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The Complete Works of Brann, the Iconoclast — Volume 12

by William Cowper Brann · English · Gutenberg #569 · 592,966 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Complete Works of Brann, the Iconoclast — Volume 12

Author: William Cowper Brann


        
Release date: June 1, 1996 [eBook #569]
                Most recently updated: April 1, 2015

Language: English

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THE COMPLETE WORKS OF BRANN THE ICONOCLAST

VOLUME XII



CONTENTS

A CHAPTER WRITTEN IN THE LIFE BLOOD OF W. C. BRANN AND
     THOS. E. DAVIS
OTHER STATEMENTS
BRANN'S DEATH
DAVIS FOLLOWS BRANN
W. H. WARD
THE OBSEQUIES
THE LATEST TRAGEDY
BRANN AND BAYLOR
TERRIFIC DEADLY CONFLICT
THE LATE TRAGEDY
THE PASSING OF WILLIAM COWPER BRANN
REST--REST IN PEACE
A MEMORIAL TO W. C. BRANN
DEATH OF W. C. BRANN
A PEN PICTURE OF BRANN
SEMPER VIVATIM MEMORIAM
BRANN'S BRAVE BATTLE
BRANN IS NO MORE
BRAVE AND BRAINY BRANN
BRANN, OF THE ICONOCLAST
A MARTYR TO FREE SPEECH
EDITORIAL ETCHINGS
SIMPLE STATEMENT OF FACTS
LET THE PLAIN TRUTH BE TOLD
THE LAST LESSON
SALMAGUNDI
THE DEATH OF BRANN
PRIVATE VENGEANCE
BRANN, THE FOOL
WILLIAM COWPER BRANN
SPEAKING OF GALL
BLUE AND GRAY
HUMBUGS AND HUMBUGGERY
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
BRANN'S REPLY TO SLATTERY
THE LOCAL OPTION LUNACY
OLD GLORY
THE LONE STAR
SLAVE OR SOVEREIGN
RAINBOW CHASERS


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

A CHAPTER WRITTEN IN THE LIFE
BLOOD OF W. C. BRANN AND
THOS. E. DAVIS.

THE STREET DUEL TO THE DEATH
IN WACO STREETS.
THERE ARE TWO MORE WIDOWS
AND 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 a
street 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 of
the time of the first tragedy, and within a half block of
the locality of the other, W. C. Brann and Tom E.
Davis engaged in a street duel in which each of them was
mortally wounded, and three others received slight
wounds.  Four fatalities within five months of each other
are bloody records in the history of the city of Waco,
all of which can be traced to the same source, all of which
were born of the same cause.  The publication last
year in the ICONOCLAST and the incidents following the
publication are well known.  They have been published
far and wide, the kidnaping of Brann, the assault upon
him by the Scarboroughs, the Gerald-Harris affair, and
the hurried departure of Brann on one occasion.  During
all these incidents Tom E. Davis was an outspoken citizen
of Waco.  He denounced the author of the ICONOCLAST
articles and said he should be run out of town
and had continued throughout it all to condemn the
"Apostle."  This caused bad blood between them, and
although Davis had remained in the city all the time,
and Brann had been on the street constantly, there had
been no outbreak or conflict.  Each knew the feeling of
the other in the matter.  Such are incidents preceding
the shooting and leading up to it.

.  .  .


To trace the movements of the two men during Friday
afternoon appears easy at first, but as the investigator
proceeds in his search for information he meets conflicting
statements.  Tom Davis left his office on South
Fourth Street, No. 111, about 5 o'clock or a few
minutes later.  Brann, accompanied by W. H. Ward, his
business manager, is alleged to have been standing at
the corner of Fourth and Franklin Streets as Davis
passed to the postoffice corner, en route to the transfer
stables.  In his ante mortem statement Davis says that
he heard Brann remark, "There is the s----of a b----
who caused my trouble."  Davis didn't stop or resent the
insult, but passed on.  Soon after he called on James I.
Moore at his office in the Pacific Hotel building and
together they were discussing the city campaign.  According
to Mr. Moore's statement, he was standing with his
back to the south facing the door and was looking toward
Austin Avenue.  Davis was facing him, his back to the
avenue, and in a position which prevented him seeing
anyone approaching from Austin Avenue.  Brann and
his companion approached coming south, and as they
passed, Mr. Moore says, Brann halted, looked him
squarely in the face and passed on.  Davis did not see
the editor and his manager, as he chanced to turn
just as they came up and as it happened he kept his back
to the "Apostle" and his companion.  From Mr. Moore's
office, Davis passed into the Pacific Hotel bar and thence
to his office.  Brann and Ward soon after returned to
the Pacific; there they met Joe Earp of Laco, from the
western part of the county, and the three walked together
to Geo. Laneri's saloon.  Brann and Ward passed into
the saloon, Earp remaining on the outside.  They passed
out within a short time and passed down Fourth Street to
the Cotton Belt ticket office.  Thence on to the newsstand
of 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 of
equal reputation for veracity and conservatism tell
different stories.  They are all honest in what they say,
they all believe they saw what they relate, but the
conflict in statements is yet there.

Messrs. W. W. Dugger, Joe Earp, M. C. Insley and
S. S. Hall agree as to the first shot.  They say it was
fired by T. E. Davis at W. C. Brann, when Brann's back
was turned.  Others say Ward participated in the shooting,
while numbers say that Ward did not.  Here a conflict
occurs.  At any rate, the first shot was fired by
Davis, and it was immediately returned by Brann.  Ward
got between the two and in the firing he was shot in the
right hand.  Davis fell at the first shot from Brann's
pistol and writhed in agony.  He soon recovered presence
of mind and raising himself upon his elbow returned
the fire, Brann standing off shooting into the prostrate
form, while Davis with unsteady aim was returning the
fire.  Every bullet from the "Apostle's" pistol found
lodgment in the form of the duelist engaged with him.
All was excitement.  It was an hour, 6 P.M., when South
Fourth Street was crowded, and the rapid report of the
pistols caused a stampede of pedestrians, each of which
feared contact with a stray bullet.  In it all there was
one who displayed his devotion to duty, his bravery and
coolness--Police Officer Sam S. Hall.  Mr. Hall was
standing near the insurance office of George Willig, not
forty feet away.  He turned at the first report, and
seeing the duel in progress, bravely made his way toward
the men.  Brann was shooting from the north, and it
was toward the north the officer started.  Davis was
facing north.  At each fire of the gun Officer Hall would
screen himself in a doorway, dart out and rush to the
next, gradually nearing them.  Officer Dave Durie was
across the street, and he started also, but Officer Hall
reached them first, but too late.  Each man had finished
shooting, Davis had fallen back upon the pavement and
his pistol rolled from his hand.  Brann was standing,
pistol in hand, its six chambers empty, looking upon the
lengthened form of his antagonist.  He had not spoken.
Wounded in three places, blood was soiling his linen and
his clothes.  He was yet upon his feet, and Officer Hall,
not knowing how serious were his wounds, started with
him to the city hall, being joined almost immediately
by Officer Durie.

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

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

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

While in the news stand, Mr. Davis became conscious
of approaching dissolution and desired to make an ante
mortem statement.  Assistant County Attorney Sluder
was present, and County Clerk Joney Jones, and to them
he gave the following version of the affair:

DAVIS STATEMENT.

"I left my office and started to Manchester's livery
stable.  At the corner of Franklin and Fourth Streets
passed Brann and Ward.  Brann remarked, there goes
the damn s---- of a b---- that has caused all my trouble.
Passed on and went to Manchester's stable on some
business, then came back to Waite's saloon and stopped for a
drink.  I then started for my office, but near Haber's
store on Bankers' Alley I met them again.  They began
to curse and abuse me again.

