cover such infamy!

Brann's death blots from the firmament of Americanjournalism its brightest star. He was an intellectualtitan. In him was embodied the philosophy of Carlyle—the brilliancy of Voltaire,—the withering sarcasm ofDesmoulins—the poetry of Ingersoll. His genius,universal as that of Shakespeare, was ever aligned on theside of the weak and oppressed; ever, with god-likefearlessness, he stood for Right against Might—for purityagainst corruption. In church, in state, in society—he tore the painted mask from the face of hypocrisy andexposed it, in all its festering hideousness, to the world'sridicule.

Brann has been damned as an atheist—by people whohave never read, and are incapable of reading andunderstanding, a single paragraph from his pen. The author of"Tiens ta Foi," "Charity," "Man's Immorality"—wasnot an atheist. He refused to bend the knee to superstition—to lend a patient ear to earth's self-constituted vice-gerents of Omniscience. But God spoke to him throughnature. The flowers he so passionately loved werereminders of His loving tenderness; in the divine music ofWagner, Liszt and Chopin, he recognized the voice of God.His faith was broad as the universe—deep as infinity.He loved purity; he hated hypocrisy; and for this he died—a martyr.

Inspiration comes from God. The children of geniusneeds must be the favorites of Omniscience. Yettheologians vilify Brann from the pulpit—teachers denouncehim to their pupils. For nearly ten years he has been thetarget of vindictive spite—such spite as only a narrow,bigoted mind can be capable of. This is the greatestcompliment mediocrity can pay to genius.

Brann is dead! Still forever is the pen whose wondrousalchemy transposed the English language—with all itsinherent harshness—into music sweet as song of Israfil.Stilled is the heart that stood alone, defiant, a bulwark'gainst the wave of corruption that is engulfing our land.

Brann is dead! But when Baylor University has sunkbeneath the wave of oblivion; when the very bones of thesplenetic-hearted hypocrites—who goaded to his deaththe grandest man America has ever produced—have crumbledinto the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust—Brann's name will live—a beacon light for those who lovetruth for truth's sake.

Brann is dead! The blow that wrung our hearts withunavailing anguish but ushered him into the company ofShakespeare, Carlyle, Hugo and Wagner. And there,whether it be in the light that beats on God's great throne,or in the serbonian darkness of a hell more horrible thanthat pictured by Dante—is the true Heaven.—AbbottGraphic.

* * *BRANN'S BRAVE BATTLE.

With humble soul and heavy heart we take up our pen tochronicle the death, yea the murder of one of the brightestand purest noblemen that God ever created—W. C. Brann.A few years ago he, W. H. Ward and the writer eachoccupied desks, side by side, in the editorial rooms of TheWaco Morning News. There budded a friendship betweenthat trio that we full believe shall blossom into ripefraternal love on a shore as yet unknown to Mr. Ward andthe writer. Mr. Brann was editor of the ICONOCLAST,and as its name indicates it is a smasher of idols fromTadmor in the Wilderness to the mountains of Hepsedam.Scorning the sensual, always against the vulgar, in muchthe same manner as Carlyle, Brann stuck the gaffles oftruth deep into the sides of wrong in high places, andexposed rottenness wherever found. With rugged English,twisted into sentences more cutting than whips ofscorpions' tails, he stood up and fought for right as opposedto might. He tore off the plaster of moral cancerousulcers, now so prolific on the body politic of the world,and held high the treachery, the bigotry, the superstition,the damnably dirty doings of a generation that acceptshidebound dogmas for the ultima thule of reasoning andtruth; precept for right and in reality worships at theshrine of exploded fables and crowns, by its own acts, theparrot as its preceptor—lives and dies, having no desireto do anything that somebody has not done before! Isit any wonder that such a man as W. C. Brann shouldfall a victim to such a populace? He was hounded to hisdeath—mobbed, spat upon, shot and murdered, by severalthousand pin-headed obstreperous patrons and followersof a little pee-wee college, that turns young ladies outenceinte almost yearly and hires its professors for lesssalaries than a railroad brakeman gets.

Brann's good work will live, his fame will survive and anintellectual race yet will rise up and bless his name whenthe lying epitaphs of the assassin sent to the d—— by himshall have crumbled to earth ten thousand years. We cannotclose this faint tribute of respect to our dead friendwithout acknowledging the worth of such true men as Mr.W. H. Ward and Judge G. B. Gerald, both of whom areable, brave, high-toned gentlemen, and both of whom camenear dying, and both were willing to die, or see that Mr.Brann got fair play while he lived.—S. M. Scruggs, inthe Tribune.

* * *BRANN IS NO MORE.

On the first of April—All Fools' Day—W. C. Brann,of the ICONOCLAST, and T. M. Davis riddled each otherwith bullets in Waco, Texas. Both of them died thefollowing day. The trouble between them grew out of theattack made by Brann in his paper on the Baylor University,a Baptist institution attended by the daughter of Davis.At the time that Brann accused the students of thecollege of immorality, he was assaulted by them, and barelyescaped lynching at their hands. He was forced to makea retraction and was ordered to leave town. Being acourageous man Brann refused to emigrate.

The Irish Standard chronicles the untimely and awfuldeath of Mr. Brann with poignant regret, and tenders itscondolence to his afflicted family. In many ways he wonthe admiration of the American people. He was a manof great mental endowments, and in the use of invective,often degenerating into billingsgate, he stood without arival in American journalism. His mind was broad andhe despised religious intolerance. As an American heloved the stars and stripes and was opposed to an Anglo-American alliance. He held hypocrites in supremecontempt and lashed the pharisees unmercifully. WhenCatholic priests and sisters were misrepresented bysectarian bigots, he used his tongue and pen in their defense.So ably did he vindicate the Catholic church from theiraspersions that many supposed him to be a Jesuit indisguise. In the last issue of the ICONOCLAST he told acorrespondent what he thought of Mrs. Shepard and ex-priest Chiniquy. Had Brann lived in a more civilizedcommunity than among the bigoted Baptists of Texas, hewould have used more elegant language in his magazinethan it contained for the past few months.

We entirely disagree with the Pioneer Press in itscharacterization of the deceased journalist when it says:"From attacking the private lives of the prominent andsuccessful men of every quarter of the union andlevying blackmail as the price of silence from those whoseslips or frailties his keen hyena-like appetite for filthhad enabled him to scent, it was an easy step to the mostscurrilous assaults on men and women whose only offendinglay in their uprightness and virtue."

Brann never attacked men and women for their"uprightness and virtue," and our St. Paul contemporary isguilty of calumny when it says so. Every evildoer andhypocrite feared him, while upright men and virtuouswomen had a champion in him. His bitterest enemiesnever accused him of being a blackmailer, and the editorof the Pioneer Press took care he was dead before he madethe unwarrantable charge.—The Irish Standard.

* * *BRAVE AND BRAINY BRANN

The killing of W. C. Brann in a duel at Waco, Texas, afew days ago, is but a repetition of the punishment thatgenerally falls to newspaper men who persistently printthe truth. Brann was an intellectual giant. The rarestaccomplishments possible for a human mind to acquirewere not too intricate for him to master. His versatilitywas as boundless as his originality was unique. Absolutelyfearless and utterly indifferent regarding his personalsafety, he dared to expose the charlatan and thetrickster in whatever walk of life he chanced to meethim. Endowed with a mind that was only circ*mscribedby the Infinite itself and fortified with a thorough classicaleducation, he held the hypocrite up to contempt and publicscorn and deservedly lashed him with the lash of sarcasm.True, some of our erudite(?) members of the press havepresumed to pass judgment upon him; men as incapableof rendering a just criticism of his talents as they havefound it impossible to rise to his standard of excellence.One who is especially in love with himself has said thathad Brann been less soulless he might have been anornament to his trade. Trade! When men attain Brann'sintellectual standing, and they are as rare as theintellectual sloven is numerous, the TRADE evolves into aprofession. It is indeed disheartening to see one devote hislife and his talents to truth and justice, only to bebelittled after death by those whose poverty-strickenunderstandings render them incapable of half-appreciating theman's genius, to say nothing of his nobility of purpose inendeavoring to elevate mankind. He has been accused ofblasphemy by another who has probably been as startledby Brann's truthful declarations as he himself would havebeen had he at some time dared to commit such a rashact. Despite these intellectual "pee-wees" Brann'swritings will live long after the surf of eternity has carriedthe penny-a-liners out upon the sea of oblivion. In thetragic death of W. C. Brann the world has lost the mostversatile pen the century has produced and it is withsincere grief that we chronicle his sudden taking away.—TheGilroy (Cal.) Telegram.

* * *BRANN, OF THE ICONOCLAST.

W. C. Brann, the fearless editor of the ICONOCLAST, is nomore. The ICONOCLAST is published at Waco, Texas, andwas started but a few years ago by its gifted author withno more capital than his genius and the courage of hisconvictions. The ICONOCLAST assailed every form ofavarice, hypocrisy and infamy; in a few months thepublication gained a world-wide reputation and amassed for itseditor a handsome fortune because it was bought and readby thousands of people who love truth, when boldly proclaimed,for truth's sake. Some time ago the ICONOCLASTlaid bare the iniquities of some white-sepulchral hypocriteshaving charge of a young ladies' seminary under theauspices of a religious denomination. The pious andlecherous scoundrels, and their ilk, who felt aggrieved bythe publication of the sensational facts, instead of resortingto the law and proving that they had been libeled, andvindicating themselves by the imprisonment of Brann,resorted to mob violence, and what they lacked in couragethey supplied with numbers, and beat their helpless victiminto insensibility. In the very next issue of theICONOCLAST, Brann, its outraged but incomparably fearlesseditor, in speaking of his cowardly assailants, used thefollowing defiant and sadly prophetic words: "Truth totell there's not one of the whole cowardly tribe who'sworth a charge of buckshot who deserve so much honoras being sent to hell by a white man's hand! If Socrateswas poisoned, and Christ was crucified, for tellingunpalatable truths to the splenetic-hearted hypocrites oftheir time, it would ill become me to complain of martyrdomfor a like offense." Brann was shot in the back by adrunken "local" politician, who doubtless had as muchconception of morality and honor as did those whom Brannhad assailed openly and above-board in the ICONOCLAST.Brann, though mortally wounded, turned and shot hisassassin, wounding him fatally—Brann and his assassinhave both died—one, mourned as a martyr in the causeof truth; the other mourned by the "splenetic-heartedhypocrites" of Waco and elsewhere.—Charleston Enterprise.

* * *A MARTYR TO FREE SPEECH.

Poor Brann has fallen a martyr to Baptist bigotry. Thefoul minded crowd who imported Slattery to Waco ran auniversity whose iniquities Brann exposed. The deaconsof the church and the preachers combined against him andhis life was attacked again and again because he wasnot afraid of telling the truth. The last attempt wassuccessful and his blood is on the head of the bigots ofWaco.

We have not read in any of our "American" dailiesnor have we seen in any of our Evangelical weeklies acondemnation of this outrage on free speech. If theconditions had been reversed, if a Catholic had shot downthe defamer of Catholic women, the country would haverung with denunciations of Catholic bigotry. But theBaptist beetle-browed can for months plan the death of aman who has exposed their hypocrisy and the assassinationis taken as one of the few "occurrences" whichdiversify life in those monotonous Texas towns.

Brann was not a Catholic. In the eyes of the majorityBaptists of Waco he was an infidel. He had no sympathywith any creed as a creed; but as far as we canjudge he loved truth and justice and hated wrong andhypocrisy. It was this natural feeling for right and fairplay which led him into the battle with the A.P.A., thebattle in which he perished. We believe that he actedaccording to his lights, and to those who live by the lawas it is shown to them, God will not deny grace. Many aman and woman who never saw Brann, and do not sympathizewith the extreme views he held on certain religiousmatters, and might perhaps take exception to his style ofconveying his opinions, will yet because of his manlydefense of ladies slandered without cause by the vilest of thevile, breathe a silent prayer that God may have mercyon his soul. As long as ye did it unto these you did itunto Me. Even a cup of cold water shall not lose itsreward.—The Monitor, San Francisco, Cal.

EDITORIAL ETCHINGS.

TO THE PUBLIC.

The editorial supervision of the May ICONOCLAST hasbeen to me a labor of love. The stress of circ*mstancesunder which the work has been done, is too well known foreither explanation or apology for its shortcomings. Thisissue of the paper is intended as a memorial of the manwho founded it; whose genius has so long adorned itspages, and whose personality has endeared it to so manythousands of readers throughout the land. W. H. WARD.

. . .

In the Vicksburg Dispatch of Sunday, February 13,appeared an article from the pen of Ida Clyde Gallagher,of Vicksburg, a very bright and gifted writer, in whichshe pays a feeling tribute to the character of W. C. Brann.The article in question has been widely read and copied.It was written while Mr. Brann was on his Southern lecturetour, and is peculiarly appropriate to this issue ofthe ICONOCLAST. I therefore reproduce it with pleasure:

"The development of all really great forces afford aninteresting study for the mind capable of grasping andmeasuring them. The overflow of a river, the eruptionof a volcano or the devastation of a storm arouse admirationeven while they inspire terror and awaken awe. Butit is the purely human force, with its infinite variety, whichcharms while it enthralls. A man born and reared, asother men, bound by the same ties, subject to the samelaws, fettered by the same conventionalities, to throw offthe yoke of circ*mstances, break through the trammels ofthe conventional, grapple with and overcome every obstaclethat lies in his path, until he reaches the summit ofOlympus and bodily fronts the Gods, or towers among men,like Saul above his brethren. We may envy him, as weever envy the truly great, or be disposed to close his lipsin death, because he tells us unpalatable truths, yetadmire him secretly and in our hearts exalt him. We maynot confess as much while he lives and labors, but whenhis lips are dumb in death, his breast pulseless, we lay ourhatred and envy in the dust at his feet, and rear in marblea gleaming shaft to commemorate the virtues of the dead.The name of "Brann" has inspired this homily; Brann,of the ICONOCLAST, the man whose praises are being sungloved by half the world, by the other half condemned, whosewhole life has been a battle and a march, who wars as didthe Titans and if he gropes blindly at times ever strugglestoward the light. This is the man who began his educationwhile rearing a family, and went from behind thesmokestack of a locomotive to the tripod of a daily paper.Who in a few years has risen to dizzy heights of fame,whose utterances are waited for and attended by morethan half a million people, many of whom he does not andcan not convert, but all of whom he impresses. A manwho is said to be an ideal husband and father, a tender,loyal and devoted friend, yet whose entire existence isdevoted to a warfare against existing evils, bitter as death,and uncompromising as the grave. You may not alwaysbe right, Mr. Brann, indeed, we shrewdly suspect you arenot, but we respect you and admire you just the same,because you attack boldly and fight fearlessly. Yes, weadmire you, and shall not wait to whisper it to yourtombstone either."

. . .

If the futility of brute force as an appeal to reasonrequired an object lesson, it might easily be found in thefact that while the hand that wielded one pen liesmotionless in death, hundreds of others have been raised up tofight under the same banner.

. . .

Several months ago a number of the students of theBaylor University, acting without regard for the laws ofeither God or man, attempted to mob the editor of theICONOCLAST in an effort to bridle his pen. The handwhich they sought to restrain has now been enjoined by acourt whose order is irrevocable. In every state in theunion men have come forward to take up a fight whichBrann himself considered ended, and the object isaccomplished. In reproducing tributes to the memory of thedead editor I have felt it my duty in several instances toblue-pencil certain passages which might have beenconsidered as reflecting upon those who are innocent andunoffending. The moral here needs no pointing.

. . .

To his readers and admirers, who have uniformlyexpressed regret over the death of her husband, Mrs. W. C.Brann desires to return a woman's thanks for the kindlysympathy extended.

* * *SIMPLE STATEMENT OF FACTS.

BY W. H. WARD.

Concerning the tragedy of April 1, in which W. C. Brannlost his life and I, myself, was slightly wounded, as asensational event, enough and more than enough, hasalready been said in the daily press. I should not havementioned the matter here at all, but I know the readersof the ICONOCLAST will expect a statement of the facts. Itherefore give a subjoined account of the affair from theIndependent Pulpit, published in Waco by J. D. Shaw.Mr. Shaw is well known to the people of Texas. There isnot a man in the state who will doubt that his account ofthe tragedy is in absolute accord with truth and justice.In the extract referred to Mr. Shaw says:

LET THE PLAIN TRUTH BE TOLD.

The lateness of this Pulpit affords me an opportunity tocorrect some false impressions with regard to the recenttragedy in which W. C. Brann lost his life.

That there should have been some errors of view amongbystanders as to the various incidents in that deadly conflictis not surprising, and of these, trifling in their nature,I will not here write.

The idea that Brann was seeking a difficulty with Davisis certainly false. He had made his arrangements to goon a lecturing tour, had spent the day at his home, went totown about 4 o'clock that afternoon to get a shave, andon his return walked with his business manager, Mr.W. H. Ward, by the office in which Davis was sitting.Having passed the office a few steps, Davis stepped outand shot him in the back. This was the shot that killedhim, and it was after receiving it that he turned, drew hisrevolver and opened fire upon his assailant.

Now as to Mr. Ward: He left Brann's house some timeafter Brann did, had joined the latter a few minutes beforethe firing, and was at the time walking by his side. WhenDavis fired, Ward jumped at him in an attempt to gethis, Davis' pistol, caught hold of it over the muzzle andwas shot through the hand. Ward was unarmed, havingleft his revolver in a grip at Mr. Brann's house. Hishands were gloved and he had no idea of a difficulty atthe time.

I state these facts not through any feeling of prejudice,having never been mixed up in the Brann-Baylor trouble,but solely in the interest of the truth. I can understandhow an excited observer, seeing Mr. Ward extend hishand to get Davis' pistol and seeing immediately the fireof the same, might have thought that Ward did the shooting,and it was this mistake that caused his arrest.—Independent Pulpit.

To this I will only add, that neither Mr. Brann normyself were in the slightest anticipation of trouble. Heleft home, having the boy to drive him down in his buggy,shortly before 4 o'clock on the afternoon of the tragedy.I awaited his return to drive to the train to meet mybrother, whom I was expecting with a party of friends thatevening. At 20 minutes to 6 o'clock he had not returnedand I took the first car down, as several ladies who chancedto be at Mr. Brann's home will testify. I left the car atFourth and Austin streets at about 6 o'clock, walked toHerz Bros., gave an order for some books, and met Mr.John Guerin, walked with him toward the depot, met Mr.Brann at the corner of Fourth street and Bankers' alley,chatted with him for a moment, when Mr. Guerin walkedon, and Mr. Brann and myself crossed the street andwalked towards Austin avenue. We had passed the place,where I afterwards learned Davis' office was located, aboutten paces, when Davis came out and opened fire from therear. His opening fire was the first warning of the trouble.We were walking side by side, conversing together, whenthe first shot was fired. That shot entered Mr. Brann'sback, and caused his death. I will add, that I wasunarmed, and had not removed my driving gloves, which weretaken off when my wound was dressed, and had been withMr. Brann not more than three minutes when the shootingoccurred. These are the facts, as substantiated by thesigned statement of over a score of eye-witnesses, the samenow being in the hands of my attorneys, Messrs. Baker &Ross, and C. R. Sparks. I do not wish to speak ill of thedead, therefore I shall have but little to say of Mr. Davis.My acquaintance with him was brief; I never met him butonce—when he was shooting another man, IN THE BACK.

* * *

Reference has been made by Judge Gerald to the pathetictragedy in Brann's life because of the loss of his daughter.The burden of sorrow which he bore is beautifully revealed:in the following account of that tragedy which was writtenby Brann.

THE LAST LESSON.

"Is there no stoning save with flint and rock?
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify—
No desolation but by sword and fire?
Yes, as your moanings witness, and myself
Am lonelier, darker, earthier for my loss."

Poor in gold and goods yet richer than fancy everfabled in home and happiness, the young father toiledand hoarded his scant wage; the little mother deniedherself a thousand things that women covet, and they said:"It is for her, our Inez, our fairy queen. Her feet shallfind no thorns in life's path; a father's strength amother's love shall fill it with sweetest flowers."

Beautiful to their eyes, and other eyes, was she, asGrecian sculptor's dream and still more beautiful whenchildhood's early years flashed by and the bud was burstinginto womanhood's glorious bloom. No crowned empressso imperial seemed, yet pride so womanly and softenedby such grace that each and all yielded sweet allegianceto her sway.

And they would sit and watch her at her books or play,drinking with greedy ear her admiring teacher's oft-toldtale of triumphs won in classroom or on the green, andwatched her comrades,—loving subjects they—weavecrowns of flowers for her fair brow and hail her queen.

And so the days went by, toilsome yet happy days until,when scarce passed to her 'teens, the youthful swainsbegan to sigh for her and bashful cast their tribute offlowers—such as they knew she loved—into the open door,then blushingly retreat, fearing cold comfort from herimperious eyes. And one there was of her own age, whoseemed to haunt the street, until the mother noticed itand said:

"Daughter, what does he ever near the house?"

And the father fretted and spoke harshly of the boy,and sharply to his child saying: "You do encourage thelittle fool to haunt the place. Speak to him no more."And the daughter made reply:

"Father, I never spoke to him, nor he to me." Andshe arose, and taking her music roll went forth and theboy followed her.

"Our daughter deceives us!" cried the father fiercewith rage; and he followed the twain.

"You have deceived me, Daughter!"

His voice was sharp, and, quailing before his wrath asthough it were a blow, she gasped, "Oh, Father!" andreturned with him in silence to their home.

And the little mother fretted and lectured her; but shesat silent, brooding upon the great wrong, and the queenlyeyes were full of tears that seemed frozen by her prideand could not fall.

They never fell. The gust of anger from the dotingfather's lips, the breath of doubt of her dear word, andher little heart seemed broken quite; the world seemeddesolate. The father's good-night kiss; the mother'stender solicitude were in vain,—the wound was too deep toheal. And while they slept and dreamed sweet dreams ofher fair future she poured her heart out to the good God,who never doubted her, and leaving a little note that wasa wailing cry of hopeless pain, passed by her own fairhand to the great beyond.

And the father kissed the dead lips of his first bornand knew that he had killed her. And ever in his heartthere is a cry, "I killed her!" And night and day thatcold, sweet face doth haunt him; and day and night hehears that piteous cry, wrung from his child when hebroke her heart, "Oh, Father!" and ever the little mother'slamentation goes up to heaven, "Our house is left unto usdesolate!"

SALMAGUNDI.

There is a class of men who take especial delight in pistolpractice—when the "other fellow" furnishes the target.They shut their eyes and literally feel what is going on—see pistols flashing, as the man, with a well-developedTexas "jag," sees keyholes in the door at 3 o'clock A.M.—just legions of them. As a matter of fact when pistolsare really cracking, powder actually burning and bulletssweetly singing "Nearer my God to Thee," these arethe first to seek the sheltering arms of a two-foot wall—"most any old wall," so it won't leak lead.

. . .

I wish to call attention of the readers of the ICONOCLASTto the pack of journalistic jackals who are raising theirillfamous howl over the body of Brann. As usual, whenthe lion is dead the hyena comes forth for a feast. Lifeis too short and the game too mean to justify individualfiring, so I will take a pot-shot at the pock; these animalsare so much alike in tastes, character and habits that onewill typify all. I therefore call attention to "Majah"Burbanks of the New Orleans Picayune. The stateConstitutional Convention has eliminated the negro fromLouisiana politics. Had that body also placed journalismunder the color ban they would have disposed of the"Majah" most effectively, and, I might add, to the entiresatisfaction of all concerned; unless, indeed, the coonshad objected to their company. So help me God, I wouldrather be a yellow dog, with an abbreviated narrative,and belong to a disreputable negro, than go around withmy cowardly heart in my throat, fearing to look a man inthe face while alive, then mercilessly assail his characterafter death. Bah! the mere existence of such creaturesrevolutionizes Darwin's theory—argues the survival ofthe unfittest.

. . .

It is well for the public to understand that the murderof W. C. Brann did not remove all of the abuses fromwhich this country suffers, and the frauds and fakes whichprey upon it. Assassination may shatter an instrument,but it cannot conquer a cause. There is still work forthe iconoclast to do, and it will be done. It will continueto place its brand upon the forehead of the seducer, thewhining hypocrite, the sniveling rogue, the confidence man,the fakir and the fool. It is proposed to show this countrythat the pistol is unconvincing as an argument anduseless as a brake upon reform. Brann is dead; but thereare men alive who lack his phenomenal ability, perhaps,but who share his deathless hatred of the rotten in moralsand in politics. The mission for the ICONOCLAST isunchanged and unended. Its field is its own. It will befilled.

. . .

The man who seeks the American spirit must look for itin the South and West. He will not find it in the East.That part of our common country is inhabited by a nationof shopkeepers as distinct from the peoples of the othersections as the lion is distinct from the jackal. They aresmooth-faced, snub-nosed rogues, tied to the counter andtill, dollar-marked niederlings of the department stores,jack rabbits of wall street, coyotes of the boards of trade.If every man who has traded upon the distress of hiscountry and the peril of his kinsfolk were to be shot thismorning, the air of the North Atlantic states would beheavy with powder smoke. From that well kept and wearisomeprostitute and buffoon, Chauncey Depew, down to thesmallest operator of a bucket-shop, they are all tarredwith the same brush—things in trousers who would selltheir souls for coin. They own the President of thiscountry, and they own many of the congressmen, havingbought and paid for them.

. . .

America, I suppose, is as religious as its neighbors, butit is for the dollar first and for Christ afterward. Easteris a period devoted to commemoration of the saddest andnoblest event in human history, the highest and mostimportant event. It is used by thousands of our merchants,however, as a time specially devoted to making money.From the manufacturer of "Easter cards," to the makerof hot cross buns, the signs and symbols of religion aremade the means of chasing the nimble 10-cent piece. Thecross is the hall mark of printed sentiment, to be sold fora quarter, and the crucifixion is done over and over againin gingerbread. The ICONOCLAST may not get to heavenby the Baptist route or the Methodist route, or by anyone of the thousand routes which "Christians" have beenpleased to blaze out for sinners in the centuries since Christdied, but it is a long way above that kind of impiety—sacrilege is a better word for it.

. . .

How does the Republican party—the party of gold—look now, from fat Tom Reed at its head down to"Nancy" Green, son of Hetty Green, at its tail? Is itthe party of patriotism? May it be trusted to upholdthe honor of the nation? Is it honest? Is it even decent?Nay. I say that nine out of every ten Republicancongressmen who voted for the intervention resolutions didso because they were driven to it by fear of outragedcitizens, Democrats and Republicans alike, not because theywere patriots. I say that the representatives of theRepublican party are bound hand and foot to the millionairesof America. I say that the leaders of that partyare without principle. The polls next November willshow what the honest money and honest patriotism peopleof the nation think of the Republican party.

. . .

From the time that Fitzhugh Lee reached Washingtonthe myrmidons of William McKinley sought to detractfrom his services to the country and to belittle his ruggedpatriotism and love of truth. The popinjay in the WhiteHouse could not bear to listen to the roar of welcome thatgreeted him as he stepped from the train. It was likethe oleaginous Ohio poltroon to inspire detraction of onewho is his official inferior, and his superior in everythingthat goes to make a man. The Virginian is not intellectuallygreat. He is plain of speech and manner. But hehas carried high the unstained banner of the lees. Hehas stood to his post in the face of danger. He has beardedthe traitorous Spaniard in his stronghold. He hasdemonstrated once that God never made a more courageousanimal than the Southern gentleman. Beside such aman, the purchasable McKinleys and gross scoundrellyHannas of the nation are dwarfs.

. . .

Dr. Dowie, of the Chicago "Zion," a place where faithcure fools who have cirrhosis of the liver are allowed todie for a consideration, has written a circular and sentout a million or two of copies. He wants every adultperson in the United States to send him 50 cents, so thathe can have money to send out more literature with whichto catch more fools. The people of Chicago can confera favor upon themselves and humanity at large by takingDowie five miles out into Lake Michigan, tying threehundred pounds of scrap iron to his heels and dumping himoverboard.

. . .

Mrs. Henrotin, president of the Federation of Women'sClubs, has telegraphed McKinley from Chicago that she,as the representative of that influential band of hens,cordially and heartily indorses everything he has everdone or thought of doing. It is proper to say that Mrs.Henrotin no more represents her sisters than I representthe W. C. T. U. She is only another instance of themodern highly developed female, eaten by an itch forwriting and getting her name into the newspapers. Themothers, sisters, wives, daughters and sweethearts ofAmerica no more indorse William McKinley than theyindorse any other coward. The women of the federatedclubs are much like other women when they stop playingupon the ink bottle and begin playing upon the cook-stove. They have taken off Mrs. Henrotin's back hair,and she now eats her meals from the mantelpiece. All ofwhich is proper.

. . .

Little Jimmy Eckles, Cleveland's undersized underling,got some handclaps and whoops from the Chicago CreditMen's Association when he addressed the members at theGrand Pacific Hotel on the night of April 12th. He talkedabout the business men's longing for war when the countryis insulted, and these snipes and jack bailiffs of the bigmercantile houses, warmed into drunken courage by gallonsof cheap wine, yelped in unison. This auriferousinsect, who was for four years comptroller of the currency,is remembered in Washington chiefly for a remarkableburst of speed displayed one night when his timorousmind conceived the idea that a somnolent hackman wasgoing to rob him. He had his dress suit case in onehand and his plug hat in the other, and he covered threeblocks in ten seconds. The cabby, whom he had hired,waked in time to discover the meteoric dash, and was themost puzzled man in the capital. Eckles is a warrior,and his credit giving, or refusing, listeners are all warriors.

. . .

J. Guy Smith, of Cotulla, was locally called, so I aminformed, "Brann No. 2." Like most other men, he wasfar behind W. C. Brann in wealth of intellect, in largenessof heart, in charity, in his hatred of wrong and theoppressor. It appears, however, that he had the habit ofspeaking his mind and he was shot for it. Also that hewas shot in the back.

. . .

Joe Leiter, the wheat speculator of Chicago, is followedabout all day by detectives whom he has hired to protecthim. I do not know if anyone contemplates giving himhis deserts, but since he has used his inherited millionsto make bread dearer in thousands of poor mouths, heshould be whipped twice a day for a month. Under aproperly constituted and administered government, Leiterand his kind would be sent to the penitentiary at hardlabor. He is as much a robber as any brigand of theItalian passes, and as much of a thief as any pickpocketin America.

. . .

A great many people imagine that "your Uncle Sam"will frazzle hell's bells out of Spain in one word and twomotions, that all of this preparation for threatenedconflict with Spain is much ado about little; that the UnitedStates will get up early some morning and administer thepaternal slipper to the Spanish pantaloon, simply by wayof diversion or to get up an appetite for breakfast. Theresult of the scrap may show that the job had best beundertaken after a square meal.

. . .

As the war is not yet on I rise to remark that it is mysincere wish that those who have lost a scrap may find it—that those who have clamored so hard and so long forhostilities to begin, may find standing room only in thetheater of war, and be given positions in the full glareof the footlight, with a corporal's guard behind them, tosee that they do not strike a retrograde motion when thecurtain rises on the first act.

[This completes the last issue of the ICONOCLAST. Thepublication of the paper was not continued, though evidentlythis was intended when the May issue was printed.The following articles were written shortly after the deathof Brann but did not appear in the ICONOCLAST.]

THE DEATH OF BRANN.

BY WILLIAM MARION REEDY.

Mr. Brann, who was killed in Waco last Friday, was amuch greater man than even his admirers knew. He hadmany virtues which, in a way, his peculiar tactics injournalism belied. For instance, his paper was read, forthe most part, by people who took a delight in his callinga spade a spade, and, in fact, in his seeking out spades towrite about. This was not the true Brann at all. Theman was clean-minded in his conversation. He thoughtcleanly. He lived cleanly as a gentleman should, thoughhe did not leave off sack. He was not a brawling, boisterousruffian, reveling in the slums. He was essentiallya family man and a student who "scorned delights andlived laborious days." His regard for the purity ofwomen amounted almost to a monomania, and he lived upto his own preachment on all the various forms of integritywith much more strictness than people who affectedto believe he was leper. Furthermore the man was anascetic in his essential spirit. He had the true taste forthe finely done thing in letters and if he did not devotehimself to what might be called the more refined literaryartistry, it was because he felt that there was dangerof drawing too fine the lessons he thought it his duty toimpart. There was no use, he said, in writing to thefew. One should write so that all might read, running.He maintained that the way to instill principles in thepeople was to secure their attention first, and he did nothesitate to secure their attention by any device that seemedavailable. Therefore he felt himself justified in appealingto the lower instincts in men in order that, while they wereall unsuspecting, he might inculcate something better.And so there ran through his publication the strangestcontrasts of sweetness and salacity, of eloquence andbombast, of purity and p*rnography, of jewel-phrases andgutter slang, excerpts of enthralling poetry and brothelbillingsgate. He pointed his morals with putridity andhe adorned his really beautiful style with barbarities andbanalities which make one shudder. He set his finethoughts like jewels in compost. He ravished the classicsto mix them up with sentences that stunk of the stews.The man seemed to indulge in special flights of poesy withno other purpose than to achieve a disgusting anti-climaxof muckery and mockery. The person who read Brannintelligently was impressed most by this habit of irony inthe Waconian. It was of the essence of his iconoclasm.He had something in his effects in this line that waspiteous. There was no denying his appreciation of the pureair, of the beautiful in life and nature, of the truthas thinkers see and feel it. It seemed to me that whenhe had soared up towards the ever vanishing ideal, hereached a point whereat he turned in disgust and hurledhimself madly back to the dungiest part of this dungyearth. There was a mighty dissatisfaction, even a despair,in Brann, and a touch of sadness in his writing as in hisface. The more I read of his deliberate pandering to theliterarily excrementitious appetite, the more I saw, orthought I saw, that he was afflicted with a mighty ennui,and was chiefly trying to escape from his own torture asone who knew not whether solace was to be found eitherin the spiritual or the earthly nature of man. Such aone as he might have been expected to take up any causethat assailed the existing condition of things politicallyand sociologically. While he was an ascetic his asceticismwas only a wreaking of his own bitterness upon himself.He was a man in whom strong emotions were easily excitedand he put into his writing all the passion which hesuppressed in his dealings with his fellows socially. He neverfelt malice towards people whom he assailed mostmaliciously. He saw them simply as representatives of somefault in our social or political system, and he felt that hewas doing his duty by his own conception of what theworld should be, by pillorying them as object lessons ofcharacters to be eliminated in his good time coming. Whenhe saw a foul wrong he saw it personified in some man orwoman. Then he went abroad in search of foul things tosay about it. And he found them and he hurled them atthe object, and he polluted the atmosphere for a milearound. When he wrote about the abstractions of poetryand philosophy he wrote with a sweeping, swinging rhythmthat thrilled anyone. He was master of the diapason.His ear was not attuned particularly to minor chords.He loved cyclonic clashes of words and he would strike outfecal flashes to illuminate them. His correggiosity wasat times overpowering. His vocabulary overcame himoften, bore him away from his thought and landed him insome swamp out of which he was wont to extricate himself,to the great delight of the semi-educated reader by somequip or quirk equally meretricious and mephitic. Thuswould he, metaphorically, throw filth at himself. He feltall the time that he was pursuing the best course, bendingthings he despised and loathed to better purposes. Mr.Brann believed that the country was, if not in itselfdecadent and degenerate, under the control of decadent,degenerate and depraved men. He believed that societywas a social cesspool. He thought that most religion washypocrisy. He believed that most wealth representednothing more than the superior and diabolic genius ofdishonesty. So believing he so preached and he preached witha vehemence that was in a sense vicious. His terriblyirony made his work an engine of anarchy. Not that hemeant anarchy at all, but because the people who werecaught by his banalities could not differentiate sufficientlyto extract the core of truth from the great superstructureof extravagances with which he hid it. Mr. Brann meantonly to lift the world up, and one of his queer conceptionswas, that his own dragging down of things pure to thelowest levels of life and thought and feeling was calculatedto make his multitudinous clientele look upward. Hewas mistaken. He came to know it, too, for he said tome one evening, "I am only a fad." "I'll pass away whenmy vogue is done, like brick pomeroy." He wished hecould believe that the best way to help people up was totake a stand and view a little above them. He said, whenit was suggested that he try this tack, that he feared itwas too late. Not that he wholly abandoned his beliefin his own plan, but it seemed to me that he felt sorry thatonce attention could be attracted by being shocking itcould only be held by a continuance of the shocks.

. . .

In my personal dealings with Mr. Brann I found him aperson of almost feminine fineness. It was amusing tomeet him after some particularly atrocious issue of theICONOCLAST, either personally or by letter, and have him"roar as gently as a sucking dove." In such moods herevealed a character that was really sweet—though I mustapologize for that misused word. He was impressed withthe pity of life. He loved to toy intellectually withsubtleties of thought. He had intuitions in art and poetry,and music touched him truly and deeply. I never have seensuch a gentle man with women and his estimate of woman,either in conversation or writing, was a high and noble one.If at times he wrote so that his conception of virtuouswomanhood was unpleasantly associated with ideas thatrevolted you, it was his peculiar belief that purity was allthe purer for the contrast and antithesis. He lovedchildren, too, and in his more familiar moods, accordingto his intimates, he was like one whose heart was as a littlechild. He cared no more for money after he began tomake it than he cared in his bohemian days when he wasreadier to give than to take. He loved his friends blindly.He did not hate his enemies, he despised them. He hadall the manly virtues, courage, generosity, modesty. Yes,modesty; for egoism such as he had was not foolish pride.His egotism was only his own force asserting itself. Hisfriendship was almost foolish. He praised too generously.He was inclined to help everybody he could and I am surethat he never assailed anyone or anything that did notrepresent to him uncharity and snobbery. He was notenvious. His mind was on the Texas scale; he knew nomeanness. His was Kentucky origin and he was taintedwith Kentucky's quixotism. He loved liberty and heloved love. He was the friend of the people as he dreamedthey should be. He was the advocate of the greatestenlargement of rights. With little of what he strove for inimmediate political issues did I sympathize. He believedmore in what is called socialism than I do, but he believedit most earnestly. He was the greatest force in thiscountry, with his 80,000 issues of his magazine per month,for all the things that go with free silver. His followingincluded all the thinking followers of Bryan and his workhad no little effect, in its powerful music and color, uponmany people to whom Bryanism represented the politicalabomination of desolation.

. . .

As to the manner of Mr. Brann's death there is only tobe said that he expected it. He judged from the charactersof those he attacked, that they would assassinatehim. He died as he expected to die, without any cringingto his enemies. Some people he attacked who did notdeserve his vitriolic attentions, but he thought they did. Inthe main he scourged and sacrificed only those who deserved.The manner in which he was killed and the cause in whichhe was killed—the cause of an institution in which a girlwas debauched in the name of Christ and turned out ofdoors to starve to the glory of religion—glorify him. Hewho fought in the open was shot by a sneak from behind.The sneak himself was shot in his act of cowardice. Mr.Brann was brilliant and brave. He partook of the qualitiesof the men who immortalized the Alamo. He was thefirst man who identified Texas with thought. He lovedTexas so well that he defended the code of private andpublic mobbery for righting wrongs. To that cruelcoward code he fell a victim. With all his faults as I seethem, I can think of him only as worthy of being buriedin some high place, to the strains of Sigfried's FuneralMarch, and can only say, with Browning of the dead"grammarian"—

Here, here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,
lightnings are loosened
Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,
peace let the day send!
Lofty designs must close in life effects:
loftily lying,
Leave him—still loftier than the world suspects,
living and dying.
—The Mirror for April 7, 1898.

PRIVATE VENGEANCE.

A CONSIDERATION OF ALLEGED CHIVALRY.

Some person has sent me a marked copy of the New
Orleans Picayune, the marked matter being an editorial
substantially approving the manner of the taking off of
Mr. Brann, the editor of the Iconoclast.

Granted that, as the Picayune declares, Mr. Brannwantonly attacked spotless reputation, that decency andpurity were not sacred to him—an assumption, by theway, that is a rank injustice to Mr. Brann's memory—let us see about this matter of private vengeance whichthe Picayune approves.

Are there not laws in all the states against libel? Arethere not laws against publishing obscene and defamatorymatter? If there be, then what justification can there befor private vengeance? What is the use of laws if menon any provocation may set aside those laws and setthemselves above them and execute the person who mayhave offended, or who may be imagined to have offendedthem? If private vengeance is to prevail what is toprevent any person construing any criticism into a mortaloffense and assassinating the critic, even though the criticbe palpably and undeniably criticizing for the publicgood? When the individual is made the judge, jury andexecutioner of whomsoever displeases him, what becomesof law, of order, of civilization? There is not a day inthe year that one could not justify the murder of ahundred editors, if the rightfulness of the killing weredeterminable solely by what the killers thought of thecriticisms against them in the papers controlled by thoseone hundred editors.

If we can tolerate a state of society in which any man,for what seems to him good and sufficient reason, foranything from biting the thumb at him to jesting abouthis whiskers, may take the life of another, why shall wenot tolerate the man who will take another's propertybecause the taker deems the other has too much or hasunjustly accumulated what he has?

What is the result of this sanction of private vengeance?It is anarchy. Pursued to the ultimate of its logic itmeans that every man is a law unto himself and the justiceof an execution rests upon nothing but the opinion, ordelusion, of the executioner. What one man might call atrifle might, to another man, call for blood. You couldkill a man because his boots creaked or his eyes squinted orhe wore the wrong shade of your favorite color in hisnecktie. Ridiculous? Not at all. Liking or disliking anyof these trifling things is only a matter of personalpreference. They may be as distasteful to one person as thetone of an editorial is to another. If a man may rightlykill a writer, like Mr. Brann, why would it not be right forsomeone to kill any editor? At one time there was talkin the south of killing the late Joseph B. McCullagh forhis editorials. How if Senator Hanna were to "go gunning"for the editorial "roasters" of himself, or forthe malevolent cartoonist? Mr. Brann attacked hypocriticpreachers, snide politicians, shoddy society people,shyster lawyers. He did it in, to me, an exaggeratedmanner, but he felt that such manner was necessary to arousethe people. Were Brann's blasts against Baylor Universityintrinsically worse, more a license of the press thanlet us say the assaults of the New York World, the NewYork Journal or the Post Dispatch upon Pierpont Morganand the trusts? And yet, if any trust magnate, crucifiedas a blood-sucker on the poor, were to shoot the editorof one of these sheets, he would be howled to the hangman'snoose. The trust magnate would be told he should havehad recourse to law. But in the south, no—Mr. Brannwas rightfully assassinated. No law for him! Why?Because Mr. Brann assailed a few southern "josses." IfMr. Brann were justly slain then the next person whomay dislike an editorial in the Picayune may kill its editoron the ground that the editorial—no matter how triflingin its imputation—is "carrion journalism." This law ofchivalric private vengeance would justify a saturnaliaof murder in every large city where gossip circulates insociety. The chivalry of it! A man has written somethinghe deems to be true and comments upon it as hedeems it his duty in a quasi public capacity. Everyonewho does not like the article can "take a pop at him."But, says the chivalrous Picayune, the law of privatevengeance does not apply to anything save grave offensesin scurrility. Ah! The offensiveness of a criticism isonly a matter of individual capacity for pain or humiliation.The trifle is only a trifle, because a man thinksit so. It may become a thing of importance at any timeif you leave the decision of its importance solely to thejudgment of the man who is going to resent it.

Private vengeance makes for the creation of a casteof bulldozers. Let it become known in a community thatcriticism is an invitation to death, and who profit? Notthe men of spotless reputation. Not the decent and pureelements of the community. Not at all. The ruffian gangin politics profits. The sanctimonious crooks profit. Theseducer and betrayer, who is a dead-shot, profits. Everysocial and civic iniquity flourishes under this dominance ofthe law of private vengeance. All the people who deservecriticism are ready to shoot. They are the judges of theirown spotless reputations. They will kill the man who spotsit. So it is that in almost every southern city there hasgrown up a class of political brahmins absolutely securefrom criticism that counts. Take New Orleans. Thepapers feared for years to breathe a breath of attackagainst the "spotless reputations" of its leaders. Thestory of the corruption that developed is too well knownto require telling. After all, it is not the people ofspotless reputation who are assailed in the papers. Wheneveranyone is assailed the chances are there is ground for theassault, and there is at least a prima facie evidence thatattack or exposure is necessary in the interest of publicmorality. Any reputation would be spotless if no onedared attack it. If it were high crime to assail peoplevigorously how would dishonor, debauchery, fraud andcrime in high places ever be brought to light. If theright of private vengeance shall prevail in any communitythen the ruffians and blackguards may pursue theirnefarious ends unhampered because of the terror theyinspire by threats to shoot their critics. This recognitionof the right of the individual to punish, by the inflictionof death, the person who has injured him, puts thecommunity at the mercy of the worst elements in it. It isthe extension of the barbarism of lynch law. It makesevery man, who wants to be one, a mob. It develops theidea of savagery in revenge to such an extent that theindividual executioner of the offender against himself doesnot hesitate to wreak his vengeance from behind. Itpromotes assassination.

Aspersions upon the virtue of women are certainlyindefensible on any imaginable ground. They demandoften a punishment which the law is inadequate to provide.They cannot be ignored. They constitute theexceptions which confirm the rule that it is well to letthe law punish slanderers. And in general men areexpected to protect to the last extremity the reputations ofthe women of their family and their acquaintance. Theperson who attacks publicly or privately the virtue of awoman deserves the limit of vengeance, for the publicityof legal proceedings toward punishment only aggravatesthe original wrong. Mr. Brann did not attack the virtueof girl-students at Baylor University. He attacked theadministration of that institution and the killing of himwas the result of a distorted view of the trend of hiscriticisms. If it were believed that he assailed the virtueof girl-students at Baylor he would not have a singlemourner in the southwest. And no man in any part ofthe United States can have a following of respectablepeople, if he defames women. The feeling of reverencefor woman is so general that it is often a defense forpersonal violence against writers who never dream ofattacking feminine honor. Aside from the fact that deathis too light a punishment for the man who attacks womanlychastity, the law of private vengeance is not sweepinglyand invariably to be condemned. I am not liberal enough inrecognition of the great fact of human nature to admitthat the objection to private vengeance is mainly anobjection to the recognition of the right of individual executionof the death penalty for any criticism. Men ought not tobe shot for criticisms of public institutions. It would befoolish to argue against the fact that men occasionally feelcalled upon to resent criticism by an appeal to battlewithout weapons. The killing of critics at the whim of thecriticized is the evil against which protest is made. Plainassault and battery is easily defensible on the ground thatno one can be expected always to have his temper in control.It makes writers careful, and it is not followed bythe regret which follows killing. Writers are expected tokeep within bounds in their criticisms, and even then theyare certain to generate ill feeling in the criticized and theirfriends, but so long as the offense is not murderous ofreputation and mortally malevolent the private executionof writers is an offense not to be condoned on a mistakeninterpretation of chivalry. For all sins of journalisticcriticism, outside of the diabolism of blasting reputationsfor virtue, the law provides adequate remedy, and if itdoes not, then it were idle to say that the exasperatedvictims of criticism should not have recourse to their fists,although decent criticism, free from malice, addressed topeople in position semi-public would not seem to call forviolence under pretense of resenting something much worse.As a rule I should say that the criticism which does notcall for extreme and desperate punishment calls for nonotice at all, or if it does, in the case of men, there arelaws, civil and criminal, that cover the case, with amplepunishment for the offense. This is the practical view ofthe remedies against "carrion journalism."

A public sentiment strong enough to support privatevengeance is strong enough to support the law. Thereare laws for the punishment of slander. More rigorouslaws could be enforced. If the people hate slanderersbitterly enough to kill them, then they should hate themenough to see that the laws against slander are enforced.The moral sentiment that can sustain the one could sustainthe other. But the individual execution of vengeanceis a turning away from the law. It is the fostering of thebully and the killer for drunken pastime. It is a bulwarkfor boodlers, blackguards, frauds and lechers. It givesrein to individual passion without limit. Such chivalry isbarbarism.—Pasquin.

BRANN, THE FOOL.

BY ELBERT HUBBARD, EDITOR OF THE PHILISTINE.

It's a grave subject. Brann is dead. Brann was afool. The fools were the wisest men at court; andShakespeare, who dearly loved a fool, placed his wisestsayings into the mouths of men who wore the motley.When he adorned a man with a cap and bells it was asthough he had given bonds for both that man's humanityand intelligence. Neither Shakespeare nor any otherwriter of books ever dared to depart so violently fromtruth as to picture a fool whose heart was filled withperfidy.

The fool is not malicious. Stupid people may thinkhe is, because his language is charged with the lightning'sflash; but they are the people who do not know thedifference between an incubator and an egg plant.