"Went on to the office; they followed me and I went
to the urinal in the rear, then came to the front of the
office.  At the door Brann said, 'There comes the dirty
cur and s---- of a b----; he will take anything.'  Brann
then pulled his gun and I shot at him; my gun hung in
the scabbard.  The reason he shot me was because I was
loyal to my town and always expressed myself.  He murdered
me.  They both shot me after I fell.  They shot
in my back, blinded me and I could not see.  I make
this statement, for I know I am dying.  He has been
trying to kill me for three months."


* * *
OTHER STATEMENTS.

EYE-WITNESSES GIVE SOMEWHAT CONFLICTING ACCOUNTS.

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

"I met Mr. Brann in front of the Pacific Hotel, and
having heard of him and read after him, I was curious
to know him.  It was our first meeting; in fact, the first
time I had ever seen him.  We talked together, Mr.
Ward with us, to Laneri's saloon.  They went inside and
I left them.  In a few minutes they came out and crossed
the street, going to the Cotton Belt ticket office.  They
moved together towards Austin Avenue, but half turned,
conversing one with the other.  They reached the newsstand
and stopped.  I saw a man whom I have been told
was Tom E. Davis, come out a door and shoot.  Brann's
back was turned to the man, and while I did not see the
bullet strike him, I supposed he was shooting at Brann.
Ward turned as soon as the shot was fired and reached
for the pistol.  Brann turned instantly, gun in hand,
and commenced shooting.  Ward got in between the two
and then jumped away, against the wall.  Davis fell at
Brann's first fire and rolled over a time or two, and
raising himself on his elbow, returned Brann's fire.  They
emptied their pistols.  When Davis fell Brann stepped
back a short distance and then advanced toward Davis,
shooting at him, but he never approached nearer than six
feet.  Ward never fired a shot.  I saw the whole affair and never
did he fire or produce a pistol.  When the
shooting was over a man came out of the office and took
Davis' pistol from the walk."

J. C. Patterson was seen.  He stated:

"I was with R. H. Brown of Calvert.  We walked
into the street from the Pacific Hotel sidewalk, and were
walking north when we heard a shot.  Three shots were
fired quickly and I saw Davis fall.  I remarked, 'They
have killed Tom Davis.'  I saw two men shooting, or
Brann had two pistols.  Davis raised on his elbow and
returned the fire.  I did not see the first shot."

Sherman Vaughan said:

"I was passing along Fourth Street and reached a
spot just in front of Geo. Laneri's saloon.  I heard a shot,
and looking toward the place from whence the sound
came, I saw Tom Davis reeling backward toward the wall
in front of his place of business.  He either fell against
the sign in front of his office or the wall, I could not tell
which.  Mr. Brann was standing some eight or ten feet
from him with a pistol in his hand and smoke was between
them.  Then followed a rapid succession of shots.
I could not see Mr. Davis shoot for the smoke, but could
see Mr. Brann plainly.  Mr. Davis fell to the sidewalk
and then almost rose to his feet and fell again.  He then
rolled along the sidewalk towards the alley and must
have turned over half a dozen times.  Then another man,
whom I do not know, joined in, and he and Brann fired
shot after shot at Mr. Davis as he rolled along the
sidewalk.  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 the
Pacific Hotel building, and we discussed the proposed
meeting at the city hall.  He and I walked out on the
sidewalk just in front of my office.  I stood at the south
side of the door facing north and Mr. Davis stood directly
in front of me on the sidewalk by the wall.  We were
about two feet apart.  While talking, W. C. Brann came
down the sidewalk from the direction of Austin Street.
He advanced within two feet of Mr. Davis and myself and
stopped; looked me squarely in the face and then at Mr.
Davis.  I did not speak to Brann and don't think Davis
saw him until after he passed on.  Brann passed on in
the direction of the postoffice.  Almost immediately after
Brann left, Davis left me and walked up Fourth Street
towards his office, and I saw him cross the street to his
office.  I then advanced to the edge of the sidewalk and
stood there alone about four or five minutes, when I
heard a shot in the direction of Davis' office.  I looked
that way and three shots seemed to be fired almost
simultaneously.  Davis fell to the sidewalk and writhed as
if in terrible agony.  Brann seemed to be nearest to
Davis, a very large man being close in Brann's rear.
This man, I learned afterwards, was W. H. Ward.  While
Davis was rolling on the sidewalk both of these men were
very rapidly firing upon Davis.  They seemed to poke
their pistols almost against Davis' body as they fired.
After the first four or five shots the smoke became too
dense to see all that occurred.  The first sight seemed to
chill 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 saloon
and heard somebody say, 'Look out!'  I glanced across
the street and saw Tom Davis on the sidewalk.  He had a
gun in his hand and fired at once.  Brann and Ward
were 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 the
latter fired the second time.  Brann fired as soon as he
turned around and at his second shot Davis fell backwards.
Ward, it seemed to me, had gotten to one side of
Davis and was reaching for Davis' gun.  As the latter
fell back, Ward backed up to the building.  He did not
have a gun and did not shoot."

M. C. Insley, shipping clerk for Brann:

"I was standing in the doorway of Sam French's
cigar store as Brann and Ward reached it.  They had
just passed the doorway, going toward Austin Street,
when Davis appeared with a gun in his hand.  He fired
at once.  I could not see Brann at this time.  Davis
fired the first shot and immediately I heard another shot,
I suppose from Brann, and almost simultaneously a second
shot from Davis.  As the latter fired the first shot Ward
jumped and grabbed the muzzle of Davis' gun.  He let
go as the shot was fired.  He did not have a gun.  I
backed away from the door.  The shooting was thick and
fast.  Davis fell back at the door of French's as Brann
fired the last shot and his gun dropped from his grasp.
John Williams, who appeared quickly, grabbed it, and
screening 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 alley
next to the Cotton Belt ticket office when the first shot
was fired.  We were close to the scene.  I glanced
instantly in that direction and saw Tom Davis with a
smoking pistol in his hand.  At the same time I saw
Brann turn around and face Davis, from whom he appeared
to be distant about fifteen feet, I should judge.
He fired and fired again almost at the same time.  In the
meantime, the man with Brann, whom I learned afterward
was Ward, had rushed up and caught Davis and it
seemed as if he struggled with him a moment.  When
Brann fired a second shot, Davis fell.  Ward had turned
him loose at this time.  Davis rolled over and over on
the sidewalk and fired, I think, two shots while he was
down.  While he was rolling over, Brann kept shooting at
him as fast as he could work the trigger.  Mr. Ward did
not fire a shot.  I saw the whole affair and know that
he did not and he did not exhibit a weapon of any kind.
He slipped back close to the building when he let go of
Davis, and when the shooting was over walked up the
street.  I saw a man come out of Williams' place and
make an effort to get Davis' pistol.  I can't say whether
or not he got it.  I don't know where he went.  Policeman
had reached the scene and arrested Brann."

Policeman Sam Hall said:

"I was standing in front of George Willig's office at
the alley and Fourth Street on the same side of the street
and say forty or forty-five feet away from the place
where the shooting took place.  I was talking to Mr.
Dugger and was standing out on the sidewalk.  Some
four or five minutes before the shooting occurred I looked
across the street and saw Brann and Ward standing in
front of the haberdasher store of L. Krauss, and at that
time Davis passed them and went on a couple of doors
and stepped inside of the storeroom at that point.  I
then looked away, not having any idea at all of any
trouble, but just happened to see them.  The next thing
I noticed was the men were close together in front of
French's newsstand with Davis between me and Brann
and Ward.  The first of the trouble I saw Davis had his
pistol in his hand and instantly fired.  Brann whirled and
commenced firing at Davis.  I immediately started to
them, but had to work my way in and out of one door to
the other and work my way along the wall of the building,
as Brann was shooting directly toward me all the
time.  I hallooed several times at them to stop shooting,
and just before I reached them Davis fell on the sidewalk
and Brann was still shooting.  Davis attempted to
rise and Ward caught Davis by the shoulders and pulled
him back down on the sidewalk.  Davis turned with his
face towards Brann and kept trying to fire, but his pistol
snapped.  I jumped over Davis and caught Brann and
took the pistol out of his hands.  Brann's pistol is a
Colts .41, latest improved, and was loaded all around
and all chambers were freshly fired.  When I caught
Brann, Ward was standing up by the wall holding his
hand that was shot.  I saw Ward fire no shots and I saw
no pistol in his hand.  I then started with Brann to the
city hall, and as I crossed the street towards the Citizens
National Bank, Police Officer Durie came up and assisted
me 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 was
removed to his home, where Drs. Foscue, Hale, Graves and
C. E. Smith attended him.  Soon after arriving there he
appeared to have reacted from the shock and there was
every indication of an improvement.  At 11 o'clock there
was a change, hemorrhage of the lungs occurring
frequently.  In addition to the immediate family circle a
number of devoted friends (and no man ever had more devoted
friends than Brann) were at the home, anxious to render
the offices of friendship.  At midnight the physicians
said there was no chance and the family gathered about
the bedside.  During the long minutes which followed, a
loving wife and two children sat by that bedside and
watched the unconscious man.  His life hung by a thread
and while surgeon's science was being used to strengthen
the strand that held the life, Death's knife was on it.
They watched by his side, and as they watched they saw
him seek sweet repose.  The anguish of the wife and
those children was terrible, but they awaited the visitation
to that happy home, kind friends being near to speak
sweet words of comfort.  At 1.55 A.M. he died.  His
features showed no pain, and when life left his body, the
face appeared as that of one in a sweet, peaceful sleep.

The remains of W. C. Brann were prepared early
Saturday morning and lay in state all day at the residence
on North Fifth Street.  Hundreds of ladies visited the
home and viewed the face of the Apostle.  It was natural
as life itself.  He lay upon a catafalque in the parlors
at 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 and
has been engaged in the newspaper business ever since.
He was connected in an editorial capacity with the Galveston
News, Houston Post, San Antonio Express and
Waco Daily News.  In 1890, during the Hogg-Clark
campaign, he established the ICONOCLAST in Austin, Texas,
and made a fight for Hogg, making his first appearance
in the character which has made him famous.  The paper
suspended publication and Mr. Brann accepted a position
on the San Antonio Express, which he held until the
latter part of 1894.  He came to Waco in 1895 and began
editorial writing on the Waco Daily News.  He decided
to reestablish the ICONOCLAST and it has been a great
success, reaching a phenomenal circulation, having readers
all over this country.  The tragedy of Friday can
be traced to the attack which was made on Baylor
University in the ICONOCLAST.  It was in Brann's peculiar
style, and attracted considerable attention throughout
the 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 bedside
there was a loving wife, a dutiful son and kind friends
sitting by the bedside of Tom E. Davis.  For the first
six hours Dr. J. C. J. King, Dr. Curtis and Dr. Olive
endeavored to bring their patient about.  He was
perfectly conscious, but was yet suffering from the shock.
At midnight he was no better and a change for the
worse was soon noted.  The patient would awake from
the effect of opiates, talk with those about him and then
relapse again into slumber.  He knew his son and wife,
friends who called and friends who spoke to him, but there
was rapid pulse and a labored breathing that indicated
the approach of death.  Throughout the small hours of
the new-born day the wife sat by that couch, and with her
sat kind friends.  Everything known to science was done
to save the life that fleeting breath told was fast ebbing
away.  There was not a continued loss of blood, but
with a perforated frame, the creature of nature could
not exist, and it was evident he was fast nearing the end.
The dawn of early morning found the faithful watchers
yet at the bedside, and the rising sun peeped into the room
and shed a glow about the sick room, appearing to light
the way for the soul which was soon to wing its flight
to realms beyond.  The circle about the couch enlarged,
children of the wounded man gathering about their weeping
mother, his sister and other relatives coming to watch
and wait.  During the early hours of the morning and
until the forenoon was advanced, friends paced the lobby
of the Pacific hoping every moment for a report that the
patient was better.  Each minute passed as an hour, and
the hours seemed as long drawn out days.  Each report
from the sick room was "no change."

At noon it became evident that but a short time
remained.  A. C. Riddle sat upon one side of the couch
and Richard Selman at the other, the first rubbing the
injured portion of the wounded right arm, while the other
moistened the parched lips with constant applications of
cold water.  By Mr. Riddle sat the weeping wife, soon
to be a widow, and about the apartment were gathered
the children.  The last hour of the citizen was one which
will never be forgotten by those who watched his last
moments.  Labored was the breathing and every breath
was a gasp and a groan.  His children stood by the couch
and saw the pain-racked form, and his wife held his hand
and prayed to the God of all people to spare him to her
for a longer time.  Prayers were of no avail and tears
did not soothe the pain.  He was in agony, and
accompanied with that agony was a desire to say something.
He relapsed into slumber at times and would at intervals
awake.  His eyes would roll about the gathered friends
and relatives, and an unintelligible sound would escape.
There seemed to be no control of the tongue except at
times he could utter the words, "Wife" and "Molly."
The silence in the sick room was disturbed by the gasp
of the dying man and the weeping of his family.

The hour of 2 o'clock came and the breath was shorter
and harder.  Little Nellie, 2 years of age, was brought
to the bedside, and looking at her father in childish
innocence 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 caught
them and echoed the music of the child's voice, and
probably that music joined the music of the great beyond,
where the soul was soon to be.  If the ear of the dying
man, who gave every indication of consciousness, caught
the words of his baby, his death was made happy, even with
the pain that racked his wounded form.  He saw the
anguish of the wife and children, it was to comfort them
with a last word that he sought to speak the last word
that he could not utter.  At 2.20 it was seen that death
was upon him, and the rapid gasp for breath plunged the
entire family into violent weeping.  Mrs. Davis had
controlled herself as best she could.  The long hours were
spent in a labored effort to hold back the anguish of her
bleeding heart, but when she saw her husband in the last
moments of death she could control herself no longer.
Death came at 2.30 o'clock.

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

Tom E. Davis was 42 years of age.  He was born
in Waco and was the son of Judge James F. Davis, a
pioneer settler of Waco.  Tribune readers who have lived
here twenty years or more will remember Judge Davis.
From 1876 to 1878 he was one of the two justices of the
peace in Waco.  He has followed the life of a railroad
man for many years, but finally gave it up to locate in
his native city.  He has been engaged in the real estate
business 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 large
number.  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 of
the wounds of T. E. Davis.  Justice W. H. Davis had,
viewed the body and the examination was made at the
request of Sheriff John W. Baker.  They could trace
four bullets as having struck Mr. Davis.  While there
were a number of wounds, the surgeons found that the
same bullet made more than one or two holes.  Two were
found to have struck in the left shoulder about the same
place.  One of these came out at the back and the other
passed around the chest wall and lodged near the spine
near the waist.  One went externally in the chest and
came out of the arm-pit, and another made a flesh wound
in 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 arrested
Friday night, as stated above.  Baker & Ross, and Charles
R. Sparks were retained as his attorneys and he was
arraigned before Justice W. H. Davis at once, on a
charge of assault with intent to murder.  Mr. Sparks
appeared in court and waived all formalities and the
question of the amount of the bond was discussed.  Mr.
Sparks suggested $4,000 and this was agreed upon and
fixed by the justice.  Mr. Waller S. Baker was out of the
city at the time, and after presenting a certified check
for the amount of the bond, Mr. Sparks decided to await
Mr. Baker's return before acting in the matter.  When
Mr. Baker arrived at 10.30 o'clock there was some talk
on the streets of a mob, and it was decided that Ward
would be safer in jail awaiting developments.  When Mr.
Davis died Deputy Constable Cliff Torrence went before
Justice Davis and made complaint charging murder.