Touchstone, with unfailing loyalty, follows his masterwith quip and quirk, into exile. When all, even hisdaughters, have forsaken King Lear, the fool bares himselfto the storm and covers the shaking old man with hisown cloak. And when in our own day we meet the avatarsof Trinculo, Costard, Mercutio and Jacques, we find theyare men of tender susceptibilities, generous hearts andintellects keen as a rapier's point.

Brann was a fool.

Brann shook his cap, flourished his bauble, gave a tossto that fine head, and with tongue in cheek, askedquestions and propounded conundrums that stupid hypocrisycould not answer. So they killed Brann.

. . .

Brann was born in obscurity. Very early he was castupon the rocks and nourished at the she-wolf's teat.

He graduated at the university of hard knocks andduring his short life took several post-graduate courses.

He had been wage-earner, printer's-devil, printer,pressman, editor.

He knew the world of men, the struggling, sorrowing,hoping, laughing, sinning world of men. And to thosewhom God had tempted beyond what they could bear, hisheart went out. He read books with profit, and got greatpanoramic views out into the world of art and poetry;dreaming dreams and sending his swaying filament ofthought out and out, hoping it would somewhere catch andhe would be in communication with another world.

Discreet and cautious little men are known by thecompany they keep. The fool was not particular about hisassociates; children, sick people, insane folks, rich or poor—it made no difference to him. He sometimes even sat atmeat with publicans and sinners.

He was a mystic and lived in the ideal. This deeplyreligious quality in his nature led him into theology, andhe became a clergyman—a Baptist clergyman.

But no church is large enough to hold such a man asthis; the fool quality in his nature outcrops, and the jingleof bells makes sleep to the chief pew-holder impossible.

So the fool had to go.

Then he founded that unique periodical, which, inthree years, attained a circulation of 90,000 copies. Thispaper was not used for pantry shelves, lamp lighters, orother base utilitarian purposes. It cost ten times as muchas a common newspaper, and the people who bought itread it until it was worn out. All the things in this paperwere not truth; mixed up amid a world of wit were oftenextravagance and much bad taste. It was only a fool'snewspaper!

In this periodical the fool railed and jeered and statedfacts about smirking complacency, facts so terrible thatfolks said they were indecent. He flung his jibes at stupidity,and stupidity sought to answer criticism by assassination.

Texas has a libel law patterned after the libel law ofthe State of New York. If a man takes from you yourgood name you can put him behind prison bars and placeshutters over the windows of his place of business.

The people who thought Brann had injured them didnot invoke the law. They invoked Judge Lynch——

A mob seized the fool, and, placing a rope about hisneck, led him naked through the October night, out tothe theological seminary, which they declared he hadtraduced.

There they smote him with the flat of their hands, andspat upon him. It was their intention to hang the fool,but better counsel prevailed, and on his signing, interrorem, a document they placed before him, they gave himwarning to depart to another state. And on his promisingto do so, they let him go.

But the next day he refused to leave; and his flashingwit still filled the air, now embittered through the outragevisited upon him.

His enemies held prayer-meetings, invoking divine aidfor the fool's conversion—or extinction. One man quotedDavid's prayer concerning Shimmei: "bring thou downhis hoar head to the grave in blood!" And others still,prayed, "let his children be fatherless and his wife awidow."

But still the fool flourished his bauble.

Then they shot him.

That hand which wrote the most Carlylean phrase ofany in America is cold and stiff. That teeming brainwhich held a larger vocabulary than that of any man inAmerica is only clay that might stop a hole to keep thewind away. That soul through which surged thoughtstoo great for speech has gone a-journeying.

Brann is dead.

No more shall we see that lean, clean, homely face,with its melancholy smile. No more shall we hear the fooleloquently, and oh! so foolishly, plead the cause of theweak, the unfortunate, the vicious. No more shall webehold the tears of pity glisten in those sad eyes as hisheart was wrung by the tale of suffering and woe.

His children are fatherless, his wife a widow.

Brann the Fool is dead.—The Mirror.
April 14th, 1898.

* * *WILLIAM COWPER BRANN.

BY J. D. SHAW.

William Cowper Brann was born in Humboldt Township,Coles County, Illinois, January 4, 1855. He wasnot raised in the home of his parents, though his father,Rev. Noble Brann, survived him, and is still living. Hismother having died when he was two and a half years old,he was within the next six months placed in the care ofMr. William Hawkins, a Coles County farmer, with whomhe lived about ten years. As to his childhood experienceson the Hawkins' farm nothing is now known. They wereprobably such as are common to children raised in thecountry. Of Mr. Hawkins he always spoke kindly, referringto him as "Pa Hawkins." His nature was not suitedto farm life, however, and he finally made up his mindto see more of the world, hence without ever havingdisclosed his resolution to any one, he quietly walked awayone dark and cheerless night, carrying in a small box underhis arm all that he then possessed, and leaving behind himthe friends of his childhood in the only place he had everknown as his home, thus entering upon the active struggleof life at thirteen years of age, without friends, destituteof means, and almost entirely uneducated.

The first position he obtained was that of bell boy in ahotel. Later on he learned to be a painter and grainer,then a printer, a reporter, and finally an editorial writer.He was energetic, industrious and painstaking in whateverhe undertook to do, therefore always employed.Early in his struggle he realized the need of an education,in the acquirement of which he applied himself with eagerdiligence. Nature had endowed him with keen perceptivepowers, a retentive memory and great mental vigor, bymeans of which he soon accumulated considerable knowledge.Every moment that could be spared from his dailytoil was spent in reading books of science, philosophy,history, biography and general literature. In this wayhe became thoroughly informed on almost every importantsubject, as will be seen by the contents of his writings.

On March 3, 1877, at Rochelle, Illinois, he was marriedto Miss Carrie Martin, who, with their two children, GraceGertrude and William Carlyle is now living in the beautifulhome, here at Waco, from which he was buried April 3, 1898.

During all the years, from the time he left thehospitable home of Mr. Hawkins, in 1868, until after he hadsuccessfully launched "Brann's ICONOCLAST," he sufferedthe harassing annoyances of extreme poverty, in theendurance of which he was cheerful, hopeful and diligent inthe equipment of his mind preparatory to the work healways believed he would some day be able to accomplish.

Beginning his literary career as a reporter, he was soonmade an editorial writer, in which capacity he becamewell-known throughout Illinois, Missouri and Texas. Assuch he was versatile, forceful and direct. There wasno needless repetition of tiresome circumlocution in hiscomposition. He possessed an inexhaustible vocabulary,from which he could always find the words best fitted toconvey his meaning at the moment they were most needed,and every sentence was resplendent with an order of wit,humor and satire peculiar to a style original with himself.

In July, 1891, he issued at Austin, Texas, the firstnumber of "Brann's ICONOCLAST." Only a few numbersappeared, when it was suspended and he resumed hiseditorial work, then on the Globe-Democrat, of St. Louis,Missouri, and later on the Express of San Antonio, Texas.It was in connection with his first attempt to establishthe ICONOCLAST that he delivered a few lectures that werewell received. In later years he went upon the platformagain with every prospect of a successful career in thelecture field.

In the summer of 1894, he settled here in Waco, and, inFebruary of the following year, revived the ICONOCLAST,which was successful from the first issue, having reached,at the time of his death, a circulation of ninety thousandcopies. It was through the ICONOCLAST that his geniusfound full scope for development, and that he became bestknown to the public. In its columns he dared to behimself. There was now no restraint imposed upon him bytimorous publishers. It belonged to him, and in it hegave full wing to his own thought. It was this intellectualfreedom, sustained by the magic power and personalityof a real genius, that gave to it such widespread popularity.

Mr. Brann has been classed as a humorist. This he was,and of a type peculiar to himself, but he was not contentwith merely having amused or entertained the people, heaspired to arouse public sentiment in the interest ofcertain reforms. He was a hater of shams and defied everyform of fraud, hypocrisy and deceit. He made of hishumor a whip with which to scourge from the temple ofsocial purity every intruder there. He joined in nopartisan schemes for place or power, but, confident of his ownground, he would stand alone in the defiance of popularhumbugs and frauds. This heroic independence, whileadmired by many, made him a mark for the envy andhatred of such as feared him, and in the end proved to bethe cause of his death.

But with all his uncompromising hatred of shams, therebeat in the bosom of W. C. Brann a warm and generousheart for the world at large, and no man was ever a moredevoted friend to the poor and needy. No beggar wasever turned away from his door empty handed, and noworthy cause ever asked his help in vain. His religionwas to do whatever he believed to be right, and to defy thewrong even though it should be found parading in thegarb and livery of righteousness.

Mr. Brann was fond of nature. He loved the mountains,the lakes, the rivers and the billowy sea. He loved towalk amid forest trees and watch the birds fly from boughto bough and warble their songs of love, but in all thewide, wide world, his home life was the most sacred objectof his devotion, and when prosperity gave him the meansto do so he found great delight in making it beautifuland pleasant. He was fond of his friends, but the love hebore his wife and children was sublimely beautiful, tenderand affectionate.

His sudden death was a shock not only to his immediatefriends, but to the hundreds of thousands who knew himthrough the ICONOCLAST. Walking quietly along thestreet, talking with a friend, he was shot in the back byone T. E. Davis, a partisan on the Baylor side of theBrann-Baylor trouble.

After receiving, without warning, his death wound, Mr.Brann turned upon his assailant, drew a revolver andvindicated his courage by delivering his fire with such deadlyaim as to leave Davis in the throes of death, which cameto his relief about twenty hours after the fray.

Mr. Brann received three wounds, from the first ofwhich he died at 1:55 a.m., April 2nd, surrounded by hisfamily and many sympathizing friends.

The impression has gone abroad that Mr. Brann waswithout friends and admirers in Waco. The falsity ofthis impression was made manifest, by the funeralattendance, said, and generally believed, to have been thelargest ever seen here.

He was a believer in religion, therefore, it was notimproper that a religious service was held, conducted byRev. Frank Page, D.D., of the Episcopal church, thoughthe writer, acting in according with the wishes of thefamily, spoke a few words at the grave.

In Oakwood Cemetery the body of Brann was laid torest in the embrace of our common mother earth, andunder a mound of floral offerings, which though profuseand costly were but a feeble expression of the sinceregrief that struck dumb with awe the thousands uponthousands who had learned to love him with an affectionaccorded to few men.

. . .

My position as to Mr. Brann's style of journalism hasbeen freely expressed, and while he was still alive. I donot approve of all he saw fit to write, nor of the spiritin which he wrote, but that he was a real genius and abenefactor of his race cannot be denied. It was with him,as it is with all men of his type, he made strong and bitterenemies, still his friends and admirers were numbered bythousands, I may safely say hundreds of thousands.

The purposes, direction and character of the ICONOCLASTwere in many respects different from those of thisPulpit, nevertheless there was between Mr. Brann andmyself a strong tie of friendship that, so far as I know,never suffered the breach of a single moment, and Isincerely mourn his loss as a personal friend whose kindlygreetings were to me as glimpses of the sun on a winter'sday.

Of humble birth, beset by poverty and environed bymany difficulties, he applied himself to the study ofliterature with such diligence as to acquire abilities possessedby few, and when once equipped for the field he occupiedwith such consummate skill, no power of prejudice couldkeep him from rising like a star of the first magnitude.Alas! how soon that star has been obscured and by whatignoble means! But, against great odds, its briefexistence was characterized by a brilliancy that no prejudiceor hatred can ever obliterate.

Having dealt candidly with Mr. Brann while living, Iwill not now ignore the fact that he had faults, and hisinability to overcome these marred, here and there, thesplendor of his intellectual achievements. His faults,though, were of a kind that may be permitted to pass intothe grave with his body. His virtues were many, and forthese he was loved, despite the imperfections he could notalways control. His services to mankind were numerousand they were rendered with a devotion as ardent as thatof a lover; for these he will be remembered, nor can anypower rob him of his fame as a literary genius—a poet,a humorist and a satirist.

Lectures and Addresses of Brann.

SPEAKING OF GALL.

Gall is a bitter subject, and I shall waste no time selectingsweet words in which to handle it. There's no surplusof sweet words in my vocabulary anyhow. I havenever yet been able to rent my mouth for a taffy mill.Webster gives several definitions of Gall; but the goodold etymologist was gathered to his fathers long beforethe word attained its full development and assumed anhonored place in the slang vernacular of the day. It wasneeded. It fills what editors sometimes call a "long-feltwant." Gall is sublimated audacity, transcendentimpudence, immaculate nerve, triple-plated cheek, brass insolid slugs. It is what enables a man to borrow fivedollars of you, forget to repay it, then touch you for twentymore. It is what makes it possible for a woman to borrowher neighbor's best bonnet, then complain becauseit isn't the latest style or doesn't suit her particular typeof beauty. It is what causes people to pour their troublesinto the ears of passing acquaintances instead of reservingthem for home consumption. It is what makes a manaspire to the governorship, or to air his asininity in theCongress of the United States when he should be fiddlingon a stick of cordwood with an able-bodied buck-saw. Itis what leads a feather-headed fop, with no fortune buthis folly, no prospects but poverty—who lacks businessability to find for himself bread—to mention marriage toa young lady reared in luxury, to ask her to leave thehouse of her father and help him fill the land with fools.Gall is what spoils so many good ditchers and delvers tomake peanut politicians and putty-headed professionalmen. It is what puts so many men in the pulpit whocould serve their Saviour much better planting the mild-eyed potato or harvesting the useful hoop-pole. It is whatcauses so many young ladies to rush into literatureinstead of the laundry—to become poets of passion insteadof authors of pie.

Gall is a very common ailment. In fact, a man withouta liberal supply of it is likely to be as lonesome in thisland as a consistent Christian at a modern camp-meeting,or a gold-bug Democrat in Texas. Nearly everybody hasit and is actually proud of it. When a young man is firstafflicted with the tender passion; when he is in the throesof the mysterious mental aberration that would cause himto climb a mesquite bush and lasso the moon for hisinamorata if she chanced to admire it, he is apt to thinkit love that makes the world go round. Later he learnsthat Gall is the social dynamics—the force that causeshumanity to arise and hump itself.

Gall has got the world grabbed. Politics is now a high-class play, whose pawns are power and plunder; businessis becoming but a gouge-game wherein success hallowsany means. Our mighty men are most successfulmarauders; our social favorites minister in the temple ofMammon, our pillar of cloud by day and of fire by nightthe follies and foibles of the "Four Hundred," our God theGolden Calf. The standard by which society now measuresmen is the purse; that by which it gauges greatnessthe volume of foolish sound which the aspirant forimmortal honors succeeds in setting afloat, little caringwhether it be such celestial harp music as caused Thebe'swalls to rise, or the discordant bray of the ram's hornwhich made Jericho's to fall. This century, which proudlyboasts itself "heir to all the ages and foremost in the filesof time," doffs its beaver to brazen effrontery, burns itssweetest incense on the unhallowed shrine of pompoushumbuggery, while modest merit is in a more pitiablepredicament than the traditional tomcat in Tartarus withoutteeth or toenails.

We make manifest our immeasureable Gall byproclaiming from the housetops that, of all the ages whichhave passed o'er the hoary head of Mother Earth, thepresent stands preeminent; that of all the numberlesscycles of Time's mighty pageant there was none like untoit—no, not one. And I sincerely hope there wasn't. Perhapsthat which induced the Deity to repent him that hehad made man and send a deluge to soak some of thedevilment out of him, was the nearest approach to it. Weimagine that because we have the electric telegraph andthe nickel-plated dude, the printing press and the campaignlie, the locomotive and the scandal in high life; thatbecause we now roast our political opponent instead ofthe guileless young missionary, and rob our friends bysecret fraud instead of despoiling our foes by open force,that we are the people par-excellence and the Lord mustbe proud of us.

Progress and improvement are not always synonyms. Apeople may grow in Gall instead of grace. I measure acentury by its men rather than by its machines, and wehave not, since civilization took its boasted leap forward,produced a Socrates or a Shakespeare, a Phidias or anAngelo, a Confucius or a Christ. This century runschiefly to Talmages and Deacon Twogoods, pauper dukesand divorce courts—intellectual soup and silk lingerie.

. . .

The poets no longer sing of the immortal gods, of warand sacrifice, while the flame mounts to manhood's cheek,red as the fires of Troy: They twitter of lovies anddovies, of posies and goose-liver pie, while pretty menapplaud and sentimental maids get moonsick. Cincinnatusno longer waits for the office to seek the man: He sellshis brace of bullocks and buys a political boom. No morethe Spartan mother gives her long black hair for bow-strings: She blondines it, paints, powders and tries topass as the younger sister of her eldest daughter. TheNorse viking no longer plows the unknown wave, hisheart wilder than the wat'ry waste, his arm stronger thantempered steel: He comes to America and starts asaloon. No more the untamed Irish king caroms on theSaxon invader with a seasoned shillalah: He gets on thepolice force and helps "run the machine," or clubs thehead off the harmless married man who won't go hometill morning. In these degenerate days the philosopherretires not to the desert, and there, by meditation mostprofound, wrings from the secret treasure-house of his ownsuperior soul, jewels to adorn his age and enrich theworld: He mixes an impossible plot with a little pessimism,adds a dude and a woman whose moral character has seenbetter days, spills the nauseous compound on the publicas a "philosophical novel" and works the press for puffs.Indeed we're progressing; going onward and upward—like the belled buzzard dodging a divorce scandal. Greecehad her Pericles, but it was left for us to produce aParkhurst. Rome had her Cicero and her Caesar, but was neverequal to a Culberson or a Corbett. The princes of oldconquered the earth, but the modern plutocrats put amortgage on it. Cleopatra drank pearls dissolved in wine, butwhisky straight is said to be good enough for some of hersuccessors. Samson slew the Philistines with a jawbone ofan ass; but a modern politician, employing the self-sameweapon, would have got 'em to elect him governor. We'vegot no Helen of Troy; but our "Hell'n Blazes" is a birdo' the same feather. We've got to yield the palm in poetryand philosophy, art and architecture; but when it comesto building political platforms that straddle every importantissue and slinging princely style on a pauper incomewe're out of sight.

How can the acorn become a mighty forest monarch ifplanted in a pint pot and crossed with a fuzzy-wuzzychrysanthemum? How can the Numidian lion's whelp becomea king of beasts if reared in a cage and fed on coldpotatoes, muzzled and made to dance to popular music? Howcan the superior soul expand until it becomes all-embracing,god-like, a universe in itself, in which rings sweetsphere-music and rolls Jovinian thunder—in which blazestrue Promethean fire instead of smolders the sulphurouscaloric of the nether world—when its metes and bounds areirrevocably fixed for it—when it can only grow in certainprescribed directions, painfully mapped out for it bybumptious pismires who imagine that their little headsconstitute the intellectual Cosmos?

. . .

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, lamented that he lackedGall; but the melancholy Dane was dead years before thepresent generation of titled snobs appeared upon the scene.None of the princes or dukes of the present day appear tobe short on Gall; none of the nobility seem to be sufferingfor lack of it. Not long ago a little Duke who owes histitle to the fact that his great-grand-aunt was the paramourof a half-wit prince, kindly condescended to marry anAmerican girl to recoup his failing fortunes. A littleFrench guy whose brains are worth about two cents apound—for soap-grease—put up a Confederate-bond titlefor the highest bidder and was bought in like a hairlessMexican pup by an American plutocrat. Now half-a-dozen morelittle pauper princelings and decadent dukelingsare trying to trade their worthless coronets forAmerican cash. But the fact that many a man boastingof his American sovereignty will dicker with a titled youngduke, instead of using the forecastle of a No. 9 foot todrive his spinal column up through his plug-hat like apresidential lightning-rod; will actually purchase for hisdaughter some disgusting little title upon which rests thefateful bar-sinister of a woman's shame, and is encumberedby a dizzy young dude, too lazy to work and too cowardlyto steal—too everlastingly "ornery" to raise a respectablecrop of wild oats-proves that the young lollipoplordlings haven't a monopoly of the Gall of the Globe.

A most shameful exhibition of Gall is the practice nowcoming into vogue with certain society ladies of encouragingnewspapers to puff their charms—even paying them somuch a line for fulsome praise. Not a few metropolitanpapers reap a handsome profit by puffing society budswhom their fond parents are eager to place on the matrimonialmarket, hoping that they will "make goodmatches"; in other words, that they will marry money—its possessors being thrown in as pelon. Even marriedwomen, who are long on shekels but short on sense,sometimes pay big prices to get their portraits in the publicprints—accompanied by puffs that would give a buzzarda bilious attack.

But the Gall of the girl who puts her picture in thepapers, accompanied by a paid puff of her "purty," scarceequals that of the conceited maid who imagines she hasonly to look at a man and giggle a few times to "mashhim cold"—to get his palpitating heart on a buckskinstring and swing it hither-and-yon at pleasure. How thegreat he-world does suffer at the hands of those heartlessyoung coquettes—if half it tells 'em be true! David saidin his haste that all men are liars. And had he carefullyconsidered the matter he would have come to the sameconclusion. Washington may have told his father thetruth about that cherry-tree; but later in life he becameentirely too popular with the ladies for a man unable to lie.

It is natural for men to pay court to a pretty womanas for flies to buzz about a molasses barrel; but not everyfly that buzzes expects to get stuck, I beg to state. Theman who doesn't tell every woman who will listen to him—excepting, perhaps, his wife—that she's pretty as a peri,even though she be homely enough to frighten a mugwumpout of a fat federal office; that she's got his heart grabbed;that he lives only in the studied sunshine of her store-teeth smile and is hungering for an opportunity to die forher dear sake—well, he's an angel, and he-seraphs arealmighty scarce I beg of you to believe. Since Adonisdied and Joseph was gathered to his fathers none haveappeared that I am aware of. These young gentlemen wereall right, I suppose; but I'd like to see either of themget elected nowadays on the Democratic ticket in Texas.

But feminine conceit, fed on flattery, were as milk-shakeunto mescal, as a kiss by mail to one by moonlight comparedwith the insufferable egotism of the "pretty man"who puts his moustache up in curl-papers and perfumeshis pompadour; who primps and postures before an amorouslooking-glass and imagines that all Eve's daughtersare trying to abduct him. Whenever I meet one of thesemale irresistibles I'm forcibly reminded that the Almightymade man out of mud—and not very good mud at that.The two-legged he-thing who makes a clothes-horse ofhimself and poses on the street-corner perfumed like anemancipation day picnic; who ogles a pretty woman untilthe crimson creeps into her cheek, then prides himself onhaving captured her heart like the boy caught the itch,—because he couldn't help it—when she's only blushing forthe mother who bore the pitiful parody on manhood; whoimagines that every maid who deigns to waste a smile onhim is sighing her soul out for his sweet sake, has allowedhis Gall to go to his head and curdle his brains.

. . .

More than a moiety of our so-called great men are butfeatherless geese, possessing a superabundance of Gall—creatures of chance who ride like driftwood on the crest ofa wave raised by forces they cannot comprehend; but theyride, and the world applauds them while it tramples bettermen beneath its brutal feet. Greatness and Gall, geniusand goose-speech, sound and sense have become synonyms.If you fall on the wrong side of the market menwill quote the proverb about a fool and his money: if onthe right side you're a Napoleon of finance. Lead asuccessful revolt and you are a pure patriot whose memoryshould be preserved to latest posterity; head an unsuccessfuluprising and you are a miserable rebel who shouldhave been hanged. "Nothing succeeds like success." Hadthe Christian religion failed to take root, Judas Iscariotwould have been commemorated in the archives of Romeas one who helped stamp out the hateful heresy, and hadWashington got the worst of it in his go with Cornwallishe would have passed into history as a second Jack Cade.

Alexander of Macedon was great, as measured by theworld's standard of eminence. After two-and-twentycenturies our very babes prattle of this bloody butcher, andeven his horse has been enshrined in history. In our ownday Father Damien left kindred and country and wentforth to die for the miserable lepers in the mid-Pacific,but he is already forgotten—his name and fame havefaded from the minds of men. Yet greater and granderthan all the blood-stained princes and potentates of earth;nobler, more god-like than all the proud prelates that everaired their turgid eloquence at Christian conference orecumenical council was that young priest; but no cenotaphrises to commemorate his sacrifice—silent as his ownsealed lips is the trumpet of fame.

But for Gall of the A1, triple X brand, commend me tothe little pot-house politician who poses as a politicalprophet and points out to wiser men their public duties.We have to-day in this land of the free and home of thecrank, thousands of self-important little personages whoknow as little of political economy as a parrot of thepower of prayer, prating learnedly of free-trade orprotection, greenbackism or metallic money. Men whocouldn't tell a fundamental principle from their funny-bone, an economic thesis from a hot tamale—who don'tknow whether Ricardo was an economist or a corn-doctor—evolve from their empty ignorance new systems of"saving the country," and defend them with the dogmaticassurance of a nigg*r preacher describing the devil—makegorgeous displays of their Gall. I have noticed that, as arule, the less a man knows of the science of government thecrazier he is to go to congress. About half the youngstatesmen who break into the legislature imagine thatRoger Q. Mills wrote the Science of Economics, and thatJefferson Davis was the father of Democracy.

But the Gall is not confined to the little fellows—the bigpolitical M.D.'s have their due proportion. The remediesthey prescribe for Uncle Sam's ailments remind me of thepanaceas put on the market by the patent-medicine men—warranted to cure everything, from a case of cholera-morbusto an epidemic of poor relations. We have one schoolof practitioners prescribing free-trade as a sure-cure forevery industrial ill, another a more drastic system ofprotection. One assures us that the silver-habit is draggingus down to the demnition bow-wows, another that only anheroic dose of white dollars will save us from industrialdeath. Political claptrap to corral the succulent pie—"issues" to get office. We have had high and low tariff,the gold and silver standard, greenbackism and "wild-cat"currency; we have had presidents of all shades of politicalfaith and congresses of every kind of economic folly; yetin a single century America has risen from the poorest ofnations to the wealthiest in all the world. True it is thatwealth is congested—that willful Waste and woeful Wantgo hand in hand—that the land is filled with plutocrats andpaupers; but this distressing fact is due to the faults ofour industrial system itself, and can never be reformed byplacing fiddle-strings on the free list or increasing thetariff on toothpicks.

Gall? Ye gods! Look at the platform promises of theblessed Democratic party—then at its performances!Look at the party itself—a veritable omnium-gatherum ofpolitical odds and ends, huddled together under the partyblanket like household gods and barn-yard refuse after ahurricane. High and low tariffs and free-traders; gold-bugs, green-backers and bi-metallists; Cleveland andCroker, Altgeld and Olney, Hill and Hogg, Waco's Warwickand Colonel Culberson's kid, all clamoring to be dyed-in-the-wool Democrats! When I get a new main-springput in my vocabulary I'm going to tackle the Gall of thePopulists and Republicans.

. . .

Some specimens of Gall amaze me by their greatness,some amuse me, while others only spoil my appetite. Ofthe latter class is the chronic kicker who is forever fumingabout feminine fashions. If the hoop-skirt comes in thiscritic is in agony; if the "pull-back" makes its appearancehe has a fit and falls in it. Ever since Eve attiredherself in a few freckles and fig-leaves he's been reformingthe fashions. Don't mind him, ladies. Like a peaco*ckcrying in the night, he's disagreeable, but not dangerous.Adorn yourselves as you see fit; follow such fashions asseem good in your sight, and have no fear that the sons ofmen will ever forsake you because of your clothes. Whenyou find a man dictating to the ladies what they shallwear you're pretty apt to see his head housed in a stove-pipe hat—the most inartistic and awkward monstrosityever designed by the devil to make the Almighty ashamedof his masterpiece. In all history there's no record of agreat idea being born in a beegum. I never saw a statueof a hero or picture of a martyr with a plug hat on.Imagine the Lord laying aside a silk cady preparatory topreaching that Sermon on the Mount—or Napoleonapostrophizing the pyramids in a plug! Before finding faultwith the fashions of the ladies just imagine Apollo in themake-up of a modern society swell, loafing into court onHigh Olympus! Why Jove would hit him with a thunderboltso hard there'd be nothing left of him but a wiltedchrysanthemum and a pair o' yaller shoes!

. . .

For a specimen of Gall that must amaze the very godscommend me to a crowd of pharisaical plutocrats, piouslyoffering, in a hundred thousand dollar church, prayers tohim who had nowhere to lay his head; who pay a preacher$15,000 per annum to point the way to Paradise, while inthe great cities of every Christian country children muststeal or starve and women choose between death anddishonor. New York is crowded with costly churches thatlift their proud spires into the empyrean, that part theclouds with golden fingers—monuments which Mammonrears as if to mock the lowly Son of God. Their valuemounts up into the millions; yet I learn—from a religiouspaper, mark you—that 100,000 men, women and childrenwere evicted in New York alone last year for the non-payment of rent; turned into the streets to suffer summer'sheat or winter's cold—to beg, or starve, or steal, as theysaw fit. I find these startling statistics in the same columnwith a tearful appeal for more money to send missionariesto black barbarians—on the same page with a descriptionof a new church that must have cost a cold half-million ofcash. That's what I call sanctified assurance—gallmasquerading as grace. And what is true of New York istrue, in greater or less degree, of every town fromPlymouth Rock to Poker Flats, from Tadmor-in-the-Wilderness to Yuba Dam. Everywhere the widow is battlingwith want, while we send Bibles and blankets, prayer-books and pie, salvation and missionary soup to a job-lotof lazy nigg*rs whose souls aren't worth a soumarkee inblocks-of-five—who wouldn't walk into heaven if the gateswere wide open, but once inside would steal the eternalthrone if it wasn't spiked down. Let the heathen rage;we've got our hands full at home. I'd rather see the wholeblack-and-tan aggregation short on Bibles than one whitechild crying for bread.

While Europe and America are peddling saving gracein pagan lands—and incidentally extending the market fortheir cheap tobacco, snide jewelry and forty-rod bug-juice—they are also building warships and casting cannon—preparing to cut each other's throats while prating of theprince of peace! The idea of countries that have to buildforts on their frontiers and keep colossal standing armiesto avoid being butchered by their own Christian brethren;that are full of divorce courts and demagogues, penitentiariesand poorhouses, sending young theological goslings,who believe that all of divine revelation can be found inone book, to teach the philosophic Hindu the road toheaven! Gall! Why the men we are trying to convertwere preaching the immortality of the soul when theHebrew prophets were putting people to the sword foraccepting it; they were familiar with all the essentialfeatures of the Christian faith a thousand years before thecrucifixion of Christ. Charity begins at home. In ourown country children are coming up in ignorance andcrime, while sect vies with sect in the erection of proudtemples in which polite society may display its Parisianfinery while pretending to worship One who broke breadwith beggars and slept in the brush.

I haven't much use for gold-plated godliness. Christnever built a church, or asked for a vacation on full pay,—never. He indulged in no political harangues—nevertold his parishioners how to vote—never posed as a professionalProhibitionist. He didn't try to reform the fallenwomen of Jerusalem by turning them over to the police,a la Parkhurst. Although gladiatorial shows were commonin his country—and that without gloves—he didn't goraging up and down the earth like some of our Texasdominies, demanding that these awful crimes againstcivilization should cease. There is no record of hisengineering a boycott against business men who dissented from hisdoctrine. I think he could have read a copy of the ICONOCLASTwith far more patience than some of his successors.Human or divine, he was the grandest man that evergraced the mighty tide of time. His was a labor of love,instead of for lucre. The groves were his temples, themountain-side his pulpit, the desert his sacristy, andJordan his baptismal font.

. . .

Then there's the unconscious Gall of the pious parrotwho is quite sure that the only highway to the heavenlyhereafter is outlined by his little sect, macadamized by hiscreed; that you've got to travel that or get into trouble,perhaps fall into the fire.

Just imagine that dear Lord, who so loved sinners thathe died to save them from death eternal, looking overheaven's holy battlements and observing a miserable mortalplunging downward to his doom, leaving behind him astreak of fire like a falling star, his face distorted withfear, his every hair erect and singing like a jewsharp.He asks St. Peter:

"Who's that?"

"Oh," says the man on the door, "that's old John
Smith."

The Lord goes over to the office of the Recording Angeland turns the leaves of the great ledger. He finds thename, "John Smith, No. 11,027," and on the credit pagethese entries: "He was fearless as Caesar, generous asMacaenas, tender as Guatama and true to his friends as thestars to their appointed courses. He was a knight ofnature's nobility, a lord in the aristocracy of intellect,courtier at home and a king abroad. On the debit pagehe reads: "Went fishing on Sunday. There was a miscueon his baptism. He knew a pretty woman from an ancientpainting, a jack-pot from a prayer-book, and when smittenon one cheek he made the smacker think he'd been smuckby a cyclone." Good-bye, John!

It may be that the monarch of the majestic universemarches around after every inconsequential little mortal,note-book in hand, giving him a white mark when he praysfor the neighbor who poisons his dog, or tells his wife thetruth regardless of consequences; a black one when he betshis money on the wrong horse or sits down on the sidewalkand tries to swipe the front gate as it goes sailing by; butI doubt it. If I could make the sun, moon and stars inone day and build a beautiful woman of an old bone, I'djust like to see the color of that man's hair I'd waste muchtime and attention on.

. . .

Why should we quarrel about our faiths and declare thatthis is right and that is wrong, when all religions are, andmust of necessity ever be, fundamentally one and the same—the worship of a superior power, the great

"Father of all, in every age, in ev'ry clime adored,
By saint, by savage and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or
Lord."

. . .

Man's cool assumption that the Almighty made him ashis "masterpiece" should be marked Exhibit A in themighty aggregation of Gall. That after millions of yearsexperience in the creation business—after building thearchangels and the devil; after making the man in themoon and performing other wondrous miracles, the straddlingsix-foot biped who wears a spike-tail coat and plug-hat, a silk surcingle and sooner tie; who parts his nameon the side and his hair in the middle; who sucks a caneand simpers like a school-girl struggling with her firstcompliment; who takes it for granted that he knows itall, when his whole life—including his birth, marriage anddeath—is a piece of ridiculous guess-work; who insiststhat he has a soul to save, yet labors with might and mainto lose it; protests that there's a better land beyond thegrave, yet moves heaven and earth to keep from going toit so long as he can help it—the assumption, I say, thatthis was the best the Creator could do, is prima facieevidence of a plentitude of Gall of the purest ray serene.

The calm assurance of man that the earth and all itcontains were made for his especial benefit; that woman wascreated solely for his comfort; that the sun was made togive him light by day and the moon to enable him to findhis way home from the lodge at night without the aid of apoliceman; that the heavens were hung with a resplendentcurtain of stars and the planets sent whirling throughspace in a majestic dance about the God of Day, simply toafford him matter for wonder or for amusem*nt when tootired to talk politics or too bilious to drink beer, evinces anegotism that must amuse the Almighty.

Masterpiece indeed! Why, God made man, and, findingthat he couldn't take care of himself, made woman to takecare of him—and she proposes to discharge her heaven-ordained duty or know the reason why. Tennyson saysthat, "as the husband is the wife is"; but even Tennysondidn't know it quite all. When wives take their hubbies formeasures of morality, marriage will become an enthusiasticfailure and Satan be loosed for a little season. Weacknowledge woman's superiority by demanding that she bebetter than we could if we would, or would be if we could.

We are fond of alluding to woman as "the weakervessel"; but she can BREAK the best of us if given anopportunity. Pope calls man the "great lord of allthings"—but Pope never got married. We rule with arod of iron the creatures of the earth and air and sea;we hurl our withering defi in the face of Kings and bravepresidential lightning; we found empires and straddle theperilous political issue, then surrender unconditionally toa little bundle of dimples and deviltry, sunshine andextravagance. No man ever followed freedom's flag forpatriotism (and a pension) with half the enthusiasm thathe will trail the red, white and blue that constitute thebanner of female beauty. The monarch's fetters cannotcurtail our haughty freedom, nor nature's majestic forcesconfine us to this little lump of clay; we tread the ocean'sfoam beneath our feet, harness the thunderbolts of imperialJove to the jaunting car, and even aspire to mount thestorm and walk upon the wind; yet the bravest of ustremble like cowards and lie like Cretans when called toaccount by our wives for some of our cussedness,

But you will say that I have wandered from my text—have followed the ladies off and got lost. Well, it's not thefirst time it's happened. But really, I'm not soinconsistent as I may seem; for if the gentler sex exceeds usin goodness it likewise surpasses us in Gall. Perhaps themost colossal exhibit of polite and elegant audacity thisworld can boast is furnished by that female who has madea marriage of convenience; has wedded money instead of aman,—practically put her charms up at auction for thehighest bidder—yet who poses as a paragon of purity;gathers up her silken skirts—the price of her legalizedshame—lest they come in contact with the calico gownof some poor girl who has loved, not wisely, but too well.

Marriage is the most sacred institution ever establishedon earth, making the father, mother and child a veritableHoly Trinity; but it is rapidly degenerating into anunclean Humbug, in which Greed is God and Gall is recognizedhigh-priest. We now consider our fortunes ratherthan our affections, acquire a husband or wife much as wewould a parrot or a poodle, and get rid of them with aboutas little compunction. Cupid now feathers his arrowsfrom the wings of the gold eagle and shoots at the stomachinstead of the heart. Love without law makes angelsblush; but law without love crimson even the brazen browof infamy.

. . .

But the fact that so many selfish, soulless marriages aremade is not altogether woman's fault. Our ridiculoussocial code is calculated to crush all sentiment and sweetnessout of the gentler sex—to make woman regard herselfas merchandise rather than as a moral entity, entitled tolife, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The averagewoman must select a husband from a narrow circle; mustmake choice among two or three admirers or elect to livea loveless old maid—to forego the joys of motherhood,the happiness of a home. Man is privileged to go forthand seek a mate. The world is before him, a veritable"Dream of Fair Women." He wanders at will, as amida mighty parterre of flowers, sweet as the breath of morn,and finally, before some fair blossom he bows the knee—pours forth the incense of his soul to the one woman inall the world he would make his wife. True, she mayrefuse him and marry some other fellow; but he is at leastprivileged to approach her, to plead his cause to employall the art and eloquence of love to bring her into his life.Woman enjoys no such privilege. She must wait to bewooed, and if her king comes not she must take the bestthat offers and try to be content.

Every daughter of Eve dreams of an ideal,—of a mantender and true, who will fill her life with love's ownmelody; his word her law, his home her heaven, his honorher glory and his tomb her grave. And some day, fromthese castles in the clouds he comes—these day-dreams,golden as the dawn, become the halo of a mortal man, towhom her heart turns as the helianthus to the sun. At lastthe god of her idolatry doth walk the earth; but she muststand afar,—must not, by word or act, betray the holypassion that's consuming her, lest "that monster customof habits devil," doth brand her bold and bad. Loveofttimes begets love, as the steel strikes fire from the coldflint, and a word from her might bring him to her feet;but she must stand with dumb lips and assumed indifferenceand see him drift out of her life, leaving it desolateas the Scythian desert, when it should have budded andblossomed like the great blush rose. So she driftsdesolate into old maidenhood and the company of Maltese cats;else, when hope is dead in her heart—when the dream ofher youth has become dust and ashes—she marries formoney and tries to feed her famished heart with Parisianfinery, to satisfy her soul with the Dead Sea fruit offashion.

No; I wouldn't give woman the ballot—not in a thousandyears. I want no petticoats in politics—no she-senatorsor female presidents; but I'd do better by woman; I'drepeal that ridiculous social law—survival of femaleslavery—which compels her to wait to be wooed. I'd puta hundred leap-years in every century, give woman theright to do half the courting—to find a man to her likingand capture him if she could. Talk about reforms! Why,the bachelors would simply have to become Benedicts ortake to the brush, and there'd be no old maids outside thedime museums. But I was speaking of Gall.

. . .

Gall is usually unadulterated impudence; but sometimesit is irremediably idiocy. When you find a man pluminghimself on his ancestors you can safely set it down thathe's got the disease in its latter form, and got it bad. Ialways feel sorry for a man who's got nothing to be proudof but a dead gran'daddy, for it appears to be a law ofnature that there shall be but one great man to a tribe—that the lightning of genius shall not twice strike the samefamily tree. I suppose that Cleveland and Jim Corbett,Luther and Mrs. Lease, Homer and J. S. Hogg hadparents and gran'parents; but we don't hear much about'em. And while the ancestors of the truly great areusually lost in the obscurity of the cornfield or cotton-patch, their children seldom succeed in setting the worldon fire. Talent may be transmitted from father to son;but you can no more inherit genius than you can inherita fall out of a balloon. It is the direct gift of that Godwho is no respecter of persons, and who sheds his glory onthe cotter's child as freely as on those of monarchs and ofmillionaires.

We have in this country three aristocracies: Thearistocracy of intellect, founded by the Almighty; thearistocracy of money, founded by Mammon, and the aristocracyof family, founded by fools. The aristocracy of brainsdiffers from those of birth and boodle as a star differs froma jack-o'-lantern, as the music of the spheres from the brayof a burro, as a woman's first love from the stale affectionhashed up for a fourth husband.

To the aristocracy of money belong many worthy men;but why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Thefounder of one of the wealthiest and most exclusive ofAmerican families skinned beeves and made weinerwurst.The calling was an honest and useful one. His sausageswere said to be excellent, and at a SKIN game he wasexceptionally hard to beat; but his descendants positivelydecline to put a calf's head regardant and a cleaverrampant on their coat-of-arms. A relative much addicted tothe genealogical habit once assured me that he could traceour family back 600 years just as easy as following thepath to the drugstore in a Prohibition town. I wasdelighted to hear it, to learn that I too had ancestors—thatsome of them were actually on the earth before I was born.While he was tracing I was figuring. I found that in 600years there should be 20 generations—if everybody didhis duty—and that in 20 generations a man has 2,093,056ancestors! Just think of it! Why, if he had gone back600 years further he might have discovered that I was alineal descendant of Adam, perhaps distantly related tocrowned monarchs—if not to the Duke of Marlborough.As my cousin couldn't account for this job-lot of kinsmen—had no idea how many had been hanged, gone into politicsor written poetry, I rang off. Those people who delightto trace their lineage through several generations tosome distinguished man should be tapped for the simples.When John Smith starts out to found a family and marriesMiss Jones, their son is half Smith and half Jones.The next crop is nearly one-fourth Smith and at the end ofa dozen generations the young Smiths bear about as muchrelation to the original as they do to a rabbit.

. . .

There are various grades of Gall, but perhaps thesuperlative brand is that which leads a man to look down withlofty scorn upon those of his fellow mortals who havetripped on Life's rugged pathway and plunged into ashoreless sea of shame. I am no apologist for crime—I would not cover its naked hideousness with the Arachne—robe of sentiment; but I do believe that many a socialoutcast, many a branded criminal, will get as sweet a harp inthe great hereafter as those who have kept themselvesunspotted from the world. It is easy enough to say graceover a good square meal, to be honest on a fat income, topraise God when full of pie; but just wait till you get thesame razzle-dazzle the devil dished up for Job and see howyour halle-hallelujahs hold out before exalting your horn.Victory does not always proclaim the hero nor virtue thesaint. It were easy enough to sail with wind and tide tofloat over fair seas, mid purple isles of spice; but thecaptain who loses his ship mid tempests dire, mid wreck andwrath, may be a better sailor and a braver than the masterwho rides safe to port with rigging all intact and everyensign flying. With

"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,"

it were easy enough to be a good citizen and a consistentChristian. It is poverty and contempt, suffering anddisappointment that try men's souls—that proclaim of whatmetal they are made. Faith, Hope and Charity are man'striune transcendent—"and the greatest of these isCharity." A pharisee is either a pious fraud or a hopelessfool—he's either short on "gumption" or long on Gall.

. . .

Half the alleged honesty of this world is but Gall, andmust be particularly offensive to the Almighty. We haveoodles of men in every community who are legally honest,but morally rotten. Legal honesty is the brand usuallyproclaimed as "the best policy." Only fools risk thepenitentiary to fill their purse. The smart rogue is ever"honest within the law"—infamous in strict accord withthe criminal code.

Dives may attire himself in purple and fine linen andfare sumptuously every day, while Lazarus lies at his doorfor the dogs to lick, vainly craving the crumbs that fallfrom the millionaire's table, and still be legally honest, evena church member in good standing; but his loyalty to legalforms will avail him but little when he finds his coat-tailsafire and no water within forty miles.

The girl who flirts with a featherless young gosling tillhe doesn't know whether he's floating in a sea of champagneto the sound of celestial music, sliding down agreased rainbow or riding on the ridge-pole of the auroraborealis, then tells him that she can only be a kind ofChristmas-present, opera-ticket sister to him; who stealshis unripe affections and allows 'em to get frost-bitten—carries him into the empyrean of puppy-love, only to drophim with a dull plunk that fills his callow heart withcompound fractures—well, she cannot be prosecuted for petitlarceny nor indicted for malicious mischief; but theunfortunate fellow who finally gets her will be glad to go toheaven, where there's neither marrying nor giving inmarriage.

The man who preaches Prohibition in public and payscourt to a gallon jug of corn-juice in private; who damnsthe saloon at home and sits up with it all night abroad,may not transcend the law of the land, but if his Gallshould burst the very buzzards would break their neckstrying to get out of the country.

The druggist who charges a poor dunderhead a dollarfor filling a prescription that calls in Latin for a spoonfulof salt and an ounce of water, may do no violence to thecriminal code, but he plays ducks and drakes with themoral law.

The little tin-horn attorney, whose specialties aredivorce cases and libel suits; who stirs up good-for-naughtsto sue publishers for $10,000 damages to 10-cent reputations;who's as ready to shield Vice from the sword ofJustice as to defend Virtue from stupid violence; who'sever for sale to the highest bidder and keeps eloquence ontap for whosoever cares to buy; who would rob the orphanof his patrimony on a technicality or brand the VirginMary as a bawd to shield a black-mailer—well, he cannotbe put into the penitentiary, more's the pity! but it's somesatisfaction to believe that, if in all the great universe ofGod there is a hell where fiends lie howling, the mostsulphurous section is reserved for the infamous shyster—thatif he cannot be debarred from the courts of earth he'll getthe bounce from those of heaven.

The woman who inveigles some poor fool—perhaps oldenough to be her father—into calling her his tootsie-wootsie over his own signature, then brings suit for breachof promise—or the Seventh Commandment; who exhibitsher broken heart to the judge and jury and demands thatit be patched up with Uncle Sam's illuminated anguishplasters; who plays the adventuress, then poses in thepublic prints as an injured innocent—sends a good reputationto join a bad character in hope of monetary reward—well, she too may be legally honest; but it's just as wellto watch her, for no woman worth powder to blow her toperdition ever did or every will carry such a case intocourt. When a woman's heart is really hurting her moneyis not going to help it: when she's truly sorry for her sinshe tells her troubles to the Lord instead of to policemenand reporters.

The man who sues a fellow-citizen for alienating hiswife's affections, instead of striking his trail with a bell-mouthed blunderbuss and a muzzle-loading bulldog; whoasks the court to put a silver lining in the cloud of infamythat hangs over his home; who tries to make capital of hisshame and heal with golden guineas the hurt that honorfeels—well, he too may be a law-abiding citizen; but tenthousand such souls, if separated from their Gall, mightplay hide-and-seek on the surface of a copper cent for ahundred years and never find each other.

. . .

Dignity is but a peculiar manifestation of Gall. It isthe stock in trade of fools. If Almighty God ever put upgreat dignity and superior intellect in the same package itmust have got misplaced. They are opposing elements, asantagonistic as the doctrines of infinite love and infantdamnation. Knowledge makes men humble; true genius isever modest. The donkey is popularly supposed to be themost stupid animal extant—excepting the dude. He'salso the most dignified—since the extinction of the dodo.No pope or president, rich in the world's respect; no princeor potentate reveling in the pride of sovereign power;no poet or philosopher bearing his blushing honors thickupon him ever equaled a blind donkey in impressive dignity.As a man's vision broadens; as he begins to realize what amiserable little microbe he is in that mighty immensity,studded with the stupendous handiwork of a power thattranscends his comprehension, his dignity drains of andhe feels like asking to be recognized just long enough toapologize for his existence.

When I see a little man strut forth in the face of heavenlike a turkey-co*ck on dress parade; forgotten aeons behindhim, blank time before him, his birth a mystery, his deatha leap in the dark; when I see him pose on the grave offorgotten races and puff himself up with pomposity likethe frog in the fable; when I see him sprinkled with thedust of fallen dynasties and erecting new altars upon thesite of forgotten fanes, yet staggering about under a loadof dignity that would spring the knee-joints of an archangel,I don't wonder that the Lord once decided to drownthe whole layout like a litter of blind puppies.

. . .