Mr. Ward had come down town Friday to meet his
brother whom he was expecting to arrive from Tyler.  He
joined Mr. Brann on the street, and while they were
together the tragedy occurred.

Mr. Ward was at Mr. Brann's burial Sunday afternoon
accompanied by Mr. Baker.  His wounded hand
was bandaged and in a sling.  At the jail he had been
called on by many friends and telegrams from various:
points, proffering aid and sympathy, came to him.  Ward
was greatly moved by the death of Brann.  He did not
talk 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.  I
wish, however, to deny the statement that I participated
in the shooting or had a pistol.  I did not expect a
difficulty and the first shot startled me as a thunder-clap
in a clear sky.  I turned to Davis with pistol drawn and
grasped the muzzle of the weapon and was shot in the
hand.  I regret the death of my friend, but cannot discuss
the details of the tragedy."

Messrs. Waller S. Baker and Charles R. Sparks state
that after the shooting they went to Mr. Brann's
residence and in the presence of outside witnesses found
Ward's pistol.  It was loaded all round and showed no
indication of having been discharged.

Mr. Ward had been associated with Brann for some
time.  They were co-workers on the Waco News and
when the Apostle began lecturing Ward became his
manager.  They had been firm friends and when Ward was
in the city he made his home with Mr. Brann, and the
two were always together.  Ward is well liked by those
who know him and he has a number of friends throughout
the country.  He is a man of fine physique, is a dignified,
courteous gentleman.

While there was for a short time talk of a mob Friday
night, Sheriff Baker believed that cool judgment would
prevail and that nothing would be attempted.  He was
prepared, however, to protect his prisoner, had trouble
been precipitated, and a number of citizens volunteered
their assistance had danger threatened.


THE OBSEQUIES.

BRANN AND DAVIS LAID TO REST SUNDAY.

Beneath two mounds, each banked with flowers, one in
Oakwood, the other in First Street Cemetery, were laid
the victims of Friday's tragedy Sunday afternoon.  Never
were two funerals in this city more largely attended, and
never was the dead followed to a last resting place by
sorrowing friends with the reverence that was shown
yesterday.  At each home, the Davis residence in the Fifth
Ward, and the Brann residence on North Fifth Street,
friends began to gather shortly after noon, and they
crowded through the two homes, on the lawn of one and
about the yard of the other.  Each man had his friends,
and each had hosts of them, and they desired to show
by their attendance at this last service their devotion to
those friends who were now gone to the great beyond.
Each procession was a long one, the Davis cortege moved
from the home on Dallas Street to Elm, thence west on
Elm to the suspension bridge.  When the hearse, which
was preceded by vehicles covering three blocks, containing
Knights of the Maccabees, turned into Elm Street, vehicles
were yet falling in line at the home, the procession
extending more than a dozen blocks in length.  All
classes and conditions of men were in the line, from the
lowest to the highest, citizens of Waco joining in the
respect to the citizen whose tragic death was known.  He
was well liked, and being liked, they sorrowfully joined
in this tribute to his memory.  There were services at
the home, conducted by Rev. Austin Crouch, of East Waco
Baptist Church.  Dr. Nelms was to participate, but a
sudden illness prevented him being present.  The service
commenced by the singing by the choir of Some Sweet
Day.  Those composing the choir were Messrs. W. T.
Millman, W. E. Brittain, W. R. Covington, J. S.
Henderson, Mrs. McDonald and Misses Josie Davis, Nannie
Huff and Shirley Faulkner, all of the East Waco
Baptist Church.

After the reading of the 23rd Psalm by Rev. Austin
Crouch, followed by the singing of Nearer My God to
Thee by the choir, Mr. Crouch began a short talk, which
went deep into the hearts of his hearers and was a beautiful
tribute to the noble characteristics of the deceased.

He began by quoting the poem, The Hour of Death, by
Mrs. Hemans, to illustrate the thought that man cannot
reckon upon the hour of the coming of death.

He drew attention to the fact that "it was said of
Moses that he died when his eye was not dim nor his
natural strength abated."  He said it had been thus
with the deceased, he having been taken from life in the
prime of manhood, aged 42.  He referred to him as a
loving husband and devoted father, and possessing the
love of a host of friends, as the vast concourse assembled
about his bier testified.

Mr. Crouch then referred with words full of
tenderness and pathos to the wife and six children whom the
husband and father had left when taken from life, and
in 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 loyalty
to his friends and his willingness always to sacrifice
anything to them.  He said of him that he was a good
citizen, who for the last several years had devoted much of
time and talents to upholding all the virtues of good
citizenship, adding that it was not often that one met a man
nowadays who could be called a good citizen.

Mr. Crouch closed a talk that was well chosen and
effectively delivered by warning his hearers that they
were but mortal and to be prepared for the hour of
death.  With his final words he commended the loved
ones of the deceased to the mercy and care of Almighty
God.

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

When the procession reached the cemetery impressive
services, according to the ritual of the order, were
conducted by Commander Ben Richards of Artesian Tent,
Knights of the Maccabees, a final prayer was offered by
Rev. Crouch and the body of Tom Davis was lowered to
rest.  The floral tributes were beautiful.  Friends brought
cut flowers and evergreens, and two large designs especially
were noticed.  One was a large wreath of red and white
flowers, twined with crepe, the red, white and black being
the colors of the Maccabees.  This was sent by Artesian
Tent No. 6, of which the deceased was a member.  The
other was a large anchor, fully four feet in length
composed of yellow roses and white carnations.  It was a
huge piece, beautifully made, and testified the friendship
of him who sent it, Mr. Connor.  The pallbearers were
Judge 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 on
the hour.  It had been fixed for 3 P.M., but there was some
delay.  During the moments just preceding the funeral
services Mrs. Brann went upon the lawn herself,
accompanied by a friend, and she directed the cutting of
certain buds and roses which had been favorites of her
departed husband, and when the services were held in
the parlor she placed this collection of cut flowers upon
the head of the casket.  The entire place was crowded
with sympathetic friends, and by her side were Mr. Brann's
sister and her husband, who came to Waco to attend the
funeral, 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. Tekla
Weslow Kempner sung Mr. Brann's favorite selection,
The Bridge.  The service was conducted by Rev. Frank
Page of the Episcopal Church.