A lecture on Gall were woefully incomplete without somereference to the press, that "archimedean lever" and"molder of public opinion." The average newspaper posingas a "public educator" is a specimen of Gall that cannotbe properly analyzed in one evening. Men do not establishnewspapers for the express purpose of reforming theworld, but rather to print what a large number of peoplein a particular community want to read and are willingto pay for. A newspaper is simply a mirror in which thecommunity sees itself, not as it should be, but as it actuallyis. It is not the mother, but the daughter of publicopinion. The printing press is a mighty phonograph thatechoes back the joy and the sorrow, the glory and theshame of the generation it serves. I have no more quarrelwith editors for filling their columns with inanities thancasting shadows when they stand in the sun. They knowwhat kind of mental pabulum their people crave, and theyare no more in business for their health than is themerchant. They know that should they print the grandestsermon that ever fell from Massillon's lips of gold not20 per cent., even of the professedly pious, would read it;but that a detailed account of a fragrant divorce case orinternational prize-fight will cause 99 per cent. of thevery elect of the Lord to swoop down upon it like a hungryhen-hawk on an unripe gosling and fairly devour it, thenroll their eyes to heaven like a calf with the colic andwonder what this wicked old world is coming to. Theeditor knows that half the people who pretend to be filledto overflowing with the grace of God are only perambulatingpillars of pure Gall. He knows that the very peoplewho criticize him for printing accounts of crimes andmaking spreads on sporting events, would transfer theirpatronage to other papers if he heeded their howling—that they are talking for effect through the crown of theirfelts.

Speaking of prize-fights reminds me that a governorwho, after winking at a hundred brutal slugging matches,puts his state to the expense of a legislative session toprevent a pair of gladiators pounding each other with softgloves, is not suffering for lack of Gall; that those pioussouls who never suspected that pugilism was an insult toour civilization until they got a good opportunity to makea grandstand play, then whereased and resoluted themselvesblack in the face anent its brutality, should be presentedwith a medal of pure brass. Politics is said to makestrange bed-fellows, but I scarce expected to see a shoe-string gambler and would-be Don Juan lauded by ministerialassociations as "our heroic young Christian governor."

Gall? Why, Geo. Clark presumes to give Bismarckpointers and congress advice. Nobody knows so well howto manage a husband as an old maid. A bachelor can givethe father of a village pointers on the training of boys.Our Northern neighbors know exactly how to deal withthe nigg*r. The man who would starve but for the industryof his wife feels competent to manage the finances ofthe country. People who couldn't be trusted to wean acalf, tell us all about the Creator of the Cosmos. SamJones wants to debate with Bob Ingersoll, and every forks-of-the-creek economist takes a hard fall out of HenryGeorge. The A.P.A. agitators prate loudly of freedom ofconscience and insist on disfranchising the Catholics. Weboast of religious liberty, then enact iron-clad Sunday lawsthat compel Jew and pagan to conform to our creed or goto prison. The prohibs. want to confine the whole world tocold water because their leaders haven't sufficient staminato stay sober. Men who fail to make a living at honestlabor insist on entering the public service. Politicalparties charge up to each other the adverse decrees ofProvidence. Atheists deny the existence of God because hedoesn't move in their set, while ministers assume that acriticism of themselves is an insult to the Creator.

. . .

But to detain you longer were to give a practicalillustration of my text. I will be told that Gall is a necessaryevil; that a certain amount of audacity, of nativeimpudence, is necessary to success. I deny it. Fame andwealth and power constitute our ideal of success—follyborn of falsehood. Only the useful are successful. FatherDamien was the grandest success of the century; Alexanderof Macedon the most miserable failure known tohuman history—with the possible exception of GroverCleveland. Alexander employed his genius to conquer theOrient and Cleveland his stupidity to ruin the Occident.The kingdom of the one went to pieces, and the party ofthe other is now posing as the lost tribe of the politicalIsrael!

Success? A Gould must give up his gold at the grave,the sovereign surrender his sceptre, the very gods are intime forgotten—are swallowed up in the voiceless, viewlesspast, hidden by the shadows of the centuries. Why shouldmen strive for fame, that feather in the cap of fools, whennations and peoples perish like the flowers and are forgotten—when even continents fade from the great world'sface and the ocean's bed becomes the mountain's brow.Why strive for power, that passes like the perfume of thedawn, and leaves prince and pauper peers in death? Whyshould man, made in the mortal image of immortal God,become the subservient slave of Greed and barter all oftime for a handful of yellow dross to cast upon the thresholdof eternity? "Poor and content is rich," and richenough. With a roof to shelter those his heart holdsdear, and table furnished forth with frugal fare; withmanhood's dauntless courage and woman's deathless love,the peasant in his lowly cot may be richer far than theprince in his imperial hall.

Success? I would rather be a fox and steal fat geesethan a miserly millionaire and prey upon the misfortunesof my fellows. I would rather be a doodle-bug burrowingin the dust than a plotting politician, trying to inflate asecond-term gubernatorial boom with the fetid breath ofa foul hypocrisy. I would rather be a peddler of hotpeanuts than a President who gives to bond-grabbers andboodlers privilege to despoil the pantries of the poor. Iwould rather be a louse on the head of a lazar than lordhigh executioner of a theological college that, to preserveits reputation and fill its coffers with filthy lucre, brandsan orphan babe as a bawd. I would rather watch the starsshining down through blue immensity, and the cool mistscreeping round the purple hills, than feast my eyes on allthe tawdry treasures of Ophir and of Ind. I would ratherplay a corn-stalk fiddle while pickaninnies dance, thanbuild, of widows' sighs and orphans' tears, a flimsy bubbleof fame to be blown adown the narrow beach of Time intoEternity's shoreless sea. I would rather be the beggarlord of a lodge in the wilderness, dress in a suit ofsunburn and live on hominy and hope, yet see the love-lightblaze unbought in truthful eyes, than to be the maraudingemperor of the mighty world, and know not who fawnedupon the master and who esteemed the man.

* * *BLUE AND GRAY.

AN ADDRESS TO THE OLD VETERANS.

[The following is a summary of Mr. Brann's address tothe United American Veterans, San Antonio, Feb. 22, 1894.]

It occurs to me that the time is not an appropriate onefor lengthy speeches. This is a love-feast, and I havenoticed that when people are much in love they are littleinclined to talk. Perhaps I have been called upon becauseI'm a professional peacemaker, an expert harmony promoter.Were I not as meek as Moses and patient as Job Icertainly would weary in well-doing—become discouragedand give o'er the attempt to inaugurate an era ofuniversal peace and general good will; for when I go NorthI am denounced by the partisan press as an unreconstructedrebel seeking to rip the federal government up bythe roots, and when I come South I'm pointed out as adangerous Yankee importation with the bluest of equators.The Democrats insist that I'm a Republican, but thatparty declines the responsibility; the infidels call me areligious crank, the clergy an Atheist, and even theMugwumps regard me with suspicion. But let me tell you righthere that whatever I may or may not be, I am an Americanfrom the ground up—from Alpha to Omega, world-without-end. I may be a man without a party and withouta creed; but so long as Old Glory blazes in God's bluefirmament I will never be a man without a country.

I can no more imagine a man loving only the north orsouth half of his country than I can imagine him lovingonly the right or left side of his wife. If I had to love mycountry on the instalment plan I'd move out of it. Theman who is really a patriot loves his country in a lump.There's room in his heart for every acre of its sunny soil,its every hill upon which the morning breaks, its everyvale that cradles the evening shadows, its every streamthat laughs back the image of the sun.

When a man feels that way you can safely trust himwith an office—and most of us are perfectly willing tobe trusted.

As an American citizen I am proud of every man, ofwhatever section, who, by the nobility of his nature or themajesty of his intellect, has added one jot or tittle to thefame of his fair land, has increased the credit of our commoncountry, has contributed new power to the car ofhuman progress. They are my countrymen, friends andbrethren. Are you of the North? Then I claim with youa joint interest in your entire galaxy of intellectual gods.At the shrine of Lincoln's broad humanity, of Webster'smatchless power, of the cunning genius of your Menlowizard I humbly bow. Are you of the South? Your Jefferson,Jackson and Lee are mine as well as thine, for theytoo were Americans—lords in that mighty aristocracyof intellect that has, in four generations, made the NewWorld the wonder of the Old with its cumulative greatnessof forty centuries.

I have watched the progress of the United AmericanVeterans' Association with uncommon interest, because itis distinctively a national organization, in which shriveledsectionalism and party prejudice find no place. Its corner-stone is American manhood, its object fraternity, itsprinciples broad as the continent upon which falls the shadowof our flag. Do you know what that association means?—had you thought of its significance? It means thatwhen brave men sheathe the sword the quarrel's done. Itmeans that peace hath its triumphs no less than war.The world's annals furnish forth no parallel to that associationwhose guests we are to-night. Men have fought erethis and patched up a peace; but where, in all the cyclesof human history, have they waged war more relentlessthan did Rome and Carthage, then, without a murmur,accepted the arbitrament of the sword and swung into line,shoulder to shoulder, a band of brothers, one flag, onecountry, one destiny and that the highest goal of humanendeavor?

My attention has been especially attracted to thisassociation because it is a practical illustration of what I haveso often urged in print: That the pitiful sectional prejudiceswhich we see here and there coming to the surfaceboth north and south; that the petty hatreds, whichappear to transform some hearts into bitter little pools inwhich Justice perishes and divine Reason is quite overthrown,have no lot or part among the soldiers who madethe civil war the grandest event in modern history—onefrom which the world will mark time for centuries yet tobe. I have yet to hear an ex-federal who met Lee'sveterans at the Wilderness or Gettysburg, speakdisrespectfully of the man who wore the gray. I have yet tohear an ex-confederate who mixed it with "Old Pap"Thomas at Chickamauga, or Joe Hooker above the clouds,speak disparagingly of those who wore the blue. It isthose who stayed at home to sing, "We'll hang Jeff Davison a sour apple tree," and those who damned "Old Abe"Lincoln at long range who are doing all the tremendousfighting now. They didn't get started for the front untilafter Appomattox; but having once sailed in for slaughterall Hades can't head 'em off! If a merciful Providencedoesn't soon interpose, these mighty post-bellum warriorswill either break a lung or wreck the majestic world. Theyare more dreadful in their destructive awfulness than thefarmer's two he-goats, that "fit an' fit" until there wasnothing left of 'em but a splotch o' blood and twobelligerent tails. Those who exchanged compliments atCorinth and Cold Harbor; those who received informalcalls from Kilpatrick's cavalry, who we are told "rode likecentaurs and fought like devils"; those who saw Grant'sintrepid Westerners hurl themselves against Vicksburg'simpregnable heights; those who were slammed up againstJackson's "Stone wall" or picnicked with Johnston'scartridge-biters on grapeshot pie and deviled minnie balls,now treat each other with the studied respect which theKansas farmer paid the cyclone. He felt sure that theLord was on his side and that with such help he couldmore than hold his own; still he was in no wise anxious tosteer his theory against a condition that was making amillion revolutions a minute and hadn't yet brought up itsreserves.

In commingling thus in a common brotherhood, thosewho followed the fortunes of the confederacy until humanfortitude could no further go, and those who, with thesword's keen point, held every gleaming star in Old Glory'sfield of blue, are furnishing a commendable example to allour countrymen, to all humanity. It is an echo, nay, anincarnation of those words of Grant, the grandest thatever fell from victorious warrior's lips: "Let us havepeace." The battlefield was sown long since with kindlierseed than dragon's teeth, has blossomed and borne thefruits of Life where Death reigned paramount. Theflowers of our Southern fields are no longer dyed with theblood of the contending brave, but drip with heaven's owndews; the sullen battery has gone silent on our purplehills and the crash of steel resounds no more amid ourpleasant valleys. No longer the Northern child waitsand watches for the soldier sire whose lips have felt thetouch of God's own hand; no longer the Southern womanwanders with bursting heart amid the wreck and wraithof the fierce simoon, brushing the battle grime from coldbrows, seeking among the mangled dead for all that lifeheld dear. The curse has passed: "Let us have peace."

The civil war was a national necessity. It was the fieryfurnace in which Almighty God welded the discordantelements of the New World into one hom*ogeneous people.For generations the Puritan hated the Cavalier, and thelatter gave back scorn for scorn and added compoundinterest. This mutual dislike was a rank, infectious weedthat first took root across the sea and ripened into thatrevolution which sent Charles the First to the block andinvested Cromwell with more than regal power. Some ofthis virus, distilled in stubborn hearts by religious andpolitical intolerance, was carried by the Puritan to Plymouthand by the Cavalier to the banks of the James, andit survived even the fires of patriotism and the frosts ofValley Forge. Bone of the same bone and flesh of thesame flesh, the religio-political doctrinaires had succeededin casting our forefathers in different molds—each colossal,masculine, heroic, but radically antagonistic. Togetherthey followed Washington through those eight longyears of blood and tears of which human liberty was born.Together they laid broad and deep the foundation of theRepublic and reared thereon that wondrous superstructurewhich—please God—shall endure forever, and togetherthey poured their blood in one unstinted tide upon itssacred shrine. But the Puritan was still a Cromwelland the Cavalier a lord. That people so widely divergentin customs and character could long dwell at peace as onepolitical household were preposterous. The one had his"convictions," the other his "institutions," and neitherwould yield the right-o'-way. When such opposing trainsof thought try to pass on a single track there's going tobe trouble sure. The friction, evident even in the earlyday of the Republic, grew and gathered fire until the nationburst forth in that mighty conflagration whose patheticashes repose in a million sepulchers. It had to come. Letus thank God that the fierce baptism of fire is in the pastand not yet to be; that the bitter cup can never be pressedto our children's lips; that never again while the worldstands and the heavens endure will Americans meet in battle-shock! that never again will our rivers run red withthe blood of Columbia's brave, poured forth by her ownkeen blade—that the last stumbling-block hath beenremoved from our path of progress; that we can now moveforward with a giant's stride to that high destiny forwhich the chastening hand of God hath fitted us, thegreatest nation and the grandest people in all the mightytide of Time!

I rejoice to see the veterans setting the example ofreconciliation, for they, more than all others, have mostto forgive and forget. I am doubly gratified that thegood work should have begun in Texas, which has suchcause to entertain the kindliest feeling toward everysection of our common country, for each and all contributedto her past glory and present greatness. Among thosewho cast their lot in Texas when every step was a challengeto destiny and every hour was darkened by a danger;who faced unflinchingly the trials of frontier life andcarved out an independent republic with the sword, weremen from every State of the American union. One instancewill suffice (though scores might be cited) to illustratethe cosmopolitan character of that band of heroeswho made the early history of Texas one of the noblestcantos in the mighty Anglo-Saxon epic. The New OrleansGrays was the first military company to come fromthe States to the aid of the struggling Texans. It got itsfirst baptism of fire in this city, being a part of that bandof 300 Spartans who followed Old Ben Milam to attackGeneral Cos and his 1,500 veterans. From the roster ofthe Grays I learn that the company numbered but sixty-four men, yet represented sixteen sovereign States and sixforeign countries! Think of it! Twenty-five came fromnorth of the Ohio, twenty-four from the Southern States,fourteen across far seas to fight for Texas liberty, whileone brave lad came from God knows where, but he gotthere just the same! General Cos never inquired whereMilam's men were born. He knew where his own weredying, decided that San Antonio had been overrated as ahealth resort and took to the chaparral.

As most of those daring spirits who flocked hither tofight for Texas remained, and ever since a steady humantide has poured in from all parts of the Union, and everycountry of Western Europe, we have become a mixed people,scarce daring to throw a rock in any direction lestwe hit our relatives. And the cosmopolitan character ofour people—the fact that the Puritan and the Cavalierhave blended here as nowhere else—will be found a powerfulfactor in the attainment of a glorious future.

It is particularly appropriate that the Blue and theGray should unite in observing the day that marks thebirth of Washington, that soldier-statesman who marshalledour fathers under one flag and led them forth to thedefense of human liberty. Whatever may have since mis-chanced, the trials and the triumphs of the Revolution areour common heritage. As the Greeks of old, dividedamong themselves, united to face a foreign foe, so did theAmerican, North and South, unite beneath the banner ofWashington and hurl down the gage of battle to Britain'smighty power, and no historian has yet presumed to saywhich was the better soldier. Washington belongs to nosection. He was truly an American, pre-eminently apatriot. The nobility of his character was his very own;the dazzling splendor of his undying fame is the brightestjewel in Columbia's crown of glory, for it was born of thedauntless valor and nurtured with the priceless blood ofa people whom kings could not conquer nor sophists deceive.

A husband and wife, long estranged, met at the grave oftheir firstborn, the child of their youthful strength. Theirstrife had been bitter, their love had turned to hate, andthey elected to tread life's path apart. They stood, oneon either side, and looked coldly upon each other. Thenthey looked down upon the little mound that held thebroken link with which God had bound their hearts. Theyknelt and bowed their faces upon the cold sod that coveredthe sacred dust of their dead. They stretched forththeir hands across the little grave, each to the other, andthe Angel of God washed all the bitterness of the yearsfrom their hearts with a rain of penitential tears, andsent them down life's pathway hand-in-hand, as in the olddays when Love was lord of their two lives and the lostbabe was cradled upon its mother's breast.

This day the North and the South kneel at the graveof Washington, their best beloved. The estrangement isforgotten, the bitterness of the years passes like an uneasydream, they reach their hands each to the other acrossthe tomb, and the benediction of God falls upon a re-united people.

* * *HUMBUGS AND HUMBUGGERY.

THE GREAT AMERICAN PRODUCT

Satan is supposed to have been the original Humbug; buthe's a back number now—must feel dreadfully antiquatedand useless among so many modern improvements.

That the American people love to be humbugged longsince passed into proverb. Humbuggery may be calledour national vice, our besetting sin. Like liberty, itappears to be in the very air we breathe, and we take to itas naturally as we go into politics. Our entire socialsystem has become saturated with it. It is the main-springof many acts we loudly praise, the lode-star of men weapotheosize, is oftimes the warp and woof even of themantle of charity, which, like a well-filled purse—or atariff compromise—covers a multitude of sins.

There are various kinds and classes of Humbugs; butreduced to the last analysis—stripped of the sugar-coating by which they impose on the public—they are one andall simply professors of falsehood.

I am sometimes inclined to the view that humbuggeryis a disease, and that some doctor will yet discover a gold-cure for it—will demonstrate that the bad habit is dueto microbes that get into a man's mind and make troubletrying to turn around, or to bacilli that bore holes in hismoral character and let his honesty leak out; for the medicalfraternity has gravely informed us that kleptomania(sneak-thievery by eminently respectable people) anddipsomania (sottishness by the social salt of the earth), aresimply diseases that should be treated with pills andpowders instead of with penitentiaries and whipping-posts.Now if a man will steal a saw-mill and go back after thesite simply because his pericardium is out of plumb or hisliver has gone into politics; will nurse a juicy old jaguntil it develops into a combined museum and menagerie,because his circulation has slipped an eccentric or hisstomach got out of its natural orbit, I submit, in allseriousness that he might be physically incapacitated fortelling the truth by an insidious attack on his veracity bythe dreadful falsehood fungi, and that the best way torestore his moral equilibrium—to remove him from thecategory of chronic Humbugs—would be to fumigate him.

The Lord once attempted to check the Humbug habitby striking liars dead; but soon saw that such a planwould prove more fatal than a second flood—that therewouldn't be even a Noah's Ark picnic of us left—andreluctantly relinquished it. Science has not yet succeededin mastering the disease; but just give it time and it willsave the world yet—will find a medical name for everyhuman frailty; will be able to tell, by looking at a man'stongue, whether he's coming down with the mug-wumpmalaria or the office-holding hysteria, and do somethingfor him before it's everlastingly too late.

The very best of people have a touch of the complaint—"the trail of the serpent is over us all." Even ouryoung ladies are said to be, to a certain extent, Humbugs.I have been told that many of them wear patent complexions,"boughten" bangs, and pad out scrawny forms untilthey appear voluptuous Junos, and thereby deceive andensnare, bedazzle and beguile the unsuspecting sons ofmen. I have been told that many of them who are soft-voiced angels before marriage can give a rusty buzz-sawcards and spades and beat it blind after they havesucceeded in landing the confiding sucker. But perhaps suchtales are only the bitter complainings of miserableBenedicts who have been soundly beaten at their own game ofhumbuggery. Marriage is, perhaps, the only game ofchance ever invented at which it is possible for both playersto lose. Too often, after much sugar-coated deception,and many premeditated misdeals on both sides, one drawsa blank and the other a booby. After patient angling inthe matrimonial pool, one lands a stingaree and the othera bull-head. One expects to capture a demi-god who hitsthe earth only in high places; the other to wed a winglessangel who will make his Edenic bower one long-drawn sighof ecstatic bliss. The result is that one is tied up to aslattern who slouches around the house with her hair ontins, in a dirty collar and with a dime novel, a temper likeaqua-fortis and a voice like a cat-fight; the other a hoodlumwho comes home from the lodge at 2 a.m. and whoopsand howls for her to come down and help him hunt forthe keyhole, and is then snailed in by a policeman beforeshe can frame a curtain lecture or find the rolling pin.

. . .

False Pride is the father of humbuggery, the parent ofFraud. We are Humbugs because we desire that our fellowsthink us better, braver, brighter, perhaps richer thanwe really are. We practice humbuggery to attain socialposition to which we are entitled by neither birth norbrains, to acquire wealth for which we render no equivalent,to procure power we cannot wisely employ.

While proclaiming love of democracy we purchase peersfor our daughters. While boasting liberty of speech weassail like demons those who presume to dissent from ouropinions in either religion or politics.

History is full of Humbugs and liberty itself oftimesbut a gilded lie. No man is really free who is dependentupon the good will of others for employment. There canbe no true liberty where Prejudice usurps the throne ofReason. Men are slaves instead of sovereigns when theysuffer themselves to be held in iron thrall by politicaldogma or religious creed, blindly accepting the ipse dixitof things instead of exercising to the utmost the intelligencewhich God had given them.

I have said that charity itself is ofttimes a Humbug. Itis so when it becomes the handmaid of ostentation insteadof the true almoner of the heart; or when men give to thepoor only because it is "lending to the Lord," then expectcompound interest.

That philanthropist is a fraud who, after piling up acolossal fortune at the expense of the common people,leaves it to found an educational or eleemosynary institutewhen death calls him across the dark river. Knowingthat Charon's boat is purely a passenger packet—thatcarries no freight, however precious—he drops his dollarswith a sigh; but determined to reap some benefit fromboodle his itching hand can no longer hold, he decrees thatit be used to found some charitable fake to prevent himselfbeing forgotten—some pitiful institute where a fewof the wretched victims of his rapacious greed may get aplate of starvation soup, or a prayer-book, and bless theirbenefactor's name. The very monument erected overbones of the sanctimonious old skin-flint is a fraud; flauntsa string of colossal falsehoods in the face of the world;piously points to heaven—perhaps to indicate that Satanrefused to receive him and sent him back to St. Peter witha request that he make other arrangements.

Many of the martyrs whose memory we revere, of thesaints we apotheosize, of the heroes we enshrine in history,are one-third fraud and two-thirds fake. The man whoran grow in grace while his pet corn's in chancery, or losean election without spilling his moral character; who canwait an hour for his dinner without walking all over thenerves of his wife, or crawl out of bed in the middle of hisfirst nap and rustle till the cold, gray dawn with a braceof colicky kids, without broadly insinuating that he was acopper-riveted, nickel-plated, automatic, double-cylinderidiot to ever get married, is a greater hero than he thattaketh a city.

The place to take the true measure of a man is not themarket-place or the amen-corner, not the forum or thefield, but at his fireside. There he lays aside his maskand you may learn whether he's imp or angel, king or cur,hero or Humbug. I care not what the world says of him—whether it crown him with bays or pelt him with badeggs; I care never a copper what his reputation or religionmay be: If his babes dread his home-coming and hisbetter-half swallows her heart every time she has to askhim for a five dollar bill, he's a fraud of the first water,even tho' he prays night and morn till he's black in theface and howls hallelujah till he shakes the eternal hills.But if his children rush to the front gate to greet him,and love's own sunshine illumes the face of his wife whenshe hears his footfall, you can take it for granted thathe's true gold, for his home's a heaven, and the Humbugnever gets that near the great white throne of God. Hemay be a rank atheist and a red-flag anarchist, a Mormonand a mugwump; he may buy votes in blocks-of-five andbet on the election; he may deal 'em from the bottom ofthe deck and drink beer till he can't tell a silver dollarfrom a circular saw, and still be an infinitely better manthan the cowardly little Humbug who's all suavity insociety, but who makes his home a hell—who vents upon thehapless heads of wife and children the ill-nature he wouldlike to inflict on his fellow-men, but dares not. I canforgive much in that fellow mortal who would rather makemen swear than women weep; who would rather have thehate of the whole he-world than the contempt of his wife—who would rather call anger to the eyes of a king thanfear to the face of a child.

The hero is not he that strives with the world forwitness—who seeks the bubble fame at the cannon's brazenlip and risks his life that he may live forever.

"Think not that helm and harness are signs of valor true;
Peace hath higher tests of manhood than battles ever knew."

To bear with becoming grace the slings and arrows ofoutrageous fortune; to find our heaven in others' happiness,and for their sake to sacrifice and suffer wrongs thatmight be righted with a thread of steel; to live an honestlife in a land where Truth doth feed on crusts while Falsehoodfattens at Lucullean feasts, requires more true manhood,more moral stamina, more unadulterated SAND thanto follow a flag into the very jaws of hell or die for thefaith in the auto da fe. Heroes? Why unurn the ashesof the half-forgotten dead and pore o'er the musty pagesof the past for names to glorify? If you would find heroesgrander, martyrs more noble and saints of more sanctitythan Rubens ever painted or immortal Homer sang;who, without Achilles' armor, have slain an hundredHectors; without Samsonian locks have torn the lion; withoutthe sword of Michael have thrown down the gage to allthe embattled hosts of hell, seek not in the musty tomesof history, but in the hearts and homes of the self-sacrificingwives and mothers of this great world.

"God could not be everywhere," says the proverb,"therefore he made mothers."

Let the heroes of history have their due; still I imaginethe world would have been much the same had Alexanderdied of cholera-infantum or grown up a harmless dude.I don't think the earth unbalanced would from its orbitfly had Caesar been drowned in the Rubicon, or Clevelandnever been born. I imagine that Greece would have humbledthe Persian pride had there been no Thermopylae,that Rome would have ruled the world had Scaevola's goodright hand not hissed in the Tuscan fire. It is evenpossible that civilization would have stood the shocks had"Lanky Bob" and "Gentleman Jim" met on Texas soil—that the second-term boom of "our heroic young Christiangovernor" would have lost no gas. One catfish doesnot make a creek nor one hero a nation. The waves donot make the sea, but the sea furnishes forth the waves.Leonidas were lost to history but for the three hundrednameless braves who backed his bluff. Had there been butone Cromwell Charles the First would have kept his head.In Washington's deathless splendor gleams the glory offorgotten millions, and the history of Bonaparte is writtenwith blood of the unknown brave.

. . .

Humbuggery, fraud, deception everywhere.

"All the world's a stage
And all the men and women merely players"—

Momus the major-domo, the millions en masque. Evenfriendship is becoming a screaming farce, intended to promotethe social fortune or fill the purse. We fawn thatthrift may follow; are prodigal of sweet words becausethey cost nothing and swell the sails of many a richargosy; but weigh every penny we put forth, and carefullycalculate the chance of gain or loss. It's heads I win,tails you lose, and when we cannot play it on that principlewe promptly jump the game.

"Who steals my purse steals trash."

That's Shakespeare.

"He that filches from me my good name . . . makesme poor indeed."

That's nonsense. Reputation is but the ephemeral dewon character's everlasting gold; but he that steals ahuman heart and tramples it beneath his brutal heel; hethat feigns a friendship he does not feel; he that fawnsupon his fellows and hugs them hard and after scandalsthem, is the foulest fraud in all this land of fakes, themost hideous Humbug in all hell's unclean hierarchy.

I am sometimes tempted to believe that the onlyfriendship that will stand fire is that of a yellow dog for apauper negro. Strike a friend for a small loan and hisaffection grows suddenly cold; lose your fortune and yoursweetheart sends you word that she will be a sister to you;your brother will betray you for boodle, your father fightsyou for a foolish flag and your heirs-at-law will dancewhen they hear of your death; but the devotion of ayaller dog for a worthless nigg*r hath all seasons for its own.

. . .

But the Humbug for whom I have least use is the manwho assiduously damns the Rum Demon; makes tearfultemperance talks; ostentatiously votes the prohibitionticket; groans like a sick calf hit by a battering-ramwhenever he sees a young man come out of a barroom; thensneaks up a dirty alley, crawls thro' the side door of asecond-class saloon; calls for the cheapest whiskey in theshop, runs the glass over trying to get the worth of hismoney; pours it down at a gulp and scoots in a hurry lestsomebody ask him to treat; who has a chronic toothache—in the stomach—which nothing but drugstore whiskeywill relieve; who keeps a jug of dollar-a-gallon bug-juicehid under his bed and sneaks to it like a thieving hyenadigging up a dead nigg*r—rents his property for saloonpurposes, then piously prays the Lord to protect theyoung from temptation.

. . .

But perhaps the prince of Humbugs, the incarnation offraud, the apotheosis of audacity, is the street-cornerpolitician. He towers above his fellow fakes like Saul abovehis brethren. I have been time and again instructed inthe most intricate problems of public polity—questionsthat have perplexed the wisest statesmen of the world—by men who had never read a single standard work onpolitical economy, and who could not tell to save theirsouls—granting that they possess such perishable property—whether Adam Smith wrote the "Wealth of Nations"or the Lord's Prayer; who were not familiar withthe constitution of their own state, or the face of areceipted wash-bill; who could scarce tell a sloop from a ship,a bill of lading from a sight draft; a hydraulic ram froma he-goat unless they were properly labeled. Yet noquestion can arise in metaphysics or morals, government orgeneralship, upon which these great little men do not presumeto speak with the authoritative assurance of a LordChief Justice—or a six-foot woman addressing a four-foothusband. They invariably know it all. They could teachSolomon and the Seven Wise Men wisdom, and had theybeen on earth when Almighty God wrote the TenCommandments they would have moved an amendment ordrafted a minority report.

And these are the fellows who frame our politicalplatforms and dominate our elections—whose boundlesscupidity, colossal ignorance and supernal gall bring aboutstarvation in a land of plenty—divide the most industriousand progressive people that ever graced the footstool ofAlmighty God into bloated millionaires and grovelingmendicants.

Even patriotism has become a Humbug—has been supplantedby partisanship, and now all are for party andnone are for the state. On July 4 we shout for the oldflag, and all the rest of the year we clamor for anappropriation. The man who is kicked by a nightmare whiledreaming of the draft demands a pension and every burningpatriot wants an office. Twice, yea, thrice within thememory of men now living, America has been on the veryverge of an industrial revolution, a Reign of Terror; yetwe continue to hang our second Providence on a job-lot ofpolitical Jacksnipes who carry their patriotism in theirpockets and their sense under their surcingles. While wewho feed three times a day; who have a co*cktail everymorning and a clean shirt occasionally, are boasting of ourallegiance to "the grand old party," or prating of theprinciples of Jeffersonian democracy—are blindly trailingin the wake of some partisan band-wagon like a brindle calfbehind a Kansas hay-cart-this nation, born of ourfather's blood and sanctified by our mothers' tears, isdominated by political self-seekers who have taken for theirmotto, "After us the deluge."

Once after holding forth at some length on Humbugs,a physician said to me:

"Ah-er—you-ah—didn't mention the medical profession."

"No," I replied, "the power of language hath its limits."

The medical, mark you, is the noblest of all professions.It contains many learned and able men who devote theirlives unselfishly to the amelioration of human misery; but Imuch doubt whether one-half the M. D.'s now sending peopleto the drug stores with cipher dispatches, could tellwhat was the matter with a suffering mortal were hetransparent as glass and lit up by electricity. There aredoctors doping people with powerful drugs, who couldn't tellwhether a patient had a case of cholera-morbus or wasafflicted with an incurable itch for office—who haveacquired their medical information from the almanacs andcould not distinguish between a bunion and a stone-bruiseor find the joints in a string of sausage with a search-warrant.

I have noticed that when the doctors took to writingtheir prescriptions in Latin it quickly became a deadlanguage—that when I take the poet's advice and throwphysic to the dogs, their numbers rapidly decrease. Butthe doctors are jolly good fellows. Let it be recorded totheir eternal credit, that, whatever may be their faults,precious few of them will practice in their own families. Ihave often wished that I was a doctor of medicine insteadof a doctor of divinity. There are several fellows forwhom I'd like to prescribe. There's a strong affinitybetween the two professions. The D. D.'s deal in faith andprayer, the M. D.'s in faith and pills.

I have been frequently asked why, in lecturing onHumbugs, I skip the lawyers. There are some subjects towhich a lecturer must lead up gradually; so I discuss thedoctors in my discourse on Humbugs and save the attorneysfor my talk on Gall.

Even our boasted educational system is half a Humbug.Too many of our professors fondly imagine that whenthey have crammed the dry formulas of half a dozensciences into a small head—perhaps designed by the Deityto furnish the directive wisdom for a scavenger cart; whenthey have taught a two-legged moon-calf to glibly read incertain dead languages things it can in nowise comprehend—patiently pumped into it a whole congeries of thingsthat defy its mental digestive apparatus—that it isactually educated, if not enlightened. And perhaps it is—after the manner of the trick mule or the pig that playscards. The attempt of Gulliver scientists to calcine iceinto gunpowder were not more ridiculous than trying totransform a fool into a philosopher by the alchemy ofeducation. If it be a waste of lather to shave an ass, whatmust it be to educate an idiot? True education consist inthe acquirement of useful information; yet I have seencollege graduates—even men sporting professional sheep-skins—who couldn't tell whether Gladstone's an Englishstatesman or an Irish policeman. They knew all aboutGreek roots but couldn't tell a carrot from a parsnip.They could decipher a cuneiform inscription, perhaps, andstate whether a pebble belonged to the paleozoic or someother period; but couldn't tell a subpoena from a search-warrant, a box of vermicelli from a bundle of fishworms.

We pore over books too much and reflect too little;depend too much on others, too little upon ourselves. We make ofour heads cold-storage warehouses for otherpeople's ideas, instead of standing up in our own independent,god-like individuality. Bacon says that reading makes afull man. Perhaps so, but it makes a great deal of differencewhat a fellow's full of. Too many who fondly imaginethemselves educated, much resemble Mark Twain's frogwith its stomach full of shot—they are crushed to earthby the things they have swallowed.

Neither the public nor any other school system has everproduced one really great man. Those who occupy thedais-throne among the immortals, contended single-handedwith the darkness of ignorance and the devil of dogmatism.Columbus scorned the schools and discovered a world.Napoleon revolutionized the science of war and himselfmaster of Europe. Bismarck mocked at precedent, andUnited Germany stood forth a giant. Jesus of Nazarethignored the learning of the Levites, and around the worldarose the fanes of a new faith.

Reading is the nurse of culture; reflection the motherof genius. Our great religions were born in the desert.Our grandest philosophers budded and burgeoned in thewilderness. The noblest poesy that ever swept the humanharpsichord was born in the brain of a beggar, came bubblingfrom the heart of the blind; and when all the magiof the Medes, and all the great philosophers of Greece hadfailed to furnish forth a jurisprudence just to all, semi-barbarous Rome laid down those laws by which, even fromthe grave of her glory, she still rules the majestic world.

I have been accused of being the enemy of education;but then I have been accused of almost everything; so onecount more or less in the indictment doesn't matter. Iam not opposed to education that is useful; but why shouldwe pay people to fill the empty heads of fools with soapand sawdust?

Perhaps the most aggressive fraud that infects the earthis the professional atheist—the man whose chief mentalstock-in-trade consists of doubt and denial of revealedreligion, so-called.

About the time a youngster first feels an irresistibleimpulse to make a fool of himself wherever a female smilesupon him; when he's reached that critical stage in life'sjourney when he imagines that he knows much more thanhis father, he began to doubt the religion of his mother;shrewdly asks his Sunday-school teacher who made God;demonstrates by the aid of natural history diagrams, thata large whale could in nowise swallow a small prophet—that if he did succeed in relegating him to its internaleconomy it were impossible for him to slosh around for threedays and nights in the gastric juices without becomingmuch the worse for wear. He attempts to rip religion upby the roots and reform the world while you wait, but soonlearns that he's got a government contract on his hands,—that the man who can drive the Deity out of the heartsand homes of this land can make a fortune turning artesianwells inside out and peddling them for telegraph poles.You can't do it, son. Religion is the backbone of the bodysocial. Sometimes it's unbending as a boarding-house biscuit,and sometimes it's a bad quality of gutta-percha; butwe couldn't get far without it. Most youths have to passthro' a period of doubt and denial—catch the infidelhumor just as they do the measles and mumps, but theyeventually learn that the fear of God is the beginning ofwisdom.

There was never an atheistical book written; there wasnever an infidel argument penned that touched the CORE ofany religion, Christian or Pagan. Bibles, Korans,Zandevestas—all sacred books—are but the feeble efforts offinite man to interpret the infinite; to speak forth theunspeakable; to reduce to intelligible human charactersthe flame-written hieroglyphs of the sky. Who madeGod? Suppose, Mr. Atheist, that I find thee an answer?Who will furnish thee with an intellect to understand it?How will you comprehend the genesis of a God when thewisest man for whom Christ died cannot tell why waterruns down hill instead of up—cannot understand the basicprinciple of the law of gravitation—cannot even guesswhy Gov. Culberson encouraged the managers of Corbettand Fitzsimmons to bring the mill to Texas, then knockedit out at a special session of the legislature at the expenseof the general public.

An atheist once solemnly assured me that he couldn'tpossibly BELIEVE anything which he couldn't PROVE; butwhen I asked him what led him to take such a livelyinterest in the welfare of his wife's children, he becamealmost as angry as a Calvinist whose confession of faith hadbeen called in question. Figure up how many things youcan PROVE of those you BELIEVE, and you'll find that youhave got to do a credit business or go into intellectualbankruptcy.

But the man who denies the existence of the Deitybecause he cannot comprehend his origin, is even less aHumbug than the one who knows all about him—the pitifuldogmatizer who devotes his life to the defense of somepoor little guess-work interpretation of the mysteriousplans of him who brings forth Mazaroth in his season andguides Arcturus with his sons.

Dogmatism is the fecund mother of doubt, a manacle onthe human mind, a brake on the golden wheel of Christianprogress; and every dogmatizer, whether in science, politicsor religion, is consciously or unconsciously, a Humbug.You KNOW, do you? Know what? And who toldyou? Why, the man in whose mighty intellect was storedthe world's wisdom; whose words have come down to usfrom the distant past as oracles, o'ershadowing evenSolomon and Shakespeare, wasn't quite sure of his ownexistence. Men frequently tell me that what they SEEthey know. Well, they've got to drink mighty littleProhibition whisky if they do; otherwise they are liable tosee things they'll need an introduction to. The wisest ishe that knows only that he knows nothing. OmniscientGod only knows. We—you and I—are only troubled withmorbid little-ideas, sired by circ*mstance and damned byfolly. We don't even know how the Democracy stands onthe silver question or what caused the slump in the lateelection.. . .

The average human head, like an egg—or a crock ofclabber—absorbs the flavor of its surroundings. It ischiefly a question of environment whether we grow upCatholics or Protestants, Republicans or Democrats,Populists or political nondescripts. And yet we adhere toopinions we have inherited with all the tenacity of a dogto a bone or an American miser to a ten dollar bill. Weassume that our faith political and our creed religious arefounded upon our reason, when they were really made forus by social conditions over which we had little control.We even succeed in humbugging ourselves into the beliefthat we are the people and that wisdom will die with us,when the fact is that our head is loaded with out-of-datelumber—our every idea moulded or modified by barbarianswho were in the bone-yard before Methusaleh was born.

Society is a vast organism in which the individual is butan atom. It is a monstrous tree—a veritable Ygdrasyl—penetrating both the region of darkness and the realm oflight. Whatever its peculiarities—whether monarchicalor republican, Christian or Pagan—it is a goodly treewhen it brings forth good fruit—when its boughs bendwith Apples of Hesperides and in its grateful shade isreared the shrine of God. Be it of what shape it may, itis an evil tree when its fruit is Apples of Sodom and itcasts a upas-shadow upon the earth. If we cannot gathergrapes of thorns or figs of thistles, how can a society thatis essentially false foster that which is literally true? Thebody social, of which we proudly boast, is producing dodosinstead of King Davids, peanut-politicians instead ofheaven-inspired poets, cranks instead of crusaders,Humbugs rather than heroes. Instead of exercising in thecampus martius our sons cultivate the Henglish hawkcentand the London lope. In the olden days the glory of theyoung man was his strength; now it is his chrysanthemumand his collar. And it is going from bad to worse in aratio of geometrical progression; for how can effeminatemen—a canesucking, primping, mincing, affectedconglomeration of masculine inanity and asininity begetworld-compellers. How can women who care much whatis on the outside and little what is on the inside of theirheads, and whom a box of lily-white, a French novel, apoodle-dog and another dude will make superlativelyhappy, suckle aught but fops and fools?

Yet we boast of progress! Progress whither? Fromthe savage who knew nothing to the dude who know less.From the barbarian who'd plundered your baggage, to thecivilized Shylock who'd steal the very earth from underyour feet. From that state wherein American sovereignshowever poor, considered themselves the equals of kingsand the superiors of princes, to that moral degradationand national decay in which they purchase the scurvyspawn of petty dukes as husband for our daughters. Bythe splendor of God, I'd rather be a naked Fiji Islander,dancing about a broiled missionary with a bull-ring in mynose, than a simpering "sawciety" simpleton, wearing mylittle intellectual apparatus to a frazzle with a study ofneckties!

. . .

Some of my critics have kindly suggested that the Lordmade a great mistake in not consulting me when he madethe world; thereby ascertaining just how I would like tohave it. I was not consulted anent the creation of theCosmos, and perhaps it is just as well for them that Iwasn't—they might not be here. Too many forget thatwhile the Lord made the world, the devil has been busyever since putting on the finishing touches. Why, hebegan on the first woman before she was a week old, and hehas been playing schoolmaster to her sons ever since. Iconfess to a sneaking respect for Satan, for he is pre-eminently a success in his chosen profession. He's playinga desperate game against omnipotent power and ismore than holding his own. He sat into the game with acash capital of one snake; now he's got half the globegrabbed and an option on the other half.

I have been called a defender of the devil; but I hopethat won't prejudice the ladies against me, as it was awoman that discovered him. I confess to the belief thatSatan is a gentleman compared with some of his veryhumble servants. We are told that he is a fallen angelwho found pride a stumbling-block—that he tripped overit and plunged down to infinite despair; but tho' he fellfurther than a pigeon could fly in a week, the world isfull of frauds who could not climb up to his level in amonth; who can no more claim kinship with him in theircussedness than a thieving hyena can say to the royalbeast of Bengal, "Thou art my brother." They are notfallen angels; they are risen vermin. They didn't comedown from thrones in heaven like falling stars; theycrawled up from holes in the earth like vicious littlepismires. What can proud Lucifer have in common withthe craven hypocrite, who prays with his lips whileplotting petty larceny in his heart? Imagine the lord of thelower world seeking the microscopic souls of men whobadger, brow-beat and bully-rag their better halves forspending a dollar for a new calico dress, then blow in adozen times as much with the dice-box in a bar-room, tryingto beat some other long-eared burro out of a thimble-full of bug-juice or a schooner o' beer! I don't believeSatan wants 'em. I think if they dodged the quarantineofficers and got in amongst those erstwhile angels nowpeopling the dark regions of the damned, the doctors ofthat black abode would decide that they were choleramicrobes or itch-bacilli and order the place fumigated.

. . .

But speaking of the devil—were any of you ever in love?I'm talking about the sure-enough, old-fashioned complaintthat makes a man miss meals and lose sleep, write springpoetry and misplace his appetite for plug tobacco; notof the new-fangled varioloid that yields to matrimonialtreatment. There's a great deal of sugar-coated hum-buggery about this thing we call love. It reminds me ofthe sulphur and molasses my careful Presbyterian parentsused to pour into me in the gentle springtime. Idon't remember why they gave it to me; but it wasprobably because they didn't want it themselves. Perhapsthey thought foreordination hadn't done much for me, andthey had best get me used to sulphur gradually. I remember,however, that, like the average case of matrimony,it usually contained a good deal more sulphur than syrup.

Matches, we are told, are made in heaven; and I thinkit likely, for Satan himself is said to have originated there.I'll tell you how matches are usually made: By somehorrible accident John Henry and Sarah Jane becomeacquainted. They have no more affinity than a practicalpolitician and pure spring water; but they dance and flirt,fool around the front gate in the dark of the moon, sighand talk nonsense. John Henry begins to take things forhis breath and Sarah Jane for her complexion. Theyoung goslings get wonted to each other, and first thingyou know they're tied up until death or divorce doth thempart. And, had they missed each other altogether, theywould have been just as well—perhaps better—contentwith other mates and made as enthusiastic a failure ofmarried life.

Most people marry without really knowing whetherthey're in love or not—mistake the gregarious habit forthe mystic fire of Hymen's torch, the pangs of a baddigestion for the barbed arrows from the love-god's bow.

But when a couple's really got what ailed Romeo andJuliet they're in no more doubt about it than was theman after he sat down on the circular saw to see if it wasrunning and found it the sole proprietor of a South Americanrevolution. They don't have to send their feelingsto a chemist for analysis and classification, nor take aninvoice of their affections to see if any have got away.Love is really a very serious thing. Like sea-sickness,everybody laughs at it but those who have got it. WhenCupid lets slip a sure-enough shaft it goes thro' a fellow'sheart like a Kansas cyclone thro' a colored camp-meeting,and all the powers of hades can never head it off.

Love is the most sacred word ever framed by celestiallips. It's the law of life, the harmony of heaven, thebreath of which the universe was born, the divine essenceincreate of the ever-living God.

But love is like all other sweet things—unless you getthe very best brand it sours awful easy.

. . .

Of all the pitiful Humbugs beneath high heavencommend me to those intellectual doodle-bugs who havebecome Dame Fashion's devotees and devote all theirintellectuality to the science of dress—to the art of beingmiserable a la mode. Thousands are today sailing aboutin silk hats who are guiltless of undershirts; bedecked withdiamonds while in debt to the butcher for the meat ontheir bones. Families that can scarce afford calico flauntParisian finery, keep costly carriages while there's achronic hiatus in their cupboards, go hungry to bed sixnights in the week that on the seventh they may spreada brave feast for fashionable fools. God have mercy onall such muttonheads. They are the natural breeders ofgood-for-naughts, for in such an atmosphere childrengrow up mentally dwarfed and morally debased.

Fashionable mothers commit their children to the careof serving-maids while they sail out to soirees andreceptions—put their babes on a bottle while they swing roundthe social circle. No wonder their sons grow up sapheads,as destitute of backbone as a banana, as deficient in moralforce as a firkin of fish. Think of an infant Napoleonnursing a rubber nozzle, of rearing a Brutus on patentbaby food, of bringing a Hannibal up by hand! Youcan't do it.

Why, if I had a woman of that kind to wife—a fashionablebutterfly whose heart was in her finery and her feathers;who neglected her home to train with a lot of intellectualtomtit* whose glory was small-talk; who saved her sweetest smilesfor society and her ill-temper for the family altar—I say were Itied to that kind of a female, do you know what I'd do? Eh? Youdon't? Well—neither do I.

There are some Humbugs, however, who merit our respectif not our reverence—men who are infinitely betterthan they would have the world believe. As the purestpearl is encased in an unseemly shell, so, too, is many agod-like soul enshrined in a breast of seeming adamant.Many a man swears because he's too proud to weep, hidesa quivering soul behind the cynic's sneer, fronts the worldlike a savage beast at bay while his heart's a fathomlesslake of tears. Tennyson tells us of a monstrous figure ofcomplete steel and armed cap-a-pie, that guarded a castlegate, and by its awful name and warlike mien affrightedthe fearful souls of men. But one day a dauntless knightunhorsed it and clove thro' the massy helm, when forthfrom the wreck there came not a demon armed with theseythe of death, but a beardless boy scarce old enough tobreak a pointless lance upon the village green. So, too,when with the sword Excalibur of human sympathy youshear down thro' the helm and harness of some rough-spoken man who seems to hate all human kind, you findthe soul of a woman and the heart of a little child.

. . .