The procession was a very long one.  It extended all
along Fifth Street from the house, and when Austin
Avenue was reached a large number dropped out of the
line, as was done in the Ross, Coke and Harris funerals,
and proceeded to Oakwood by other streets.  A brass
band preceded the procession, playing martial music.
The street was lined with pedestrians and vehicles, some of
whom stood for thirty minutes waiting for the cortege.
The delay was occasioned, however, at the home.  Soon
after the services were concluded, Mrs. Brann requested
that the casket be opened again, and her request was
complied with.  For a few minutes she was alone with
her dead, and in that few minutes she gazed for the last
time upon her companion, her loved one and her husband.
When the procession reached the cemetery it was found
that a large number had preceded the cortege to the
grave, many vehicles and persons on foot being in waiting.  A
large 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 this
evening at the request of Mr. Brann's family to lay
tribute upon his grave.  I speak as a friend living for a
friend dead.  No ordinary man has fallen in the person
of W. C. Brann.  Nature fashioned him to be a power
among his fellow men.  By industry, by hard study, by
careful observation, by diligent research, by interminable
effort, he rose from comparative obscurity to teach and
impress the civilized world.  In the person of W. C.
Brann we have an illustration of what may be expected
in a country like ours.  He was a natural product of our
American democracy.  He was a star that rose by dint
of his own effort, his own determination, surrounded by
circumstances that invited merit from the common people,
from the whole people.  W. C. Brann was a cosmopolitan
character.  He could never be confined within the
limits of a party or a creed.  So great was his grasp,
so far-reaching his thought, that he lived in the world
and not in a mere party.  He was found always with
that party or with that sect that represented what he
thought to be right and true.  A peculiarity of this man
was his dual personality.  Few people fully understood
him in this respect.  As a bold genius, as an intellectual
giant, as a man armed and equipped with intellectual
fire, and as a man with a noble ambition to stand by
the right, he was a sworn foe of hypocrisy and fraud.
And when he took into his brave hands the pen, he made
fraud and hypocrisy quake and tremble.  Burning words
came from his tongue, scorching and branding every fraud.
Men looked upon him then as a hard man, as a heartless
man because he told them the truth.  But the other side
of this man's individuality, I, for one, have had the
opportunity to see.  He could not only sow intellectually;
he was not only able to entertain the civilized world with
burning words, with thoughts that were winged and that
went like lightning, but he was a man of heart and of
honor, and a man of the warmest and most generous
love.  He could go towards the skies intellectually, but
in his heart he lived close to nature.  He loved nature.
He loved the very trees under whose shade he rested.  He
loved the little birds that sang in the trees, the grass
upon which he walked, the flowers that bedecked the
forest.  And he loved his fellow man.  He had a warm,
generous heart and affection that went out to the poor
and those who were needy.  W. C. Brann was never
known to attack a man who was a man.  It was the strong
and the defiant that he branded, and not the weak and
the 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 entertaining
sentences, but I knew him as a man whose palm was stretched
out to the man who was in need.  Few men have been
more generous with their charity than my neighbor and
my friend whom we lay away to-day.  No man within my
knowledge ever presented the world with a purer, a nobler,
a loftier home character than W. C. Brann.  Oh! how he
loved his wife and his dear little children--not only the
children that were living, but the child that was dead.
How ardently he strove to support, maintain and bless
them.  And what a friend they have lost.  No man ever
approached W. C. Brann for a penny that he did not
respond, and from his beautiful home no beggar was ever
turned away.  I am afraid many people who only knew
Mr. Brann as a genius, as a man of eloquence and power
with the pen, knew little of him as a man of heart and
affection.  But, I, as his friend, as a friend of his wife
and his fatherless children, I thank the people of Waco
to-day that they have testified of their affection for this
man.  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 made
his impression upon the world and we will never forget
him.  Let me then say, for I must be brief, I am reminded
by the stormy elements about us that I must not detain
you longer, let me say in conclusion that Brann is not
dead.  His burning words still live, and his thoughts will
yet remain to affect the world, and we will never forget
him.  And I say to his wife and children, though to-day
you feel crushed by this great sorrow, I know by
experience that our dead do not pass away from our minds.
They grow more beautiful the longer we live.  We remember
them with greater pleasure, more tenderly, they will
always be just like they had been.  They never change.
The little girl that you laid away in Houston is to-day in
your mind just what she was then.  And the dear husband
that 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 her
children, let me thank you for this presence, for this
demonstration of your appreciation of this man who has
so suddenly, so unexpectedly, fallen in our midst.  Let us
cherish his memory, remember his virtue, and imitate his
daring courage in defiance of that which he thought was
evil and wrong.  He was not without his faults.  None
of us are.  He was always ready and willing to admit that.
No man was more willing to answer for his work than
W. C. Brann.  Therefore I ask for him that judgment
to-day we shall all crave of one another when we shall
have passed away.  We will now lay his body in the
grave, we will cover it with mother earth, and upon it
place these flowers as a testimonial of our love and
affection for him."

At the grave, the bouquet which Mrs. Brann had laid
on 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 piece
upon the casket and it was closed in the grave.  There
was a large number of floral offerings.  Flowers were
there in profusion.  But as at the other funeral, two
pieces were especially noticeable.  One was a huge broken
wheel, full three feet in diameter, all in white, composed
of lilies of the valley, hyacinths and roses.  It was the
gift of the employees of the ICONOCLAST, and William
Marion Reedy of St. Louis.  The Knight Printing Company
sent a large anchor about three feet long, which
was composed of pink carnations and white roses.  The
following 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 deaths
of Brann and Davis unless those who survive are to draw
from the tragedy lessons which, rightly applied, will bring
peace and good to society and especially to this
community?  If not this, then far better silence.  In the news
columns of the paper we have told the story of the battle
to the death, fought on the public streets, of the death
scenes and burial.  And all over this land, where newspapers
are printed, the story has been told and millions
have read.  There will be no adequate estimate of the effect
the reading will have upon the minds of the millions.  It
is certain that the most patent result will be to discredit
this community in the esteem of the people whose good
opinion our people would like to have, and to react in ways
that will affect the material welfare of this city and very
likely of the county, too.  Beyond all question the
deplorable events of last year, opening with October, have
operated to the detriment of Waco, and beyond all question
the latest chapter of blood and violence will intensify
the distrust, unless it is evidenced that this is to be the
end, and that hereafter peace and order are to prevail, and
the sacredness of human life be more assured.  This is
why we say it is little use to write or discuss the passing
of Brann and Davis, beyond rendering the tributes of love
and affection, unless our people are to learn from the
deaths the lessons of forbearance and tolerance and
subordination of passion and prejudice to the nobler and
better ends and aims of life.  Asperity and bitterness must
be buried in the graves with the dead.

Brann and Davis have gone to a judgment higher than
that of men, and both, we venture to hope and believe, have
found how true it is that God is Mercy, as well as justice.
For our part, we would rather let them rest in peace and
not essay an analysis of their attributes and actions.  We
will say this of Brann, that though he could write with a
pen of vitriol, in his private life he could be and was as
gentle as a woman, and his aspirations were those of
generosity and kindness, of faithfulness to friends.  His home
life--with wife and children--was a poem that never
ended till he died.  His genius was superhuman.  As Mr.
Shaw truly said in his remarks at the grave, it is not
likely that we shall ever see his like again in this
community.  Davis was cast in a different mold mentally, a
man of quite another type.  He was sturdy and practical
and took the world precisely as he found it.  It was indeed
a strange fate that brought these two men face to face
in deadly conflict and made of Davis the instrument to put
an end to Brann's earthly career.  Both men loved and
were beloved.  Widows and orphans mourn them.  Let the
dead rest in peace, for good can be said of each.