Even our religion is ofttimes a Humbug, else why is itthat the good Christian woman—who says her prayer asregularly as she looks under the bed for burglars—says tothe caller whom she cordially detests, "I am delighted tosee you;" when she's wondering why the meddlesome oldgadabout don't stay at home when she's not wanted elsewhere?Why is it that when a good brother puts a five-dollar bill in the contribution box he flashes it up so allmay see the figures, but when he drops a nickel in the slotto get a little grace he lets not his right hand know whathis left hand doeth? Why is it that when you strike adevout deacon for the loan of ten dollars he will swearby all the gods he hasn't got it, when his pockets are fairlybursting with bills? If his religion is not hypocrisy—ifhe is not a Humbug—why doesn't he tell you in plainUnited States that he would rather have Uncle Sam'spromise to pay than yours? Oh, people are becoming suchincorrigible liars that I've about quit trying to borrowmoney.

Too many people presume that they are full of thegrace of God when they're only bilious; that they arepious because they dislike to see other people enjoythemselves; that they are Christians because they conform tocertain creeds, just as many men imagine themselves honestbecause they obey the laws of the land—for the purposeof keeping out of the penitentiary. They put uplong prayers on Sunday; that's piety. They bamboozle agreen gosling out of his birthright on Monday; that'sbusiness. They have one face with which to confront theLord and another with which to beguile their brethren.They even acquire two voices—a brisk business accent anda Sunday whine that would make a cub wolf climb a tree.I am always suspicious of a man's piety when it makes himlook as tho' he had cut a throat or scuttled a ship and waspraying for a commutation of the death sentence. I couldnever understand why a man who can read his title clearto mansions in the skies—who holds a lien on a corner lotin the New Jerusalem—should allow that fact to hurt him.

I have great respect for true religion; but for the brandof holiness that's put on with the Sunday shirt—thatmakes a man cry ahmen with unction, but doesn't preventhim selling 5 and 10-cent cigars out of the same box, oleo-margarine and creamery butter out of the same bucket,benzine and bourbon whiskey out of the same barrel;which makes long prayers on Sunday and gives shortweights on Monday; which worries over the welfare ofgood-looking young women, but gives the old grandamesthe go-by; which fathers the orphan only if he's rich andhusbands the widow only if she's handsome—for that kindof Christianity I have no more use than for a mugwumpgovernor who saddles his state with the expense of alegislative session to gratify a private grudge against a brothergambler.

That religion which sits up o'nights to agonize becausea few naked nigg*rs in equatorial Africa never heard Eve'ssnake story, how Job scratched himself with a broken pie-plate or the hog happened to be so full of the spirit ofhades; that robs childhood of its pennies to send prayer-books to people whose redemption should begin with a bath,while in our own country every town from Cattaraugus toKalamazoo—every city from the Arctic ocean to the Australsea—is overrun with heathen who know naught of thegrace of God or the mystery of a square meal; who prowlin the very shadow of our temples of justice, build theirlairs in proximity to our public schools and within soundof the collect of our churches, is an arrant Humbug, acrime against man, an offense to God, a curse to theworld.

. . .

People frequently say to me, "Brann, your attacks aretoo harsh. You should use more persuasion and lesspizen." Perhaps so; but I have not yet mastered theesoteric of choking a bad dog to death with good butter.Persuasion is well enough is you're acourting—or in thehands of the vigilantes; but turning it loose on the averagefraud were too much like a tenderfoot trying to move astring of freight steers with moral suasion. He takes uphis whip, gently snaps it as tho' he feared it were loaded,and talks to his cattle like a Boston philanthropist to apoor relation. The steers look round at him, wonder, ina vague way, if he's worth eating, and stand at ease. Anold freighter who's been over the "divide" and got hisprofanity down to a fine art, grabs that goad, cracks itlike a rifled cannon reaching for a raw recruit and spillsa string of cuss words calculated to precipitate the finalconflagration. You expect to see him struck dead—butthose steers don't. They're firmly persuaded that he'sgoing to outlive 'em if they don't get down and paw graveland they get a Nancy Hanks hustle on 'em. Never attemptto move an ox-team with moral suasion, or to drown the cohorts ofthe devil in the milk of human kindness. It won't work.

. . .

Oh, it's possible that you may disagree with me onsome minor points of doctrine. That's your blessedprivilege and I wouldn't deprive you of it if I had the power.A pompous old fellow once called at the office of myreligious monthly to inform me that I was radically wrongon every possible public question. He seemed to thinkthat I had committed an unpardonable crime in daring todiffer from him. I asked him to be seated and whistledfor the devil—the printer's devil, the only kind we keepin the office of the ICONOCLAST. I told him to procure forme a six-shooter, a sledge hammer and a boat. My visitorbecame greatly alarmed.

"Wh-what are you g-going to d-do?"

"Do?" I replied. "I'm going to shoot the printers,smash the press and throw the type into the river. Whatin the name of the great Sanhedrin, is the use o' meprinting a paper if I can't please you?"

Mr. Pomposity subsided somewhat, and I proceeded totalk United States to him.

"You say I'm wrong. Perhaps I am; but how in Halifax"—I think I said Halifax; anyhow we'll let it go atthat—"how in Halifax did you find it out? Whoinstalled you as infallible pope in the realm of intellect anddeclared it rank folly to run counter to the ideas thatroost in your nice fat head?"

He was one of those egotistical mental microbes orintellectual animalculae who imagine that a man must be inthe wrong if he disagrees with him. And the woods areso full of that class of fellows that the fool-killer hasbecome discouraged and jumped his job.

Those who chance to think alike get together and forma political party, a society or a sect and take it forgranted that they've got all the wisdom of the worldgrabbed—that beyond their little Rhode Island of intellectare only gibbering idiots and plotting knaves. Whena man fears to subject his faith to the crucible ofcontroversy; when he declines to submit his ideas to theballistae and battering-rams of cold logic, you can safely setit down that he's either a hopeless cabbage-head or ahypocritical Humbug—that he's a fool or a fraud, is full ofbuncombe or bile.

It is a difference of opinion that keeps the world fromgoing to the dogs. Independence of thought, doubt ofaccepted dogmas, the spirit of inquiry—the desire to KNOW—is the mighty lever that has lifted man so far above thebrute level that he has begun to claim kinship with theCreator. Yet we say to our brother, "Thou fool," becausehe takes issue with us on the tariff, or the propertime in the moon to plant post-holes—even insist onsending people to perdition who cannot see "the plan ofsalvation" thro' our little sectarian telescope.

Men of a mind flock together just like so manygabbling geese, or other foolish fowl of a feather, each groupwaddling in the wake of some flat-headed old gander,squawking when he squawks and fluttering when he flies.Because I decline to get in among the goslings and bepiloted about the intellectual goose-pond, I'm told that Ihave no POLICY. Well, I hope I haven't. If I thought Ihad I'd take something for it, dontcherknow! When I cannotlive among my fellows without surrendering my independence—forswearing freedom of speech and liberty ofthought; without having to play the canting hypocrite orgo hungry—to fawn like a flea-bitten fice to win publicfavor—I'll make me a suit of leather, take to the woodsand chop bee trees. I'd rather my babes were born in acane-brake and reared on bark and wild berries, with theblood of independence burning in their veins, than spawnedin a palace and brought up bootlicks and policy players.

. . .

I am sometimes inclined to believe that Life itself is aHumbug—that the man who makes the best of it is theone who escaped being born. We know not whence wecame or what for, whither we go or what we'll do whenwe get there. True it is that life is not altogether labor andlees—there's some skittles and beer; but the most of usget more shadow than shunshine, more cholera-morbusthan cream. Man born of woman is of few days and fullof politics. The moment he hits the globe he starts forthe grave, and his only visible reward for long days oflabor and nights of pain is an epitaph he can't read anda tombstone he don't want. In the first of the SevenAges of man he's licked, in the last he's neglected, and inall the others he's a fair mark for the shafts of falsehood.If he don't marry his first love, he's forever miserable, andif he does, he wishes he were dead. By the time he haslearned wisdom he leaves the world, is hustled into a hellof fire or an orthodox heaven, and for forty years I've beentrying to figure out which of these appalling evils to avoid.In one place the climate is hot and unhealthy, in the otherthe inhabitants never entertained an original idea—believedeverything they were told. Think of having to livethrough all eternity with the strictly orthodox—peoplewho regard freedom of thought as foul blasphemy, millionsof immaculate bricks cast in the same mold! Nowonder there's neither marrying nor giving in marriage inheaven. Just imagine a couple of love-sick loons havingnothing to do but spoon from everlasting to everlasting,to talk tutti-frutti through all eternity—never a breakor breathing spell in the lingering sweetness long drawnout! Amelia Rives Chanler or Ella Wheeler Wilcoxcouldn't stand it. Nor could I. By the time I had livedten thousand years with a female who could fly, and hadnothing in God's world to do but watch me, I'd either raisea revolution or send in my resignation. It is said thatSatan had an affaire d'amour while he was playing Seraph.If the object of his affections wore feathers I don't muchwonder that he went over the garden wall.

I suspect that the orthodox heaven and hell, of whichwe hear so much, are Humbugs. I should know somethingof those interesting ultimates—be qualified to speak excathedra—for a doctor of divinity recently denounced meas a child of the devil. In that case you behold in me aprince imperial, heir-apparent to the throne of Pluto, thepotential master of more than a moiety of mankind. Butdon't tell anybody that I've got a title, that I belong tothe oldest nobility, or all the Goulderbilts will be trying tobuy me.

I promise you that when I come into my kingdom I'lldevise a worse punishment than physical pain. A soul isan immaterial thing. You cannot flay it with aspic'sfangs nor kerosene it and set it on fire. A material hellfor immaterial mind were too ridiculous for a progressivedevil. But it is not necessary to be a son of Satan to builda hell in which demons dance and sulphur-fumes asphyxiatethe soul. You may transform your own home into a valleyof Hinnom, a veritable Gehenna; or you may make of thehumblest cot a heaven, illumed by love and gilded withGod's own glory—a Beulah land where flowers foreverbloom, where perfumed censors swing and music throbsand thrills sweeter far than Orphean lyre or song ofIsrafeel.

The orthodox heaven is a pageant of barbaric splendor,of gaudy tinsel and flaming gold to dazzle the eyes ofinfants. It is a land of lotus-eaters, where ambition's staris blotted from the firmament and the wild ecstasy ofpassion beats no longer in the blood; an Oriental heaven, aParadise for tired people eternal dolce far niente fornigg*rs and yaller dogs. No Celt or Saxon with aspiringmind, with swelling muscles and heart that flames with thefierce joy of strong endeavor, that thrills with the sweetnessof sacrifice for others' sake that swells with the madglory of triumph in the forum or the field, could haveconceived such a futile farce.

Give me a land whose skies are lead and soil is sand, yeteverlasting life with those I love; give me a lodge in somevast wilderness hallowed by children's laughter; give mea cave in the mountain crag to house those dearest to myheart; give me a tent on the far frontier, where, by thelambent light of their mother's eyes, I may watch mychildren grow in grace and the truth of God, and I'll builda heaven grander, nobler, sweeter than was ever dreamedof by the gross materialists of bygone days.

. . .

Life is a Humbug only because we make it so. We arefrauds because we are fools. This is a beautiful, a gloriousworld, fit habitation for sons of the Most High God. Itis a fruitful mother at whose fair breast all her childrenmay be filled. There should be never a Humbug nor ahypocrite, never a millionaire nor a mendicant on the greatround globe. Labor should be but healthful exercise todevelop the physical man—to furnish forth a fitting casketfor the godlike mind, appropriate setting for the immortalsoul. The curse of life arises from a misconception of itssignificance. We delve in the mine for paltry gems, exploreold ocean's deep for pearls; we toil and strive for golduntil the hands are worn and the heart is cold; we attireourselves in Tyrean purples and silks of Ind and strutforth in our gilded frippery on the narrow bridge of time,between the two eternities; we despoil the thin purse of thepoor to erect brazen altars and priceless fanes, when thewhole earth's a sacred shrine, the universe a temple throughwhich rings the voice of God and rolls the eternal melodyof the spheres.

. . .

Perhaps it is unnecessary to state that I'm not posingas a saint. I may eventually become an angel—of somesort—but I'll wear no wings. We are accustomed to thinkof seraphs flying from heaven to earth, flitting from starto star—irrespective of the fact that feathers are uselesswhere there's no atmosphere. An angel working his wingsto propel himself through a vacuum were as ridiculous asa disembodied spirit riding a bike down a rainbow.

I do not expect to reform all Humbugs, to banish allFakes, to exterminate all Folly. If the world should gettoo good, I might have to hunt another home. I canunderstand every crime in the calendar but the crime ofgreed, every lust of the flesh but the lust for gain, everysin that ever damned a soul but the sin of selfishness. Byall the sacred bugs and beasts of ancient Egypt, I'd ratherbe a witch's cat—or even a politician—and howl in sympathywith my tribe; I'd rather be a tramp and divide myhandouts with one more hungry; I'd rather be a mangyyellow dog without a master and keep the company of mykind, than to be a multi-millionaire, with the blood of asnake, the heart of a beast, and carry my soul, like PedroGarcia, in my purse.

When I think of the three thousand children in the singlecity of Chicago without rags to shield their nakednessfrom the keen north wind; of the ten thousand innocents,such as Christ blessed, who died in New York every yearof the world for lack of food; of the millions in everycountry whose cries go up night and day to God's great throne—not for salvation, but for soup; not for the robe ofrighteousness, but for a second-hand pair of pants—and thencontemplate those beside whose hoarded wealth the richesof Lydia's ancient kings were but a beggar's patrimony,praying to Him who reversed the law of nature to feedthe poor, I long for the mystic power to coin sentencesthat sear like sulphur-flames come hot from hell, and weaveof words a whip of scorpions to lash the rascals nakedthrough the world.

We humbug our parents, the public, and then, as far aspossible, our wives; though the latter are seldom so blindas they seem. The wife who cannot tell when her lord andmaster is lying—whether he's been sitting up with a sickfriend or nursing a Robert-tail flush—well, she must bethe newest kind of a "New Woman," with a brain builtfor bloomers and bike. The New Woman is—she is allright; just the Old Woman in disguise, a paradox and acoat of paint.

Whenever I tackle this subject I'm reminded of a brothof a boy who in days agone drove the team afield on myfather's farm. One rare June day, when the sun wasslowly sinking in the west, as the novelists say—and Ibelieve that's where Old Sol usually sinks—he got mixed upwith a bevy of industrious bumble-bees who were norespecters of persons—would sting an honest delver asquickly as they'd put the gaffles to a scorbutic duke. Inabout two minutes Mike came over the hill a-whooping likea segment of the Southern Confederacy reaching for anigg*r regiment, his head the size and shape of a red peckmeasure that had been kicked by a roan mule.

"Sure, now, they didn't do a thing t' me," he said. "Anould bumblebug came a bizzin' an' a buzzin' aluken fer allthe wurruld like an' Orangeman wid wings, so I up an'hit him a biff. Thin all the 'rist av the haythen tuk up hisfoight—an' Oi kem home."

Hit one Humbug and every Fraud and Fake in Christendomis ready for the fray. They attempt to crushtheir critic with calumny, to defeat him with falsehood.When you hear a fellow railing at the ICONOCLAST, justlook through its stock of caps and you'll find one that willfit the knot on the end of his neck.

Truth and only truth is eternal. It was not born andit cannot die. It may be obscured by the clouds of falsehood,or buried in the debris of brutish ignorance, but itcan never be destroyed. It exists in every atom, lives inevery flower and flames in every star. When the heavensand the earth shall pass away and the universe return tocosmic dust, divine truth will stand unscathed amid thecrash of matter and the wreck of worlds.

Falsehood is an amorphous monster, conceived in thebrain of knaves and brought forth by the breath of fools.It's a mortal pestilence, a miasmic vapor that passes, likea blast from hell, over the face of the world and is goneforever. It may leave death in its wake and disaster dire;it may place on the brow of purity the brand of the courtesanand cover the hero with the stigma of the coward;it may wreck hopes and ruin homes, cause blood to flowand hearts to break; it may pollute the altar and disgracethe throne, corrupt the courts and curse the land, but thelie cannot live forever, and when it's dead and damnedthere's none so poor as to do it reverence.

* * *

[The following remarks, apropos local politics, wereincluded in Mr. Brann's Lecture on Humbugs, as deliveredat the Dallas, Texas Opera House, Oct. 17, 1895.]

A discourse on political humbugs were incomplete withoutsome reference to the young man whom Texas, in amoment of mental aberration, raised to the chiefmagistracy. I learn from a sermon recently inflicted on thelong-suffering inhabitants of this city, that Son Charlesis "our heroic young Christian governor." How he musthave changed during the last few months! Shakespearewas probably viewing the Texas politician with propheticeye when he declared that in the great Drama of Lifea man plays many parts. Culberson is the only one,however, who has yet succeeded in playing them all at oneand the same time. A man who can run with the harepolitically while holding with the hounds personally, isalmost too versatile to be virtuous. "Our heroic youngChristian governor!" That preacher evidently doesn'tknow Charles. Or if he does his idea of Christianity is notso altitudinous that he can stand on its apex and keep theflies off the man in the moon. Culberson is a politician whoenjoyed excellent health before he entered the public service.He is all things to all men and—"nothing to nobody."He's so slippery that he couldn't stand on thepartisan platform to which he owes his political elevation.In the last gubernatorial election pretty much every manwho voted for Culberson felt that he had a lead-pipecinch on a fat office, and the remainder were certain hewould work four-and-twenty hours a day to put in effecttheir pet reforms. They are wiser now. In 1890 Charliesailed into the attorney-generalship on the ample coat-tails of one J. S. Hogg, and in less than thirty days hewas conspiring to retire his chief after one term and slipinto his official shoes. The trouble appears to be that theyoungster was pulled before he was ripe—before hispolitical integrity had time to harden, or his crop of wildoats was well in the ground.

Now I want it distinctly understood that I am not theapologist of pugilism; I am the apostle of the white-winged Goddess of Peace. I always carry a cruse of oilin my hip-pocket to cast upon the troubled waters. I havea pacific effect on all with whom I come in contact.Children quit crying when they see me coming, women speakwell of their neighbors, men respect each other's politicalopinions, preachers engage in silent prayer and the lionand the lamb lie down together. And that's no lie. Butas between pugilism and hypocrisy I prefer the former.I would rather see men pound each other for a fat pursethan play the canting Pharisee to promote their politicalfortunes.

. . .

Let us look to the record of "our heroic young Christiangovernor." During the four years he officiated as attorney-general he made no determined effort to enforce thelaw then in effect prohibiting pugilism. Prizefights werepulled off at Galveston, San Antonio, El Paso and otherTexas points after having been duly advertised in thedaily press. He was elevated to the chief magistracy ofthe state, and the slugging matches continued—millsbetween brawny but unskilled boxers, who relied uponbrute strength, and pounded each other to a pumice tomake a hoodlum holiday. Some of these meetings wereespecially brutal—as matches between amateur athletesare likely to be; but "our heroic young Christiangovernor" saw no occasion to get his Ebenezer up. Hesimply sawed wood—didn't care a continental whether therewas a law prohibiting bruising bouts or not.

And the ministerial associations were too busy takingup collections to send Bibles and blankets, salvation andmissionary soup to the pagans of the antipodes to paymuch attention to these small-fry pugs. They let ourblessed "Texas civilization" take care of itself, while theyagonized over a job lot of lazy negroes whose souls ain'tworth a sou-markee in blocks of five; who wouldn't walkinto heaven if the gates were wide open, but once insidewould steal the eternal throne if it wasn't spiked down.No Epworth Leaguers or Christian Endeavorers whereased,resoluted or perorated until their tongues wereworn to a frazzle, trying to "preserve the honor of ourger-rate and gal-orious State by suppressing feather-pillow pugilism." Why? I don't know; do you? Ofcourse some carping critics declare it was because the worldwas not watching these brutal slugging matches betweenyouths to pugilistic fortune and fame unknown; that itwas because the professionally pious had no opportunityto make a grandstand play and get their names in print—no chance to POSE in the eye of the universe as theconservators of our fin de siecle civilization. But then theseDoubting Thomases are ever ready to make a mock ofthe righteous and put co*ckleburrs in the back hair of thegodly. I dislike to criticize "the cloth." I am prone tobelieve that the preachers always do the best they knowhow; still, I must confess that I am unable to muster upmuch admiration for the brass band variety of "religion"or the tutti-frutti trademark of "respectability."

Had the belief not been bred in my bones that thereis a God in Israel, these little 2x4 preachers, with theirgreat moral hippodrome—their purblind blinking atmountains and much-ado about molehills—would driveme to infidelity. By their egregious folly, their fierydenunciation of all men who dare disagree with them, theirattempt to make the State subservient to the church, toestablish an imperium in imperio—by their mischievousmeddling in matters that in nowise concern them, theyare bringing the beautiful religion of Christ into contempt—are doing more to foster doubt than did all theHumes and Voltaires and Paines that ever wielded pen.

Now don't get the idea that I am antagonistic to thepreachers. Far from it. I am something of a ministermyself; and we who have been called to labor in theLord's vineyard—at so much per annum—must stand together.I admire the ministers in a general way—and"whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." I feel that it ismy duty to pull them tenderly but firmly back by thelittle alpaca coat-tails whenever they have made mistakes—to reprove them in all gentleness when I find themfanning themselves with their ears for the amusem*nt ofthe mob.

But to return to "our heroic young Christian governor."When it was first proposed to bring the great fistic carnivaland a million dollars to Dallas, Gov. Culberson hadnothing to say. It was popularly supposed that heunderstood the law and would respect it. The impression gotabroad that he felt rather friendly to the enterprisebecause it would put 500 scudi in the depleted coffers of thepublic and turn a great deal of ready money loose withinthe confines of Texas. He may not have been directlyresponsible for this popular idea, but he certainly didnothing to discourage it. Arrangements were perfected,important contracts entered into, a vast amount of moneyinvested that would prove a complete loss if the enterprisecollapsed. Then Culberson began to complain. He suddenlydiscovered that pugilism was a brutal sport, whichshould be suppressed. His conversion was as instantaneousas that of Saul of Tarsus. It were an insult to theintelligence of a hopeless idiot to say he did not know theCorbett-Fitzsimmons affair would prove far less brutalthan a hundred fistic encounters which he, as attorney-general and governor, had tacitly encouraged—but hisjewel of consistency had evidently gone to join his diamondstud. Col. Dan Stuart didn't appear inclined to doanything to ease the young man's agony, and it rapidly wentfrom bad to worse. The Hurt decision was rendered, andthe moral volcano of "our heroic young Christian governor"began to erupt in earnest. He declared that hewould override the court of criminal appeals "if menenough can be found in Texas to do it"—gave an excellentimitation of an anarchist who is hungering for cannedgore. After this blood-to-horses'-bridles bluff he grewquiescent—waited, Micawber-like, for something to turnup. And still Dan Stuart didn't say a word. Then "ourheroic young Christian governor" broke out in a newplace. The legislature was convened in extraordinarysession to prevent a brace of pugilists smashing the immortalichor out of modern civilization. It was a great moralaggregation—almost equal to Artemus Ward's WaxWurx! I am convinced of this, for it employed two doctorsof Divinity—at public cost, of course—to pray overit a minute each morning, for $5 per diem each. Everybodyexpected the president of the Florida Athletic Clubto go to Austin and make an earnest free silver speech.Even the lawmakers were looking for him; but he didn'tgo—and the result was what might have been expected.The law-builders with the worst private records had themost to say about public morality. Men whose I.O.U.'sare not good in a game of penny ante; whose faces arefamiliar to the inmates of every disreputable dive betweenthe Sabine and the Rio Bravo; who go to their legislativeduties from the gambling-room and with six-shooters inthe busts of their breeches, grew tearful over theprospective "disgrace of Texas" by a manly boxing bout.Hell hath no fury like a legislative humbug scorned—while he's holding his hand behind him.

. . .

But the wrath of "our heroic young Christian governor"did not abate with the enactment of a law forbiddingprizefights—such a law as he had flagrantly failedto enforce. The promoters of what the court of criminalappeals declared a lawful enterprise were arrested anddragged before the grand jury of Travis County, whichappears to have taken the entire earth under itsprotectorate. Failing an opportunity to prosecute them for anoffense against the laws of the land, the powers at Austinproceeded to prosecute them on the hypothesis that theywere conspiring to wreck the universe.

And what was their offense? They had "conspired" topay $500 into the public treasury and bring a million moreto Dallas. They had "conspired" to bring several thousandrespectable business men to Texas from all parts ofthe Union and furnished employment at good wages forhundreds of hungry men.

While I do not much admire pugilism as a profession,I must say that the promoters of the enterprise conductedthemselves much better than did "our heroic young Christiangovernor," and those alleged saints who proposed toshoulder their little shotguns and help him override thecourts—to butcher their brethren in cold blood to preventan encounter between brawny athletes armed with pillows;to sustain "modern civilization" by transforming themetropolis of Texas into a charnel-house—to prevent, bybrutal homicide in the name of Christ, their neighborsexercising those liberties accorded them by the laws ofthe land.

. . .

Curious, this modern civilization of which we hear somuch. During the palmy days of Roman grandeur andGrecian glory, their athletes fought with the terriblecestus to win a crown of oak or laurel; but then Rome neverproduced a Rev. Seasholes, nor Greece a Senator Bowser.The Imperial City did manage to breed a Brutus and aCato, but never proved equal to a Culberson. Think of aTexas legislature, composed chiefly of illiterate jabber-whacks who string out the sessions interminably for thesake of the $2 a day—imagine these fellows, each with alarge pendulous ear to the earth, listening for theapproach of some Pegasus to carry him to Congress—teachingthe aesthetics of civilization to the divine philosophersof Greece and the god-like senators of Rome! Think ofPerry J. Lewis pulling the Conscript Fathers over thecoals—of Senator Bowser pointing out civic duties toSocrates; of Attorney-General Crane giving Julius Caesara piece of his mind; of Charley Culberson turning up hislittle two-for-a-nickel nose at the Olympian games! Butperhaps that is not the game "our heroic young Christiangovernor" is most addicted to.

. . .

Prizefighting—even with pillows, for points—is badenough, no doubt; but there are worse things. Makingthe Texas people pay for an abortive little second-termgubernatorial boom is one of them, and canting hypocrisyby sensation-seeking preachers is another. Can the churchand state find no grander work than camping on the trailof a couple of pugilists? Are Gentleman Jim and KangarooBob the upper and nether millstones between whichhumanity is being ground? Are these the only obstaclesto the inauguration of the Golden Age—that era of Peaceon Earth and Good Will to Men? The world is honey-combed with crime. Brother Seasholes says there are 800fallen women in this city alone—and I presume he knows.But if there be half so many, what a terrible story ofhuman degradation—more appalling even than soft-glovepugilism! Our streets swarm with able-bodied beggars—young men, most of them, whom want may drive intowickedness. Human life is cheap. Men are slain in thisalleged Christian land for less silver than led Judas tobetray Christ. Young girls are sold to shame, and fromsqualid attics comes the cry of starving babes. The Gothsand Visigoths are once more gathering, imperiling civilizationitself, and belief in God is fading slowly but surelyfrom the earth. Want and wretchedness skulk in theshadows of our temples, ignorance and crime stalk abroadat high noon—the legions of Lucifer are overrunning theland, transforming God's beautiful world into a veritableGehenna. The Field of Blood is filling, the prisons andpoorhouses are overflowing—crowded with wretchedcreatures who dared dream of fame and fortune. Thegreat Sea of Life is thick-strewn with wrecks—millionsmore drifting helpless and hopeless upon the rocks. Fromout the darkness there come cries for aid; men pleadingfor employment, women shrieking in agony of soul, littlechildren wailing with hunger and cold. And the windswax ever stronger, the waves run higher and higher, thewreck and wraith grow ever more pitiful, more appalling.And church and state pause in this made vortex of chaosto prate of the ills of pugilism; to legislate and perorateanent bloodless boxing bouts; to prosecute a brace ofharmless pugs. The people ask bread of the church andit gives them a stone; they ask of the state protection oftheir lives and liberties, and it gives them a special sessionof the legislature—shoots doodle-bugs with a Gatling gun—and sends them the bill!

. . .

But to recur for a moment to the fistic carnival: Haveany of you been able to determine how the Dallas Newsstood in regard to that great enterprise? Sometimes, whenI want to go on an intellectual debauch, I read the News—or Ayer's Almanac. It appears to entertain but twoopinions, namely, that Uncle Sam should black the bootsof John Bull, and that Grover Cleveland carries the brainsof the world in his beegum. This brace of abortive ideasconstitute its confession of faith—the only things of whichit feels absolutely certain. When it tackles anything elseit wobbles in and it wobbles out like an unhappy marriedman trying to find his way home at five o'clock in themorning. A great diplomat once declared that languagewas made to conceal thought; but the Dallas Newsemploys it to disguise an intellectual vacuum. It can usemore language to say less than any other publication onearth. In this particular it is like Napoleon—it standswrapt in the solitude of its own originality.

The eating of thirty quail in thirty days was once apopular test of human endurance; but I can propose amore crucial one—one that will attract more people toDallas than would even the Corbett-Fitzsimmons fight.Let the people of this city offer a fat purse for the manwho can read the editorial page of the Dallas News thirtydays in succession without degenerating into a drivelingidiot. It is a mental impossibility, of course; but perhapsmy good friend "Dorry" can be persuaded to attemptit—to hoist himself with his own petard. No man bornof woman will ever accomplish it. Massillon wouldbecome a mental bankrupt within the month and Socrateshave to be tapped for the simples before reaching the half-way house.

The News is troubled with a chronic case of Anglo-mania. Whenever Columbia has a controversy of anykind with Britannia, the News hastens to ally itself withthe Britisher; but in matters concerning the welfare ofthe city of Dallas it has little to say. It did manifest aslight inclination to take up for the fistic enterprise—fearfully slid one foot to terra-firma; but when the successof the carnival became doubtful the News hastened toresume its time-honored position astride the fence, and ithas hung there ever since—like a foul dish-rag across awire clothes line. It's the greatest journalistic 'Fraid onthe face of the earth. It doesn't dare to risk the opinionthat water is wet. But probably it isn't sure of it. It isjust as well, however, for if it did know, it couldn't leakthe information in less than a column. The editorial pageof the Dallas News reminds me of the Desert of Saharaafter a simoon—it is such an awful waste of space. If Ihad a five-year-old boy who couldn't say more in fifteenminutes than the Dallas News has said in the last dozenyears, I'd refuse to father him.

One of the greatest frauds of modern times is the policy-playing newspaper. The "Archimedean lever," as appliedto daily journalism is a fake of the first magnitude.There is not a morning newspaper in Texas possessingsufficient political influence to elect a pound-master. Infact, their support will damn any politician eternally, forthe people wisely conclude that what the alleged "greatdailies" support is a pretty good thing for them tooppose. Hogg would not have reached the governorshipbut for the blatant opposition of the morning press. Itsfriendship for George Clark was the upas-shadow inwhich he perished politically. There hasn't been animportant law enacted in Texas during the last ten yearsthat it didn't oppose. And yet men actually imagine thatthey cannot succeed in politics, business or letters withoutthe assistance of that great "molder of public opinion!"Let me tell you that every success this country haswitnessed during the past three decades was achieved despitethe morning press. To paraphrase Owen Meredith:

"Let a man once show the press that he feels
Afraid of its bark, and 'twill fly at his heels;
Let him fearlessly face, 'twill leave him alone;
But 'twill fawn at his feet if he flings it a bone."

* * *BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.

OR THE LADIES AND THE APOSTLE.

[A synopsis of Mr. Brann's address to the Ladies'
Reading Club, San Antonio, Texas.]

I have been asked to lecture to the ladies of the ReadingClub, but shall do nothing of the kind. That were toadmit that you require improvement, and I would not haveyou better than you are. We would have to clip yourwings or keep you in a cage. Besides, I never saw awoman whom I could teach anything—she already knew it.I have been going to school to the ladies all my life. Mymother carried me through the kindergarten, ladypreceptors through the intermediate grade, and my wife ispatiently rounding off my education. When I graduateI expect to go direct to heaven. As near as I can figureit out, the inhabitants of the New Jerusalem will consist ofseveral million women—and just men enough to fill themunicipal offices.

"I would not live always, I ask not to stay."

No lecture then, but an informal talk, without text orsubject—a vagrant ramble through such fields as temptus. If we should find fruit, or even flowers, let us bethankful. If we encounter only briars, it will not be thefirst half hour we have wasted.

The fact that you are members of the Reading Clubindicates that you are seeking knowledge. I trust thatyou are finding it,—that every stroke of the intellectualpick turns up a golden nugget; but do not make the mistakeof supposing that all the wisdom of the world isbound in calf. You may know all that was ever penned inpapyrus or graved on stone, written on tablets of clayor preserved in print and still be ignorant—not even knowhow to manage a husband. As a rule people read withoutproper discrimination, and those who are most carefuloften go furthest astray. I once knew a woman with nomore music in her soul than a rat-tail file, who spent threelaborious years learning to play the piano, then closed theinstrument and never touched it again. One day I said toher:

"Mary, what good did all the patient practice do you?"

"Lot's o' good," she replied; "I used to be dreadfullyashamed to have people know that I COULDN'T play." Anda great deal of laborious reading is undertaken on the sameprinciple that Mary learned to play the piano—and is ofjust as little benefit. Many people are with books as withmedicine—imagine that whatever is hardest to get downwill do them the most good. No mortal man—and, as thepreacher correctly stated, the men embrace the women—ever yet got any permanent good out of a book unless heenjoyed its perusal. Jno. J. Ingalls says that everybodypraises Milton's Paradise Lost, but nobody reads it.Ingalls is mistaken. Everybody making any pretension toculture has read the book—as a disagreeable duty; butthat man don't live—at least outside of the lunatic asylum—who can quote a dozen lines of it. Same with Dante'sDivine Comedia and a host of other books with whichpeople are expected to inflict their brains. Read fewbooks and those of the very best,—books that you enjoy.Read them thoroughly; make them your very own—thenforget them as soon as possible. Having submitted to themental or moral discipline of another, decline to lean onhim, but stand up in your own independent individuality.Don't be a copy. There is on earth no more pitiable personthan

"The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
With loads of learned lumber in his head."

Do not interpret too literally. What I warn you againstis the habit, all too common, of imagining ourselves richbecause we have counted the golden hoard of others. Onemay admire the Medicean Venus without becoming a sculptor,or have Plato at his fingers' ends and ever remain afool. Were I an artist I would study with attention theworks of all the great masters; but when I put my hand tomy own task I would turn my back upon them all and myface to nature. My work would then be a "creation,"not a copy. Did I aspire to be truly learned I wouldstudy the words of the world's wisest—then dig for wisdomon my own behoof, I would thus become a philosopherinstead of a parrot.

. . .

I have been frequently called an iconoclast, and bad asthe title is popularly supposed to be, I trust it is notaltogether undeserved. I have striven to break foolish idolsand shatter false ideals, to hurl unclean gods from theirpedestals in the public pantheon. A work of destructionis not, I admit, of a high order. Anybody may destroy;it requires genius to build up. The wonder of the ancientworld sank to ruin irremediable beneath the torch of amorbid dude who had rather be "damned to everlastingfame" than altogether forgotten. A hungry wolf maydestroy a human life which Almighty God has broughtto perfection through long years of labor. But destructionis sometimes necessary. The seas must be clearedof pirates before commerce can flourish; the antiquatedand useless building must come down before the school-house or business block can occupy the site. In the greatcities are men who do nothing but destroy old buildings—professional wreckers of those works of man that haveoutlived their usefulness. They build nothing; but arethey, therefore, to be condemned? So in the social world,a man may be a professional wrecker, without the constructiveability to build a political platform on a piecrate,and still be useful, indispensable. The wrecker of badbuildings does not contract to put good ones in theirplaces; nor is the iconoclast under any obligation to finda heavenly grace for every false god that falls beneathhis hammer, a saint for every sinner he holds up to scorn,a new truth for every old falsehood he fells to earth. Hemay, if he thinks proper, leave that labor to others andgo on, with brand and bomb, bludgeon and bill-hook,wrecking, destroying—playing John the Baptist to agreater to come after.

A great many good people have taken the trouble toinform me that I am a pessimist. Perhaps so; but I amnot worrying much about it. A pessimist is a personsomewhat difficult to define. The fool who smokes in apowder-house, or believes that his neighbors always speakwell of him behind his back; the wife who encourages herhusband to pay court to other women on the suppositionthat no harm can ensue; the banker who accepts a man'sunsecured note because he is a church member and powerfulin prayer, and the servant girl who lights the firewith kerosene—then goes to join the angels taking yourhousehold goods and gods with her—are certainly notpessimists; they are only idiots.

It is easy enough to say that a pessimist is a personafflicted with an incurable case of mulligrubs—one whomnothing in all earth or heaven or hades pleases; one whousually deserves nothing, yet grumbles if he gets it. Butwe should not forget that every reform this world hasknown; every effort that has lifted man another notchabove the brute level; every star in our flag of freedom;every line and letter in our constitution of human liberty;every gem of knowledge that gleams in the great world'sintellectual crown of glory; every triumph of science andreligion, philosophy and mechanics was the work ofpessimists, so-called—of men who were not satisfied with theworld's condition and set determinedly to work to better it.They strove with their full strength against those conditionspanegyrized and poetized by the smirking optimistsof their time, and thereby incurred the enmity of pedantsand self-sufficient purists,—were denounced and denied,belittled and belied.

But, says the enthusiastic optimist, things are not whatthey used to be. When a college of cardinals gave Galileoto the gaoler for maintaining that "the world do move;"when Christ cast forth the money manipulators and purgedthe porches of the temple of the disreputable dove dealers;when Luther raised the standard of revolt and the Puritanpacked his grip there were cruel wrongs to right. But lookat us now! We've got a constitution and a Confession ofFaith, prize rings and Parisian gowns, sent missionaries toMadagascar and measured Mars' two moons. Of coursewe've made some mendicants, but please admire themultifarious beauty of our millionaires! Who can doubt thatwe've triumphed over the world, the flesh and the devil?Have not the Spanish inquisition and the English Court ofHigh Commission gone glimmering? Do we bore thetongues of Quakers or amputate the ears of non-conformistsas in Auld Lang Syne? Do we not run troublesomewives into the divorce court instead of into the river, aswas once our wont,—scientifically roast our criminals withelectricity instead of pulling their heads off with a hairhalter? Do we not fight our political battles with windinstead of war clubs? Have not our great partisan paladinssubstituted gall for Greek fire?

Progressing we certainly are, but the devil has adaptedthe Fabian tactics and is leading us a wild dance throughunprofitable deserts. While we have been shatteringethnic images he has been building new idols. While wehave been dragging the Phalaris Bull from its pedestal theGolden Calf of ancient Israel has reached maturity andmaternity and its progeny is now worshipped in a thousandpantheons.

Everywhere the false and the true, the good and the evil,the lambent light of heaven and the sulphurous shadowsof hell meet and blend. Nowhere, yet everywhere, floatsthe white veil and flaming ensign of the modern Mokanna—and we stand wrangling about the proper cut of a collar;debating whether the Gadarenes, whose swine the outcastdevils drowned, were Jews or Gentiles; dogmatizing anentthe proper form of baptism; doubting with which hand weshould tip the hat; wondering if Joseph's coat were a sackor a swallow-tail—ninety-and-nine out of every hundredwasting upon childish trifles the strength given us to dothe work of demi-gods—and every foolish breath, everyheartbeat bearing us across Time's narrow sands into thebroad bosom of that sea which hath no shore!

What does the all-seeing sun that has for so manycenturies glared down upon this wretched farce-tragedy, thinkof it all? And yet man boasts that he is the mortal imageof immortal God! It was for this trifling, straddlingbiped, intent only upon getting his goose-head above thefoolish geese, that the Regent of the universe sufferedignominy and death. I sometimes think that had theAlmighty cast the human horoscope he would never havegiven Noah a hint to go in out of the wet.

I am no perfectionist. I do not build the spasmodic sobnor spill the scalding tear because all men are not SirGalahads in quest of the Holy Grail, and all women angelswith two pair o' reversible wings and the aurora borealisfor a hat-band. I might get lonesome in a world likethat. I do not expect to see religion without cant, wealthwithout want, and virtue without vice; but I do hope tosee the human race devote itself to grander aims thanfollowing the fashions and camping on the trail of the cart-wheel dollar. I want to see more homes and fewer hovels,more men and fewer dudes. I want to see more women withthe moral courage to brave the odium of being old maidsrather than the pitiful weakness to become loveless wives.I want to see more mothers who would rather be queensof their homes than the favorites of fashionable circles;women who would rather have the love of their husbandsthan the insolent admiration of the whole he-world—womenwho do not know too much at 15 and too little at 50.

I want to see more men who are not a constant reminderof a monkey ancestry. Some philosopher once remarked:"As between men and dogs, give me dogs." I have beenoften tempted to indorse the sentiment—and I am notmuch of a lover of dogs either. I want to see men who arenot fops in their youth, fools in their prime and egotistsin their old age—a race of manly men to whom life is nota lascivious farce; whose god is not gold; who do notworship at the shrine of the Pandemian Venus nor devotetheir lives to the service of Mammon, "the least erect ofall the angelic host that fell from heaven." I want to seemen who scorn the pusillanimity of the policy-prayer, who,—like Caesar, dare tell greybeards the truth e'en thoughit cost a crown; men of leonine courage, men of iron mould,men strong of hand and heart, who defiantly throw downthe gage to destiny—who can trample hell itself beneaththeir proud feet, even while it consumes them.

. . .

The dream may be Utopian. I much fear it will neverbe made a blessed reality by either philosophy or religion.We have had both for forty centuries, yet the fool hasbecome ever more offensive and the liar has overrun the land.Yet we imagine that because we no longer live in caves andfight naked with the wild beasts of the forest for our foodwe are away up at the head of the procession, with Greekcivilization distanced and all the other times and half timesnowhere.

Human development, like the earth, the sun, the stars—like all things brought into being by the breath of OmnipotentGod—travels ever in a circle. Savagery and ignorance,barbarism and ambition, civilization and sybaritism,dudeism and intellectual decay; then once more savageryand ignorance proclaim the complete circle,—that we havetraveled from nadir to zenith and from zenith to nadir—when once again we begin with painful steps and slow torepace the path which carries us to the very verge ofgodhood and wreathes our brows with immortal bays, thenbrings us down—even while we think we mount—until wetouch a level beneath the very brute. Such has ever beenthe world's history, and such it will ever be until a forceis found that can transform this circle into a straight line—that can blend the rugged manhood of the barbarismwith the graces of our higher civilization and give uswisdom without weakness and culture without cowardice; thatcan incorporate us as corpuscles in the social organismwithout eliminating every spark of God-like individuality,making us helpless dependents upon social, political andreligious precedent.

If the Car of Progress travels in a circle—and historysays it does; if neither science, philosophy nor religion candeflect it from its seemingly predestined path—and thecondition of their birth-place proclaims their failure so todo—where is hope? Must the human race forever go theweary round of birth and death, like Buddhist souls wanderingthrough all that's fair and foul, until it finds Nirvanain the destruction of the world? Not so, for thereis a hope—a blessed hope—that like.

"A poising eagle burns above the unrisen morrow."

That hope is in the union of all the mighty forces thatmake for the emancipation of mankind,—a union of religionand philosophy, science and woman. And of thesethe first is the last and the last is the first in point ofpower and importance.

. . .

When I reflect that until within comparatively recenttimes women were slaves, I don't much wonder that the oldcivilizations went to the dogs—that the millennium is notyet due. Trying to make a civilization that would stickwithout the help of woman were like building a co*cktailwith a basis of buttermilk. God gave her to man to be anhelpmeet, not a plaything. I don't think that she can helphim much by going into politics, or becoming a crusadingshe-Peter-the-Hermit while her own children need her care,but I do believe that the wife and mother—that erstwhileignorant drudge, raised by God's great mercy to royalty—made Queen of the home, and thereby absolute Empress ofthe great round earth—is to be the dynamics of a new andgrander civilization that can never recede; that thewomanly woman, self-poised as a star, pure as the polarsnows, fit companion for the true nobleman of nature, isto be the Providence that will lead humanity, step by step,ever onward and upward, until our cruel age of iron istransformed into an age of gold in which there'll be neithermillionaire nor mendicant, master nor slave—in whichSelfishness will be considered the worst of crimes and Lovethe all-powerful law.

Such, ladies, is my dream of the future. You see, withtrue mannish instinct, I throw the work of the world'ssalvation upon the women. I don't know, however, butit's retributive justice. If you got us fired out of the firstParadise it is your duty to find another and put us inpossession. But really with all due respect to SacredWrit, I could never accept that serpent story withoutconsiderable salt. My observation—and experience—hasbeen that men are much more addicted to the snake habitthan are women. I gather from Genesis that after theEdenic reptile had done the damage it was condemned togo upon its belly all the days of its life. That indicatesthat it was not only a good conversationalist, but had legs.Now I submit it to you in all seriousness: which member ofthe original family was most likely to see such a serpentas that? I think I should have given Adam the Keeleycure, then crossexamined him a little before laying theburden of the blame on Eve. If the latter was really thetempter she was probably trying to reach the heart ofher hubby by that direct route, the stomach—lost heavenfor love, as too many of her daughters have since done.The fact that Adam was not willing to father her faultproved him unworthy of his wife, and the bad example heset is too often followed by many of his sons—who attributeall their trials and tribulations to the patient wiveswhose watchful care keeps them out of the penitentiary.Whatever may have been Eve's fortune, Adam was no greatloser by being ejected from Eden, for the man whopossesses the love of a good woman carries Paradise withhim wherever he goes. A woman's love can transform ahovel into a heaven and fill it with supernal sunshine—andher scorn can make perdition of a palace and put in all thefancy touches.

Woman is the only thing extant, if Genesis be believed,that was not evolved from a solid slug of nothing. ThatI presume, is why she amounts to something. Nothing wasgood enough raw material of which to make the fatherof mankind; but when the Almighty came to create ourcommon mother he required something more substantialthan a hole in the atmosphere.

I always bank on a boy who has a good mother, regardlessof what the old man may be. The fathers of philosophershave sometimes been fools, but their mothers never.A wise man may beget dudes or a good man practicalpoliticians; but it's his misfortune, not his fault. The goodLord expects no man to gather grapes of thorns or figs ofthistles. I have yet to hear of a single man who becamedistinguished in any line of human endeavor according tohis father the credit for his greatness. Character ismoulded at the mother's knee, and in the light of her lovingeyes is born that ambition which buoys man up in a sea oftroubles—that drive him on through dangers anddifficulties, straight to the shining goal.

The Nineteenth century marks the culmination of an eraof human triumphs, a brilliant coruscation of victories overthe cohorts of Ignorance and Prejudice; but its crown ofimperishable glory is the recognition that woman wascreated to be man's companion and co-laborer instead ofhis chattel, his joint sovereign of the earth instead of hisslave. Fronting the dawn of a grander day, her handungyved and her brain unfettered; with broader opportunitiesfor usefulness and boasting a nobler beauty thanduring the dark and dreary centuries that lie behind herlike a hideous dream—such is the woman of the Nineteenthcentury, and upon the shapely shoulders of this newPallas I hang my second Providence, to her loving handsI commit the destiny of the race, to her true heart thesalvation of the world.

* * *BRANN'S REPLY TO SLATTERY.

[Ex-Priest Joseph Slattery, in his lecture at Waco,Texas, in the interest of the A.P.A., bitterly denounced theICONOCLAST. During the Slattery lecture Brann rose,pointed his finger at Slattery and said: "You lie and youknow it, and I refuse to listen to you." Brann then turnedon his heel and walked out. He then hired the same operahouse at his own expense and replied to Slattery.]

Fellow Americans: The ICONOCLAST does not please ex-Priest Slattery, "Baptist minister in good standing," andI am not surprised. Its mission, as its name implies, is toexpose Frauds and abolish Fakes, to make unrelenting warupon Humbugs and Hypocrites, hence it is not remarkablethat Slattery should regard its existence as a personalaffront. It is ever the galled jade that winces; or, toborrow from the elegant pulpit vernacular of the Rev. SamJones, "it's the hit dog that yelps."

Slattery would have you believe that I'm a rank atheistwho's trying to rip religion up by the roots and bang itacross a barbed wire fence in close companionship with thehides of Protestant preachers. This charge has beenhurled at me by various sectarian papers and maliciousministers; but not one iota of evidence has ever beensubmitted. It is simply a bald assertion born of sanctifiedmalice, a brazen libel, similar to that which charges thePope with trying to subvert the American government. Idefy Slattery and all that unclean brood of moral vultures,assassins of character and thieves of reputation which trailin his wake and applaud his infamies, to produce one lineI ever wrote, or quote one sentence I ever uttered disrespectfulof ANY religion, Pagan, Protestant or Catholic.If in the wilds of Central Africa I should find a man bowingdown to a dried toad, a stuffed snake or a Slattery,I'd remove my hat as a tribute of respect, not to hisjudgment, but to his honesty. I have no word of condemnationfor any religious faith, however fatuous it may appearto me, that has comforted the dying or consoled the living—that has cast one gleam of supernal sunshine into thedark vale where grope, each beneath his burthen of sorrow,the sons of men. I am not warring upon religious faith,but on falsehood; not upon Christ, but on those who disgracehis cause—who mistake bile for benevolence, gall forgodliness and chronic laziness for "a call to preach."

Nor have I taken the Pope of Rome under my apostolicprotection. The Popes managed to exist for a great manyyears before I was born, and, despite the assaults ofSlattery, will doubtless continue in business at the oldstand for several years to come. I was raised a Protestant,and—thank God!—I'm no apostate. I learned Protestantismat my mother's knee, and from my father's pulpit;but I did not learn there that the Church of Rome is the"Scarlet Woman," nuns unclean creatures and priests thesworn enemies of my country. I learned that but for theChurch of Rome the "glad tidings of great joy," whichChrist brought to a dying world, would have been irredeemablylost in that dismal intellectual night known as theDark Ages. I was taught that for centuries the Churchof Rome was the repository, not only of the Christianfaith, but of civilization itself. I was taught that theCatholic is the mother of the Protestant church, and thatno matter how unworthy a parent may be, a child shouldnot become the herald of its mother's shame.

And while being taught my duty as a Protestant, myeducation as an American citizen was not neglected. I wastaught that this was a land of religious liberty, whereevery man is privileged to worship God in his own way, orignore him altogether: that it was my duty to insist uponthis right, both for myself and for my fellows.

That is why I am the uncompromising enemy of the A.P.A.

Any attempt to debar an American citizen from thehonors and emoluments of a public office because of hisreligious faith, or non-faith, is a flagrant violation of afundamental principle of this Republic. And no patriot;no man in whose veins there pulses one drop of the blood ofthe Conscript Fathers, or who would recognize the Goddessof Liberty if he met her in the road; no man imbued withthe tolerant spirit of the Lord Jesus Christ will aid orabet such an un-Christian and un-American movement.The A.P.A. is the bastard spawn of Ignorance andIntolerance, was conceived in sin and brought forth ininiquity.

There may be some honest men connected with themovement; but if honest they should get their headstrepanned to give their brains room to grow. They are asunable as a mule-eared rabbit to comprehend either thebroad principles upon which this government is grounded,or its political and religious history. No man—not evenJudas Iscariot Slattery—is to blame for his ignorance;so we should humbly pray, Father forgive them, theyknow not what they do. Nor is the Church of Romeresponsible for the shameless apostate's lack of information.It did all that it could to transform him from anignorant little beggar into an educated gentleman—buteven the Pope cannot make a silk purse of a sow's ear. Itis no fault of the Church of Rome that he's densely ignorantof the very text-book truths of history; that he knowsnothing of that Reformation of which he talks so glibly;that he is unable to comprehend the genius of the governmentupon which he has conferred his more or less valuablecitizenship. The fault, if fault it be, lies with theAlmighty, who gave him a bad heart and a worse head.

. . .

American Protective Association, eh? That signifiesthat Uncle Sam is in need of protection. I had hithertosupposed that the gentleman in the highwater pants andstar-bespangled cutaway was able to protect himself; butit now appears that unless he crawls under the aegis of theredoubtable Slattery he is—to again borrow from themost popular of all Protestant divines—"a gone sucker."Think of placing Uncle Sam under the protection of aman who is an apostate in religion and a renegade inpolitics—of an Irishman who apostrophizes the British flag!Think of that kind of a bird presuming to tell the grandsonsof Revolutionary soldiers their duties as American citizens.

Slattery assures us that we need protection from thePope. There was a time when the proudest monarchs ofEurope trembled at the Papal nod; but gradually the Popehas been shorn of temporal power, confined ever more tothe realm of spiritual, until to-day he exerts about as littleinfluence on the political destiny of this world as does Dr.Cranfill with his little Prohibition craze. But Slatterywill have it that the Pope is gradually undermining Americaninstitutions—leads us to infer that, sooner or later,he'll blow our blessed constitution at the moon and scatterfragments of the Goddess of Liberty from Dan to Beersheba,from Cape Cod to Kalamazoo. The Pope, it appears,is a veritable Guy Faux, who is tunnelling beneathour national capitol with a keg of giant powder in one handand a box of lucifer matches in the other. What's theevidence? Why, out in San Francisco, so Slattery says—but as Slattery's been convicted of lying it were well tocall for papers—a Catholic school-board was elected andemployed only Catholic teachers. The same awful thinghappened in Detroit—if Slattery's telling the truth, whichis doubtful in the extreme. Then what? With a prideworthy a more American act, this illogical idiot informs usthat "when the Protestants captured the school-boardsof those cities they discharged every one of the Catholicteachers and put only good Protestants on guard." Andat that Baptist brethren—with water on the brain—whoboast of Roger Williams, cheered so loudly as to be indanger of lockjaw. In the exuberant imagination ofSlattery and his dupes there appears to be a wonderfuldifference between tweedledum and tweedledee. It doesn'tseem to have occurred to them that what is sauce for theProtestant goose should be sauce for the Catholic gander.They damn the Catholics for doing the very thing forwhich they commend the Protestant. That's the logic ofthe A.P.A.—the Aggregation of Pusillanimous Asses. Inmy humble opinion both were engaged in very small business.

The only difference in the offenders that I can seeis that while the Catholics are saying nothing, the Protestantsare loudly boasting of their vicious subversion ofthe American principle of religious liberty. The circ*mstanceis a sharp reminder that if we are to preserve a governmentof the people, for the people and by the people,we've got to keep religion of ALL kinds out of our politics,just as the framers of the federal constitution intendedthat we should do. Mixing religion and politics is likemixing whiskey and water—it spoils both.

Slattery would have you believe that our Catholiccitizens are simply emissaries of the Pope, to whom they oweallegiance both spiritual and temporal, and that they will,at the first opportunity, subvert American institutions andmake this Nation simply a satrapy of the Vatican.

The American Catholic takes his theology from Rome;he takes his politics from the ecumenical council of hisparty—from the national convention of that partisanorganization to which he may chance to belong.

That there can be no "Catholic conspiracy" againstthe free institutions of this country must be evident toevery man of common sense from the simple fact thatCatholics are divided among all the political parties—are continually voting against each other. Now I appealto your judgment—lay aside your religious prejudices forthe moment and look at the matter from a non-partisan,non-sectarian standpoint: If our Catholic fellow-citizensbe under the thumb of the Pope politically, as the apostatenow evangelizing for the A.P.A. would have us believe;and if the Pope desires to make himself temporal ruler ofthis land, or in any manner direct its affairs, would theynot be found voting as a unit—a mighty political machine—instead of being as badly divided on secular questionsas the Baptists themselves? San Antonio is a Catholicstronghold, yet a prominent Roman Catholic was overwhelminglydefeated in the last mayoralty election. AndI could cite you hundreds of instances where Catholics havevoted against men of their own religious faith and electedProtestants or infidels.

Again: If the Pope is plotting against America; and ifall manner of crime be considered a virtue when committedby Catholics in furtherance of his ends, as Slattery wouldhave you believe, then it were well to keep a sharp eye onapostate priests. How are we to know that they are notemissaries of the Vatican, commissioned to stir theProtestants up to persecute their brethren in Christ and therebysolidify the Catholic vote? No one, not even Slattery, hasaccused the Pope of being a fool; and certain it is that theA.P.A. movement, if persisted in, will have the effect ofdriving the Catholics of this country to political unity inself-defense. Persecution, political ostracism for religiousopinion's sake, will infallibly bring about those veryconditions which Slattery, Hicks, et al. declare that the Popedesires. The communicants of the Church of Rome will nolonger vote as Democrats or Republicans, but as Catholics—and then? With unlimited wealth, and such a politicalmachine at the command of a man so ambitious and unscrupulousas we are asked to believe the Pope to be, thecapture of the federal government and the political dominationof this country were as easy as lying! The Protestants,divided into a hundred warring factions, many ofthem farther apart theologically than Episcopalianismand Catholicism, could offer no resistance to such apolitical machine, and they would receive but cold comfort fromthe liberal element, which has suffered so long from theirpetty persecutions.

And I tell you Protestants right here, that if it be theintention of the Church of Rome to transform this governmentinto a theocracy by fair means or by foul, then thePope is the real founder of the A.P.A. and Slattery's aPapal spy.

. . .

According to the story of this self-constituted protectorof the American government, he studied Roman Catholictheology for years, then officiated as a priest for eightmore before discovering anything immoral in the teachingsof the Mother Church, when it suddenly occurred to himthat it was but a tissue of falsehoods, a veritable cesspoolof rottenness. His transformation appears to have beenalmost as sudden as that of Saul of Tarsus—or that ofJudas Iscariot. I have no objection to his leaving theCatholic priesthood—his bishop stopped his pay. Likethe servant maid caught pilfering, he "gave notice, withthe missus a pintin' at the door." If Slattery believesthat the Protestant Through Line runs more comfortablecars to the great hereafter, he's welcome to take his ticketover that route; but I would have thought better of himhad he made the change quietly and refrained fromassaulting with the vindictiveness of a renegade that churchto which he owes his education, such as it is; had hetreated the religion of his mother with decency if not withrespect.

I thought I had met all manner of men; men hardenedin crime—men destitute of even a semblance of shame; butnever before did I behold one with the hardihood to standup before American women and boast that he had incurreda mother's curse. When a man falls so low in the scaleof human degradation that his own mother disowns him itwere well to watch him. When a creature asks strangersto accept him because his relatives have rejected him;when, for the sake of gain, he snaps like a mangy fice atthe hand that once fed him, and stings like a poisonousadder the bosom that once nurtured him; when, to promotehis personal ends, he will use his best endeavors toexterminate religious liberty and precipitate a bloodysectarian war, I tell you he was not born a man but begottena beast.

From the very foundation of this government the Catholicshave been its firm defenders. Their wisdom and eloquencehave adorned its councils from the signing of theDeclaration of American Independence to this good day,and its every battlefield, from Lexington to the Custermassacre, has been wet with Catholic blood. Nine RomanCatholics signed the Declaration of Independence, and theRoman Catholics of New York contributed so liberally oftheir blood and treasure to the cause of the new-bornNation that Washington wrote them a letter praising theirpatriotism. Several Roman Catholics helped frame theFederal Constitution, and the interpretation of thatwonderful instrument by a Roman Catholic chief-justice to-day constitutes the fundamental law of the land. YetSlattery and that ridiculous organization of which heboasts himself a member, would have you believe that theAmerican Catholics would, at a nod from the Pope, ruthlesslytrample under foot that flag in whose defense theypledged their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor—that they would wreck without remorse and ruin withoutregret that Nation they helped place on the map of theworld. How do you old Confederates, who followed PatCleburne, relish having this blatant tramp defame yourdead commander? Can you believe, on the unsupportedtestimony of this mendacious mountebank, that FatherRyan's tribute to the Stars-and-Bars was rank hypocrisy—that the poet-priest was the political tool of a foreignpower? Sherman died a Catholic. Fighting Phil Sheridanwas a Catholic. Old Pap Thomas, "the Rock ofChickamauga," was a Catholic. The "Bloody Sixty-ninth" NewYork was a Catholic regiment, and its heroism at theBattle of Bull Run forms one of the brightest pages in themilitary history of this nation. Strange it never occurredto those demoralized Protestant regiments which tookrefuge behind the bayonets of the Sixty-ninth that theywere throwing the Vatican between themselves and theConfederate forces!

Slattery assures us that the number of Irish Catholicson the police force of our great cities is evidence that theChurch of Rome is on mischief bent. I am not surprisedthat an Irish Catholic with a club in his hand should proverather alarming to Bro. Slattery. But, although he says,"meet a policeman and you'll see the map of Ireland inhis face," those same policemen have several times savedhis worthless bacon. When he was mobbed in St. Louisfor defaming Catholic nuns, the police formed a cordonaround his infamous carcass and saved him from a well-merited trouncing at the hands of the slandered women'srelatives. Probably the police did not relish the jobovermuch, but they had sworn to uphold the laws, and althoughSlattery insists that a Catholic oath amounts to nothing,they risked their lives in his defense.

We have many nationalities in this country, and eachof them, as every observant man well knows, manifests apredilection for some special occupation. Thus the Jewstake to trade, the Germans to agriculture, the Norwegiansto lumbering, the French to catering and the Irish topolitics. Make a Freewill Baptist or a Buddhist of anIrishman and you do not change his nature—he'll turn upat the next political convention just the same. And theman who's too good to take a hand in practical politics;who's too nice to mingle with the horny-handed at theward primaries; who's too busy to act as delegate to theconvention—who deliberately neglects his duty as anAmerican citizen—finds that Pat's activity has beenrewarded with a place on the police force, and blames it allon the Pope.

. . .

It is not my province to defend Roman Catholic theology—I suppose that Slattery said all that could be urged inits behalf before he apostatized. Perhaps the Catholicsreally believe the Pope infallible; and if they do, it iscertainly no worse than for certain Waco Protestants to believethat Slattery's infallible. I noticed that at his lecturelast week they cheered every charge he preferred againsteither the Pope or the "Apostle," and that without askingfor an iota of evidence. When I arose at the stag partywith which he wound up the intellectual debauch, andquestioned his infallibility, the good brethren cried,"Throw him out!" Why did they so unless they believedthat to question the supernal wisdom and immaculatetruth of aught a Baptist minister might say, were sacrilege—a sin against the Holy Ghost?

Here was I, their fellow citizen of Waco, I had donethem no harm; yet when a strolling vagabond, wearingGod's livery, and whose forte is the defamation of women,made a statement, which if true, would forever disgraceme in the eyes of the world; when he preferred this chargeagainst me within two blocks of where my babies lay sleeping,they wanted to mob me for branding him then andthere as an infamous liar and a cowardly blackguard.

Mark you, I'm no tramp in America. This is the houseof my fathers. They helped hew it out of the Virginiawilderness. They helped put Old Glory in the heavens,and to keep it there for more than a hundred years, stillit appears that I have no rights in this country which aforeigner with the smell of the steerage still upon him isbound to respect, if he chances to be a Baptist preacher.

Talk to me about the Church of Rome muzzling freespeech when the A.P.A. would mob an American citizenfor defending his character from the infamous falsehoodsof a foreign tramp! "Throw him out!" Why throw himout? I'll tell you: The sanctified buzzards had gone therewith appetites sharpened for a mess of carrion, and theywere afraid I'd kill their cook. "Throw him out!" But Inoticed that those who were splitting their faces as wideas Billy Kersands' were glued to their seats. They wantedsomebody else to throw him out. They were anxious to seea gang of three or four hundred sanctified hoodlumstrample upon me, but there was not one among the self-constituted protectors of this mighty American Nationwith sufficient "sand" to lead the mob. If there were nobetter Americans than those trailing in the wake of theRev. Joseph Slattery, like buzzards following a bad smell,I'd take a cornstalk, clean out the whole shooting-matchand stock the country with nigg*rs and yaller dogs. Ifsuch cattle were sired by Satan, damned by Sycorax andborn in hell they would dishonor their parents and disgracetheir country.

Slattery insists that Catholics believe thus-and-so, andthat no man with such a faith concealed about his personcan be a good American citizen. I don't know about that;but I do know that if the Catholics act in strict accordancewith their religious creed they are the only people in thiscountry that do so. I've learned that you can't judge aman by his catechism. Slattery assures us that he hasdiscarded the Pope and taken Christ for his immediate guide.The latter commands his followers to pray for those whodespitefully use them; but if Slattery did any prayingfor the "Apostle" during his sojourn in this city hemanaged to keep that fact a profound secret. Christenjoins patience and humility. He tells his followers to turnthe other cheek to the smiter; yet Slattery assured theladies Wednesday night that he was "a great believer inmuscular Christianity." Then he placed his 250 poundsof stall-fed beef in fighting attitude and declared he'd"like to have his enemies come at him one at a time"—tobe prayed for, I presume. If Christ taught "muscularChristianity" I have inadvertently overlooked a bet.Christ commands us to love our enemies, but doesn'tsuggest that we should manifest our affection by lying about'em. He rebuked those who tattled about a commoncourtesan, yet Slattery defamed decent women. No, youcan't judge a man by his creed. If the allegiance of theCatholics to the Pope is of the same character as that ofSlattery to the Lord Jesus Christ, Uncle Sam need notlie awake o' nights to worry about "Papal plots."

Had Slattery been truly a Christian, instead of black-guarding me when protected by the presence of ladies, hewould have put up a fervent prayer for my immediateconversion to the Baptist faith. But his milk of humankindness had soured—he was short on Christian charityand long on gall.

"Faith, hope and charity," says St. Paul; "and thegreatest of these is charity." And he might have addedthat it's also the scarcest. Perhaps that's what makes itso valuable—the supply is ever equal to the demand.

Speaking of charity reminds me of my experience withthe Protestant preachers of San Antonio, some of whom, Iunderstand, are aiding and abetting this A.P.A. movement,"designed to preserve the priceless liberty of freespeech." While editor of the morning paper of that cityI was in the habit of writing a short sermon for the Sundayedition, for the benefit of those who could not go tochurch, I supposed that the ministers would sanction myclerical efforts, but they didn't. They wanted noassistance in saving souls, considered that they should beaccorded a monopoly in that line and were entitled to allthe emoluments. They proceeded to thunder at me fromthe pulpit, and sometimes three or four perspiringpulpiteers were pounding away at me at the same time—andincidentally making me very popular. I dropped into aswell church one Sunday morning to get a little grace—a building that cost up in the six figures while people wereliving in $4 jackals and subsisting on 50 cents a weekwithin sound of its bells—and the minister was holding acopy of the Express aloft in one hand and a Bible in theother and demanding of his congregation: "Which willyou take—Brann or God?" Well, they seemed to thinkthat if they couldn't have both they'd best take God,though some of the sinners on the back seats were a triflesubsequent in making up their minds.

I kept hammering away—preaching to my little congregationof fifteen or twenty thousand readers every Sunday,as I now do to ten times that many a month—untilfinally the Ministerial Association met, perorated,whereased, resoluted and wound up by practically demandingof the proprietor of the Express that I be either muzzledor fired. And all this time the Catholic priests said nevera word—and San Antonio is a Catholic city. But theBaptist ministers were running a sneaking boycott! Yetthe Church of Rome is the boa-constrictor that's trying tothrottle the American right of free speech!

The Y.M.C.A. invited me to lecture on Humbugs, andthat scared the Ministerial Association nearly to death.They thought I was after 'em now sure, so they went tothe officials of the Y.M.C.A. and made them cancel thedate. And the only Protestant minster in the entire citywho did not join in this attempt to throttle free speechwas an Episcopalian—and the Episcopalians are notProtestants to hurt. Yet when these ministers, who arenow so fearful that the Church of Rome will muzzlesomebody, found that they couldn't drive me out of town;that they couldn't take the bread from the mouths of mybabes because I had dared utter my honest thoughts likea freeman; that I was to continue to edit the Expressso long as I liked, they came fawning about me like a lotof spaniels afraid of the lash! But not one of them evertried to convert me. Not one of them ever tried, by kindlyargument, to convince me that I was wrong. Not one ofthem ever invited me to church—or prayed for me, sofar as I could learn. Perhaps they thought I was pastredemption.

Slattery cautions you not to send your children toconvent schools, declaring that he "never yet saw a nun whowas an educated woman." That statement, standing alone,ought to convince every one blessed with a thinking apparatusthat Slattery's a fraud. Some of the best educatedwomen in this world have entered convents. Womenupon whose tuition fortunes have been expended are nowmaking convent schools deservedly popular with theintelligent people.

He says ignorance is the correlative of Catholicism, andpoints to Spain as proof of this startling assertion. Therewas a time when Spain stood in the very forefront ofcivilization, in the van of human progress, the arbiter ofthe world's political destiny,—and Spain was even moreCatholic then than it is to-day. Nations and civilizationshave their youth, their lusty manhood and their decay,and it were idle to attribute the decline of Spain toCatholicism as the decadence of Greece to Paganism. TheCatholic church found Spain a nation of barbarians andbrought it up to that standard of civilization where aSpanish monarch could understand the mighty plans ofColumbus. It was her Catholic Majesty, Queen Isabella,who took from her imperial bosom the jewels with whichto buy a world—who exchanged the pearls of the Orientfor the star of Empire. The Catholic church found Englanda nation of barbarians and brought it up, step bystep, until Catholic barons wrung from King John atRunnymede the Great Charter—the mother of the AmericanConstitution. It found Ireland a nation of savagesand did for it what the mighty power of the Caesars couldnot—brought it within the pale of civilization. But forthe Roman Catholic Church Slattery might be wearing abreech clout, digging roots with his finger nails and gorginghimself with raw meat in Ireland to-day instead ofinsulting the intelligence of American audiences and wringingmoney from fanatics and fools by warring upon thepolitical institutions of their fathers.

. . .

Slattery was horrified to learn that some of the nunswere inclined to talk about each other. I sincerely trustthat he will find none of the Baptist sisters addicted tothe same bad habit.

From what I could gather of his discourse,—before Iwas "put out"—and from the report of his alleged wife'slectures, I infer that this delectable twain impeach thevirtue of the Roman Catholic sisterhoods. Malice, likedeath, loves a shining mark, and there is no hate sovenomous as that of the apostate. But before giving credenceto such tales, let me ask you: Why should a womanexchange the brilliant parlor for a gloomy cell in which toplay the hypocrite? Why should a cultured woman ofgentle birth deliberately forego the joys of wife andmotherhood, the social triumph and the freedom of theworld and condemn herself to a life of labor, a drearyround of drudgery, if her heart's impure? For shame!

Who is it that visits the slums of our great citiesministering to the afflicted, comforting the dying, reclaimingthe fallen? When pestilence sweeps over the land and mothersdesert their babes and husbands their wives, who is itthat presses the cup of cold water to the feverish lipand closes the staring eyes of the deserted dead? Whowas it that went upon the Southern battle-fields to ministerto the wounded soldiers, followed them to the hospitalsand tenderly nursed them back to life? The RomanCatholic sisterhoods, God bless them!

One of those angels of mercy can walk unattended andunharmed through our "Reservation" at midnight. Shecan visit with impunity the most degraded dive in theWhite-chapel district. At her coming the ribald song isstilled and the oath dies on the lips of the loafer. Fallencreatures reverently touch the hem of her garments, andmen steeped in crime to the very lips involuntarily removetheir hats as a tribute to noble womanhood. The veryatmosphere seems to grow sweet with her coming and thehowl of hell's demons to grow silent. None so low in thebarrel-house, the gambling hell or the brothel as to breathea word against her good name; but when we turn to theBaptist pulpit there we find an inhuman monster clad inGod's livery, saying, "Unclean, unclean!" God help areligious denomination that will countenance such aninfamous cur!

As a working journalist I have visited all manner ofplaces. I have written up the foulest dives that exist onthis continent, and have seen Sisters of Charity enterthem unattended. Had one of the inmates dared insultthem he would have been torn in pieces. And I have satin the opera house of this city—boasting itself a center ofculture—and heard a so-called man of God speak flippantlyof the Catholic sisterhoods, and professing Christiansapplaud him to the echo.

Merciful God! if heaven is filled with such Christians,send me to hell, with those whose sins are human! Bettereverlasting life in a lake of fire than enforced companionshipin Paradise for one hour with the foul harpies thatgroaned "awmen" to Slattery's infamous utterances.God of Israel! to think that those unmanly scabs, thosepsalm-singing vultures are Americans and our politicalbrethren!

. . .

I know little about the private lives of the Catholicpriesthood; but this I do know: They were the first toplant the standard of Christian faith in the New World.They were the first to teach the savages something of theblessings of civilization. I do know that those of themwho were once Protestants are not making a specialty ofdefaming the faith of their fathers. I do know that neitherhardship nor danger can abate their holy zeal and thathundreds of them have freely given their lives in the serviceof the Lord. And why should a man devote his bodyto God and his soul to the devil? I do know that one ofthem has given us the grandest example of human sacrificefor others' sake that this great world affords. EvenChrist prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane, "If it bepossible, let this cup pass from me"; but Father Damienpressed a cup even more bitter to his own lips and drainedit to the dregs—died for the sake of suffering mortals adeath to which the cross were mercy.

The Protestants admit that they are responsible for theinoculation of the simple Sandwich Islanders with theleprosy; yet when those who fell victims to the foul diseasewere segregated, made prisoners upon a small islandin the mid-Pacific, not a Protestant preacher in all theearth could be found to minister to them. The Lord had"called" 'em all into his vineyard, but it appears that hedidn't call a blessed one of them to that leper colony wherepeople were rotting alive, with none to point them to thatlife beyond the grave where all the sins and corruptions ofthe flesh are purged away and the redeemed stand in robesof radiant white at the right hand of God. I blame noman for declining the sacrifice. To set foot upon thataccursed spot was to be declared unclean and thereconfined until death released you—death by leprosy, the mostappalling disease in all the dreadful catalogue of humanills, the most dreaded arrow in the quiver of the grimDestroyer. Yet Father Damien, a young Roman Catholicpriest, left home and country and all that life holds dear,and went deliberately forth to die for afflicted barbarians.There he reared an humble temple with his own hands tothe God of his fathers, there, through long years ofconfinement, he ministered to the temporal and spiritual wantsof the afflicted; there he died, as he knew he must die, withhis fingers falling from his hands, his flesh from his bones,a sight to appall the very imps of hell. No wonder theProtestant ministers held aloof. Merciful God. I'd ratherbe crucified!

We are all brave men when the war-drum throbs andthe trumpet calls us to battle beneath the eyes of the world,—when, touching elbows with our fellows and clad in allthe glorious pomp and circ*mstance of war we seek thebubble of fame e'en at the cannon's mouth. When themusic of the battery breeds murder in the blood, the electricorder goes ringing down the line, is answered by thethrilling cheer, the veriest coward drives the spur deepinto the foaming flank and plunges, like a thunderbolt,into the gaping jaws of death, into the mouth of hell; butwhen a man was wanted to go forth alone, without blareof trumpet or drum, and become a life-prisoner in a lepercolony, but one in all the world could be found equal tothat supreme test of personal heroism, and that man wasa Roman Catholic priest. And what was his reward?Hear what Thos. G. Sherman, a good Protestant, says inthe New York Post:

"Before the missionaries gained control of the islands;leprosy was unknown. But with the introduction ofstrange races, leprosy established itself and rapidlyincreased. An entire island was properly devoted to thelepers. No Protestant missionary would venture amongthem. For this I do not blame them, as, no doubt, I shouldnot have had the courage to go myself. But a nobleCatholic priest consecrated his life to the service of thelepers, lived among them, baptized them, educated them,and brought some light and happiness into their wretchedlives. Stung by the contrast of his example, the oneremaining missionary, a recognized and paid agent of theAmerican Board, spread broadcast the vilest slandersagainst Father Damien."

So it appears that the world is blessed with two Slatterys.

There are three kinds of liars at large in the land: Theharmless Munchausen who romances for amusem*nt, andwhose falsehoods do no harm; the Machiavellian liar, whosem*ndacity bears the stamp of original genius, and thestupid prevaricator, who rechews the fetid vomit of othervillains simply because he lacks a fecund brain to breedfalsehoods to which he may play the father. And Slattery'sa rank specimen of the latter class. When he attemptsto branch out for himself he invariably comes togrief. After giving a dreadful account of how Catholicspersecute those who renounce the faith, declaring that theywere a disgrace to the church while within its pale, heproduced a certificate from a Philadelphia minister to theeffect that he—the Philadelphian—had visited Slattery'sold parish in Ireland and the Catholics there declared thathe was a good and faithful priest! What Slattery seemsto lack to become a first-class fraud is continuity ofthought. He lies fluently, even entertainingly, but notconsistently.

The apostate priest would have the various Protestantdenominations throw down the bars that separate themand mark off their theological bailiwicks "with little bedsof flowers." The idea is a good one—and I can butwonder where Slattery stole it. Still I can see no cogentreason for getting all the children together in happy unionand leaving their good old mother out in the cold.

Throw down all the bars, and let every division of theGreat Army of God, whether wearing the uniform ofBuddhist or Baptist, Catholic or Campbellite, Methodistor Mohammedan, move forward, with Faith its sword,Hope its ensign and Charity its shield. Cease this foolishinternecine strife, at which angels weep, swing into line assworn allies and, at the command of the Great Captain,advance your standards on the camp of the common foe.Wage war, not upon each other, but on Poverty, Ignoranceand Crime, hell's great triumvirate, until this beautifulworld's redeemed and bound in very truth,

"With gold chains about the feet of God."

THE LOCAL OPTION LUNACY.

[Mr. Brann was billed to lecture at Hillsboro, Texas,on the eve of the local option election. The Antis tookpossession of the opera house and changed his subject.Following is a synopsis of his address.]

Ladies and Gentlemen: I came here to talk on "Gall,"and I find that I must speak on "Prohibition"—adistinction without a difference. I hold in my hand a printedchallenge from the Prohib committee to meet Hon. W. K.Homan in joint debate to-night—a challenge issued whenthey were well aware that I was to lecture here thisevening. They felt certain that I would not forego a lecturefee to mix it with them without money and without price;but they didn't know their man. I'm always willing tomake some sacrifice to secure the luxury of a red-hotintellectual scrapping match. We proposed to make it aMidshipman Easy duel, a three-cornered fight—BrothersHoman and Benson vs. the "Apostle," but they wiggled inand they wiggled out, they temporized and tergiversateduntil we saw there wasn't an ounce of fight in the wholeProhibition crew—that, after their flamboyant defi, wecouldn't pull 'em into a joint debate with a span of mulesand a log-cabin. I last saw Bro. Bill Homan at HubbardCity. He was getting out of town on the train I got in on—after promising that he would remain over and meet me.In his harangue the night before he told his auditors thatI'd simply "abuse the church and make ugly faces."Well, I didn't abuse the church on that occasion, nor uponany other, albeit I sometimes make it a trifle uncomfortablefor some of its unworthy representatives. I cannothelp "making ugly faces." It's my misfortune, notmy fault. I was born good and Bro. Bill was born beautiful.He's the Adonis of the rostrum, the Apollo Belvidereof the bema. He's so dodgasted "purty" that the childrencry for him. Had he come to earth two thousand yearsago some Grecian goddess would have stolen him. Bro.Bill couldn't make an ugly face if he tried. If he evercatches sight of his own personal pulchritude as reflectedin some translucent lake, I much fear that he'll meet withthe fate of Narcissus. Some of you Prohibs don't knowwho Narcissus was. Well, he was one of those fellowswhom cold water killed.

I'm no professional anti-Prohibition spouter, and havebeen jumped up here without preparation; but it occursto me that it requires no careful rehearsal of set orationsbefore an amorous looking glass, no studied interminglingof pathos, bathos and blue fire to demolish the Prohibitionfallacy. Liberty is ever won by volunteers; the shacklesof political and religious slavery are forged by the handsof hirelings. Prohibition cannot withstand the light oflogic, the lessons of experience, nor the crucible of thecommonest kind of common sense.

Milton tells us that the angel Ithuriel found the devil"squat like a toad," distilling poison in the ear of sleepingEve; that he touched the varmint with his spear, andforthwith Satan resumed his proper shape and fled shriekingout of Paradise. Prohibition is another evil spirit thatis breeding trouble in man's Eden; but when touched bythe spear-point of legitimate criticism its disguise fallsaway, and we see, instead of a harmless toad, a maliciousMeddlesome Mattie stirring up strife and bitterness amongbrethren.

Whenever a man opposes the plans of the Prohibs he isforthwith denounced as an enemy of morality, a slave ofthe saloons, a hireling of the Anheuser-Busch BrewingAssociation. Well, I had rather be the emissary of thesaloons than the assassin of liberty, the slave of a brewerthan the blind peon of ignorant prejudice, while if moralityconsists in attending to my neighbor's business to the neglectof my own, then I'm ferninst it, first, last and all thetime. As a good German friend of mine once remarked:"Dot beoples who lives py stones of mine shouldn't trowsome glass houses, haind id?" Who is making money outof this agitation? The Professional Prohibs. Did youever know of one of these gentry making a Prohibitionspeech except for filthy lucre—unless he was electioneeringfor office or taking subscribers for a cold-waterjournal? They are the cattle who are OUT FOR THE STUFF;they are the mercenaries—the men who pump foul airthrough their faces for a fee. Did you ever hear of aman getting paid for defending the doctrine of personalliberty? Did you ever see a collection taken up at ananti-prohibition meeting to pay some important spouterfor pointing out to the people their political duty? (Avoice: "Nix.") And you never will. These prohibitionorators have the impudence to denounce me as "the peonof the rum power" while I am fighting the battles ofpersonal liberty at my own cost, yet not a dad-burned one of'em will open his head unless paid for his wind-power!They are "reformers" for revenue only.

I have noticed that, as a rule, men who speak againstProhibition have never been in the gutter, while those whopick up a precarious livelihood by chasing the "Rum Demon"around a stump have usually been his very humbleslaves. I have noticed that the men who oppose Prohibitionare usually the solid, well-to-do men of the community,the heavy tax-payers the men upon whom the schools, thechurches and the state chiefly depend for support, whilethose who champion it on the rostrum are usually livingin some way upon the industry of others. The man whohas brains enough to make money and keep it usually hastoo much sense to be a Prohibitionist. It is the fellowswho have made a failure of life; who live on donations;who weep over the world's wickedness, then take up acollection to enable them to get to the next town; who haven'tsufficient moral stamina to stay sober, that are prating ofProhibition. If we required a property franchise youcouldn't muster five thousand Prohibition votes betweenthe Sabine and the Rio Grande.

And yet we are told that licensing the saloons is a badbusiness investment; that it costs more than it comes to;that the way to abolish poverty is to abrogate the liquorlicense law. Strange that the Prohibs should possess suchtranscendent business heads and such empty stomachs!Doubtless the drinking of liquor adds to the cost of ourjudiciary; doubtless it is responsible for some crime; butthe question at issue is not one of liquor-drinking vs.teetotalism—it is a question of drinking licensed liquoror Prohibition aquafortis. It is not a question of reducingthe cost of our courts, but of making liquor bear its dueproportion of the burdens it foists upon the people.

I am neither the friend nor enemy of liquor, any morethan I am the enemy or friend of buttermilk. I have drunkboth a third of a century and have been unable to see thatthey did me any especial good or harm. I was neverbefuddled on the one nor foundered on the other, and havemanaged to get along very well with both. Whether ineating or drinking, a man should keep his brains abovehis belt, and if he cannot do that he's a precious poorexcuse for an uncrowned King, an American Sovereign.

The statistics furnished by the Prohibition orators arefearfully and wonderfully made. It has been asserted inthis campaign that a million Americans die every yearof the world from the effects of strong drink—and all thisgreat army goes direct to hell. The man who made thatstatement is a preacher, and presumably familiar with theBible; but he has evidently overlooked the story ofAnanias and Saphira. I learn from the United States censusreport, which I hold in my hand, that in the very year inwhich this Prohibition apostle claims a million Americanswere slain by strong drink, the statistical experts couldfind but 1,592 victims of John Barleycorn. The doctorshave ever claimed that more people die of over-eating thanof over-drinking, and the census report bears out theassertion, for in the year in which 1,592 people were filedaway by "alcoholism," 30,094 deaths are accredited to"diseases of the digestive organs." What causes indigestion?Over-eating, or eating food difficult of digestion.Now I submit that if Brothers Benson, Homan, et al, aretrying to save the people of this land from prematuregraves and bear the stock of the coffin trust, they shoulddirect their crusade against indigestible food,—reduce thepeople of this Nation by means of statutory law to a dietof cornbread and buttermilk. Let them bring all theirballistae and battering-rams to bear upon the toothsomemince pie, the railway sandwich, the hard-boiled egg andpickled pigs' feet—that pestilence that walks in darkness.Indigestion is indeed a fruitful source of crime. It caststhe black shadow of chronic pessimism athwart the sunniestsoul and transforms happy homes into dens of despair.It makes men irritable, morose, and prompts them tohomicide. Who can tell how much misery and crime thewretched cookery of female Prohibitionists is responsiblefor? How the cost of our criminal courts might be reducedif these she-reformers would but attend to theirkitchens and dish up for their lords and masters grubthat would more easily assimilate with the gastric juices!If a man be fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils whenloaded with a half a pint of red licker, what must be thecondition of his mind and morals when he's full of soddenpie, half baked beans and soda-biscuits that if fired froma cannon would kill a bull?

The theory that strong drink is an unmixed evil thatmust be abolished, is not in accord with the genius of thisgovernment, which would give to the individual untrammeledliberty in matters concerning only himself. Experiencehas proven Prohibition a rank failure and thecustoms of mankind from the very dawn of history brandit a rotten fraud. The people of every age and climehave used stimulants, and we may safely conclude that,despite the Prohibs, they will be employed so long as manexists upon the earth. Banish liquor and man will find asubstitute even though it be opium, morphine or cocaine.It is said that Thor, the great northern god of war, oncetried to lift what he supposed was an old woman, butfound to his sorrow that it was a mighty serpent which,in Norse mythology, encircles the world. The Prohibsare warring upon what they foolishly imagine to befrivolous habit of man, but will yet learn that they arerunning counter to an immutable decree of God—aretrying to alter the physical constitution of the human raceby means of local option elections.

So far as I am personally concerned, I would care butlittle if every ounce of liquor was banished from the earthand its method of manufacture forever be forgotten; but Iobject to having a lot of he-virgins and female wall-flowerssit at my muzzle and dictate how I shall load myself. IfI'm an American sovereign I propose to be supreme autocratof my own stomach. When I want advice regardingwhat I shall eat and what I shall drink I'll consult adoctor of medicine instead of a doctor of divinity.

I do not oppose Prohibition because I am the friendof liquor, but because I am the friend of liberty. I wouldrather see a few boozers than a race of bondmen. I amnot interested in preserving the liquor traffic, but I aminterested in the perpetuation of those principles thatennoble a people and make manly men—men who rely uponthemselves for their social salvation rather than upon apublic policy which may change with the phases of themoon or the arrival of some new demagogue from distantparts. I have but little use for men who must swing to theapron-strings of a public grand-dame or go to the dogs.Let us reserve the nursery for children. Men whom wecannot trust with the guardianship of their own appetitesshould not be allowed to run at large. How would youyoung ladies like to marry "American Sovereigns" whomust be tied up, like a lot of mangy cayuses when whiteclover is in blossom to keep 'em from catching the"slobbers"?

But, the Prohibs inform us, the brightest men of theworld are ruined by strong drink. They assure us that"it is not a question of intellect, but of appetite." Whatwas judgment given us for if not to control our appetites?If Appetite be paramount to judgment why do we hangrape-fiends? Let me tell you the idea that the brainiestmen of the world die drunkards is the merest moonshine.If only men of genius drank liquor a one-horse still wouldsupply the demand and be idle six months in the year.Take the thousand greatest men the world has produced—the Thousand Immortelles—and not 2 per cent. of themdied drunkards, yet 98 per cent. of them drank liquor. Ifthe Prohibs have ever produced an intellect of the firstclass they must have hidden it under a bushel. Itspossessor is probably one of those village Hampdens or muteinglorious Miltons of whom the poet sings. The Prohibsdon't run to great men—they run to gab.

Stripped of all its superfluous trappings, the thesis ofProhibition is simply this: "Some men drink to excess;therefore no one should be permitted to drink at all. Thehuman race must reserve its inherent tastes and time-honoredhabits lest some wild-eyed jay get on a jag." Thequestion at issue, the riddle for us to unravel, is simplythis: Can we afford to sacrifice human liberty to save thesots? Is the game worth the candle, and if we burn thecandle will we win the game?

The Pros assure you that Prohibition prohibits. Itdoes. It prohibits the sale of liquor and supplies its placewith coffin paint. It prohibits the sale of good, ice coldbeer and gives us forty-rod bugjuice. Theories arenot worth a continental when slammed up against conditions.What I hear I take with a grain of salt; but whatI see that I do know. I tell you candidly that next to apretty woman I love a co*cktail. If the liquor is good andthe barkeeper understands his business, I consider it athing to thank God for—occasionally. Like religion, alittle of it is an excellent thing, but an overdose will putwheels in your head. I have never yet been in a Prohibitionprecinct where I needed to go thirsty if I had theprice of a pint flask concealed about my person—and mystomach could stand the poison.

When high license prevailed in Hillsboro you had adozen saloons, each contributing to the revenues of thestate, the country, the municipality and the school fund.You voted local option in, and now you've thirty-twounlicensed and unregulated doggeries selling rot-gut toschoolboys and contributing not one cent to the publicrevenues. The cost of your courts has increased,drunkenness was never so common, brawls never so frequent.It is said that even fools can learn in the bitter school ofexperience; but there be idiots upon whom even such lessonsare lost. But you say, "Vote local option in againand we'll elect officers who will enforce the laws." Haveyou yet to learn that a law cannot be enforced that is notsteadily upheld by public opinion? And do you not knowthat there's not a considerable town in Texas where publicopinion demands at all times a strict enforcement of sucha law? If you really desire to have a sober city, raisea purse and hire the operators of your blind tigers to placetheir booze on the sidewalk in buckets, accompanied bytin dippers and signs, "Help yourself—funerals furnishedfree." Men would then run away from the very smell ofthe stuff who now sneak up dirty alleys and pay 15 centsfor the privilege of poisoning themselves. On the sameprinciple some men—and they are not all anti-Prohibseither—will leave a beautiful and charming wife to mopeat home while they are flirting with some female whoseface would frighten a freight-train. Man is just like adog—only more so. Perhaps a marauding old muley cowwould be a better comparison. A muley cow will eatanything on this majestic earth that she can steal, from ahickory shirt to a Prohibition newspaper, and if she can'tget it through her neck she will chew it and suck the juice.That's human nature to a hair. Man values most what ishardest to get. And until you reverse the law of naturethe legitimate effect of Prohibition will be blind tigers andback-door sneaks, the breeding of spies and the sale andconsumption of an infinitely meaner brand of booze.

That liquor has done a vast amount of damage I freelyconcede; but shall we banish everything that has added tothe mighty tide of human ills? Then what have we left?A hole in the atmosphere, God has not bequeathed to manan unmixed blessing since he expelled him from Paradise.Even woman, his last, best gift, hath grievous faults. Thevery first one brought into this world, according to Paganlegend and Holy Writ, was the author of all our ills. Butfor her we would be to-day in a blessed state of innocence,where mothers-in-law and millinery bills, political issuesand itinerant preachers, mental freaks and professionalreformers, jim-jams and jag cure joints disturb us not.Instead of all this toil and trouble we would lie like godsreclining on banks of asphodel, pull the heavenly bell-cordwhen hungry and live on from age to age, ever youngApollos. Perhaps the Almighty made a mistake when hegave to man a wife, and another when he gave him thevine; but when he corrects 'em I'll crawl off the earth.

Woman has filled the world with war's alarms, and thebacchic revel has ended in the brawl. Troy flamed becausem*nelaus' wife was false, and Philip's all-conqueringson surrendered to the brimming bowl. Ever is our dearestjoy wedded to our direst woe. The same air that comesstealing round our pillow, laden with the sensuous perfumeof a thousand flowers, rips our towns to pieces andturns our artesian wells inside out. The same rains thatfructify the earth pour the destructive flood. The sameintellectual power that bends nature's mighty forces toman's imperial will, enables him to trample upon hisbrethren. The same reckless courage that breaks thetyrant's chain ofttimes stains the hand with a brother'sblood. The same longing for woman's sweet companionshipthat leads these to rear happy homes—sacred shrinesfrom which incense mounts night and day to the throneof Omnipotent God—goads those to lawless love. Theempurpled juice that warms the cold heart and stirs thesluggish blood that gives to the orator lips of gold, to thepoet promethean fire abused doth breed the hasty quarreland make the god a beast.

It was said of old that a middle course is safest andbest, and the axiom still holds good. All the Utopias thusfar inaugurated were greased at the wrong end. Thefact that since the dawn of history—aye, so far back thatlegend itself is lost in the shadows of the centuries—thewinecup has circulated about the social board, proves thatit supplies a definite, an inherent human want—that it fillsa niche in the world's economy. One of the first acts ofa people after passing the pale of savagery is to supplyitself with stimulants. Why this is so, I do not pretendto know; but so it is, and it argues that the Prohibitionapostles have tackled about as big a contract as did DamePartington—that they had best "pluck a few feathersfrom the wing of their fancy wherewith to supply the tailof their judgment."

The Prohibs declare that 999 out of every 1,000 crimesare caused by liquor. Suppose this to be true: Does ittake the cussedness out of liquor to drive it from the frontroom into the back alley? Is it not a fact that the worstbrand of "fighting booze" is dispensed at the illicitdoggery? But the Prohibs are as badly at sea anent theircriminal statistics as in the mortuary report. Comparativelyfew of the great criminals of this country everdrank liquor to excess. But a small per cent. of those inour penitentiaries were confirmed drunkards when accordedthe hospitality of the state. When a man is convictedof crime he naturally seeks a scapegoat. Adamthrew all the blame of that apple episode on Eve, simplybecause liquor had not then been invented and he couldnot plead an Edenic jag in extenuation. I was once interviewinga man who had just been sentenced to the penitentiaryfor horse-theft. I thought that perhaps a co*cktailwould cause him to talk freer, and had one smuggledto his cell. He declined it, saying that he had never takenbut one drink of liquor in his life, and that made him sick.

"But," said I, "you told the court that you were crazydrunk when you committed the crime."

"Yes," he replied, "I'd rather be thought a drunkardthan a natural born d——d thief."

That led me to investigate. I interviewed the recorderof Galveston, the chief of police, the sheriff of the county,the district attorney and several other officials. We wentover the records, and the habits of each offender werecarefully inquired into. As a matter of course the"drunks and disorderlies" made an imposing list; but wewere unable to trace the influence of liquor in more than3 per cent. of the serious crimes committed in Galvestoncity and county during five years.

The great cry of the Prohibs is, "Save the boys; removetemptation from their path." Well, that's all right,if you've got a putty boy; but if I had a boy who wantedto go on a whizz and wasn't smart enough to find themeans despite all the Prohibs in Christendom, I'd sendhim to the insane asylum. I was reading the other day ofsome college youths who were watched so closely thatthey couldn't obtain liquor, and proceeded to fill up onilluminating gas. If the supply of gas holds out thoseyoungsters are likely to develop into great Prohibitionorators. If you want to keep your boy from filling adrunkard's grave, begin by getting a sure-enough boy—one whose brain-pan lies above instead of below his ears.Then raise him right. Don't tell him that every man whosells liquor is an emissary of hell, and that every man whodrinks it is a worthless sot. If you do, he'll soon find outthat you are a liar without sufficient intelligence to builda dangerous falsehood, and he'll take off the muzzle. Tellhim the truth and thereby retain his confidence. Tell himthat liquor is a pretty good thing to let alone, but thatmillions of better men than his daddy have drank it andlived and died sober and useful citizens.

Prohibition was first tried in the Garden of Eden. Itproved a failure there, and it has proven a failure eversince. It is not in accord with the Christian Bible, thefundamental law of the land or the lessons of history.Wine has been used in almost every religious rite exceptMohammedanism and devil worship. St. Paul recommendsit, Christ made and used it and God saved Noahwhile letting all the good Prohibitionists drown. TheSaviour came eating and drinking. Abraham Lincolndeclared Prohibition "a species of intemperance withinitself" and "a blow at the very principles on which ourgovernment was founded." General Grant, ThomasJefferson, Horatio Seymour and John Quincy Adamsdenounced it in unmeasured terms. Who's taking issue withthese giants of the intellect? Redlicker Benson of Ingeanny,who has come all the way to Texas to tell us barbarianswhat to do to be saved—and incidentally pick upenough money to pay for another "jag"; WhoopeeKalamity Homan, the pretty man of Dallas, whose chiefargument is that I abuse the churches—which is aninfernal falsehood; and Jehovah Boanerges Cranfill, anex-bum who aspires to the presidency of the United States,but couldn't be elected pound-master in his own precinct.

I have been asked why, if as much liquor is sold underProhibition as under high license, the saloonists insistupon contributing to the public revenues. The answer'sdead easy. The men who engineer blind tigers vote theProhibition ticket. They contribute to the campaignfund. They help pay the fees of the cold water spoutersand sputers. More liquor is sold under local option thanunder high license, because of man's natural hankering forforbidden fruits; but it is sold by a different class of menand is a different kind of booze. It is sold by chronic law-breakers, by men who have little to lose, by toughs forwhom the bat-cage hath no terrors. The man who is capable ofstraddling an unlicensed keg of bug-juice in a back-room andladling out liquid hell to little boys, is quite naturally infavor of Prohibition. A man of respectability, and who isfinancially responsible for offenses, desires to keep within thelimits of the law. That's the reason that respectable saloon menare the enemies of Prohibition.