It is the manifest duty of this community to forbear
from discussion of what might have been, or who sowed
the wind that brought the whirlwind.  At the best, years
of patience, unselfish, earnest work will be needed to restore
our city to the place it might hold in the esteem of men.
The fool will say:  "It makes no difference what others
think."  It is a fool's consolation and a fool's argument,
for the cold truth is that not alone the prestige and good
repute of our fair city have been marred, but material
progress and prosperity have been affected.  Population,
capital, skill, brawn, industry, morality hold aloof--not
wholly, of course, yet to a degree that is material and
unfortunate.  It is possible to remedy this, but not until
we prove to the world that toleration and peace are to rule
here, and that human life is not to be held as the cheapest
thing society has to lose.

The following account of the mobbing of Brann in the
fall preceding his death (see Brann's article "Ropes,
Revolvers and Religion" in Vol. X.) is taken from the
Waco Tribune for October 9, 1897 It is reproduced
here to enable the reader to better interpret the
circumstances of Brann's death.


BRANN AND BAYLOR.

As to the Brann-Baylor episode, the old adage, "two
wrongs 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 have
wrought any good, either to Baylor or the cause of
morality in general.  It merited the protest and indignation
it 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 a
disadvantage, in that men who hold the views respecting
virtuous womanhood that most Southern men (and himself
included) do could not defend the article.  And Brann is
a man who we have always found to be true to his friend;
not one to place a friend in an embarrassing or unpleasant
position.  He illustrated how a wonderfully brilliant man
may astonish the world and himself, too, by perpetrating
a grave blunder or mistake.  We cannot understand how
he came to print the article.

And as for the course of the Baylor students who laid
forcible hands on Brann and by mob power compelled him
to sign humiliating admissions and apologies, their course
was about as grave a blunder as was Brann's.  It is not
palliation to argue how indignant they were and how
natural their indignation.  Perhaps those in authority at
Baylor who are said to have known beforehand the purpose
of the student mob and quietly winked at--if they
did not openly commend it--are more to blame than the
boys who did the work, for the older heads were naturally
expected to display the wisdom of mature years.  It is the
truth that the authorities who condoned and the students
who perpetrated the lawlessness are equally beyond the
pale of defense.

It was thus that two wrongs and not one right were
done.  All the parties to the wrong will have to take the
consequence.  Brann has impaired the prestige of the
ICONOCLAST, students and university authorities have
brought unnecessary reproach on Baylor, given it
undesirable notoriety.  Baylor is part and parcel of Waco.
All of us, regardless of creed, helped to rear it.  Its good
name and welfare are matters of concern to all.

Brann, if he knew of disgraceful facts or episodes
connected with Baylor, should have given names, dates and
specific details.  And some student, professor, patron or
friend of Baylor--someone with a daughter, sister or
female relative there--thus vested with the God-given right
of resenting slurs on the virtue of girl students, should
have been found willing to deal with Brann personally, and
somewhere else than on the university grounds with Brann
helpless and bulldozed.  Any man thus acting with defense
of his womankind as his plea may, if his pretensions are
valid, always risk public opinion and jury verdicts in this
county.

We hope this matter will end where it is.  Nobody wants
to see Brann driven away from Waco, nor do we believe
such a thing can be done.  Men will be found in ample
numbers to maintain his right to dwell here.  He is a
brilliant man, who can be distinctly useful as a writer.
On his part he owes something to the community which
is willing to maintain his every right--to the friends who
are still his friends even if he makes a mistake, and that
is to remember that Baylor University is part and parcel
of Waco, and that the reputable element of society here
does not share his views concerning the disrepute alleged
to attach to Baylor.  Most of us wish Brann well; most
of us wish Baylor well.

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

.  .  .

Since the above was put in type the assault made by
Judge Scarborough, R. H. Hamilton and George Scarborough
on Mr. Brann has occurred.  Judge Scarborough
has a daughter, George Scarborough a sister, who has
recently been a student and is now a member of the faculty
at Baylor.  It will thus be understood how Brann's article
could aggrieve the father and brother.  If either one had
taken a shotgun and killed Brann on sight, public opinion
would have held such a course far more commendable than
the 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 no
jury in this county would award any penalty for the
slaying.  But the overpowering attack by three men was
itself a mob attack--three may constitute a mob as well
as ten or twenty.  Of course there will be some to defend
the trio of assaulters, but the consensus of public opinion
will be against it and by the greater part of our people
it will be regarded as essentially unfair.  It has not served,
so far as we can see, any good purpose, but to the
contrary has intensified the bitter feeling existing here.
Brann's friends never indorsed his article on Baylor, but
this assault justified their indignation.  As for Judge
Scarborough, we must regret his act and express surprise
that 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 Brann
from the Waco "Times-Herald."  See the editorial for the
attitude of this paper.  The ante-mortem statement of
Davis, and the statements of Moore, Hall and Sherman
Vaughan are identical in both papers and are therefore not
repeated.  The "Times-Herald" gave no statements from
Earp, Petterson, Chase, Insley nor Dugger.  Note other
statements 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's
ICONOCLAST, and Tom E. Davis, a prominent real estate
man of this city, lie dangerously wounded with a likelihood
of their dying at any moment.  William H. Ward, an
employee of W. C. Brann, is shot through the right hand.
Sigh Kennedy, a motorman on the street car line, is shot
in the right knee, and Kepler, a traveling musician, is shot
in the right foot.  The three men last named are only
slightly wounded.

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

Tom E. Davis is shot twice in the right arm, the balls
going through the arm, leaving four holes, one in the upper
left arm near the shoulder on the outer part of the arm.
This ball ranged to the back and came out just a little
ways in the left shoulder.  Another shot took effect in
the right breast, near the nipple, ranged outward and
backward, coming out of the back near the side.  Another
shot took effect in the back, near the right side, about the
waistband, ranged outward and downward and lodged just
over the spine, just under the skin.  Another shot took
effect just under the right arm, ranged backward, coming
out about six inches in the back.  This made a total of
six shots that took effect in Davis' body.

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

Yesterday it seems that Mr. Brann, in company with
Mr. W. H. Ward, an employee of his, made it convenient
to come in contact with Mr. Davis, and one of them,
supposed to be Mr. Brann, cursed Mr. Davis as he passed
them.  Mr. Davis had been out on the street where he had
just been passed by the men a couple of times and returned
to his office on Fourth Street, between Franklin and Austin
Streets.  He had been in his office only a minute or so
when Messrs. Brann and Ward passed, with Brann on the
inside.  As the two men passed Mr. Davis says that one
of them remarked in a loud voice, "There is the damned
cowardly son of a ----.  He will take anything," to which
Mr. Davis replied, "Are you scoundrels talking about me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the moment the first shot was fired citizens rushed
to the scene from every part of the city, and in a moment
after the firing had ceased there were fully one thousand
persons on Fourth Street surging around French's newsstand,
while there were two-thirds that number at the city
hall where Mr. Brann was being attended to, and up until
after midnight the streets were filled with hundreds and
hundreds of citizens grouped here and there in all of the
hotels and on the street corners discussing the one absorbing
question--"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 Fourth
Street, passing Messrs. Brann and Ward standing in front
of Krauss' store, near Bankers' Alley, when I met Hermann
Strauss, who insisted that I go back across the alley
to Laneri's saloon.  As we went back I saw Brann and
Ward still standing where they were and at that moment
Tom Davis had just come up the sidewalk in front of
Laneri's and, leaving Bankers' Alley without crossing it,
he went immediately to his office.

"In a moment I saw Brann and Ward go directly to
Davis' office.  I thought nothing unusual of this, not
knowing that any difficulty was liable to occur and went in to
Laneri's to take a drink.  In a moment or so I heard two
or three shots fired, and I immediately ran to the door.
When I got where I could see the men I saw Davis on the
ground 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 rushed
right into the shooting and caught Brann."

JOHN SLEEPER.