Legalize the sale of liquor and you will have somecrime, no doubt. You will have paupers and criminals toprovide for, but you'll have a revenue to help bear theburdens. Prohibit it and you'll have the burdens withoutthe revenue. Permit its sale and you will have law-abidingcitizens engaged in the traffic, men who will try tomake it decent, who will take a pride in the purity of theirwares and the orderliness of their places; prohibit it, andyou will have a lot of law-breakers on the one hand sellingslumgullion made of cheap chemicals and general cussedness,and a gang of spies and informers on the other stirringup strife and entailing costly litigation.

When driven to the wall; when it is clearly demonstratedthat their doctrine does not accord with the geniusof this government; when it is amply proven that wherevertried it has proven an expensive failure, an arrantfraud, the Prohibs fall back upon the Bible. You mayprove five hundred different religious dogmas by the Bible,but Prohibition is not one of them. Bro. Homan declaresthat the Old Testament prohibits the drinking of wine.It does not; but it does not make circumcision obligatory,and a sin of omission is as bad as a sin of commission. IfBro. Homan proposes to be guided by the Old Testament Ibeg to suggest that he is overlooking a very important bit.The Old Testament commands no class of people toabstain from wine, except the Jewish priesthood, andthey ONLY WHILE PERFORMING THEIR SACRED OFFICES. An angelof the Lord did command the barren Manoah to stay soberawhile and she should conceive and bear a son; and Iimagine that something equally as miraculous might happento Luther Benson under similar circ*mstances.David recounts as one of God's mercies that he givethwater to the wild ass and wine to make glad the heart ofman. Solomon sings to the wine cup with all the ardorof Anacreon, while the prophets kept the morals of Israeltoned up by threats that a lapse from virtue would provedisastrous to the vineyards. St. Paul advised bishops andold women to take but little wine. He also suggested tothe first that they should not fly into a passion, and to thelatter that spreading false reports about their neighborswas not considered good form. The Prohibs, as a lastresort, insist that the wine of Biblical days was verydifferent from our own—a kind of circus lemonade; but itseems to have gotten in its graft on old Noah in mostelegant shape. If the wine of Biblical times was so harmlesswhy did the sacred writers consider it necessary to cautionpeople against drunkenness, bid them be temperate in allthings—while avoiding teetotalism? The only beverageI can find mentioned in the Bible that affected a man like aProhibition drink, was that given Col. Lot in the cave byhis two daughters. It accomplished what medical menassure me was a miracle—and the Prohibs run largely tothe miraculous.

* * *OLD GLORY.

(Address at San Antonio, July 4, 1893.)

FELLOW CITIZENS—I have done pretty much everythingthat a man may do and dodge the penitentiary, except runfor office and make Fourth of July speeches. Eulogizingthe Goddess of Liberty were much like adding splendor tothe sunrise or fragrance to the breath of morn. She needsno encomiast, star-crowned she stands, the glory ofAmerica, the admiration of the world.

I shall make a bid for your gratitude by being brief. InJuly weather the song of an electric fan and the small voiceof the soda fount were more grateful to the soul than thegrandest eloquence that ever burned on a Grady's lips ofgold. It is customary, I believe on July 4th, to "make theeagle scream,"—to fight o'er again all the gory battles ofthe Republic, from Lexington's defeat to the glorious victoryof the last election; but I am no Gov. Waite, andblood to horses' bridles delights me not. I would ratherat any time talk of love's encounters than of war's alarums—rather bask in the smiles of beauty than mount barbedsteeds to fright the souls of fearful adversaries. I haveever had a sneaking respect for Grover Cleveland forsending a substitute to remonstrate with the SouthernConfederacy while he played progressive euchre with thepretty girls. His patriotism may not have soared abovepar, but there were no picnic ants on his judgment. Muchas I love my country, I would rather be a living presidentthan a dead hero.

I address you as "fellow Americans," for in this landno man of Celtic or of Saxon blood can be an alien.Whether he was born on the banks of the blue Danube orby Killarney's lovely lakes, 'mid Scotia's rugged hills oron the sunny vales of France, he is bound to us with tiesof blood; he hath a claim upon our country, countersignedby those brave souls who, in the western wilds, gave toLiberty a habitation and a name—who declared thatColumbia should ever be the refuge of the world'soppressed,—that all men, in whatever country born, shouldbe equal before the law wherever falls the shadow of ourflag. There has of late arisen a strange new doctrine thatwe should close our ports against the peoples of otherlands, however worthy they may be; but I say unto youthat such a policy were to betray a sacred trust confidedto us by our fathers,—that every honest man beneathhigh heaven, every worshipper at Liberty's dear shrinehath an inheritance here, and when, with uplifted hand hepledges his life, his fortune and his sacred honor to thedefense of freedom's flag he becomes as much an Americanas though to the manner born.

On occasions such as this we of America are apt toglorify ourselves too much,—to overlook the origin ofthose elements that made us great. When exulting overour victories in war and our still more glorious triumphsin peace, our progress and our prosperity, we should notforget that had there been no Europe there would be nogreat American nation; that all the courage that beatsin the blood of Columbia's imperial sons, and all thewondrous beauty with which her daughters are dowered;that all the tireless energy of which she proudly boasts,and all the genius that gilds her name with glory werenurtured for a thousand years at white bosoms beyond theocean's brine.

The American nation is the fair flower of Europeancivilization, the petted child of the world's old age.Princes may be jealous of her progress and tyrants readin her rise their own downfall; but the great heart of thepeople of every land and clime is hers; to her they turntheir faces as the helianthus to the rising sun,—she istheir beacon light, their star of hope, guiding them to theglories of a grander day.

It is natural, it is right that on the nation's natal daywe should felicitate ourselves on the sacred privileges weenjoy—should pay the tribute of our respect to thosewhose courage crowned us with sovereignty and made usmasters of our fate; but we should not, as too oftenhappens, make it the occasion for senseless bravado andfoolish bluster. We should rather employ it to promotegood will among the nations of the earth, to link togetherin a kindlier brotherhood the various families of the greatCaucasian race, to beat the barbarous sword into peacefulplowshares and forever banish strife.

I sometimes dream that God has, in his mercy, raisedthis nation up unto the world's salvation,—the immediateinstrument of His grace to usher in that age of gold,

"When the war-drum throbs no longer and the battle-flags are
furled,
In the parliament of man, the federation of the world."

I delight to trace in the rise and fall of nations the fingerof God, and strive to read the Almighty's plan in thehistoric page. In the farthest east appeared the firstfaint light of civilization's dawn, and westward ever sincethe star of empire hath ta'en its way, while each succeedingnation that rose in its luminous paths like flowers inthe footsteps of our dear Lord, has reached a higher planeand wrought out a grander destiny. The cycle is complete—the star now blazes in the world's extreme westand by the law of progress which has preserved for fortycenturies, here if anywhere, must we look for that millennialdawn of which poets have fondly dreamed and forwhich philanthropists have prayed.

The awful responsibility of leadership rests upon us.We have shattered the scepter of the tyrant and brokenthe shackles of the slave; we have torn the diadem from theprince's brow and placed the fasces of authority in thehands of the people; we have undertaken to lead the humanrace from the Slough of Despond to the Delectable Mountains,where Justice reigns supreme and every son ofAdam may find life worth living. Can we make good ourglorious promises? Are we equal to the task to which wehave given our hand? Ten thousand times the world hasasked this question, but there is neither Dodona Oak norDelphic Oracle to make reply—the future alone cananswer. All eyes are upon us, in hope or fear, in prayeror protest. The fierce light that beats upon a throne wereas the firefly's dull flame to the lightning's flash comparedwith that which illumes the every act of this champion ofhuman progress, this knight par excellence, this Mosesof the nations.

It is an important role which God hath assigned to usin the great drama of life, yet into a part so pregnantwith fate we too often inject the levity of the farce.While preaching equal rights to all and special privilegesto none, we pass laws that divide the people of this landinto princes and paupers, into masters and slaves. OnJuly 4th we shout for the old flag, and all the rest of theyear we clamor for an appropriation. While boastingthat we are sovereigns by right divine and equal untokings, we hasten to lay our hair beneath the feet of everyscorbutic dude who hither drifts,

"Stuck o'er with titles and hung around with strings."

The soldier who serves the state demands a pension, andevery burning patriot wants an office. We boast that thepeople rule, and office-holders are but public servants; yetmore than a moiety of us would hang our crowns on ahickory limb and swim a river to break into official bondage.Here in Texas seven distinguished citizens are alreadychasing the governorship like a pack of hungrywolves after a wounded fawn, while the woods are full ofbrunette equines who have taken for their motto,

"They also serve who only stand and wait."

Yes, our office-holders are indeed our public servants—and my experience with servants has been that they usuallyrun the whole shebang.

Theoretically we have the best government on the globe,but it is so brutally mismanaged by our blessed publicservants that it produces the same evil conditions thathave damned the worst. Even Americans whose forefathersdined on faith at Valley Forge, or fought atLundy's Lane, have become so discouraged by politicalbossism, so heartsick with hope deferred that they quoteapprovingly those lines of Pope,

"For forms government let fools contest,
Whate'er is best administered is best."

While boasting of popular government, we sufferourselves to be led about by self-seeking politicians like ablind man by a scurvy poodle; we made partisanshipparamount to patriotism—have reserved the poet's line,and now

"All are for a party and none are for the state."

It were well for us to make July 4th less an occasionfor self-glorification than for prayerful consideration ofthe dangers upon which we are drifting in these pipingtimes of peace—dangers that arise, not in foreign courtsand camps, but are conceived in sin by the Americanplutocracy and brought forth in iniquity by our own politicalbosses. We have no longer aught to fear from the outsideworld. Uncle Sam can, if need be, marshal forth tobattle eight million as intrepid sons as those who crownedold Bunker Hill with flame or bathed the crests ofGettysburg with blood. Upon such a wall of oak and ironthe powers of the majestic world would beat in vain. Ouraltars and our fanes are far beyond the reach of a foreignfoe; but the rock that recks not the thunderbolt nor bowsto the fierce simoon, is swept from its base by theunconsidered brook.

No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach; nocountry can be secure, I care not if Moses makes itsconstitution and Solon frame its laws, when half its peopleare homeless and brawny giants must beg their bread. Asfar back as history's dawn the rise of the plutocracy andthe impoverishment of the common people have heraldedthe downfall of the state. Thus fell imperial Rome, thatonce did rule the world, and Need and Greed are theballistae and battering-rams that are pounding to-day withtremendous power upon every throne of Europe and rockingthe very civilization of the world from turret tofoundation stone.

We have achieved liberty, but have yet to learn in thisstrange new land the true significance of life. We havemade the dollar the god of our idolatry, the Alpha andOmega of our existence, and bow the knee to it with aservility as abject as that of courtiers kissing the hand ofKings. As the old pagans sometimes incorporated theirlesser in their greater deities that they might worship allat once, so have we put the Goddess of Liberty and SavingGrace on the silver dollar that we may not forget them.

But before God, I do believe that this selfish, thisMammon-serving and unpatriotic age will pass, as passed theage of brutish ignorance, as passed the age of tyranny. Ibelieve the day will come—oh blessed dawn!—when we'llno longer place the badge of party servitude above thecrown of American sovereignty, the ridiculous oriflammeof foolish division above Old Glory's star-gemmed promiseof everlasting unity; when Americans will be in spirit andin truth a band of brothers, the wrongs of one theconcern of all; when brains and patriotism will takeprecedence of boodle and partisanship in our national politics;when labor will no longer fear the cormorant nor capitalthe commune; when every worthy and industrious citizenmay spend his declining days, not in some charity ward,but in the grateful shadow of his own vine and fig-tree,the loving lord of a little world hemmed in by the sacredcircle of a home. There was a time, we're told, when to bea Roman was greater than to be a King; yet there camea time when to be a Roman was to be the vassal of a slave.Change is the order of the universe and nothing stands.We must go forward or we must go backward—we mustpress on to grander heights, to greater glories, or see thelaurels already won turn to ashes on our brow. We maysometimes slip; shadows may obscure our path; the bouldersmay bruise our feet; there may be months of mourningand days of agony; but however dark the night, Hope,a poising eagle, will ever burn above the unrisen morrow.Trials we may have and tribulations sore; but I say untoyou, oh brothers mine, that while God reigns and thehuman race endures, this nation, born of our father's bloodand sanctified by our mother's tears, shall never pass away.

* * *THE LONE STAR.

These balmy days, I often recall my ideas of Texas beforeI had the pleasure of mingling with its people,—of becomingmyself a Texan. I regret to say that I had acceptedPhil Sheridan's estimate of the State—an opinion thatstill prevails in too many portions of our common country.After living in Texas for ten years I paid a visit to mypeople beyond the beautiful Ohio. The old gentlemen sizedme up critically, evidently expecting to see me wearingwar-paint and a brace of bowie-knives.

"So, young man, you're living in Texas?"

"Yes, paw."

"Fell kinder t'hum 'mong them centerpedes, cowboys 'nother varments, I s'pose?"

"Y-y-yes, paw."

"Well, Billy, you allers was a mighty bad boy. I kindercackalated as how you'd go t'hell some day; but, praiseGod, I never thought y' was bound fer Texas!"

I assured him that were I certain hell were half as goodas Texas, I wouldn't worry so much about my friends whowere in politics for their health.

Texas could well afford to spend a million dollars ayear for a decade to disabuse the minds of the Northernpeople—to work it through their hair that the southwestproduces something besides hades and hoodlums, jack-rabbits and jays. Were it generally known exactly whatTexas is,—what her people, climate and resources—thereare not railroads enough running into the state to handlethe men and money that would seek homes and investmentshere. The year 1900 would see ten million prosperouspeople between the Sabine and Rio Grande; and it wouldbe a people to be proud of,—the young blood of America,the cream of Christendom, the brain and brawn of theWestern World.

The light of the Lone Star cannot be much longerhidden; it is breaking even now upon the earth. Trueknowledge of Texas is spreading,—spreading over the icyNorth, spreading over the barren East, spreading overcrowded Europe—and knowledge of Texas is power untoher salvation.

I was north last summer, and talked Texas, of course.One day a long, lank, lingering eternity of a gawk sidledup to me, as though he feared I was loaded, and said:

"Great state, that Texas, I 'spose?"

"Rather."

"Purty big, I heer'n tell?"

"Look at the map."

"Gewhillikins, Maria! 'Tis purty dogon gosh-all-firedbig, haint she?"

"That's whatever."

" 'Spose you're a gineral, or a corporal, or suthinnuther when you're t'hum?"

"Nop."

"N-no? Jedge, p'haps?"

"No, sir; I am simply a plain, every-day citizen ofTexas,—not even a member of the legislature or candidatefor congress."

"Hump! Say, Maria, I kinder thought as how thatslab-sided galoot was a lyin' when he said he was frumTexas."

He could not conceive of a Texan without a title. ButTexas will come out all right. I have faith in her future,for many reasons; but chiefly because she has unboundedconfidence in herself—because nowhere will you find suchlocal patriotism, such state pride, such love of home asbeneath the Lone Star. There are rivalries, but they arenot born of bitterness. A Texas is all for Texas.

Within the memory of living men, Oppression's fangswounded Freedom's snowy breast, and from the ruddydrops Almighty God did make a star, the brightest thatever blessed the world; but ever have the clouds ofcalumny and the mists of malice obscured its matchlessbeauty. Slowly but surely the rank vapors are rolling by,and brighter and ever brighter blazes our astral emblem—born in the field of battle, its lullaby the cannon'sthunder, its cradle the hearts of the brave, its nursenecessity, its baptismal rite a rain of blood and tears. May itforever be another beacon of Bethlehem to guide us on to agrander future—a harbinger of hope and happiness, anemblem of love and liberty, and in its deathless splendor goever shining on.

* * *SLAVE OR SOVEREIGN.

STATUS OF THE AMERICAN CITIZEN.

[Synopsis of an address delivered by Mr. Brann,
August 10, 1895.]

FELLOW CITIZENS: If I had a million o' money—carefullyprotected from the income tax by a plutocratic supremecourt—I would probably not be here to inquire whetheryou are Slaves or Sovereigns. And if you could draw yourcheck for seven figures—with any probability of getting itcashed—you would not be here to answer. You'd do justas Dives did: lean back in your luxurious chair and absorbyour sangaree, while Lazarus scratched his Populist fleason your front steps and exploited your garbage barrels forbones. You'd turn up your patrician nose at the lowlyproletaire, and if he did but hint that, having created thisworld's wealth, he was entitled to something better thanhand-outs, you'd have an anti-communistic cat-fit anddenounce him as an insolent hoodlum who should becomfortably hanged. That's human nature to a hair, and youare all human,—I suppose—even if the politicians do buyyou with gas and sell you for gold.

I tell you frankly that I'm complaining, not because ofthe other fellow's colossal fortune, but because I can'tstrike the plutocratic combination. I'm dreadfully anxiousto accumulate a modest fortune—of about fifty millions—that I may build a comfortable orphan asylum for thatvast contingent of Democratic politicians whom the nextelection will deprive of their "pap."

I'm no philanthropist who's trying to reform the worldfor the fun of the thing—who's willing to starve to deathfor the sake of an attractive tombstone. I want to soamend industrial conditions that I won't have to hustle sohard—and so long—between meals; and when they arebettered for me they will be bettered for you, and forevery man who—with pick or pen, brain or brawn—honestly earns his daily bread.

I want more holidays; more time to sit down and reflectthat it is good to be alive; more time to go fishing—notfishing for men, but for sure—enough suckers. Here inAmerica if the average mortal aspires to fill a long-feltwant with first-class fodder, he's got to chase the almightydollar on week-days like a hungry coyote camping on thetrail of a corpulent jack-rabbit, and spend Sunday figuringhow to circumvent his fellow-citizen. Life with theAmerican people is one continental hurry, and rush fromthe cradle to the grave. We're born in a hurry, live byelectricity and die with scientific expedition. Half of us don'ttake time to become acquainted with our own families.We've even got to courting by telephone, and I expect tosee some enterprising firm put up lover's kisses in tabletform, so that they can be carried in the vest pocket andabsorbed while we figure cent per cent. or make out amortgage.

. . .

For a score of years I had been listening to the boastof the American people that they were Sovereigns by rightdivine, and at last it occurred to me to swear out a searchwarrant for my crown and go on a still-hunt for myscepter; but soon found that the jewels of my throne-room,the rod of my authority and my purple robe of officewere conspicuous by their absence and I wasn't married atthe time either. The American citizen is a sovereign, notto the extent of his voice and vote, but to the exact amountof Uncle Sam's illuminated mental anguish plasters at hiscommand. Money is lord paramount, Mammon ourprophet, our god the golden calf.

The dollar is indeed "almighty." It's the Archimedeanlever that lifts the ill-bred boor into select society andplaces the ignorant sap-head in the United State Senate.It makes presidents of "stuffed prophets," governors ofintellectual geese, philosophers of fools and gilds infamyitself with supernal glory. It wrecks the altars ofinnocence and pollutes the fanes of the people, breaks thesword of Justice and binds the Goddess of Liberty withchains of gold. It is lord of the land, the uncrowned kingof the commonwealth, and its whole religious creed iscomprised in the one verse, "To him that hath shall be givenand he shall have abundance, while from him that hathnot shall be taken even that which he hath."

"We, the people, rule"—in the conventions; but ourdelegated lawmakers have a different lord. In 1892 wedemanded "tariff reform" with a whoop that shook theimperial rafters of heaven, and declared for the mintingof gold and silver without discrimination against eithermetal. But our so-called "public servants," instead ofhastening to obey our behests, spent months manufacturingexcuses for disregarding their duty. Placed betweenthe devil of the money power and the deep sea of publicopinion, they wobbled in and they wobbled out like adrunken boa-constrictor taking its jag to a gold curejoint. They were like the little boy who put his trouserson t'other side to—we couldn't tell whether they weregoing to school or coming home. But our doubts were alldispelled last November. They are the fellows who weregoing to school—to that school of experience where foolsare educated.

. . .

Slave or Sovereign? The last is an individual entity, acontrolling power, his will is law. The first goes andcomes, fetches and carries at the command of a master;creating wealth he may not possess, bound by laws hedoes not approve, dependent upon the pleasure of othersfor the privilege of breaking bread. Is not the lattercondition that of a majority of the American people to-day?Are they not at the subsequent end of a financial hole, thesides soaped and never a ladder in sight?

In a country so favored—a veritable garden of the gods,where every prospect pleases and not even the politicianis wholly vile—the lowliest laborer should be a lord, andeach and all find life well worth the living. But it is notso. People starve while sunny savannas, bursting withfatness, yield no food; they wander houseless throughsummer's heat and winter's cold, while great mountains ofgranite comb the fleecy clouds and the forest monarchmeasures strength with the thunderstorm; they flee nakedand ashamed from the face of their fellow-men while fabricsmolder in the market-place and the song of the spindle issilent: they freeze while beneath their feet are countlesstons of coal—incarnate kisses of the sun-god's fiery youth;they have never a spot of earth on which to plant a vineand watch their children play—where they may rear withloving hands lowly roof and rule, lords of a little worldhemmed in by the sacred circle of a home; yet the commonheritage in the human race lies fair before them andthere is room enough.

The people of Texas do not realize how terrible is theindustrial condition of the world to-day—how wide thegulf that separates Dives and Lazarus, how pitiful thepoverty of millions of their fellowmen. The Texas merchantcomplains of dull trade, the farmer of low prices,the mechanic of indifferent wages; yet Texas is the mostfavored spot on the great round earth to-day. I defy youto find another portion of the globe of equal area andpopulation where the wealth is so well distributed, where sofew people go hungry to bed without prospect of breakfast.But the grisly gorgon of Greed and the gauntspecter of Need are coming West and South in the wake ofthe Star of Empire. Already Texas has begun to breedmillionaires and mendicants, sovereigns and slaves.Already we have an aristocracy of money, in which WEALTHmakes the man and want of it the fellow, and year by yearit becomes easier for Dives to add to his hoard and forLazarus to starve to death.

We appeal to New York for capital with which todevelop our resources; and New York has it in abundance—countless millions she is eager to let out at usury; yet it isestimated that ten thousand children perish in that cityevery year of the world for lack of food—and how manyare kept alive by the bitter bread of a contemptuouscharity God only knows. In one year 3,000 children weredebarred from the public schools of Chicago because of lackof clothing to cover their nakedness—and Chicago boastsherself "the typical American city." The despisedSalvation Army trying to feed a thousand homeless and hungrymen on the sandlots of San Francisco proves that alreadythe curse has travelled across the continent.

And people who are not only permitted to run at large,but actually elected to office, prattle of "overproduction"—while people are starving in nakedness; proposes toeliminate pauperism and inaugurate the industrialmillennium by placing fiddle-strings on the free-list orincreasing the tariff-tax on toothpicks—to relieve the countryof the commercial jim-jams by means of the gold cure. Andthe fool-killer still procrastinates!

. . .

The American citizen is called a sovereign—by thosepatriots who are preparing to sacrifice themselves on thealtar of a nice fat office. And perhaps he is; but I'm free.

We are frequently told that the condition of labor isbetter to-day than a century ago. That is half a truth,yet wholly a falsehood. A century ago the workman knewnaught of many comforts and conveniences he now enjoys—when he happens to have a job; but that was oneage, this quite another. Progress gives no man new wants,and the luxuries of one generation become the necessitiesof the next. To deny this—to limit the laborer to actualnecessaries as measured by a former age—were to relegatehim back to barbarism, to nomadism and nakedness. Ifwe should be content with what our fathers had, then theyshould have been satisfied with the comforts enjoyed byTHEIR progenitors, and so on back until man digs rootswith his finger nails, attires himself in a streak of redpaint for winter overcoat and a few freckles for summerulster. It is by comparison with his fellows and not withhis fathers that man determines whether he's fortunate orunfortunate—whether he's receiving his proper proportionof the world's increase of wealth. A century ago therewas no such glaring inequality as now exists. There wereno fifty million dollar fortunes and no free-soup joints. Ifthe workman's piano was a jews-harp and his Pullmancar a spavined cayuse, his employer was not erectingpalaces in which to stable his blood stock, nor purchasingdissolute princes for his daughters to play at marriage anddivorce with. If the farmer's wife wore linsey-woolsey andwent barefoot to save her shoes, her neighbor did notimport $5,000 gowns from "Paree" and put jeweledcollars on her pet cur. The difference in the condition ofDives and Lazarus is more sharply defined than everbefore. It is not so much the pitiful poverty of the manyas the enormous wealth of the few that is fosteringdiscontent. Pride dallying with Sin begot Death; willfulwaste is breeding Anarchy in the Womb of Want. Thelords and ladies of the house of Have revel in luxury suchas Lucullus never knew, while within sound of their feastinggaunt children fight like famished beasts for that whichthe breakfast garbage barrels afford. Private fortunesmake the famed wealth of Lydia's ancient kings appear buta beggar's patrimony, while brawny giants must beg orsteal and starving mothers give the withered breast todying babes.

Labor now seeks employment, not as a right, but as aprivilege. It has come to such a pitiful pass in this"land of liberty," this "refuge of the world's oppressed,"that to afford a man an opportunity to employ his strengthor skill in the creation of wealth, a portion of which hemay retain for his own support, is regarded rather as aprivilege than a free contract between American Sovereigns—an act of charity, for which the recipient should be dulygrateful.

No man can be a freeman while dependent upon thegood will of an other for his bread and butter. He may bea Sovereign dejure, but he's a Slave defacto. And underpresent conditions the more labor-saving machinery heinvents, the tighter he rivets his chains.

We had hoped and believed that human ingenuity wasabout to lift the curse laid on Adam by his angry Lord;the angel of Intellect to reimparadise the poor slave, placehis fetters on nature's tireless forces and declare thatnever again should bread be eaten in the sweat of the brow;but man proposes—and is sued for breach of promise.

Were a man to declare labor-saving machinery and thegeneral development of the country a curse to the poor, hewould be branded as a "moss-back" or budding candidatefor Bedlam; yet it is unquestionably true that the furtherthe average individual gets from the so-called blessings ofcivilization—the less he is affected by our boasted industrialsystem—the smaller his danger of starving to death.

Many of us can remember when we had little labor-saving machinery in Texas; when railways were scarce asconsistent Christians at a colored camp-meeting, goodswere carried down from coast on the backs of burros and afull-dress suit consisted chiefly of buckskin breeches anda brace of angel makers. And we remember also that apauper was a curiosity; that the very cowboys playedpoker at $10 ante with the sky for limit, the commonlaborer carried coin in his belt and the merchant hadmoney to burn. Texas has developed wonderfully duringthe last few decades. We now have improved machinery—and extensive poor-farms; railways—and politicalrings; a $3,000,000 capitol—and an army of unemployed.We have built fine schools and finer churches, made theblack man our political brother and bought his vote. Wehave exchanged our buckskin for broadcloth, our hair-raising profanity for the hypocrite's whine, straight corn-juice for the champagne-jag and the hip-pocket court forthe jackass verdict of the petit jury. But the cowboy nowplays penny-ante on credit or shoots craps for small coin;the common laborer carries in his belt only a robustappetite, while the merchant who dodges bankruptcy fora dozen years considers himself the special favorite offortune.

And what is true of Texas is true in greater or lessdegree of every State in the Union. Development, so dearto the heart of the patriotic and public-spirited citizen, hasa tendency to transform an independent and moderatelyprosperous people into masters and slaves. But this isnot the fault of labor-saving machinery, nor of capital,nor of development by itself considered. The more wealthlabor creates, the more it should enjoy. When the reverseis the case distribution is at fault.

The substitution of expensive machinery for hand-laboreliminated the independent artisan. His productive powerwas multiplied; but his independence—his ability to carefor himself without the cooperation of large capital—was gone. The wheelwright could not return to his shopnor the shoemaker to his last and live in comfort.Competition with the iron fingers of the great factory wereimpossible. Labor must now await the pleasure of capital—the creature has become lord of its creator. The fiercecompetition of idle armies forces wages down, and slowlybut surely the workman is sinking back to the leveloccupied before the cunning brain of genius harnessed thelightning to his lathe and gave him nerves of steel andmuscles of brass with which to fight his battle for bread.

With the improved machinery with which he is provided,the American workman can create as much wealth in aweek as he need consume in a month; but he goes downon his knees and thanks God and the plutocracy for anopportunity to toil 300 days in the year for a baresubsistence.

. . .

Unfortunately, I have no catholicon for every industrialill—but the political drug-stores are full of 'em. Allyou've got to do is to select your panacea, pull the corkand let peace and plenty overflow a grateful land—so we'retold. Instead of the cure-me-quicks prescribed by theeconomic M.D.'s, I believe that our industrial system hasbeen doped with entirely too many drugs. I'd throwphysic to the dogs, exercise a little common-sense andgive nature a chance. There's an old story of an Arkansawdoctor who invariably threw his patients into fitsbecause he was master of that complaint; but the economicM.D.'s can't even cure fits. When they attempt it thepatient goes into convulsions.

Instead of going to so much trouble to bar out cheapgoods by means of tariff walls, I'd bar out cheap men. Ifyou're making monkey-wrenches at $2 a day and somefellow abroad is building 'em for 50 cents, your bosscomes to you and says:

"Jim, we've got to have a tariff to keep out the productof pauper labor or our nether garment's ripped fromnarrative to neck-band. I can't pay you $2 and compete withan employer who pays but 50 cents."

That sounds reasonable and you swing back on theG.O.P. tow-line and lay a tariff-tax on monkey-wrenchesthat looms up like an old-time Democratic majority inTexas. And while you are burning ratification tar-barrelsand trying to shake hands with yourself in the mirrorat the Mechanic's Exchange, that 50 cent fellow crossesthe briny and robs you of your bench. Your old employeris protected all right, but where do you come in? Youdon't come in; you simply stand out in the industrialnorther. You count the railroad ties from town to townwhile your wife takes in washing, your daughter goes towork in a factory at two dollars a week and your songrows up an ignorant Arab and gets into ward politicsor the penitentiary. You can't compete with the importation,because you've been bred to a higher standard ofliving. You must have meat three times a day, a newspaperat breakfast and a new book—or the ICONOCLAST—after supper. You must have your plunge bath andspring bed, your clean shave and Sunday shirt. How canyou hope to hold your job when a man is bidding for itwho takes up his belly-band for breakfast, dines on slum-gullion and sucks his breath for supper; to whom literatureis an unknown luxury, a bath a deplorable accident,and a crummy old blanket a comfortable bed? You can'tdo it, and if you'll take the Apostle's advice you'll quittrying.

No; I wouldn't prevent the immigration of worthyEuropeans—men of intelligence, who dignify labor. We havemillions such in America, and they are most estimablecitizens. Our ancestors were all Europeans, and thatman who is not proud of his parentage should have beenborn a beast. But I'd knock higher than Gilderoy's kitethe theory that America should forever be the dumping-ground for foreign filth—that people will be warmlywelcomed here whom no other country wants and the devilwouldn't have.

We have made American citizenship entirely too cheap.We permit every creature that can poise on its hind legsand call itself a man, to sway the scepter of AmericanSovereignty—to become an important factor in the formationof our public polity; and then, with this venal vote onthe one hand, eager to be bought, and the plutocrat on theother anxious to buy, we wonder why it is that the invariabletendency of our laws is to make the rich man a princeand the poor man a Populist—why we are "great only inthat strange spell, a name."

In this work of reform we've got to begin at the bottom—with the body politic itself. You can't make a silkpurse of a sow's ear, nor Sovereigns of men who were bornto be Slaves. We've got to grade up or we're gone. Onlysuperior Intelligence is capable of self-government—Ignorance and Tyranny go hand in hand. You may theorizeuntil the Bottomless Pit is transformed into a skatingpark; you may vote tariffs high or low and money hard orsoft; you may inaugurate the Single-Tax or transform theAmerican Republic into a commune, but the condition ofthe hewers of wood and the drawers of water will never bepermanently bettered while Ignorance and Vice have accessto the ballot-box.

We have carried the enchanting doctrine of "politicalequality" entirely too far and are paying the penalty.The rebound from the monstrous doctrine of the divineright of monarchs has hurried us into equal error. Disgustedwith the rottenness of the established religion, theFrench people once crowned a courtesan as Goddess ofReason; maddened by the insolence of hereditary officialism,our fathers placed the rod of power in the hoodlum'sreckless hand and bound upon the stupid brow of hopelessnescience Columbia's imperial crown. That the greatermust guide the lesser intelligence is nature's immutablelaw. To deny this were to question our right to rule thebeast and God's authority to reign King of all mankind.Self-preservation will yet compel us to guard the sacredprivileges of American sovereignty as jealously as didRome her citizenship.

. . .

Do this, and all other needed reforms will follow assurely and as swiftly as the day-god follows the dawn.Knowledge is power. When those who vote fully understandthat every dollar expended by government, federal,state or municipal, must be created by the common people—that first or last, labor must furnish it forth—we'll ceasehaving billion-dollar Congresses. We'll cease paying ahundred and forty millions per annum in federal pensions;we'll cease wasting a King's ransom annually in pretendingto "improve" intermittent creeks and impossible harborssolely for political navigation; we'll cease borrowingmoney in time of peace to bolster up that foolish financialfetich known as the "gold-reserve"; we'll cease making somany needless laws and paying aspiring patriots fatsalaries to harass us with their enforcement; we'll ceaseexempting from taxation the half-million dollar churchand laying a heavier mulct on the mechanic's cottage andthe widow's cow; we'll cease paying preachers five dollarsa minute to stand up in our legislative halls and insultAlmighty God with perfunctory prayers; we'll cease buildingso many palatial prisons where thieves and thugsmay be cared for at the expense of honest people, butwill divide criminals into classes—those who should beperemptorily hanged, and those who should be whipped andturned loose to hustle their own hash. Nothing knocksthe sawdust out of false sentiment so quickly as therealization that it's an expensive luxury and that we must paythe freight.

Billion-dollar Congresses, eh? Do you know what thatmeans? There are less than fifteen million wealth creatorsin this country, and the last farthing of it comes out oftheir pockets—something over $66 apiece! If you had itin silver dollars—and I suppose that most of you wouldaccept silver—you couldn't count it in a century. Lay thecoins edge to edge and they'll belt the world. Pile themon top of each other and you'll have a silver shaft morethan 1,750 miles high. Sand your hands and climb it.Perchance from the top you'll see many things—amongothers what is oppressing the poor. And while up in thatrarefied atmosphere, where the vision is good and thinkingprobably easy, you will look around for those other pyramidsof expense annually erected by state, county andmunicipal government, then come down firm in the faiththat if this isn't a great government it ought to be,considering what it costs. No wonder the workman carries inhis pocket only an elegant assortment of holes!

We're governed entirely too much—Officialism isbecoming a veritable Old Man of the Sea on the neck of Labor'sSinbad. About every fifth man you meet is a public servantof some sort, and you cannot get married or buried,purchase a drink or own a dog except with a by-your-leaveto the all-pervading law of the land. In some states suicideitself is an infraction of the criminal code, and if thepolice don't cut you down in time to put you in jail thepreachers will send you to hell. Every criminal law thisstate and county and city needs can be printed in a bookno larger than the ICONOCLAST, and that so plain that hewho runs may read and reading understand. And whenso printed and so understood, without the possibility ofmisconstruction, they could be enforced at one-fifth thecost of the present judicial failure. We have so manylaws and so much legal machinery that when you throw aman into the judicial hopper not even an astrologer cantell whether he'll come out a horse-thief or only a homicide—or whether the people will weary of waiting on thecircumlocution office and take a change of venue to JudgeLynch.

This can never be a land of religious liberty—the atheistcan never be considered as on a political parity with hisultra-orthodox brother—until we compel church propertyto bear its pro rata of the public burdens.

And right here let me say a word about the "Apostle."I have been accused by people—for whom no cherry-treeblooms or little hatchet is ground—of being a rank atheistand a red-flag anarchist. It has been broadly intimatedthat I'm trying to rip the Christian religion up by theroots, rob trusting hearts of their hope and deprive thepreacher of his daily bread. Now I might just as wellconfess to you that I'm no angel. If I were I'd fly out ofTexas till the bifurcated Democratic party has another"harmony" deal. When you hear people denouncing meas an atheist, just retire to your closet and pray, "Fatherforgive them, for they know not what they do." And youmight add, that nobody cares. No mortal son of Adam'smisery can produce one line I ever wrote, or quote onesentence I ever uttered, disrespectful of ANY religion—andthat's more than you can say of most of the ministers.

But it is not right, it is not just that the little holdingsof the poor should be relentlessly taxed and costly templesexempted—palatial edifices in which polite society pretendsto worship One who broke bread with beggars andslept in the brush. Such an arrangement signifies neithergood religion nor good sense. It's the result of sanctifiedselfishness. I believe in taxing luxuries, and a costlychurch is not a necessity. At least Christ did not think so,for he never built one.

Congregations that can afford to erect fine churches andexport saving grace to the pagans of foreign climes, canafford to pay taxes and thereby help American heathernout of the hole. A million men out of employment, pacingour streets in grim despair; a million children comingup in ignorance and crime; a million women hesitatingbetween the wolf of want and the abundance of infamy,and the church—supposed to be God's ministering angel—crying, "Give, give! If you can't give much, give little.Remember the widow's mite"—so acceptable to a pauperdeity.

Give for what? To build fine temples in whose sacredshadows will lurk the gaunt specter of Famine and thegrisly gorgon of Crime. To buy grand organs and costlybells to peal praises to One who had nowhere to lay hishead. To pay stall-fed preachers five, ten, twenty thousanddollars a year to expound the doctrine of a poorcarpenter who couldn't have kept a silver dollar in hisjeans a single day while there was poverty and sufferingin the world.

While the wealth-producer is robbed to pensionmillionaires who suffered mental anguish because of the draft,and to administer worse than useless laws, still the amountso unnecessarily abstracted would be but a mere bagatelleif labor was steadily employed and reaped its just reward.With the mighty energies of this nation in full play andthe wealth remaining with its producers, we could giveeven all the candidates an office, with plenty to get andlittle to do, and still have pie in the pantry and corn inthe crib. There is something more the matter than governmentalwaste—there's something RADICALLY wrong.

. . .

In tracing the causes of panics and periods of businessdepression, we invariably find our currency more or less atfault. Now don't get frightened. I'm not going to doseyou with free silver nor give you the gold cure. This isneither Coin's Financial School nor a gold-bug incubator.The currency question is one you know all about. Everybodydoes—especially the corner-grocery politician. Heunderstands it from A to Izzard—knows almost as muchabout it as a hello-girl does of the nature of electricity.Prof. Jevon truly says that "a kind of intellectual vertigoappears to seize people when they talk of money." Perhapsthe Goddess of Liberty on the silver dollar has 'emTrilbyized.

We hear a great deal of late about the "science ofmoney." It's supposed to be something very esoteric—something that a fellow can only master by drawing heavilyon his gray matter, by working his think-machine upto the limit and sweating blood. Now let me tell you thatthere is no "science of money," any more than there's ascience of harvesting hoop poles or fighting flies. When aman begins to give you an interminable song and danceabout the science of money, just you send for the policeand have him locked up as a dangerous lunatic.

Here's a ticket good for so many meals at a restaurant—an order for so much wealth; and here's a silver dollar—no 'tisn't; it's a check on a—er—on a "resort"; in fact,on a saloon; an I.O.U. for 11 cents, the price of acigar—or something—I suppose. "Man should not liveby bread alone." Now what's the difference between thisticket and check and the currency issued by the government?Simply this: These are the I.O.U.'s of individual'smoney, the I.O.U.'s of the entire American people. Theseare orders for certain kinds of wealth at particular places;money is an order for all kinds of wealth at any placewithin the jurisdiction of the federal government. Thisticket is the check of one American, drawn against hispersonal wealth and credit; this bill is the check of allAmericans, drawn against the collective wealth and creditof the nation. That's all the difference between a co*cktailcheck and a coin, between a meal ticket and a tendollar bill. Neither is worth a rap unless it can beREDEEMED. Like sanctification caught at a camp-meeting,there must be a hereafter to it or its a humbug. But don'tyou metallists take that as a premise and jump at conclusionsor you're liable to sprain your logical sequence.What kind of redemption did I have in view when Iacquired this che—I mean this ticket? I expected that itwould be redeemed in something that would expand mysurcingle and enable me to cast a shadow—in eggs andoleomargarine, corn-bread and buttermilk. And if soredeemed on demand, is it not a GOOD TICKET—is it notWORTH ITS FACE? What kind of redemption did I expectwhen I acquired this bill? I expected it to be redeemedin the necessaries of life—or possibly the luxuries. Whoissued it? The government. Who's the government?The people. And when the people have given me breadand butter, tobacco and transportation, clothing andco*cktails, and afforded me police protection to the extentof my ten dollars hasn't it been REDEEMED in the mannerI anticipated—in the only way in which money can beredeemed? If I exchange this bill for a gold eagle whathave I got? Another governmental drink-check or meal-ticket that awaits redemption. And there you have thewhole "science of money," over which politicians have solong puzzled their brains that their think-tanks have gotfull of logical wiggletails. A dollar, whether it be made ofgold, silver or paper, is simply an order which the peoplein their official capacity give against all the wealth, actualand potential, of the nation; and unless the holder canget it promptly redeemed in food and clothing, he's in aterribly bad fix.

. . .

Every few years our industrial system gets the jim-jams.Capital flies to cover, factories close and labor goestramping across the country seeking honest employment andreceiving a warm welcome—from militia companies withshotted guns. Cheerful idiots begin to prattle of "over-production," the economic M.D.'s to refurbish all the oldremedies, from conjure bags to communism. They allknow exactly what caused the "crisis" and what to do forit; but despite the doctors the patient usually—survives.And the M.D. who succeeds in cramming his pet panaceadown its throat claims all the credit for the recovery. Weare slowly emerging from the crash of '93, and the cuckoosare co*ck-sure that Cleveland hoodooed with that financialrabbit-foot known as the gold-reserve—that a countryfairly bursting with wealth was saved from the demnitionbowwows by the blessed expedient of going into debt; thatlabor found salvation by shouldering an added burden inthe shape of interest-bearing bonds. Hereafter when aburro tries to lie down beneath a load that's making himbench-legged, we'll just pile a brick house or two on topof him, and, with ears and tail erect, he'll strike a NancyHanks gait and come cavorting down the home stretch.When a statesman can see such things as that while wideawake and perfectly sober, he ought to consult a doctor.No wonder the Democratic party spilt wide open—transformedfrom an ascendent sun into a bifurcated Biela'scomet, wandering the Lord knows whither.

The gold reserve, we are told, is to "protect the creditof our currency." Protect it from whom? You and Iare making no assault upon it—wouldn't hurt it for theworld. When we get a paper or silver dollar we don't trotaround to the treasury to have it "redeemed" in a slug ofyellow metal—we make a bee line for the grocery storeand have it redeemed in a side o' bacon. Who is it thatchisels desolation into the blessed gold reserve—the so-called "bulwarks of our currency?" The fellows whowant bonds—the capitalistic, the creditor class; the menwho own the mortgages and have millions of dollars cordedup in bank—the men who have most to LOSE by any bobblein the credit of our currency. And every time the capitalisttries to hoist himself with his own petard, theadministration smothers the blaze with a block of interest-bearing bonds. If he wants to make a sky-rocket of himself,let him kerosene his coat-tails and apply the match.If the gold reserve were really necessary to the credit ofour currency, capitalists would no more make war uponit than they would bestride a buzz-saw making a millionrevolutions a minute. Instead of systematically drainingit they would, whenever it struck "the danger-line,"gather all the gold they could get and send it on toWashington. The capitalists are not crazy; they've simply gota soft snap in that "bulwark" business and are workingit for an it's worth.

Calico is sold by the yard, kerosene by the gallon, coffeeby the pound. These measures are immutable, and thosewho buy and sell by them make their contract in perfectconfidence. But suppose they altered from day to dayor from year to year,—the yard ranging from 25 to 50inches, the pound from 10 to 20 ounces; would ourexchanges be effected without much friction, think you?Would not such a ridiculous system of weights andmeasures paralyze exchange and demoralize industry?Would not those who could juggle the system to suitthemselves—buying by a long and selling by a short yard—accumulate colossal fortunes at the expense of the commonpeople? Would we not have "panics" in plenty and"depressions" galore? Well, that is exactly what ishappening to the dollar, our measure of value, the mostimportant of all our trade tools. And mark you, a changein the purchasing power of the dollar is equivalent to analteration of every weight and measure employed bycommerce. Understand? When the purchasing power of thedollar expands or contracts it has the same effect onexchange as would the expansion or contraction of the yard,the gallon and the pound.

A shifting measure of value is the nigg*r in ourindustrial woodpile. We have got to have a measure of valuethat's as immutable as our measure of quantity; a dollaras reliable as an official pound; a dollar that's the sameyesterday, and to-day and forever, before we see the lastof these panics and periods of business depression. Wehave got to have a currency that will adapt itselfautomatically and infallibly to the requirements of commerce—that will constitute an ever-effective exchange medium—before we can obtain a smooth working industrial machineand the maximum employment of labor.

We know from experience that gold will not supply uswith such a currency, that silver will not do it, that bi-metallism will not do it—that greenbackism, as we understandthe term, will not come within a mile of it. Thenwhat will do it? That's the problem. Solve it, and youforever put an end to commercial panics in a land ofplenty; you deprive capital of its power to oppress labor;you assure industry a constant friend where it has so oftenfound an insidious foe. Solve it and Columbia can furnishhappy homes for half the world—homes unhaunted by thewolf of want, but crowned with sweet content and gildedwith freedom's glory.

For a century economists have been seeking the solutionof this all-important problem. Even conservative oldAdam Smith dreamed of the emancipation of the worldfrom the multifarious ills of metallic money; but we stillcling with slavish servility to the silver of Abraham andthe gold of Solomon.

I do not claim to have found the philosopher's stone, forwhich so many wiser men have sought in vain; but thecurrency plan I proposed in 1891—and which was againoutlined in the ICONOCLAST for May of this year—hasbeen carefully examined by the ablest financiers of Europeand America, and they have been unable to point out afundamental fault. It is known as the interconvertiblebond-currency plan, by which our circulating media wouldbe bottomed on the entire wealth of the nation instead ofupon fragments of metal of fluctuating value; by which thevolume of the currency would depend, not upon thefecundity of the mines, the fiat of Congress or the greedof Wall street, but upon the needs of commerce itself.By this plan the proportion between the money-work to bedone and the money available to do it is always the same;hence it would afford an immutable measure of value. Instudying the plan it is well to bear in mind that our foreigntrade—that bogy man of the metallists—has no more todo with our currency than with our pint cups and bushel-baskets—no more than with our language and religion;that we can pay our foreign debts and collect our foreigncredits only in commodities; that the prattle indulged inby the metallists anent "money that is good the worldover" is mere goose-speech—that there is no such money.We buy and sell with England and France to the extentof tens of millions annually; yet I haven't seen a Britishguinea or a French franc in fifteen years. And if youhad a foreign coin and should go around to a resort, andcall for a glass of—er—of buttermilk, and plank the littlestranger down on the counter, the party in the white apronand Alaska dazzler would say:

"Wot yer givin' us?"

You'd reply: "I'm givin you gold—money good theworld over."

"Wot is it—watch charm? Dis ain't no pawn shop."

"But that's money."

"Eh?"

"Money—gold coin that maketh the heart glad."

"Wot kind o' money?"

"It's a British guinea."

"Well, why don't you go to Great Britain to blow yourself?"

"But my dear sir, this is money of final payment. Thisis value itself. This does not depend on the stamp ofgovernment, but circulates throughout the world on itsintrinsic merit."

"Well, it don't circulate in this joint. See?"

Slam your THEORIES up against CONDITIONS before you tieto them.

. . .

You all know that in this country there should be nosuch thing as able-bodied pauperism. You know that untilthe last arable acre is brought to the highest possiblecultivation, every mine developed, every forest made tocontribute to the creature comfort of man, there should beremunerative work for all. You know that, with the aidof wealth-creating machinery every laborer should be ableto acquire a competence to comfort his declining days.You know that until Need is satisfied and Greed is gorgedthere can be no such thing as overproduction—that undernormal conditions when there's a plethora of necessaries,the surplus energy of the nation turns to the creation ofluxuries and the standard of living advances. You knowthat with such wonderful resources, touched by the magicwand of genius, the golden age of which poets have dreamedand for which philanthropists have prayed, should be evenat our doors.