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

"I was standing in the Fourth Street entrance to my
store and was looking south on Fourth Street, and saw
Mr. Brann and Mr. Ward coming up the sidewalk from
the alley in front of the Cotton Belt ticket office, and then
turned and looked north towards Austin Street.  And
while looking in that direction I heard three pistol shots
almost simultaneously, and turned and looked in the direction
from which the pistol shots came, and saw Mr. Tom
Davis reeling and falling to the sidewalk and Mr. Brann
firing upon him.  Mr. Davis fell to the ground almost in
a heap and rolled over as many as four times.  Mr. Ward
handed Mr. Brann a pistol and Brann stepped forward
towards Davis and began firing on him as he was rolling
upon the sidewalk.  Brann and Ward then turned and
walked away on Fourth Street towards Austin Street to
a point directly opposite my door, where I was standing,
when two police officers came across Fourth Street from
the direction of the Citizens National Bank, and as they
came up to Brann he remarked:  'Gentlemen, I am shot,'
but Ward said nothing.  I noticed blood flowing from
Ward's right hand as if he was wounded in it.  I did not
see Mr. Davis or Mr. Ward either shoot at any time."

AB VAUGHAN.

Mr. Ab Vaughan, a well-known man about town, says
that while crossing Fourth Street from the Cotton Belt
ticket office towards the Pacific Hotel, he passed Brann
and Ward in the street, on the east side of the street
railway track, and that he overheard one of them say
to the other, "I wouldn't do it," though which one spoke
he was unable to say.  He paid no attention to the remark
at 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 Pacific
Hotel bar, in company with W. C. Brann.  We conversed
together for fifteen or twenty minutes, during the course
of which Baylor University was discussed as well as the
trouble attendant upon his Philippics against it.  Before
parting, Mr. Brann remarked in rather a sneering way:
'I expect to get killed, but when I am, Baylor will have
become a thing of the past,' or words to that effect.  We
separated, 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 a
buggy with Mr. C. M. Clisbee, and started to the opera
house.  Just as we turned the corner I heard a pistol
shot, perhaps two, and turning my head saw Tom Davis
fall to the sidewalk.  I jumped from the buggy and ran
towards my wife's phaeton, fearing her horse would take
fright, but finding my fears groundless hastened to the
scene of the shooting, and there found Tom Davis lying
on the sidewalk, and assisted in carrying him into French's
newsstand.  I heard several shots fired after I saw Davis
fall, 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 Pacific
Hotel entrance, talking to a number of gentlemen, among
them John W. Marshall.  I heard a pistol shot up Fourth
Street 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.  Shots
were fired into him as he was falling and continued after
he was lying on the sidewalk and was rolling over.  The
shots were fired in such rapid succession that it seemed
impossible for them to have come from one pistol.  I did
not recognize the participants at first, but thought that
the man falling was Tom Davis.  After eight or ten shots
had been fired I recognized W. C. Brann with a policeman.
I could not tell what was the relative position of
the party.  They all seemed to be in a clump."

J. W. WILLIAMS.

John W. Williams says:

"Just a few moments before the shooting Tom Davis
came into our office, that of Williams & Co., and said
hello to Tom Sparks, who was talking to me.  He then
turned and went out.  In a moment I heard a click as
though a pistol was being cocked and at that time
recognized the voice of Davis saying something like "don't
talk 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.  When
I reached the door I saw Ward either shoot or push
Davis down, his hand being almost or quite against Davis
and Davis between me and him.  At the same time as the
push or shot from Ward I saw Brann fire.  And the
firing was continued by Brann, Davis at this time struggling
on the ground or sidewalk and called out to me
that he was murdered.  I got his pistol.  Brann
continued to fire and snapped his pistol several times after
Davis was down.  The shots were fired very rapidly and
as I was looking at and watching Brann so intently I
cannot say whether Ward was shooting or not as I was
not looking at him."

W. S. GILLESPIE.

Mr. W. S. Gillespie said:

"I was sitting in my office a few minutes prior to the
shooting and noticed Mr. Brann and Mr. Ward, his
business manager, standing across the street on the corner
of Bankers' Alley in very earnest conversation, looking
across the street as if watching some one or something,
and finally came across to the corner in front of my office
and after they passed going north towards Austin Street
I heard the rapid firing of guns and ran out and found
T. E. Davis lying on the sidewalk, and I went up to him
and asked him if he was very badly hurt, and he remarked,
'They have assassinated me; they have murdered
me,' and friends came up to my assistance and he was
conveyed to French's cigar store.

B. H. KIRK.

Mr. B. H. Kirk said:

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

B. H. KINGSBURY.

B. H. Kingsbury said:

"I was standing close to the telephone post between
Pacific Hotel bar and Mose's newsstand when I heard one
or two shots fired almost together.  I exclaimed:  'Tom
Davis is killed,' for I saw him on the sidewalk in front of
his office struggling and rolling.  As Davis lay on the
sidewalk, dead, as I thought, there were two men shooting
at him.  These men I learn were W. C. Brann and his
body-guard, W. H. Ward.  While so shooting at Davis,
Brann was in front of Ward and both were firing.  I do
not know if Davis fired before he was down.

LATER.

Later.--At 1 A.M. a Times-Herald reporter visited the
home of Mr. Brann and found him dying.  At 10.30 o'clock
he had a hemorrhage of the lungs, which filled one of them
up and the lung was still bleeding at 1 A.M., and his
vitality was fast ebbing away.  Dr. M. L. Graves said
that the sufferer could not possibly live longer than two
hours and was liable to die at any moment.

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

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

3 A.M.--At this hour Mr. Tom E. Davis is rapidly
sinking and it is thought that the end is near at hand.
It may be possible for the wounded man to live as long as
two hours; but all hope has fled and the end is watched
for which may come at any minute.  His physicians say
he is dying.

*  *  *
(Editorial)

THE LATE TRAGEDY.

The details of the awful tragedy of Friday evening are
yet fresh in the minds of the people of Waco, and it is
bootless to recount them.  Two of the principals thereto
have passed to the beyond and a third is in the hands of
the outraged law.  And with him let the law deal.  In
life Captain Davis was our friend.  His assailant was
our enemy.  In death they take on the proportions of
common humanity.  Upon the bier of one we will lay
the myrtle of never-dying remembrance.  Over the coffin
of the other let the mantle of forgetfulness rest.  The
Times-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 Waco
who must suffer, who must endure, and who must survive
the blow that has fallen upon us.  Not because two brave
men are dead, but because of the stain of blood guiltiness
that has again besmirched our fair escutcheon.  This
tragedy has harmed Waco almost beyond the power of
men to help; because it has again been blazoned to the
world that here human life is cheapened; that men's passions
rule rather than the written law and that our Christian
civilization is but the thinnest veneer atop of the savage.

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

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

Here follow the contents of the May, 1898, ICONOCLAST
published 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, two
thousand 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 and
grottoes, where stood the altars of those who worshiped
at the shrine of Pan, was reechoed back the cry, "Great
Pan is dead!"  On the second of April, when the winged
lightning bore over a continent, and to foreign lands beyond
the sea, the news that W. C. Brann of the ICONOCLAST
was dead, in every land where his writings are
known, from men and women who worship at the shrine
of genius, went up the wailing cry, "Brann of the
ICONOCLAST is dead."  Oh, death! thou grim and imperious
master of us all, how dreadful to the living are your silent
darts, that are ever striking with impartial hand the old
man in his dotage, the strong man in his prime, the brave
man in his courage and the craven in his fear.