I hope to contribute in some slight degree to theestablishment of conditions that will enable us to utilize to theutmost the free gifts of a gracious God; to the properdistribution of wealth; to the emancipation of labor, not bythe law of blind force, but enlightened self-interest—notby riotous revolution, but peaceful evolution. I want tosee every American Citizen in very truth a Sovereign, towhom life is a joy instead of a curse. I want to see everyrag transformed into a royal robe, every hovel into a culturedhome. I want to hasten, if by ever so little, the daywhen we can boast with the proud sons of imperial Rome,that to be an American is greater than to be a king.

And when we so amend industrial conditions that eachcan find employment at profitable prices, we do more toeliminate crime and foster morality than have all theprophets and preachers, from Melchizedeck the mythical toTalmage the turgid.

No man can be either a patriot or a consistent Christianon an empty stomach—he's merely a savage animal, adangerous beast. You must get a square meal inside of aman and a clean shirt outside of him before he's fit subjectfor saving grace. You must give him a bath beforehe's worth baptizing. And when you get him clean andwell clothed, fed and housed as a reward of his own honestindustry, he's not far from the Kingdom of God. Butif you want to degrade a people beyond redemption; if youwant to transform them into contemptible peons and whininghypocrites who encumber the earth like so much uncleanvermin, educate them to feed on the crumbs fromDives' banquet-board and accept his cast-off clothing withobsequious thankfulness.

The concentration of wealth in the hands of the few andthe impoverishment of the common people until it was thebread of charity or the blood of the revolution, has everbeen the herald of moral decay and of national death. Sopassed the glory of Greece and the grandeur of Rome, and,if we may judge the future by the past, so will perish thegreatest republic that ever gleamed like a priceless jewelon the skeleton hand of Time. Self-interest, humanity,patriotism, religion itself, admonish us to weigh well theproblem of the hour—a problem born of human progress,forced upon us by the mighty revolution wrought in theindustrial world by the giant Steam—and that problem is:Shall the average American Citizen be a Slave or aSovereign?

Don't imagine for a moment that I'm an anarchist—that I'm going to wind up this seance by unfurling the redflag and throwing a hatful of bombs. I admit that Ihaven't much respect for law—there's so much of it thatwhen I come to spread my respect over the entire lot it'sabout as thin as one of Sam Jones's sermons. Still, I don'tbelieve in strikes, and riots and bloodshed. I'm for peace—peace in its most virulent form. I've had a sneakingrespect for Cleveland ever since he employed a substituteto put a kibosh on the Southern Confederacy while heremained at home to play pinochle with the pretty girls. Hemay not be much of a statesman in time of peace, butthere's no picnic ants on his judgment in time of war.

It is time that capital and labor realized that theirinterests are really commutual, as interdependent as thebrain and the body; time they ceased their fratricidalstrife and, uniting their mighty forces under the flag ofProgress, completed the conquest of the world and doomedPoverty, Ignorance and Vice—hell's great triumvirate—tobanishment eternal. Unless labor is employed, capitalcannot increase—it can only concentrate. Unless propertyrights are held inviolable and capital thereby encouragedto high enterprise, labor is left without a lever withwhich to lift itself to perfect life and must sink back tobarbarism.

It is time that American citizens of alleged intelligenceceased trailing blindly in the wake of partisan band-wagons and began to seriously consider the public welfare—time they realized that the people were not made forparties, but parties for the people, and refuse to sacrificetheir patriotism on the unclean altar of partisan slavery.Blind obedience to party fiat; the division of the peopleof one great political family into hostile camps; subjectionof the public interest to partisan advantage; placingthe badge of party servitude above the crown of Americansovereignty—the ridiculous oriflamme of foolish divisionabove Old Glory's star-gemmed promise of everlastingunity—have brought the first nation of all world to thevery brink of destruction.

. . .

It is difficult for people here in Texas to understand theindustrial condition of the American nation today; toappreciate the dangers upon which it is drifting. We aretoo apt to imagine everybody as prosperous and conservativeas ourselves; or if not so, it's because they do notvote the Democratic ticket—that panacea for all the illsthat flesh is heir to. Here in Texas we have hung oursecond providence on the Democratic party—it has becomea religion with us. If a man is orthodox in his politicalfaith all things are forgiven him; but if there's any doubtabout his Democracy we are inclined to regard him as analien, if not an anarchist. Most of us enjoy the shadowof our own vine and fig tree—which it is impossible tomortgage. We feed three times a day, have a co*cktailevery morning, a clean shirt occasionally and even whencotton goes so low it doesn't pay for the paris-green topoison the worms, we blame it on the Lord instead of onour political leaders. But it's different in other sectionsof the Union.

America contains more than a million as desperate menas ever danced the Carmagnole or shrieked with brutaljoy when the blood of French aristocrats reddened theguillotine. The dark alleys and unclean dives of our greatcities are crowded with dangerous sans-culotte, and ourhighways with hungry men eager for bread—though theworld blaze for it. Pauperism is rampant, the criminalclasses increasing and everywhere the serpent of Socialismis leaving it's empoisoned slime. Suppose that thesedesperate elements find a determined leader—a modern Marat,who will make the most of his opportunities for evil: howmany of that vast contingent now clinging with feeblegrasp to the rotten skirts of a doubtful respectability,would be swept into the seething vortex of unbridledvillainy? Note the failure of public officials to protectcorporate property; the necessity of calling for federalbayonets and batteries to suppress labor riots; thedangerous unrest of the common people; the sympathy of thefarmer—that Atlas upon whose broad shoulders rests ourpolitical and industrial world—with every quasi-militaryorganization that throws down the gage of battle to thepowers that be, then tell me, if you can, where Dives maylook for defenders should the rabble rise in its wrath, thebullet supplant the ballot in the irrepressible conflictbetween the Cormorant and the Commune! And what arewe doing to avert the danger? Distributing a little doleand preaching patience to starving people; quarrelingabout the advisability of "counting a quorum" or coininga little silver seigniorage; wrangling over the "rights" ofa mid-Pacific prostitute to rule Celts and Saxons, andtrying to so "reform" the tariff that it will yield morerevenue with less taxation! We are bowing down beforevarious pie-hunting political gods and electing men toCongress who couldn't tell the Federal Constitution fromCalvin's Confession of Faith. We are sending street-corner economists to state and national conventions toevolve from their innate ignorance and gild with theirsupernal gall political platforms which we are pledgedbeforehand to accept as the essence of all worldly wisdom.Our patriotism has been supplanted by partisanship, andnow all are for a party and none are for the state. OnJuly 4 we shout for the old flag and all the rest of theyear we clamor for an appropriation. The man who iskicked by a nightmare while dreaming of the draft demandsa pension and every burning patriot wants an office.And while our ship of state is threading with unsteadycourse the stormy straits between the Scylla of Greedand the Charybdis of Need; its canvas torn by contendingwinds; its decks swept by angry waves, we boast of thestrength of our "free institutions"—as though Republicshad never fallen nor revolutions erased from the map ofthe world proud Empires that imagined themselves immortal.

But before God I do believe this selfish and unpatrioticage will pass, as passed the age of brutish ignorance, aspassed the age of tyranny. I believe the day will come—oh blessed dawn!—when the angel of Intellect will banishthe devil of Demagogy; when Americans will be in spiritand in truth a band of brothers, the wrongs of one theconcern of all; when labor will no longer fear the Cormorantnor capital the Commune—when all men will be equalbefore the law wherever falls the shadow of our flag.

* * *RAINBOW-CHASERS.

[This is the lecture that Mr. Brann delivered and wasto continue on his lecture tour, which was cut short by hisdeath.]

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: There are many things which Ivery cordially dislike; but my pet aversion is what is knownas a "set" lecture—one of those stereotyped affairs thatare ground out with studied inflection and practiced gestureand suggest the grinding of Old Hundred on a hurdy-gurdy; hence I shall ask permission to talk to you tonightas informally and as freely as though we were seated infriendly converse around the soda fount of a Kansas drugstore; and I want you to feel as free to talk back asthough we had gotten into this difficulty by accidentinstead of design. Ask me all the questions you want to, andif I'm unable to answer offhand I'll look the matter uplater and telegraph you—at your expense. With suchunbounded liberty there's really no telling whither we willdrift, what subjects we may touch upon; but should Iinadvertently trample upon any of your social idols orpolitical gods, I trust that you will take no offense—willremember that we may honestly differ, that none of us arealtogether infallible. Lest any of you should mistake mefor an oratorical clearing-sale or elocutionary bargain-counter, expect a Demosthenic display and be disappointed,I hasten to say that I am no orator as Brutuswas, but simply a plain, blunt man, like Mark Antony,who spoke right on and said what he did know, or thoughthe knew, which was just as satisfactory to himself. He'sdead now, poor fellow! Woman in the case, of course.Shakespeare assures us that "men have died from time totime and worms have eaten them, but not for love." Howeverthat may be, Antony's just as dead as though he haddied for love—or become a gold-bug "Democrat." Yes,Mark Antony's gone, but we still have Mark Hanna. Onethrew the world away for Cleopatra's smile, the otherthrew Columbia's smile away for a seat in the Senate, andso it goes. Of the two Marks, I think Antony was theeasiest.

. . .

But let us take a look at our text. The rainbow is asign, I believe, that the Prohibitionists once carried thecountry and would have made a complete success of thecold water cure had not the Rum Demon engineered theArk. Still it does not necessarily follow that a rainbowchaser is a fellow on the hot trail of a blind tiger. Hemay be one who hopes to raise the wage rate by meansof a tariff wall, or expects John Bull to assist Uncle Samin the remonetization of silver. A rainbow-chaser, in thecommon acceptance of the term, is a fellow who mistakesshadow for substance and wanders off the plank turnpikeinto bogs and briar patches. Satan appears to have beenthe first victim of the rainbow-chasing fad—to have boltedthe Chicago convention and run for president on the reformticket. At a very early age I began to doubt theexistence of a personal devil, whereupon my parent on myfather's side proceeded to argue the matter in the good oldorthodox way, but failed to get more than half the hussyout of my hide. But we will not quarrel about the existenceor non-existence of a party who Milton assures us slippedon a political orange peel. We know that frauds andfakes exist, that hypocrites and humbugs abound.Whether this be due to the pernicious activity of a hornedmonster or to evil inherent in the human heart, I will notassume to say. We may call that power the devil whichis forever at war with truth, is the father of falsehood,whether it be an active personality or only a viciousprinciple.

. . .

Under the direction of this devil, real or abstract, theworld has gone rainbow chasing and fallen deep into theSlough of Despond. Conditions have become so desperatethat it were well for you and I, who are in the world andof it, to abate somewhat our partisan rancor, our sectarianbitterness, and take serious counsel together. Desperate,I say, meaning thereby not only that it becomes ever moredifficult for the workman to win his modicum of breadand butter, to provide his own hemlock coffin in which togo to hades—or elsewhere; but that honor, patriotism,reverence—all things which our fathers esteemed as moreprecious than pure gold—have well-nigh departed, that thesocial heart is dead as a salt herring; that all is becomingbrummagem and pinch-beck, leather and prunella; that acurse hath fallen upon the womb of the world, and it nolonger produces heaven-inspired men but only some pitifulsimulacra thereof, some worthless succedona for such, whostrive not to do their god-given duty though the worldreward them with a gibbet, but to win wages of gold andgrub, to obtain idle praise by empty plausibility. Theyaspire to ride the topmost wave, not of a tempestuousocean which tries the heart of oak and the hand of iron,but of some pitiful sectarian mud-puddle or political goosepond. Under the guidance of these shallow self-seekers wehave abandoned the Ark of the Covenant with its Brotherhoodof Man, its solemn duties and sacred responsibilities,and are striving to manage matters mundane on a basisof brute selfishness, with a conscience or a creed of followingthe foolish rainbow of a fatuous utilitaria and gettingeven deeper into the bogs.

. . .

I have frequently been called a "chronic kicker," but donot object to the epithet. There's need of good lustykickers, those whose No. 1 tootsie-wootsies are copper-toed, for the world is lull of devilish things that deserveto die. Lest any should accuse me of the awful sin ofusing slang, and thereby break my heart, I hasten to saythat the Bible twice employs the word "kick" in the samesense that I used it here. In fact, a goodly proportion ofour so-called slang is drawn from the same high source,being vinegar to the teeth of pietistical purists, but quitegood enough for God. Some complain that I should buildinstead of tearing down, should preserve and not destroy.The complaint is well founded if it be wrong to attackfalsehood, to exterminate the industrial wolves and socialrottenness, to destroy the tares sown by the devil and givedollar wheat a chance to arise and hump itself. Indetermining what should be preserved and what destroyed,we may honestly disagree; but I think all will concede thatwhat is notoriously untrue should be attacked, that weshould wage uncompromising war on whatsoever maketh orloveth a lie. I think all will agree that this is pre-eminentlyan age of artificiality—that there is little genuineleft in the land but the complexion of the ladies. Eventhat has been called in question by certain unchivalrousold bachelors, those unfortunates whom the ladies of Bostonpropose to expel from politics for dereliction of duty.Somehow an old bachelor always reminds me of a rainbow;not because he looks like one in the least, but ratherbecause he's so utterly useless for all practical purposes.He also reminds me of a rainbow-chaser, because what heis compelled to admire is beyond his reach. When hopedeferred hath made him heart-sick he begins to growl atthe girls—and for the same reason that a mastiff barks atthe moon. You will notice that a mastiff seldom barksmuch at anything he can get hold of and bite.

. . .

We are solemnly assured that the world is steadilygrowing better; and I suppose that's so, for in days ofold they crucified men head downwards for telling thetruth, while now they only hammer them over the headwith six-shooters and drag 'em around a Baptist collegecampus with a rope. All that a reformer now needs is ahard head and a rubber neck. The cheerful idiot, alias theoptimist, is forever prating of the world's progress.Progress is a desirable thing only when we make it in theright direction. It may be sure and swift down a soapedplank into wild ocean depths; or it may be with painfulsteps and slow toward the eternal mountain tops wherebreaks the great white light of God, and there's no moreof darkness and of death. Progress industrial, theproductive power of labor multiplied by two, by ten; andwith such improved weapons for waging war upon thegrisly gorgon of want, nearly nine millions of theindustrial army in India alone died upon their shields.Hosannahs mounting in costly churches here, the starving babetugging at the empty breast of the dead mother there!—and we send to the famine-sufferers many bibles and hymn-books, little bacon and beans. Bibles and hymn-booksare excellent things in their ways, but do not possess anabsorbing interest for the man with an aching voidconcealed about his system. Starving people ask a Christianworld for grub, and it gives them forty'leven differentbrands of saving grace—each warranted the only genuine—most of these elixirs of life ladled out by hiredmissionaries who serve God for the long green, and who areoften so deplorably ignorant that they couldn't tell areligious thesis from an ichthyosaurian.

Progress in religion until there's no longer a divinemessage from on high, no God in Israel; only a fashionablepulpiteering to minister to languid minds, the cultivationof foolish fads and the flaunting of fine feathers—the church becoming a mere Vanity Fair or social clearing-house, a kind of esthetic forecourt to hades instead of thegate to heaven. At the opposite extreme we find blatantblackguardism by so-called evangelists, who were educatedin a mule-pen and dismissed without a diploma, yetwho set up as instructors of the masses in the profoundmysteries of the Almighty. Men who would get shipwreckedin the poetry of Shakespeare, or lost in the philosophyof one of his fools, pretend to interpret the plansof Him who writes his thoughts in flaming words on thepapyri of immensity, whose sentences are astral fire.

Progress in science until we learn that the rainbow wasnot built to allay the fears of the roachin family, but isold as the sun and the sea; that bourbon whisky drillsthe stomach full o' blow-holes and that the purest springwater is full o' bacteria and we must boil it or switch tobeer; that Havana cigars give us tobacco heart, pastry isthe hand-maid of dyspepsia, while even the empurpledgrape is but a John the Baptist for appendicitis; that arich thief has kleptomania and should be treated at afashionable hospital instead of a plebian penitentiary,while even the rosebud of beauty is aswarm with bacilli,warning the sons of men to keep their distance on pain ofdeath. If all the doctors discovered be true then life isn'thalf worth living—is stale, flat and unprofitable as aRepublican nomination in Texas. When the poet declaredthat men do not die for love, the doctors had not yetlearned that a cornfed kiss that cracks like a dynamitegun may be equally dangerous. I think the bolus-buildersare chasing rainbows—that if I wait for death until I'mkilled with kisses old Methuselah won't be a marker.

Our car of progress, of which we hear so much, hascarried us from the Vates' vision of Milton and Dante toAlfred Austin's yaller doggerel—to the raucous twitteringsof grown men who aspire to play Persian bulbulinstead of planting post-holes, who mistake some spavinedmule for Bellerophon's Mount and go chasing metricalrainbows when they should be drawing a fat bacon rindadown the shining blade of a bucksaw; from the flame sighsof Sappho, that breed mutiny in the blood, to the green-sick maunderings of atrabilarious maids who are bestqualified to build soft-soap or take a fall out of thecorrugated bosom of a washboard. We now have poetry,so-called, everywhere—in books and magazine innumerable,even sandwiched in between reports of camp-meetings,political pow-wows and newspaper ads. for patent liverpills. O, that the featherless jaybirds now trying totwitter in long-primer type would apply the soft pedalunto themselves, would add no more to life's dissonanceand despair! Most of our modern poets are bowed downwith more than Werterean woe. Their sweethearts arecruel or fate unkind; they've got cirrhosis of the liver orpalpitation of the heart, and needs must spill theirscalding tears over all humanity. It seems never to haveoccurred to the average verse architect that not a line oftrue poetry was ever written by mortal man; that eventhe song of Solomon and the odes of Anacreon are but asthe jingling of sweet bells out of tone, a dissonance in thedivine harmony; that you can no more write poetry thanyou can paint the music of childhood's laughter, or hearthe dew-beaded jasmine bud breathing its sensuous perfumeto the morning sun. The true poets are those whosehearts are harps of a thousand strings, ever swept byunseen hands—those whose lips are mute because the soulof man hath never learned a language. Those we callmaster-poets and crown with immortelles but caught andfixed some far off echo of deep calling unto deep—the linesof Byron or a Burns, a Tasso or a Tennyson are but thehalf-articulate cries of a soul stifling with the splendor ofits own imaginings.

But we were speaking of progress when diverted by thediscordant clamor of featherless crows. I am no pecteristwith my face ever to the past. I realize that there hasbeen no era without its burden of sorrow, no time withoutit* fathomless lake of tears; that the past seems moreglorious than the present because the heart casts a glamourover days that are dead. From the dust and glare of thenoon of life we cast regretful glances back to the dewymorn, and as eve creeps on the shadows reach furtherback until they link the cradle and the grave and all isdark. I would not blot from heaven the star of hope, normock one earnest effort of mankind; but I would warnthis world that its ideals are all wrong, that it's goingforward backwards, is chasing foolish rainbows that leadto barbarism. Palaces and gold, fame and power—theseby thy gods, O! Israel—mere fly-specked eidolons worthyno man's worship.

. . .

When we have adopted higher ideals; when success isno longer a synonym for vain show; when the man ofmillions who toils and wails for more is considered mad;when we realize that all the world's wealth cannot equalthe splendor of the sunset sky 'neath which the pooresttrudge, the astral fire that flames at night's high noonabove the meanest hut; that only God's omnipotence canrecall one wasted hour, restore the bloom of youth, or bidthe loved and lost return to glad our desolate hearts withthe lambent light of eyes that haunt all our wakingdreams, the music of laughter that has become a wailingcry in memory's desolate halls; when we cease chasinglying rainbows in the empty realm of Make-Believe andlearn for a verity that the kendal green of the workmanmay be more worthy of honor than the purple of the prince—why then the world will have no further need of iconoclaststo frankly rehearse its faults, and my words of censurewill be transformed into paeans of praise.

"Sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet
And soft as their parting tear."

We have "progressed" from the manly independenceand fierce patriotism of our forebears to a namby-pambyforeign policy that compels our citizens abroad to seekprotection of the consuls of other countries from thespirit that made our flag respected in every land andhonored on every sea, to the anserine cackle of "jingoism"whenever an American manifests a love of country orprofesses a national pride. What is "jingoism?" It isa word coined by enemies of this country and used bytoad-eaters. It is a term which, under various titles, hasbeen applied to every American patriot since our gran'-sires held the British lion up by the caudal appendage andbeat the sawdust out of the impudent brute—since theyappealed from a crack-brained king to the justice ofheaven and wrote the charter of our liberties with thebayonet on the back of Cornwallis' buccaneers. Its synonymwas applied to Thomas Paine, the arch-angel of theRevolution, whose pen of fire made independenceimperative—who through seven long years of blood and tearsfanned Liberty's flickering flames with his deathless faiththat the Omnipotent arm of God would uphold the bannerof the free. From the brain of that much-maligned andlong-suffering man Columbia sprang full-panoplied, likeMinerva from the brow of Olympian Jove. And what hasbeen his reward? In life he was bitterly belied by thefoes of freedom and the slaves of superstition; in death amighty wave of calumny rolls above his grave. Greatermen have lived and died and been forgotten, but a noblerheart ne'er beat and broke—grander soul ne'er struggledtoward the light or bowed before the ever-living God.When the colonists stood debating whether to bear theirpresent ills or fly to other they knew not of, he seizedthe gage of battle and flung it full and fair in Britain'shaughty face. When defeat followed defeat, when thenew-born nation was bankrupt and its soldiers starvingin the field; when coward lips did from their color flyand men brave as Roman tribunes wept tears of grimdespair, his voice rang out again and again like that ofsome ancient prophet of Israel cheering on the faintinglegions of the Lord, and again, and again, and yet againthe ragged barefoot Continentals set their breasts againstthe bayonet, until from the very ashes of defeat dearLiberty arose Phoenix-like, a goddess in her beauty, atitan in her strength.

The term "jingoist;" or its equivalent, was applied toWashington and Henry, to Jefferson and Jackson. Itwas applied to James G. Blaine, the typical American ofhis time—a man from beneath whose very toe-nails enoughintellect might be scraped to make an hundred Clevelandsor McKinleys. All were jingoes in their day and generation,because all preferred the title of sovereign to thatof subject; because all believed that Columbia should bemistress of her own fate, the architect of her own fortune,instead of an appendage of England, or political orphanunder a European protectorate, because all believed thatshe should protect her humblest citizen from wrong andoutrage wheresoever he may be, though it cost every dollarof the nation's treasure and every drop of the nation'sblood—and if that be jingoism then I, too, am a jingofrom alpha to omega, from beginning to end.

. . .

Who are those who recalcitrate about jingoism? Theyare people who have never forgiven Almighty God forsuffering them to be born American sovereigns insteadof British subjects. They are those whose ideal man issome stupid, forked, radish "stuck o'er with titles, hung'round with strings," and anxious to board with a wealthyAmerican wife to avoid honest work. They are the peoplewhose god is the dollar, their country the stock exchange,and who suspect that a foreign policy with as muchbackbone as a scared rabbit would knock some of thewind and water out of their bogus "securities." It isthose who would sell their citizenship for a copper centand throw in their risen Lord as lagniappe, who are foreverprating of "jingoism" and pleading for peace atany price. And these unclean harpies of greed and gallhave been too long permitted to dominate this government.The result is that the greatest nation known tohuman history—the sum and crown of things—is anobject of general insult. If it be rumored that wecontemplate protecting American citizens in Cuba, everyEuropean government emits a growl—there's talk ofrebuking Uncle Sam's "presumption," of standing him ina corner to cool. If it be suggested that we annex anisland—at the earnest request of all its inhabitants worththe hanging—there more minatory caterwauling by theEuropean courts, while even the Mikado of Japan getshis little Ebenezer up, and the Ahkound of Swat, theNizan of Nowhere and the grand gyasticutus of Jimple-cute intimate that they may send a yaller-legged policemanacross the Pacific in a soap-box to pull the tail-feathers out of the bird o' freedom if it doesn't crawlhumbly back upon its perch. If a fourth-class powerinsults our flag we accept a flippant apology. If ourcitizens are wrongfully imprisoned we wait until they arestarved, shot, or perish of blank despair in dungeons sofoul that a hog would die therein of a broken heart; thenhumbly ask permission to investigate, report that theyare dead, and feel that we have discharged our duty.Why? Because this nation is dominated by the dollar—isin the hands of those who have no idea of honor unlessit will yield somewhat to eat, no use for patriotism unlessit can be made to pay. When we concluded to protectour citizens from Weylerian savagery, instead of sendinga warship to Havana to read the riot act if need be invillainous saltpetre we had our ambassador crawling aboutthe European courts humbly begging permission of thepowers, and as we got no permission we did no protecting.When the church people elect me president of thisRepublic I'll have ante-mortem investigations whenAmerican citizens are held prisoners by foreign powers, andthose entitled to Old Glory's protection will get it inone time and two motions if Uncle Sam has to shuck hisseer-sucker and fight all Europe to a finish. I shallcertainly ask no foreign prince, potentate or power forpermission to protect American citizens in the western world.There'll be one plank in my platform as broad as aboulevard and as long as a turnpike, and it will be to theeffect that the nation which wrongs an American citizenmust either apologize with its nose in the sand or reachfor its six-shooter. I'd rather see my country made adesolation forever and a day, its flag torn from the heavens,its name erased from the map of the world and its peoplesleeping in heroes' sepulchres, than to see it a mark forscorn, an object of contempt.

In continually crying "Peace! Peace!" Uncle Sam ischasing a rainbow that has a dynamite bomb under eitherend. If history be philosophy teaching by example whatis the lesson we have to learn? In little more than acentury we've had four wars, and only by the skin of ourteeth have we escaped as many more, yet we not onlyrefuse to judge the future by the past, but ignore thesolemn admonitions of Washington and Jefferson and standnaked before our enemies. We have no merchant marineto develop these hardy sailors who once made our flagthe glory of the sea. We have a little navy, commandedchiefly by political pets who couldn't sail a catboat intoNew York harbor without getting aground or fallingoverboard. We have an army, about the size of a comicopera company, officered largely by society swells whocannot even play good poker, are powerful only on dressparade. We have a few militia companies, scattered fromSunrise to Lake Chance, composed chiefly of boys andcommanded by home-made colonels, who couldn't hit aflock o' barns with a howitzer loaded to scatter; who showup at state encampments attired in gaudy uniforms thatwould make Solomon ashamed, and armed with so-calledswords that wouldn't cut hot butter or perforate a rubberboot. And that's our immediate fighting force. UncleSam is a Philadelphia tenderfoot flourishing a toy pistolat a Mexican fandango. When I succeed Mr. McKinleyI'll weed every dude and dancing master out of the armyand navy and put on guard old war dogs who can tellthe song of a ten-inch shell from the boom-de-aye of asham battle. I'll call the attention of my HardshellBaptist Congress to Washington's advice that while avoidingovergrown military establishments, we should be carefulto keep this country on a respectable defensive posture,and that if that advice is not heeded, I'll distribute thelast slice of federal pie among the female Prohibitionistsof Kansas. If this is to be a government of, for and bya lot of nice old ladies, I'll see to it that none of myofficial grannies grow a beard or wear their bronchosclothespin fashion. And I'll warrant you that were thisnation ruled by sure-enough women instead of by a lotof anaemic he-peons of the money-power, Columbia wouldnot be caught unprepared when "the spider's web wovenacross the cannon's throat shakes its threaded tears inthe wind no more."

. . .

To the American patriot familiar with the rapid developmentof this country it seems that the hour must assuredlycome when its lightest wish will be the world's law—when foreign potentates will pay homage to the sovereignsof a new and greater Rome; but let us not be toosanguine, for nations, like individuals, have their youth,their lusty manhood and their decay; and despite the rapidincrease in men and money there are startling indicationsthat Uncle Sam has already passed the zenith ofhis power.

"First freedom, then glory, when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption—barbarism at last."

Freedom we have won, and glory, yet both have failed—we have become, not the subjects of native Caesars, butthe serfs of foreign Shylocks. Wealth we now have, andOriental vice, and corruption that reaches even from thesenate chamber through every stratum of society. Thatwe are approaching barbarism may be inferred from themagnificence of the plutocrat and the poverty of theworking people. The first reaps where he has not sownand gathers where he has not strewn, while if the latterprotest against this grievous injustice they are brandedas noisy Bryanites or lampooned as lippy Populists. Tothe superficial observer, a nation seems to be forgingforward long after it has really begun to retrograde.There's an era of splendor, of Lucullus feasts, of Bradley-Martin balls and Seeley dinners; there's grand parade ofsoldiery and ships, miles of costly palaces, and wealthpoured out like water in foolish pageantry; there'srefinement of manners into affectation, dilettantism,epicureanism—but 'tis "the gilded halo hovering 'round decay."

The heart of that nation is dead, its soul hath departed,and no antiseptic known to science will prevent putrefaction.How is it with us? Forty thousand people ownone-half of the wealth between two oceans, while 250,000own more than 80 per cent. of all the values created bythe people. What is the result? Money is omnipotent.Power is concentrated in the hands of a little coterie ofplutocrats—the people are sovereigns de jure and slavesde facto. A mongrel Anglomaniaism is spreading amongour wealthy, like mange in a pack o' lobo wolves. Ourplutocrats have become ashamed of their country—probablybecause it permits them to practice a brutal predacity—and now cultivate foreign customs, ape foreign fashions,and purchase as husbands for their daughters the upper-servants of European potentates—people who earned theirtitles of nobility by chronic boot-licking or sacrificingtheir female relatives to the god of infamy. Year afteryear these titled paupers—these shameless parodies onGod's masterpiece—paddle across the pond to barter theirtawdy dishonor for boodle, to sell their shame-crestedcoronets to porcine-souled American parvenues, who if spawnedby slaves and born in hell would disgrace their parentageand dishonor their country. Our toadies and title-worshippers now have a society called the "Order of theCrown," composed of puppies who fondly imagine thatthey have within their royal hides a taint of the impureblood that once coursed through the veins of corrupt andbarbarous kings. Perchance these dudelets and dudineswill yet discover that they are descended in a direct linefrom King Adam the First and are heirs to the throneof Eden. Our country is scarce half developed, yet it isalready rank with decadence and smells of decay. Ourliterature is "yellow," our pulpit is jaundiced, our societyis rotten to the core and our politics shamefully corrupt—yet people say there's no need of iconoclasts! Perhapsthere isn't. The iconoclasts used hammers, while thosewho purify our social atmosphere and make this onceagain a government of, for and by the people may haveto empty gatling guns and load them with carbolic acid.National decay and racial retrogression may be inferredfrom the fact that alleged respectable white women havebeen married to black men by eastern ministers who insiston solving the race problem for God and the South bygiving to the typical American of the future the complexionof a new saddle and the perfume of a Republican powwow.When these ethnological experts tire of life, they should—come to Texas. When white people lose their racial pridethey've nothing left that justifies the appointment of areceiver. We hear a great deal about "race prejudice,"and I want to say right here that there's just enough of itin my composition to inspire an abiding faith that thewhite man should be, must be, will be, lord paramount ofthis planet. I promise you that when you elect me to thepresidency, nothing that's black, yaller or tan gets anoffice under my administration. I shall certain not followMark Hanna's understudy and fill the departments atWashington with big, fat, saucy blacks, to employ whitewomen as stenographers and white men as messenger boys.There's lots of good in the Senegambian—lots of it; butnot in a thousand years will he be fit for Americansovereignty. Half the white people are not fit for it, elseinstead of a wooden-headed hiccius doctius we'd have BillyBryan in the presidential chair today. Whenever I lookat McKinley, I think of Daniel Webster—not because Billresembles old Dan, but because he doesn't. I like thenegro in his place and his place is in the cotton patch,instead of in politics, despite the opinion of those who havestudied him only through the rose-tinted lorgnette of"Uncle Tom's Cabin." I also like the Anglomaniac inhis place, and that is the geographical center of oldEngland, with John Bull's trade-mark seared with a hot ironon the western elevation of his architecture as he facesthe rising sun to lace his shoes. As between the nigg*rand the Anglomaniac, I much prefer the former. Thefull-blooded nigg*r is a fool positive, but the Anglomaniacis an ass superlative. The first is faithful to thosewho feed him; the latter is a sneaking enemy to thecountry that has conferred upon him every benefit.

Despite the optimistic cackle anent the march of science,industrial progress, and all that sort o' thing, it appearsto be the general consensus of opinion that there's somethingradically wrong. There's no lack of remedies—the political drug store is full of panaceas, each with thetrade-mark of some peculiar school of therapeutics blownin the bottle. Strange that all these catholicons forearthly ills propose to inaugurate the millennium byimproving the pecuniary condition of the people—as thoughthe want of money in this or the other pocket were theonly evil. Certainly a better distribution of wealth weredesirable, but a general dissemination of God's grace werefar preferable. Given that, all worthy reforms willfollow; without it we will continue to chase foolishrainbows to our fall, Dives becoming more insolent, Lazarusleft more and more to the care of the dogs. I do notmean that by acquiring a case of the camp-meeting jerkswe will solve the riddle which the Sphinx of Time ispropounding to this republic—that we will find the solutionof all life's problems in the amen-corner. Not exactly.The average church is about the last place to which weneed look for relief. It's too often a lying rainbow paintedon the dark mist of ignorance by the devil's own artist.It promises more and performs less than a Republicancandidate for Congress. I've noticed that shoutinghosannahs has little tendency to make one more truthful—that when a man professes himself the chief of sinners,he may feel obligated to substantiate his statement. I'venever known a man to borrow any money of the bankon the unctuosity of his amen, but I have known peoplewho could double-discount Satan himself at dodging anhonest debt, to weep real water because I declined to comeinto their sectarian penfold and be measured for a suit ofangelic pin-feathers. There are many church people whowill slander you unmercifully for dissenting from theirreligious dogma, then seize the first opportunity to stickyou with a plugged dime or steal your dog. There areworshippers who do not consider in outward rites andspecious forms religion satisfied; but these neveraccumulate vast fortunes. The path to heaven is too steep tobe scaled by a man weighted down with seven milliondollars. He may be long on hope and faith, but he'sshort on charity, and without charity religion is as biga fraud as McKinley's international bimetallism. Charityis a word that is awfully misunderstood. If a man'sincome be $5,000 a year and he gives half of it to theless fortunate, he's a pretty decent fellow, but if hereserves for himself half of a $100,000 income while peopleare going hungry to bed, he's simply a brute. With aworld full of woe and want, what right has any professedfollower of Jesus to shove $50,000 a year down his jeans?The true test of a man's charity is the sum which hereserves for himself; hence when Jno. D. Rockefeller—mygood Baptist brother who's building collegiate monumentsto his own memory with other people's money—reservestens o' millions in excess of his needs and imagines himselffull to the muzzle with the grace of God, he's simplychasing a rainbow that may land him in Malebolge with thedull sudden plunk of a Republican campaign promise hittingthe tidal wave of prosperity. Imagine Jesus Christwith John D.'s money—loaning it at 5 per cent. a month!Why if he'd had half so much cash he'd never have beencrucified. Those who clamored for his death would haverun him for mayor of Jerusalem on the reform ticketand tried to work him for his last dollar.

. . .

If all who call themselves Christians were Christlike,then indeed might there be hope for humanity; but what isthere to inspire belief that the church will ever win theworld from a foolish quest of rainbows? What hope inTalmage, with his nightmare visions and stertorous dreams,his pilgrimings to Palestine and rummaging among themummified cats and has-been kings of ancient Egypt for"Scriptural evidence?" What hope for a people so mentallyemasculate that they can patiently listen to hisjejune wind-jamming, can read and relish his irremediabletommyrot? What hope in Sam Jones and other noisyignorami of that ilk, with their wild war on dancing andthe euchre deck, the drama and decollete? Be these thestrongholds of Abriman in his ceaseless war on Oromasdes?Does the Prince of Darkness, who once did fill the wonderingcosmos with the clangor of celestial steel, now frontthe hosts of Heaven armed with a euchre-deck? Is TaraBoom-de-aye the battle-hymn and the theater hat theblazing gonfalon of him who strove with Omnipotence foruniversal empire? Does Lucifer expect to become lordparamount of all the gleaming worlds that hang likejewels pendant in heaven's imperial concave by persuadingsome miserable son of Adam to work his toes on Sunday,dance with the girls on Monday or play seven-up for thecigars? O Jonesy, Jonesy! would to heaven that thouand all thy brother blabsters and bubblyjocks would gohang yourselves, for you know naught of the war thatrages ever like a sulphurous siroc in the human soul. Yeare but insects that infest great Igdrasyl, the ash treethat upholds the universe. One atheistical StephenGirard playing Good Samaritan in a plague-swept citywhile the preachers hit the turnpike; one deistical TomPaine, braving the guillotine for the rights of man; oneFather Damien, freely laying down his life for the miserablelepers of Molokai; one sweet-faced sister of charitybravely battling with the reeking slums of a great city,striving to drag souls from that seething maelstrom ofsin, were worth legions of those sanctified lollypops whoprate of sacrificing all for their Savior, yet never risk lifeor gold in the service of their God.

. . .

"Work is worship," said the old monks who carried thecross into the Western wilds despite all hardships, indefiance of all dangers—men for whom life was no Momusmasque,but a battle and a march, men who sacrificed allfor other's sake, accepting without a sigh disease anddeath as worldly reward. Those monks were real men,and real men are ever the world's heroes and its hope.The soul of a real man is never hidden behind the cowardlysuperficies of policy or expediency—his heart is an openbook which he who runs may read. Deceive he cannot, forthe lie blooms only on the lips of cowards. Public opinionhe may treat with kingly contempt, but self-respect isdearer to him than life, though dowered with a monarch'sscepter and all the wealth of Ormus and of Ind. There'ssomething in the words of a woman, spoken during the civilwar, which indicates that despite all artificiality and folly,beneath the cheap gilding and showy lacquer of life, theheart of the race still beats steady and strong; that abovethe infinitude of goose-speech and the trumpeting of tin-horns on the housetops may still be heard "the ever-pealingtones of old Eternity." From out the mad hell of thefight a wounded hero was borne to the hospital. Neitherpain nor approaching death could break the courage ofthat heart of oak, but a prurient little preacher, one ofthose busy smooth-bore bigots whose mission seems to beto cast a shadow on the very sun, convinced the strickenman that he was an awful sinner, whereupon he begancrying out that he was doomed to be damned. The nurse,a muscular woman who believed with the old monks that"work is worship," took the parson by the pendulous8 x 10 ear, led him aside and sweetly said: "Mr. GoodyTwo-Shoes, if I catch you in this ward again I'llthrow you out of the window." The brimstonepeddler felt that he had an urgent "call" to other fields.He stood not upon the order of his going, but hit the dimand shadowy distance like Nancy Hanks. He couldn'teven wait to pray for his persecutor or take up a collection.In vain the nurse strove to soothe her patient bytelling him that the man who gave his life for his nativeland cannot miss heaven's mercy—he but wailed the louderthat he was lost. "You came to me a hero," she cried,"and you shall not leave me a coward. If you must goto hell, go like a man." If Romans nursed by a she-wolfbecame demigods, what might not Americans be sprungfrom the loins of such a lioness! Milton has almost madeSatan respectable by endowing him with an infernal heroism,by making him altogether and irremediably bad,instead of a moral mugwump—by giving him a heart forany fate instead of picturing him as willing to woundand yet afraid to strike.

. . .

By God's grace, I mean not the kind you catch at camp-meetings with sand-fleas, wood-ticks and other gifts of theHoly Ghost; but rather an end everlasting to brummagemand make-believe, a return to the Ark of the Covenant,a recognition of that fact that the soul is not the stomach—that a man owes debts to his fellows which cannot becast up at the end of the month and discharged with agiven number of dollars. Man was not made for himselfalone, but all were made for each and each for all. Thedoctrine which now prevails of "every man for himself,"is the dogma of the devil. It means universal war, shamefulwrong and brutal outrage—the strong become intolerabletyrants, the weak go to the wall. It transformsthis beautiful world into a basket of adders, each biting,hissing, striving to get its foolish head above its fellows.If the Christian religion contained naught else of worth,its doctrine of self-sacrifice should earn for it the respectof every Atheist in the universe. Through the fogs ofignorance and the clouds of superstition that enshroudedthe Biblical ages that touch of the divine shines like apilot star.

. . .

That Persian poet who prated of "the sorry scheme ofthings" would deserve pity were he not beneath contempt.He imagined that there was a screw loose in the universebecause his quest of pleasure slipped its trolley-pole andcould not make the bubble Joy to dance in Folly's cup.

Millions make continual moan that they are not happywhen they ought to be thankful that they are not hanged.They shake their puny hands at heaven because not providedwith a terrestrial Paradise, when they ought to begiving thanks that I'm not the party who holds the sea inthe hollow of his hand. I'd make good Baptists of thewhole caboodle—would hold them under water long enoughto soak out the original sin. A man complains becauseFortune doesn't empty her cornucopia into the pockets ofhis pantalettes while he whittles a pine box and talksmunicipal politics instead of humping himself behind anenterprising mule in the cotton-patch. If his sweetheartjilts him, he's in despair, and if she marries him he wisheshe were dead. He has the mulligrubs because he cannotplant himself on a Congressional cushion, or because hefinds his wife awake and nursing a curtain lecture to keepit warm when he falls through the front fence at 5 o'clockin the morning. It seems never to have occurred to theseWerterian wailers that the happiest existence is that ofthe lower animals—that the human being of fine brain andkeen sensibilities cannot possibly be content. It is thisvery unrest, this heart-hunger that drives a man on tonoble deeds—that lifts him out of the gutter where wallowthe dull, dumb beasts and places him among the gods. Ofsuffering and sorrow were born all life's beauty. The kissof Pyramus and Thisbe is an ecstasy of pain. The hopeof immortality sprang from breaking hearts. Nations risethrough a mist of tears. Every great life-work is anagony. Behind every song there lurks a sigh. There'san element of sadness in humor itself. The Virgin Motheris known as Our Lady of Pain. The cult of Christ ishallowed by the blood of self-sacrifice and known as theReligion of Sorrow. The first breath of life and the lastgasp are drawn in suffering; and between the cradle andthe grave there lies a monster-haunted Sahara. Yet menchoose the ignis-fatuus called Happiness, and mourn thatthey cannot cover it with a No. 6 hat. They should praythe gods to transform them into contented goats and turnthem out to grass. People who cannot find happiness herebegin to look for it in heaven. Eternal beatitude isanother ridiculous rainbow. Nirvana is nonsense. If therebe a life beyond the grave, it means continued endeavor,and there can be no endeavor unless there's dissatisfaction.The creature cannot rise superior to its creator—and theuniverse is the result of God's unrest. Had he beenperfectly content he would not have made me.

Carlyle—not Mugwump Carlisle of Kentucky, but Thos.Carlyle of Great Britain-the lord of modern literature—says the hell most dreaded by the English is the hell of notmaking money. We have imported this English Gehenna,duty free, despite Mr. Dingley, and now the man whodoesn't succeed in accumulating dollars is socially damned.How many of this generation can understand the remarkof Agassiz that he had no time to make money?—canrealize that such occupation is not the sole end of man?—that time expended in the accumulation of wealth beyondthe satisfaction of simple wants is worse than wasted?It is so because from our numbered days we have stolenyears that should have been devoted to soul-development,filled with the sweets of knowledge; hallowed by theperfume of love, made gracious by noble deeds—because wehave blasted life's fair fruitage with the primeval eldestcurse. Omar strikes one true chord when he doth sing:

"A book of verses, underneath the bough,
A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou
Singing beside me in the wilderness—
O wilderness were Paradise enow!"

. . .

Diogenes was content with a tub while Alexander sat himdown by the ever-moaning sea and wept his red bandannafull of brine because he didn't know that the empire ofCzar Reed yet remained unconquered. And now bothDiogenes and Alexander have "gone glimmering throughthe dream of things that were," and little it matters tothem or to us whether they fed on honey of Hymettus andwine of Falernus or ate boarding house hash off a pewterplate and guzzled Prohibition busthead out of a gourd.The cynic who housed in a tub and clothed himself witha second-hand carpet is as rich to-day as he that reveledin the spoil of Persia's conquered king and kicked thebucket while enjoying a case of katzenjammer. King andcynic, tub and palace, lantern and scepter—all haveperished; and he that butchered thousands to glut hisgreed for what fools call glory, shines less brightly throughthe murky shadows of the century than he that made anobler conquest of himself. The haughty empires one didrear have long since crumbled into dust; the wild goatbrowses in their deserted capitals, the lizard sleeps upontheir broken thrones, and the owl hoots from their forgottenaltars and ruined fanes; but the philosophy of theother lives on from age to age, to point the folly of suchmad rainbow-chasing as that of him who thought to makethe world his monument.

. . .

Know ye not that the poorest beggar is an earth-passenger also, that thy brother, traveling his millions ofmiles per day?—where, think you? Among the stars.For him as for thee does Aurora gild the morning andApollo hang the evening sky with banners of burnishedgold; for him as for thee doth Selene draw the limpidwaters behind her silver car around the rolling worldand Bootes lead his hunting dogs afield in their leash ofcelestial fire. Ten centuries hence the dust of themillionaire will have mingled with that of the mendicant, bothlong forgotten of men; ten centuries hence the descendantsof those now peddling hot wiener-wurst may proudly wearthe purple, while the posterity of present monarchs creepthrough life as paupers. A thousand years are but as onetick of the mighty horologe of time—and the allotted lifeof man but three score years and ten! And this briefperiod we expend, not in living, but in providing the meansof life; not as creation's lords, but as slaves to our ownavarice, the most pitiful passion that ever cursed mankind.If there be a God, be thou his messenger unto men;if there be no God, then have thy unfortunate fellows themore need of thee. Wait not until a man is driven tocrime by the iron law of necessity, a woman to dishonor, achild to beggary, then organize some fake relief society forthine own glory, but put forth a helping hand in time toavert the sin and shame. The most pitiful failure in allGod's universe is the man who succeeds only in makingmoney. A thieving fox will grow fat by predacity whilean honest dog starves in the path of duty. And we havetoo many sleek Reynards prowling 'round the sheep-pensand dove-cotes of this people, too few faithful Gelertsdoing stubborn battle with predaceous beasts.

There's one class of people whom we cannot brand asarrant knaves and put in the pillory, yet who are a curseto any country. These are your Laodiceans in religionand politics, your luke-warms, your namby-pamby milk-and-cider set who are neither cold or hot. These are youreminently proper people, your stereotyped respectables.They accept the Gospel as true, not that they can comprehendit, but rather because they lack sufficient mentalvigor to deny it. They join the church and align themselveswith that political party to which the local nabobsbelong. "What will people say?" is to them the all-important problem. They have followed some old bellweather or lead-gander into the wire-grass pasture ofRespectabilia. They observe all the proprieties—at leastin outward appearance. These are the animals whose visinertia perpetuates all the abuses of wealth and power—whatsoever has the approval of two or more generationsof infamous rascals is so eminently respectable. Theseare the people who are so profoundly shocked by thealleged slang of Hugo and vulgarities of Goethe, whilecompelling their daughters to read the Canticles. Theyhave a conniption fit and fall in it because some shapelydanseuse kicks up her rhythmic heels on the vaudevillestage, then organize Trilbys auctions, kissing bees andgarter raffles for the glory of God. Their ideal isexpediency and their moral law the Eleventh Commandment—Don't get caught. These are the people who stone theprophets of progress. They are to the social organismwhat a pound of putty would be to the stomach of adyspeptic. They are a mill-stone slung about the neck ofthe giant of civilization. "What will people say?"Well, if you tell them a new truth, they will say that youare a demagogue or a blasphemer, an anarchist or aPopulist; but when your new truth has been transformed byTime's great alembic into an old falsehood, they will haveabsorbed it—it will have become respectable—and youcouldn't purge it from their soggy brain with Theodorus'Auticyrian hellebore. They said of Galileo, "Imprisonhim!" because he denied the old falsehood that the worldis flat; of Servetus, "Burn him!" because he dissentedfrom the ipse dixit of another heretic; of Socrates,"Poison him!" because he laughed at the too amorousgods of Greece; of Robert Emmett, "Hang him!" becausehe wasn't a Cleveland-Bayard Anglomaniac; andthey said of Jesus Christ, "Crucify him!" because heintimated the fashionable preachers of his time were a setof splenetic-hearted hypocrites. That's what people say;but occasionally there's one to answer that 'tis not in thepower of all Xerxes' hosts to bend one thought of hisproud heart—"they may destroy the case of Anaxarchus,himself they cannot reach." It is not what foolish soundis shaped by a deal of stinking breath and blown adownthe wind to be forgotten like the bray of an asthmaticburro, to perish like the snows of yesteryear, that shouldbe our concern—not what the idle gabble of Mrs. Grundyproclaims us, but what we actually are. Public opinionis an ever-shifting rainbow. The "heretics" of one ageare the saints of the next: the "cranks" of our own timemay be the philosophers of the future; the despised rebelsof a century ago are the men whose graves we bedeck withour garlands. Soon or late, those who court the many-headed monster, who "flatter its rank breath and bowto its idolatries a patient knee," are trampled beneath itsiron heel; but those who take duty for guiding star andare strong enough to withstand the gibes of malice and thejeers of ignorance will find that the years are seldomunjust. It has been well said that one eternity waited forus to be born, that another waits to see what we will donow that we are here. Do what thou canst and do itwith all thy might, remembering that every fice that dothbark at thee this day, every goose that stretches forth itsrubber neck to express its disapproval, will be dead in hella hundred years hence, its foolish yawp gone silentforevermore, but that thy honest act affects in greater or lessdegree all God's universe.

I am neither a Jeremiah with a lung full o' lamentations,nor a Jonah rushing round like a middle of the roaderand proclaiming, "Yet forty days and the woods willbe on fire." I do not believe that we can pick ourselvesup by our own embroidered boot-straps and hop blithelyastride a millennium built to order by McKinley, Bryan,or any other man; but I do believe that the human raceis slowly but surely working the subsoil out of its system,is becoming ever less the beast and more the god. Nationsgrown corrupt with wealth and age may fall, but othersstrong in youth and innocence will arise. Old faiths maybe forgotten, but from other and purer altars will ascendthe smoke of sacrifice. Freedom may be wounded grievouslyin her very temple by Anglomaniacs who needs musthave a royal master, yet her banner, torn but flying, willstream triumphant over the grave of tyranny. The blacknight of barbarous ignorance may often engulf the world,but "Thou, Eternal Providence, wilt cause the day todawn." The Star of Bethlehem cannot go down in everlastingdarkness—the bow of promise gleams softly luminousbehind the thunderbolt. I care not whether theNoahian tale be true that never again will the shiftingaxis of the earth pour the sea upon the plain—the rainbowis nature's emblem of peace, her cestus of love, and in itssplendor I read a promise that never again will this fairearth of ours be swept with sword and fire, deluged withblood and tears. Not to the past, but to the future, doI look for the Saturnian age, when the demons of need andgreed will be exorcised, when love will be the universallaw, the fatherhood of God the only faith. Such, myfriends, is the rainbow to which I have turned my feet.It lies afar, across dismal swamps o'er whose icy summitsonly the condor's shadow sweeps—across arctic vast anddesert isles beyond tempestuous ocean rank with dead men'sbones and the rotting hulls of ships. I shall not attainit, nor shall you; but he that strives, though vanquished,still is victor. A dreamer, say you? Ah yes, but all life isbut a dream, mystic, wonderful, and we know not when wesleep nor when we wake. I love to dream so when thestorm beats upon the great oaks, hoary with their hundredyears, and they put forth their gnarled arms and grapplewith the blast, when the lightning cleaves the inky skywith forked flame and the earth rocks neath the thunder'sangry roar. When the dark clouds roll muttering untothe East and the evening sun hangs every leaf and twigand blade of grass with jewels brighter than e'er gleamedin Golconda's mines; when the mock-birds renew theirmelody and every flower seems drunken with its own incense,I look upon the irisate glory that seems to belt theworld with beauty and my heart beats high with hope thatin years to be the storm-clouds that o'ershadow the soulsof men will recede also—that time shall come when thehuman race will be one universal brotherhood, containingneither a millionaire nor a mendicant, neither a masternor a slave.

INDEX TO THE TWELVE VOLUMES OF BRANN THE ICONOCLAST

All titles of articles appear in this index in capitals—except"Salmagundi," "Editorial Etchings," "Political Pot-pourri,"and a few other stock titles which were used in the ICONOCLAST asgeneral headings for groups of untitled short articles. The moreimportant of these untitled brief articles are indexed under thetheme or subject.

The index entries appearing in small or lower case type comprisea subject index of the leading topics discussed by Brann. As thesame subject may be variously phrased the student of Brann isadvised to glance through the index to familiarize himself withthe terminology used. Articles relating to individuals are notindexed under the proper names unless the individuals aregenerally known to the reading public. Articles contributed tothe ICONOCLAST by others than Brann are indexed under title andname of contributor but not by theme or subject.

ADAM AND EVE, I, 226
ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS IX, 206
ADVERTISING ADVENTURES III, 210
AGE OF CONSENT, THE, II, 30
AGE OF POISON, THE, XI, 202
AIR-JAMMING JINGOES, THE, III, 300
Allegorical Tales, I, 32, 1. 9, 203
AMATEUR EDITOR, THE, X, 179
AMBASSADOR BAYARD, IX, 37
AMELIE'S NEW MARRIAGE, IX, 209
AMERICAN DRUMMER, THE, II, 188
AMERICAN MIDDLEMAN, THE, VII, 122
AMERICAN PRESS, THE, VII, 52
AMERICAN SOVEREIGN, THE, V, 69
Anarchy, VI, 115; IX, 254; X, 11
ANGLO-AMERICAN INFAMY, VIII, 126
Anglomaniacs (see also England),
III 73, IV, 37, 260, V, 6, VI
254; VII, 226, VIII, 30, 126,
281; IX, 153
ANTHONY THE ABOMINABLE, XI, 235
ANTI-DANCING DERVISH, AN, IX, 183
ANTONIA TEIXEIRA, II, 286
A.P.A. (see also Catholicism),
11, 111, 187, 215; III, 12, 229;
IV, 41, 135, 264, 311; V, 242,
299, 312, VI, 4, 159, 232, VII
27, 87, 223, 295, VIII, 161
A.P.A. IDIOCY, THE, III, 12
APOLOGY FOR PATRIOTISM, AN, V, 201
"APOSTLE" AS POLYGAMIST, THE, III, 198
APOSTLE'S BIOGRAPHY, THE, II, 103

APOSTLE IN PERDITION, THE, IV, 97
APOSTLE vs. PAGAN, I, 37
APOSTLE'S RAG BABY THE, VI 154
ARE SECOND MARRIAGES LAWFUL? VI, 284
ARMENIAN MUDDLE, THE, III, 271
ARE WOMEN DEVOID OF DESIRE? I, 135
Army, Social Snobbery in, VII, 1
ASSIGNATS vs. INSANITY, VII, 42
Atheism (see also Faith; Immortality),
I, 37; III, 207; IV, 53;
V, 54; VI, 288; IX, 296, 308;
XI, 95.
ATHEISM AND ORTHODOXY
ATHEISTS AND IGNORANCE, XI, 282
AT THE EXPO., III, 148
ATKINSON'S FINANCIAL FOLLY, III, 200
AUTHOR OF EPISCOPALIANISM, THE, X, 115
BACHELORS vs. BENEDICTS, II, 134
BAILEY AND THE DAL-GAL, VI, 52
BAPTIST BELLIGERENCY, IV, 135
BAPTIST BOYCOTT, A, III, 144
BARDWELL SLOTE OF COHOSH, THE HON., X, 155
BARONS vs. BARONS, IX, 250
BAYLOR IN BAD BUSINESS, III, 29
BAYLOR'S REJOINDER, III. 150
BEANS AND BLOOD, III, 240
BEAUTEOUS REBECCA, THE, II, 12
BEAUTY AND DEATH, VII, 205

Beauty Contest, VII, 120 VIII, 307
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, VI, 312
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, IV, 93
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, XII, 193
BEECHER AND THE BIBLE, IV, 147
Beecher, Henry Ward, IV, 147; VII, 206
BEHIND THE SCENES IN ST. LOUIS, X, 205
BEHIND THE SMOKESTACK, VI, 60
Bible Stories Revised, I, 1, 226,
285; II, 94, 277; VI, 193; VII, 243
Bible, Criticism of, I, 285; IV,
147; VII, 9, 115, 195; VIII, 201
BIBLICAL BEAR STORY, A, II, 277
Bicycle Craze, I, 252; III, 146;
IV, 258, V 11, 218; VI, 161;
VII, 79
BICYCLING AND BAWDRY, III, 146
BIGOTED ARCHBISHOP, A, X, 270
BIKE BACILLUS, THE, I, 252
BILLY HOWELL'S BAD BREAK, VIII, 299
Bishop, Julia Truitt, Articles by,
VII, 143, 309; VIII, 93; X,
222; XI 25, 159. 193
BISMARCK, II. 50
Blasphemy, V, 134; VI, 122
BLUE AND GRAY, XII, 143
BOLTING POPULIST BOSSES, VII 19
BONDS vs. BUNCOMBE. IV, 56
BOOZE AND BABY SHOES. V, 39
BRACE OF BELLYACHERS, A, II, 159
BRACE OF MISSOURI BEAUTS, A, V, 109
BRADLEY-MARTIN BALMASQUE, I, 81
BRANN AND BAYLOR, XII, 29
Brann, Life of, 11, 103; VII, 25;
X, 143; XII, pages 1 to 114
BRANN IS NO MORE, XII, 74
BRANN OF THE ICONOCLAST, XII, 77
BRANN THE FOOL, XII, 106
BRANN, WILLIAM COWPER, XII, 109
BRANN'S BRAVE BATTLE, XII, 73
Brann's Death, XII, 11
Brann's Death (and events leading
thereto; see also Teixeira Case)
Brann's Lectures, XII, pages 115 to :2013
BRANN'S REPLY TO SLATTERY, XII, 204
BRANN vs. BAYLOR, X, 77
BRANNAN vs. SEASHOLES, VI, 32
BRASS COLLAR DEMOCRAT, A, VI, 57
BRAVE AND BRAINY BRANN, XII, 76
BRAZEN HUMBUG, A, V, 275
BRER. CRANFILL'S LITTLE BLUFF, VIII, 250
BRER. JONES ABILIN, IV, 297
BRITISH vs. BOERS, IV, 119
BRO. EARLY'S BAZOO, IV, 242
BROTHERLY REBUKE, A, II, 78
BRYAN, D. D., VII, 39
BRYAN PANIC PENDING, A, VI,
BRYAN. WILLIAM JENNINGS,
V 253, VI, 78, 85, 221, 308;
VII, 34, 111, 238; VIII, 47, 139
BUCK NEGRO, THE, II, 15
Business, Corruption in V 234; VII 218
BUSINESS REVIVAL, THE, III, 58
BUSINESS WOMAN THE, VII, 143
BUZZARDS ON THE WING, III, 114

CALVINISTIC CALF, THE, IV, 309
CAMPBELLITE FAMA CLAMOSA, A, IX, 268
CANDIDATE FOR CASTRATION, A, IV, 307
CARNIVAL OF CRIME. A, II, 99
CARNIVAL OF CRIME, A, VI, 301
CASH vs. COIN, II, 293
CASTOR AND POLLUX, II, 125
CAT, THE, II, 201
Catholicism (see also A. P. A.), II,
111; III, 190; V, 118, 163; VI,
33- VII, 87, 295- VIII, 1, 181;
IX, 1, 173; X, 8, 195, 270; XII, 204
CATHOLIC vs. PROTESTANT "CRANKS," V, 163
Canfleld, H. S., Articles by, X, 149; XI, 139
CHAPTER WRITTEN IN THE LIFE BLOOD, A, XII, 1
CHARITY, I 16
CHILDREN OF POVERTY, THE, XI, 25
CHRIST COMES TO TEXAS, I, 70
CHRISTIAN, THE, X, 222
CHRISTIAN COURIER, THE, V, 41
CHRISTIAN ENGLAND IN INDIA, I, 48
Christian Science VII, 253
Christmas, X, 274
CHRISTMAS CRIMES, IV, 34
Chrone, H. F., Articles by. XI, 266
CHURCH OF ENGLAND, THE, IX, 1
CHURCH AND STAGE, VII, 63
Church (see Religion, Catholicism, Preachers, etc.)
CIVILIZATION. IV, 184; I, 129

Civil War, The, I, 116 V, 5, 201;
VII, 114, VIII, 159, 272, XII, 143
Cleveland. Grover. II, 3 III, 21,
257; IV, 56, 161; V, 138; VII,
5; VIII 232: X 5
CLEVELAND AS CATO, III, 143
COINING BLOOD INTO BOODLE
COLCHIAN DAYS, II, 308
Colonel, The (Pseudonym) Articles
by, X, 105- XI, 223, 240
COMMISSION CRAZE, THE, IV, 137
COMMON COURTESAN, THE, IV, 5
CONCERNING HELL, III, 196
Connolly. M. W., Articles by, VII,
132, 283- VIII, 84- X, 185; XI,
69, 272, 297
Consent, age of, XI, 90
CONSTRUCTION vs. DESTRUCTION, VIII, 1
CONVICTION OF DURRANT, THE, III, 295
CORBETT-FITZSIMMONS AFFAIR, III. 52
CORBETT-FITZSIMMONS FIGHT, THE, III. 161
CORONATION OF THE CZAR, I, 118
CORRESPONDENT'S CURIOSITY, A, V, 46
COSTLY KISS, A, IV, 217
"COUNTESS" CASTELLANE, THE, IV, 1
COURAGE OF WOMENKIND, THE, VIII, 170
COURTESIES AND CORRUPTION, II. 260
Courts, Criticism of, XI, 99; III,
34, 295- V, 316- IX, 27; X, 257
COUPLE OF HIGH-TONED KIDS, A, IX, 128
COUPLE OF UNCLEAN COYOTES, A, X, 257
CREDIT AND PRICES, IX, 237
Crime, Suppression of, II 99, 113;
VI, 301; X, 31
CRUSADE OF CALUMNY, A, VI, 78
Cuban Question, VII, 232
CUBAN STRUGGLE, THE, IV, 203
CUCKOO CONFERENCE, THE, II, 247
CUCKOOS AND COME-OUTERS, VIII, 84
CUPID vs. CHRIST, XI, 174
Currency (see also Free Silver)
II, 3, 59, 85, 109, 162 176, 243
247; III, 58, 114, 149 200; IV,
56, 161; V, 187, 261; VI, 154,
168 V 11, 42, VIII, 5. IX, 10.-,.
237, X, 1; XI, 133 137, XII, 249
CURRENCY AND COMMON SENSE, II, 162
CURRENCY AND COMMON SENSE, II, 243
CURRENCY AND COMMON SENSE, XI, 146

CURRENCY CRAZE, THE, V 261CURRENT COMMENT, V, 124CURSE OF KISSING THE, III, 68CYCLONES AND SANCTIFICATION, V, 148

Damien, Father, II, 76; III, 158
DAMNABLE DECISION, A, II, 273
Dancing, III. 1 IX, 183; XI, 52
DANIEL WEBSTER'S PREDICTION, IV, 198
DAVIS FOLLOWS BRANN, XII, 13
DAVID AND BATH-SHEBA, VI, 193
DEADLY PARALLEL. THE, V, 4
DEAN HART OF DENVER, IX, 144
DEATH OF BRANN, THE, IX, 94
DEATH OF W. C. BRANN, XII, 64
DEATH OF DOUGLASS. II. 118
DEFENDER-VALKYRIE FIASCO, THE. III, 185
DEITY IN DANGER, THE, V, 134
DEMOCRACY DISINTEGRATING, III, 63
DEMOCRATIC DEFEAT, THE, III, 257
Depew, Chauncey, VIII, 222
DESTRUCTIVE RUM DEMON, THE III, 186
Devil, The II, 74; V, 43
DISGRACE TO CIVILIZATION, A, V II, 140
Divorce. III. 250; VII, 140
DIXIE'S DALIA-LAMA, V, 138
DOGMATISM, THE MOTHER OF DOUBT, I, 163
DOLCE FAR NIENTE AND DOLLARS, X, 1
DOWN IN DIXIE. IX, 166
Dress (see Nudity)
DRUMMER'S NUMBER, II, 168
DUTCH, DEITY, AND THE DEVIL, V, 256

ECONOMIC IDEA ORPHANED, AN, VIII, 286
ECONOMICS (see Poverty; Finance;
Free Silver; Single Tax, etc.)
EDITOR'S ERROR, AN, II, 85
Education, I. 234; III. 202, 275;
IV, 47, 310: VI, 140; IX, 153
EGYPT vs. ARKANSAS, VI, 188
England (see also Anglomaniacs)
I, 48; III, 73, 185, 300, 303,
IV, 119, 133, 1$15, 220; V, 95,
142, 209; VI, 12, 123, 254; VIII
30, 126, 200, 228, 273, 281; IX
1, 101; X, 10, 12, 200; X, 114
ENGLISH WOMAN'S IDEA, AN, V 6
ENGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE, III, 275
EPICTETUS AND REBECCA, IV, 3
Episcopal Church, IV, 223; VII,
112; VII, 30; IX, 1, 65, 144;
X, 115, 298

EPISCOPALIAN MISTAKE, AN, X, 238
EUGENE FIELD, 11, 242
Eunuch, The (see Philip and the Eunuch)
EVIDENCES OF MAN'S IMMORTALITY I, 257
EVOLUTION OR REVOLUTION, I, 58
Faith (see also Atheism; Immortality),
I, 104, 257; IL 1; V, 148
FAITH AND FOLLY, II, 1
Faith Healing, III, 268, VI, 9 186; IX, 50
FAKE JOURNALISM, III, 105
FARMING AS A PROFESSION, V, 76
FATHER BRANNANS'S NEW DEPARTURE III, 190
FATHER BRANNAN vs. WILLIAMSON, VII, 295
FATHER DAMIEN'S SUCCESSOR III, 158
FAVORITE FALSEHOODS, II, 181
FAVORITE FALSEHOODS, VII, 35
Feminism (see The New Woman;
Woman's Suffrage)
Finance (see Currency; Free Silver)
FINANCIAL FETICH, A, II, 3
FINGAL'S DOG, II, 220
FISTIC PHOBIA FOLLY, THE, IV, 155
FOOLS AND REFORM, II, 176
FOOLS AND REFORM XI, 110
FOOTLIGHT FAVORITES X, 282
"FOR WOMAN'S EYE," VIII, 98
Foreign Missions, II, 77; III, 107
271, IV, 242, V, 29, 225, VI
112, 170: VII. 26
FOREIGN MISSION FAKE, V, 29
France, XI, 91
FRANK CONFESSION, A, V, 95
FRANK CONFESSION, A IX 258
FREE COINAGE OF INTERVIEWS, VI, 48
Free Silver (see also Currency)
II, 58, 247, 293, IV. 247, V
106, 228, 253, 261, 275; VI 43,
60, 202, 227, 247 260; VII, 138;
VIII, 141, IX, 278; X, 101
FREEDOM OF SPEECH, AS TO, VI, 232
FRIED IN HIS OWN FAT, V, 192
FRIEND OF THE FAMILY, A, IX,
FROM THE GODS TO THE GUTTER, VIII, 102

Gall, Brann's Lecture on, XII, 115
GAMBLERS INSULT ALMIGHTY GOD, VIII, 265
GARDEN OF THE GODS, THE, I, 184
GARTERS AND AMEN GROANS, I, 173
George, Henry (see Single Tax)
GEORGIE CLARK'S COMPOSITION, VI. 95
Germany, VIII, 192
GILLY WHO GABS, THE, IV, 33
GINX'S BABY, X, 288
Girard Stephen, VIII, 254
GLORY OF THE NEW GARTER, X, 241
GODEY'S MAGAZINE FOR MOKES, IX, 149
GOING FORWARD BACKWARDS, IX, 224
GOLD BRICK GAME, THE XI, 220
GOLD, SILVER, AND GAB, IV, 247
GOLDEN BOOK, A, XI, 12
GONE MATHEMATICALLY MAD, IV, 40
GOO-GOOS AND TAMMANY TIGER, THE, X, 149
137 V 11, 177; XI, 110
Government Ownership, VIII, 208; IX, 85
GOVERNMENTAL EDUCATION, IV, 310
GOVERNMENTAL FIRE INSURANCE, IX, 301
GRAMMAR SHARP, THE, III, 98
Grant, U S.. VIII, 244
GREAT "REFORM" JOURNAL, A, V, 140
GRECIAN GAMES, THE, V, 56
Greece, VIII, 188
GREENWALL GRAFT THE IV, 129
GROVER'S NEW GIRL, III, 21
GYPSY GENIUS, A, X, 117

HANG THE LIBELERS, III, 199
Hanna, Mark, VI, 162, 279
Harrison, Benjamin, IV, 75
HAS THE SALOONIST A SOUL? IV, 287
Hawaii, Annexation of, IX, 52
Heaven, II, 83, 22 IX, 67
HEAVEN AND HELL, III, 65
Hell, IV 97, IX, 76
HELLAS AND THE IMPS OF HADES, VIII, 188
HENRY GEORGE HOODOO, THE, IX, 133
HER BEAUTIFUL EYES, II, 222
HEROES OF HISTORY, THE, II, 123
High Society I, 81, 118 231, 11
51 116; III, 142, 174; IV, 11
93, 130, 167 201, 269, 272; V
38 109, 132, 145, 183, 192, 195
291; VI 2 111; VII 174 228,
239, 251, 252 VIII, 51, 167, 225,
277; IX, 128, 186, 264, 291, X
21, 145; XI, 7, 187, 189
Hogg, Governor II, 43
HOLY BIBLE, THE, VII, 9
HOMILY ON HELL, A, IX 76
HONESTY vs LAW, II. 130
HORP vs HARVEY, III, 55
HOWELL'S NEW HORROR, V, 159
Hubbard-Kernan, Will, Article by, XI, 235
Hubbard, Elbelt, Article on Brann XII, 106
HUMBUGS AND HUMBUGGERY, XII 151
HUMOROUS STORIES AND ARTICLES,
I, 43 II, 12, 105, 181,
201 III, 45; VI, 242; VII, 35
to 42
HUNTING FOR A HUSBAND, V, 3
Huston, Ethelyn Leslie, Articles by,
VIII. 102: X, 133, 163, 282; XI
44, 174, 306
HYPNOTIC POWER OF HER, I, 146

ICONOCLAST'S BEAUTY CONTEST, VII, 120
ICONOCLAST AND THE CLERGY, THE, V, 278
ICONOCLAST TOLD TO LEAVE TOWN, THE, IX, 199
IF OUR COUNTRY WERE CATHOLIC? V, 118
Immortality! (see also Faith), I
56, 257; II, 69; III, 196
Income Tax, II, 147, 273
INCOME TAX DECISION, II, 147
India, I, 48
INFERNAL FRAUD, AN, IV, 239
infidelity (see Atheism)
Ingalls, John J., VIII 156, 240
INGERSOLL, ROBERT GREEN
I, 37: II, 88, 174; IV, 53 222,
275; V, 1, 18, 133, 136; VI 288;
IX, 54
INGERSOLL'S COWARDICE, COLONEL, V, 136
INGERSOLL'S TEXAS ITINERARY, IV, 275
Initiative and Referendum, VIII, 62
INSULT TO OMNIPOTENCE, AN, VII, 271
Insurance (see Life Insurance)
INSURANCE AND SUCKERS, IX, 85
Ireland, II, 206; VI, 33
IS BRYAN A BOODLER? VI, 85
IS CIVILIZATION A SHAM? IV, 184
IS GOD AN INDIAN? V, 21
IS IT A CRIME TO BE RICH? VII, 125
IS IT A FAKE? III, 113
IS SUICIDE A SIN? V, 24
ISLAND CITY ANGEL, AN, V, 234
ISLE OF CHANEPH, THE, VI, 107
ISRAEL AS IT IS, II, 224
ITALIAN HERO, AN, VIII, 168
IT'S GONE AGLIMMERING, VIII, 274

Jackass Department, VII, 32; IX, 113
Jefferson, Thomas, IV, 303
JEFFERSONIAN DEMOCRACY, IV, 303
JEKYLL ISLAND JACK RABBITS, THE, XI, 240
JESUS AND JUDAISM. IX, 962
JEW-BAITER ABROAD, THE, IV, 21
Jews, The, II. 224; IV, 210; IV
264, IX, 188, 260
JINGOES AND JABBERWOCKS, VII, 70
JINGOES AND JOHN BULL, III, 73
Jingoism (see Preparedness)
JOHN BULL'S BIG BLOW-OUT, VIII, 281
JOHN BULL'S BLUFF IV, 133
JOHN BULL'S CHEAP BLUSTER, IV, 195
JOHN BULL'S CHRONIC BELLY-ACHE, XI, 114
JONAH'S GOURD, II, 94
Jones, Sam, II, 174; X, 278
Journalism (Criticism of) I, 231
250; 11, 39, 1.,9; 111, 21, 56
105, 132 210; IV, 214, 255, V
16 62, 109; VI, 48, 165; VII
52 118, 190 315 VIII, 75, 143
156, 235; IX, 101; X, 179; XI,
40, 95, 96
"JOYS OF THE JAG," VI, 305
JUDGE LYNCH AND THE LAW
Junius (Pseudonym), Articles by
X, 155; XI, 210
JUNIUS LETTERS THE II, 218
JURY SYSTEM, THE, III, 34

Kaiser, The, VII, 227
KANSAS CITY ARISTOCRAT, A, X, 21
KANSAS CURIOSITY, A, V, 100
Kansas, the Home of Cranks, VIII, 145
KANSAS TRINITY, V, 239
KENTUCKY'S DEGENERACY, XI, 37
KILLING OF CANOVAS IX, 254
"KING CHARLES, THE MARTYR," VIII, 47
22, 184, XI, 164
"KREUTZER SONATA," THE, II, 211
Kyut, Iseult, Article by, X, 205

Labor (see also Poverty; Revolution
Threatened), I, 58 VI, 220
VIII, 181; IX, 118, 303; X, 18
247; XI, 92
Labor, political coercion of, VI, 60
VII, 109, 185
Labor Unions VII 945
Ladies, Brann's lecture to, XII, 193
LADONIA'S AMAZONIAN GUARD,
LADY AND THE TIGER, THE, XI, 306
LADY AS LORD, THE, III, 195
LAIR OF THE MINOTAUR, IN THE, XI, 255
LAST LESSON, THE, XII, 85
LAST OF OUR LIBERTIES, THE, IX, 304
LATE TRAGEDY, THE, XII, 41
LATEST TRAGEDY, THE, XII, 26
LAW OF LOVED, THE, XI, 58
Lawyers (see Courts)
LECTURE TO YOUNG LADIES, A, VII. 103
LEGISLATIVE INSANITY, XI, 261
LEGISLATIVE LIMNINGS, VII, 300
LES ENFANTS TERRIBLES, VI, 260
Leslie, Maud M., Article by, XI, 129
LIFE AND DEATH I, 179
Life Insurance, VIII, 208; IX, 85; X, 264
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS, II, 69
LIFE INSURANCE INIQUITY, THE, VIII, 208
Literary Criticisms, I, 107, 149; II,
28, 211, 218, 222, 239, 242; III,
98 180; IV 139 210: V, 13,
20: VI, 266; VII, 254; VIII,
158, 207, 224, 299; IX, 173; X,
28; XI, 1
LITERARY LEPER, A, II, 313
LITERARY RARA AVIS, A, II, 239
LIVE JACKASS, A, vs. DEAD
LION OPTION AND INFAMY, IV 25
LOCAL OPTION LUNACY, THE, XII, 225
LOCOMOTIVE ENGINEER, THE, II, 141
Lone Star, The, XII, 246
LONG FELT WANT, A, IV, 213
LOOKING BACKWARD, I, 129
LOST TRIAD, THE, VI, 288
Love (see also Sex), I, 32, 101,
135, 146, 157; II, 37, 307; III,
68, 254; IV, 3, 209, 217; V, 36;
VIII, 196; X, 249
LOVE AS AN INTOXICANT? X, 249
LOVE LETTERS, V, 36
LUNATIC AT LARGE, A, V, 106
Luther, Martin, IX. 173
Lying (see Truth)
Lynch Law (see Negro Problem)
MACHIAVELLI, X, 168
MAID'S MISTAKE, A, II, 105
MAJOR MOSE HARRIS, VII, 38
MANIMON'S HIGH MUCK-A-MUCK, V, 93
MAN IN THE IRON MASK, THE, VIII, 244
MAN IN THE MOON, THE, III, 121
MANKIND'S MOCK MODESTY, IV, 84
MAN'S GUST FOR GORE, X, 31
MAN'S IMMORTALITY, I, 56
MARLBOROUGH-VANDERBILT MARRIAGE, III, 174
Marriage (see also Love; Divorce;
Sex), II, 134; III, 198; VI, 284;
X, 270
MARRIAGE AND MISERY, III, 250
MARRIAGE AND MISERY, X, 133
MARTYR TO FREE SPEECH, A, XII, 78
MAYBRICK MOVEMENT, THE, V, 142
MAYOR CAMPBELL'S MENDACITY, VI, 247
M'COON-LOGAN CONTROVERSY, THE VIII, 277
McKINLEY AID SOCIETY, THE, VI, 177
McKINLEY AND THE APES, V, 312
McKinley, William, IV, 279; V
102, 211, 270, 312; VI, 78
MEANEST MAN IN AMERICA, THE, VIII, 254
MEMORIAL TO W. C. BRANN, A, XII, 61
MESSAGE TO MARY, A. IV, 151
MEXICAN ANNEXATION, III, 297
Mexico, II, 41; III, 297
Middleman, The, VII, 122
MIDDLE-OF-THE-MUCKERS, IX, 178
"MINISTERIAL SPORTS," IV, 89
Ministers (see Preachers)
Missions (see Foreign Missions)
MONDE AND DEMI-MONDE, X, 163
MODERN MICAWBER, A, IX, 173
MODERN SIMON MAGUS, A, VI, 186
MODERN SPHINX, THE, VII, 157
MODERN THAUMATURGIS, A, VIII, 55
MODERN HE-MAIDEN, A, V, 316
Modesty (see Nudity; Love; Sexual Morality)
Monroe Doctrine, I, 23; II, 137
III, 236, 303 IX, 45
MONROE DOCTRINE, THE, II, 137
MORAL STATUS OF TEXAS, V, 91
MORALITY vs. RELIGION, III, 290
MORMONS OF MEXICO, THE, IV, 15
Morris, John A., Articles by, X,
241; XI, 202, 261
MOUTH OF HELL, THE, VI, 244

NATIONAL POEM, A, II, 28
NATIONAL POEM, A III, 180
Negro Problem, II, 15, 118, III,
240; IV, 307; V, 3; VI, 55;
VII, 5, 113, 180, 182 216 305;
IX, 27, 38, 149, 164 209 298,
X, 13, 279; XI, 54
NELL GWYN, XI, 98
NEW MESSIAH, THE. III, 268
NEW POET LAUREATE, THE, IV, 139
NEW SASSIETY SHEET A, V, 38
NEW SOUTH, THE, I, 161
NEW WOMAN, THE, III, 134
New Woman The, I, 252; III, 195
V, 62, 100, 206; VI, 20; VII, 84;
VIII, 136
NEW YORK'S NIGHT LIFE XI, 152
NEW YORK SAWCIETY SHEET, A, VIII, 167
Nobility (see Royalty; High Society)
NO CROSS-EYED CLERGYMEN, II, 186
NO LIMIT TO "LALLYGAGGING," III, 254
NUDE ART AT CHICAGO, I, 201
Nudity, 1, 201; IV, 84; VII, 103; IX, 48

OBSCENE CONVERSATION, VII, 60
OBSCENE RELIGIOUS RITES, VII, 195
Obscenity, I, 173; II, 78, 87, 215,
313; IV, 255; VI, 234; VII, 60;
VII. 195
OBSEQUIES, THE, XII, 19
OLD GLORY, XII, 239
OLD MAID'S AUCTION, AN, V, 286
OLGA NETHERSOLE'S OSCULATION, IV, 117
OPTIMISM vs. PESSIMISM, I, 221
Oratory, VIII, 245
ORDER OF THE CROWN, THE, XI, 7
OTHER STATEMENTS, XII, 6
OUR AMERICAN CZARS, V, 170
OUR CODFISH ARISTOCRACY, IV, 272
OUR FRIEND THE ENEMY, VIII, 316
OUR H. Y. C. GOVERNOR, III, 265

OUR HEROIC YOUNG CHRISTIAN GOV., VI, 215OUR JACKASS DEPARTMENT, IX, 113OUR PLASTER-OF-PARIS NAPOLEON, V, 211OUR PUBLIC PANDERS, IV, 255OUR "SISTER REPUBLIC," II, 41OVERDOING REFORMATION, III, 140

PADEREWSKI'S PULL, IV, 130
PAGET-THOMAS CONTROVERSY, V, 54
PAINE AND THE AMERICAN PEOPLE, IX, 308
PAINS OF ORATORICAL PARTURITION, VIII, 240
PANACEAS FOR POVERTY, IV, 68
PANIC AND ITS LESSONS THE, XI, 159
PANTHERVILLE PATRIOT, A, III, 229
PARVENUE IN "PAREE," A, III, 142
PASSING OF WILLIAM COWPER BRANN, THE, XII, 43
PASSING OF HOGG, THE, II, 43
PASSING OF PARNELL, II, 206
PASSING OF PINKIE, THE, IV, 214
PASSING OF PROTESTANTISM, THE VIII, 181
PASSING OF THE REPUBLIC, THE, VII, 95
PASSING OF THE STUFFED PROPHET, VIII, 20
PAT DONAN'S PROGNOSTICATIONS VI 43
PEN PICTURE OF BRANN, A, XII, 68
Pension System, III, 39, IV, 239; XI, 134
"PERFUMES OF PASSION, THE," VIII, 175
PERFUNCTORY PRAYER, II, 30
PETTICOAT AS A PALLADIUM, THE, XI, 129
PHILADELPHIA'S FEMALE FOOLS, XI, 199
PHILIP AND THE EUNUCH, VII, 45
PICTORIAL PAIN-KILLER, X, 28
PILGRIMAGE TO PERDITION, A, I, 91
PILLS AND POLITICS, X, 200
PLAGUE OF POETS, A, VI, 266
PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP FAKE, THE, I, 101
PLEA FOR PATRICIATE, A, IX, 154
POET PRIEST, THE, XI, 193
Poetry, 1, 104, III, 223; VI, 266;
Political Corruption, II, 260; VII,
95, 225, 300; VIII, 5
POLITICAL HIPPODROME, A, IV, 191
POLITICAL OLLA-PODRIDA, A, V, 113
POLITICAL PARTIES, III, 63
112; IV, 299; V, 69, 88; VIII
62, 81, 199, 204, 304; IX, 157
178, 250
POLITICAL POINTERS, VI, 29
POLITICIANS AND PENSIONERS, III, 39
Polities (see Texas Politics, Poverty; Currency; etc.)
POLITICS IN THE PULPIT, VI, 174
Polygamy, IV, 15
POOR OLD TEXAS, I, 207
POOR OLD TEXAS, VI, 205
POSTAL INEPTITUDE, III, 192
POTIPHAR'S WIFE, I, 1
Poverty (and Wealth), I, 58, 81
91; II, 51; IV, 68, 198; V, 93
170; VI, 23, 144, 218, 277; VII,
125, 157, 245; VIII, 65, 105,
134, 310; IX, 118, 224; XI, 163;
XII, 249
POWER OF PRAYER, THE, VII, 211
Prayer, II, 30; IV, 305; VII, 211,
PRAYERS FOR THE PAGAN, IV, 63
Preachers, I, 197; II, 156; III,
101, 117, 261, 290; IV, 43, 89
219, 222, 297, 314; V, 232, 278;
VI, 1, 120, 174; VII, 14; VIII,
98 152, 154, 254; IX, 95, 111,
114, 144, 268, 295, XI, 169
PREACHER IN POLITICS, III, 117
PREACHERS AND FREE PASSES, IV, 219
PRECIOUS PAIR, A., IV, 314
Preparedness, Military, I, 23; II,
137; III, 303; IV, 226; V 237;
VII, 70 IX, 45, 283; X 228,
XI, 215
Press (see Journalism)
PRICE'S PREDICAMENT, II, 215
Private Vengeance, XII, 100
Prize Fighting, II, 281; III, 52,
113, 161, IV, 155; V, 199, VIII,
49, 156 194; X, 15
PRIZE IDIOT OF THE EARTH, IX, 278
PROFESSIONAL FAILURES, V, 76
PROFESSIONAL REFORMER, THE I, 270
Prohibition, II, 254; III, 186; IV,
21, 233, 281, 287; V, 8, 39, 41,
130; VI, 17, 305; VII, 242,
VIII, 137, 148, 162, 203; IX,
194; X, 277; XI, 127; XII, 225
PROHIBITION PLAGUE THE, II, 254
Prostitution (see also Sexual Morality),
I, 187; III, 101; IV, 5,
89, 270
PROTECTION vs. FREE TRADE, IV, 229
Protestantism (see Catholicism)
PRURIENT TEXAS PREACHER, A, IX, 111
PUBLIC PEDAGOGUE, THE, I, 234
PUBLIC SCHOOL FARCE, THE, III, 202
PUFFERY OF THE PRESS, I, 250
PUGILISM AND HYPOCRISY, II, 281
PURELY POLITICAL, III, 235
"QUO VADIS," XI, 1

Race Problem (see Negro Problem)
RAINBOW CHASERS, XII, 276
Rape (see Negro Problem)
RAPE FIEND REMEDY, THE, IX, 38
RECIPROCITY IN PRAYER, IV, 305
RECIPROCITY IN SUGAR PLUMS, VII, 190
RECTOR PAGE'S PROTEST, IV, 223
Reed, Tom, V, 314
Reedy, Wm. Marion, Articles by
VII, 205; X, 117, 168, 288, 302;
XI, 12, 58, 80, 98, 118; XII, 94
Reformers, I, 270 III, 140; VII,
157; IX, 224, XI, 110
REIGN OF THE RED NECKS, THE, XI, 250
RELIGION A DISEASE, IV, 36
Religion and Science, I, 129, 163, 171
RELIGIOUS BOYCOTT, A, III, 298
Religious (or Church) Criticism,
I, 16, 70, 125, 163, 171, 285; II,
1, 22; III, 65, 290, 294; IV, 36;
V, 21 148; VII, 63; VIII, 20,
181, IX, 1, 67, 76; X, 253, XI,
180, 282, 310
Religious Intolerance vs. Religious
Freedom, II, 30, 149, 264, III,
61, 111, 144, 298; V, 256; VI,
27, 229; VII, 235, 271; VIII,
52, 150; IX, 57, 63
Religious Press, II, 78, 112; IV,
79, 182 VII, 30, VIII, 250
REMARKABLE PUBLIC EDUCATOR, A, VI, 140
REPUBLIC IN DANGER, THE, II, 233
REPUBLIC IN PERIL, THE, IX, 45
REPUBLIC'S TEXAS ITINERARY, THE, III, 182
REQUIESCAT IN PACE, I, 118
REST—REST IN PEACE, XII, 56
RESTRICTED IMMIGRATION, XI, 118
RETORT COURTEOUS, THE, X, 72
REVOLT OF HEN-PECKED HUSBANDS, V, 206
Revolution Threatened, I, 23, 58;
91; IV, 68; V, 170; VI, 144;
VII, 157; IX, 118, 303
Rich, The (see High Society; Poverty and Wealth)
RIDDLE STILL UNRAVELING, DR., IV, 222
RIDDLE UNRAVELING, THE, IV, 43
RIGHT ROYAL ROAST, A, X, 38
ROASTING THE SHEMALE RANTIPOLERS, VII, 49
ROGER LAWSON'S BOMBSHELL, IV, 211
Rockefeller, John D., XI, 172
Royalty (see also High Society
Anglomaniacs), I, 118; VII, 49;
VIII, 277, 281
Rudyard Kipling, Maker of Writings XI 139

SACRED LEG SHOW, A, V, 34
SACRIFICE FOR COUNTRY'S SAKE, A, IV, 39
SALVATION ARMY NUISANCE THE, V, 45
SALVATION NO LONGER FREE, III, 294
SANCTIFICATION AND THE SWORD, II, 149
SANCTIFIED SHARK, A, V, 232
"SASSIETY" IN NEW YORK CITY, VI, 211
SATAN LOOSED FOR A SEASON, V, 43
SAVIOURS OF TEXAS, THE, II, 310
SAW-MILL CHECK SYSTEM, THE, X, 247
SCIENCE OF KISSING, THE, I, 157
Schools (see Education)
SCHOOLS OF JOURNALISM, III, 194
SECOND EPISTLE OF THE "APOSTLE," IV, 182
Second Wife The, XI, 266
SEMPER VIVAT IN MEMORIAM, XII, 70
SENATOR'S WOES, A, II, 39
SEVEN VIALS OF WRATH, THE, I, 23
SEVENTH COMMANDMENT, THE, I, 209
Sexual Morality (see also Prostitution),
I, 1, 135, 173, 209, 271,
274; II, 90, 170; III, 1, 146,
279, IV, 5; V, 34, 66; VII, 149
VIII, 20, 196; IX, 218, 246
SEXUAL PURITY AND GUN-POWDER, V, 66
SEXUAL SINS OF AMERICAN SOCIETY, VII, 149
SHEOL TO PAY AT PARIS, VI, 229
SHERMAN AND CLEVELAND, IV, 161
Short Stories (see also Allegorical
Tales; Humorous Stories), II
125, 69, 141
SHOULD "BOB" BE HANGED? V, 1
SIGNS OF THE TIMES, THE, IX, 118
SIMPLE STATEMENT OF FACTS, XII, 82
Single Tax, III, 78; VIII, 68, 105
286 IX, 133; X, 38: 230
SINGLE TAX, THE, VIII, 105
SINGLE-TAXERS, THE, III, 78
SISTER'S SHAME, A, III, 101
SIX-SHOOTER, THE, IV, 51
SLANDERING THE SOUTH, VII, 5
SLATTERY AND HIS DUPES, II, 187
Slattery, Brann's Reply to, XII, 204
SLAVE OR SOVEREIGN, XII, 249
SLIPPERY BILL McKINLEY, V, 270
SMASHING THE IDOL-SMASHER, VII, 315
SOCIAL SWIM, THE, IV, 167
SOCIETY'S FEMALE CARD SHARPS, XI, 182
SOLDIERS OF PEACE, THE, IV, 315
SOME CHEERFUL LIARS, VII, 277
SOME ECONOMIC IDIOCY, X, 236
SOME EDUCATIONAL IGNORANCE, IV, 47
SOME ENGLISH POETS, XI, 80
SOME GOLD-BUG GUFF, X, 101
SOME KANSAS CITY CULTURE, XI, 187
SOME MILLIONAIRE MENDICANTS, VI, 277
SOME MISTAKES ABOUT MONEY, IX, 105
South, The, I, 161, III, 315, V
127; VII, 5; IX, 166
SPEAKING FOR MYSELF, X, 183
SPEAKING OF BRANN, XII, 62
SPEAKING OF GALL, XII, 115
SPEARING OF nigg*r BABIES, VI, 1
SPEAKING OF PEDIGREES, III, 188
SPEAKING OF SPIRITUALISM, X, 96
SPEARING OF TEXAS, IV, 143
SPECIMEN APE, A, IV, 135
Spiritualism, X, 96
Stage, the, IV, 117, 129, VII, 63
STAGE AND STAGE DEGENERATES, THE, X, 214
Stock Exchange, The, VIII, 265
STORY OF THE OUTRAGED BROWN, XI, 223
STORY OF THE SEA, A, I, 32
Suicide, V, 24
SUNDAY IN NEW YORK, III, 61
SUNDAY IN WACO, III, 111
SUNDAY JOURNALISM. III, 56
Sunday Laws (see Religious Intolerance
vs. Religions Freedom)
Swindle, Gold Brick, IV, 64
SWORD AND THE CROSS, THE, X, 253

Talmage I, 187; II, 83; IV, 140;
V, 93; IX, 67
TALMAGE'S INDIGESTION IX, 67
TALMAGE THE TURGID, I, 197
TALMAGE'S WAR TALK, IV, 140
Tammany Hall, IV, 1
Tariff, IV, 229
Taxation (see also Single Tax), X, 236
TEDDY'S DAGOS, VII, 51
TEIXEIRA AFFIDAVIT, THE, VI, 125
Teixeira Case, II, 286; III, 29, 150
222; V, 81: VI, 125; X, 63, 77
TEIXEIRA-MORRIS CASE, THE, III, 222
TEIXEIRA-MORRIS CASE, THE, V, 81
TEMPESTUOUS RELIGIONISTS AT TEMPLE, XI 108
TERRIFIC DEADLY CONFLICT, XII, 32
Texas, I, 184, 207; II 159, 310;
IV, 143, 167; IX, 189; XII, 246
TEXAS AND TOLERANCE, II, 264
Texas Politics, II, 43 59, 247;
III, 161, 265; IV, 39, 285, 312;
V, 2, 91, 113, 198, 220, 224; VI,
52, 57, 95, 205 215, 236; VII,
19, 87; VIII, 147; X, 66
TEXAS SINGER, A, IV, 210
TEXAS TOPICS, X, 63
THAT TEXAS TESTIMONIAL, IV, 312
"THE CAT CAME BACK!" IV, 1
THERE'S ONE COMES AFTER, I, 203
THIRD TERM CONSPIRACY, V, 59
THOSE CHINESE OUTRAGES, III, 107
THOMAS CARLYLE, I, 107
THOU SHALT NOT, V, 243
THREE-CORNERED CONTROVERSY A, II, 174
THREE-CORNERED CONTROVERSY, A, III, 112
THOSE FASHIONABLE FORNICATORS, V, 145
THROWING STONES AT CHRIST, I, 125
TIENS TA FOI, I, 104
Tipping System, V, 159
THY BROTHER'S WIFE, XI, 245
TO GOV. CHARLES ANSERINE CULBERSON, V, 2
Tolstoi, II, 201
TOM REID'S CANDIDACY, V 314
TOMMIE WATSON'S TOMMY-ROT, X, 195
"TOO MUCH WORLD," VI, 144
TOUCH OF HIGH LIFE, A, II, 51
TOUR AMONG THE TITANS A, VII, 254
Trenholm, John Swope, Article by, XI, 255
TRILBY AND THE TRILBYITES, I, 274
TRILBY PARTIES AND PIETY, VIII, 30
TRUE LOVE TRIALS, III, 43
Truth vs. Lying, II, 34, 305 VII, 277
TWO "GREAT" ISSUES, THE, V, 68
TWO OF A KIND, X, 246
"TYPICAL AMERICAN TOWN, THE," X, 105

UNCLE SAM IN THE SOUP, V, 209
"UNCLE WILLIAM" CAMERON, IV, 64
UNDER WHICH FLAG? VII, 138
Unemployment (see Labor; Poverty;
Revolution Threatened)
UNFAITHFUL LORD, THE, XI, 44
UNITED STATES ARMY ASININITY, VII. 1
UNPROFITABLE CONTROVERSY, AN 1, 171
UNRAVELED RIDDLE, AN, III, 261
"UNWRITTEN LAW, THE," IX, 218

VERY BAD BREAK, A, VI, 202
VICTOR HUGO'S IMMORALITY, I, 149
Victoria, Queen, VII, 49, VIII
281; IX, 61
VISION OF HEAVEN, A, II, 22
VISIONS AND DREAMS, II, 83
VOICE FROM THE GRAVE, A, V, 237

Waco (Texas), Description of, VII
290; XI, 31
WACO'S "WARWICK" II, 59
WAIL FROM THE A. P. A. V, 299
Wanamaker, John, XI, 97
WANTED: ONE WORD, IX, 209
War and Religion, X, 253
WAR OR WIND? III, 303
War, Prophecy of World War, I, 23
WARD, W. H., XII, 17
WASHINGTON'S WICKEDNESS, XI, 210
WATSON, J. L., VII, 41
Watterson, Henry, VII, 137; VIII, 270
WAYSIDE SERMON, A, III, 207
Wealth (see Poverty; High Society)
WEALTH OF NATIONS, THE, IV, 226
Weapons, Carrying of, IV, 51
WEARY MUGWUMP, A, IX 158
"WEDDING OF THE SEASON, THE," V, 291
WHAT IS A JINGO? IX, 283
WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH MISSOURI? X, 302
WHO IS MARK HANNA? VI, 279
WHY AND WHEREFORE, THE, XI, 31
WHY THIS IS THUS, VIII, 81
"WHY WE HATE GREAT BRITAIN," IX 101
WILDE AND HIS WORSHIPERS, II, 170
WILLY WALLY TO WED, IV, 201
WILLY WALLY TO WED, V, 183
WITHIN CONVENT WALLS, VII, 87
Woman, Courage of, VIII, 170
WOMAN IN JOURNALISM, V, 62
Woman's Suffrage (see also New
Woman, The), I, 66; IV, 151;
VI, 7
WOMAN THOU GAVEST ME, THE, I, 66
WOMAN'S WICKEDNESS, I, 190
WORD ABOUT WACO, A, VII, 290
WORKING FASHION'S FOOLS, I, 231
WORKING WOMAN, THE, VII, 309
Wyche, Robert Lee, Articles by, X,
214; XI, 152