W. C. Brann was 43 years of age, and had just arrived
at that period when he was beginning to realize the hopes
and aspirations of years, when he was stricken down amid
the rejoicings of many and the sorrows of many thousands
more.  He was born in Coles County, Illinois, and at the
age 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 lived
on a farm in that county.  He remained with them ten
years, and then, longing to be something more than a
farm hand, he packed his small belongings in a little box
and at night, when all was still, he took the box under
his arm and went out into the lonely darkness of the
moonless night, without money, friends or education, to
commence the struggle which ended in his untimely death
at Waco.

Mr. Brann always spoke in the most kindly terms of
Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins, and when he purchased his home
in this city, he offered to share it with them, but having
grown old and being comfortably situated they did not
desire to change.

The first place he secured was that of a bell boy in a
hotel, and from that passed on to other situations,
realizing all the time, what every proud spirited boy would
do under the circumstances, the bitterness that friendlessness,
ignorance and poverty bring to the struggle of life.
Among other things he learned the trade of painter and
grainer, also that of printer, all the time storing his mind
with what scraps of education that his life of poverty and
toil permitted.  After he gathered sufficient education he
became a newspaper writer, and in 1877, at Rochelle,
Ill., was married to Miss Carrie Martin, who, with two
children, Grace and William Carlyle, "Little Billy," as
we call him, survive him.  After the death of Mrs. Brann's
mother, he took to his home one of her sisters, now Mrs.
Marple of Fort Worth, and although often driven to the
most desperate straits to make a living, he proved to her
to be both a brother and a father.  He continued his
newspaper career in Illinois and Missouri, until some
thirteen years ago, when he came to Texas, and gradually
became known by his connection with various papers of
the State.  For a short time he had an interest in a paper
called the ICONOCLAST, published in Austin, but he soon
found himself back at his old trade, that of driving his
pen for others.  At last, worn out by long years of
unremitting and generally poorly requited toil, wearied with
waiting for opportunity to write as he wished but could
not do as an employee of others, he determined to again
strike 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 continued
to grow in circulation as he grew in reputation
as a writer, until the copy that witnessed his death reached
an issue of nearly 90,000.

The world, for several generations, has been discussing
whether Shakespeare wrote the plays that bear his name,
thousands believing that it was impossible for a man who
had no more education than Shakespeare had in his youth,
to have exhibited the varied knowledge and learning that
characterize his works, therefore these attribute them to
Sir Francis Bacon, one of the most brilliant and best
educated men of his time.  All the evidence goes to show
that at the age of 18, when Shakespeare married, that
he had acquired with a "little Latin and less Greek," the
ordinary education accorded to the sons of the well-to-do
middle-class Englishmen of his time, of which his father
was one.  At 18 Mr. Brann had barely secured the rudiments
of an English education, and had he lived to the
age of Shakespeare, there is no telling to what heights,
intellectually, he would have risen.  From a slight
knowledge of his hopes and aspirations, I can say, that while
he dearly loved the ICONOCLAST, as a vehicle by which
he could convey to the world his thoughts, he had aspirations
that went far beyond it, and proposed that during
the next ten nor twelve years, after his mind had been
fully stored for the work, to leave as a legacy to the
world, in a continuous work, his conception of the wrongs
done to humanity, the evils that spring from them and
the remedies to be applied.  And all who have read him
closely and noticed how, month by month, he grew greater
and brighter, will surely join in saying, that the loss of
such a work from such a man, at the meridian of his
intellectual life, is only second, if not equal, to the loss
of the unwritten volumes of Buckle's "History of Civilization."

Alas! that such a man, with such a great future
before him should have died standing on the very threshold
of his work.

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

While he wrote in prose, he was a poet, and of him
can 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 were
the heritage of this God-given son of genius, and with
them he climbed the heights and died among the greatest,
both of the living and the dead.  And had he lived ten
years longer, in all probability, the intellectual world
would have held him as the grandest writer that this
earth has ever known since the days when old Homer
painted the matchless beauty of the bride of Menelaus,
and told of the godlike courage of the Greek and Trojan
as they fought for her, from the Scamander to the sea.
While the ignorant, the bigoted and intolerant are
rejoicing in his death and garnishing his grave with the slime
of their slander, they may be assured that his name and
writings will live until the English language dies, and
when W. C. Brann is dead and forgotten, so will be
Sterne, Smollet, Fielding, Swift, Pope, Steele, Addison,
Goldsmith, Shakespeare, Ben and Sam Johnson, Byron,
Shelley, Keats, Carlyle, George Eliot and all that mighty
host that have made the English language what it is.  The
language that the little tribe of the Angles brought from
the forest of Germany to Britain swallowed the Britain,
and survived the Norman conquest, and then absorbed
both the conqueror and his language.  And in the dead
centuries of over a thousand years, in every generation
has produced some mighty intellect to speed it on in building
up the bulwarks of human rights and human liberty,
until they have grown so high that despots turn from
it with loathing, and slaves cannot speak it.  The language
of the Magna Charta and the Declaration of American
Independence, the two instruments that have spread the
bread of liberty before a hungry world.  And as a writer
of this language, with all its mighty past and greater
future.  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's
religious opinions are his own, and no one has the right
to question them, I will say he was a Deist something after
the manner of Thomas Paine, and for the benefit of
some of our professors and preachers, who do not know
the difference between an Atheist and a Deist, I will say
that a Deist is one who believes in one God, and rejects
all forms of so-called revealed religion.  Mr. Brann loved
nature and when he looked upon it, he saw nature's God,
that with eternal fingers has written his message on earth
and sky, so that savage and civilized, Christian and Infidel
alike could read, that has by immutable and unvarying
laws, regulated the bloom of the flowers, the
course of the winds, and the fall of the leaf, as well as
the revolutions of the countless millions of worlds that
are ever speeding through the unmeasurable realms of
space.  He believed that this mighty power, that men
call God, could perpetuate man in the hereafter as easily
as he had placed him here, and while he, like many others,
knew that all his hopes and faith did not furnish one
atom of real proof as to what lies beyond the gates of
death, still he hoped for the brighter and better life, and
when that beautiful smile overspread his face when he
died, those who beheld it felt that he had realized his
hopes, and in the shadowy realm that bounds the Stygian
river had met his little girl Inez, whose untimely death
at the age of barely 12 years, had worked such havoc
in his heart.  Mr. Brann loved nature, not only when
the gorgeous god of day threw over earth and sky the
flashing strands of his golden hair, but in the night time
when all else was wrapped in the arms of sleep, the twin
sister of death; and the belated passer-by of his home
often saw the gleam of his cigar as he sat or walked
upon the lawn, in the small hours of the night: and at
such time I know there came through his soul the thoughts,
if not the words, of that death-devoted Greek, who to the
question from the woman that he loved, "O, Ion, shall
we meet again," answered, "I have asked that dreadful
question of the hills that look eternal.  Of the clear
streams that flow on forever.  Of the bright stars amid
whose 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 is
something in the love that mantles through its beauty
that cannot wholly perish, we shall meet again, Clemanthe.
But it was not the name of Clemanthe that passed his
lips, it was ever "Inez, darling Inez, we shall meet again."

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

"I know nothing of the future; I spend no time
speculating upon it--I am overwhelmed by the Past and at
death grips with the Present.  At the grave God draws
the line between the two eternities.  Never has living man
lifted the somber veil of Death and looked beyond.

"There is a Deity.  I have felt his presence.  I have
heard his voice, I have been cradled in his imperial robe.
All that is, or was, or can ever be, is but "the visible
garment of God."  I seek to know nothing of his plans
and purposes.  I ask no written covenant with God, for
he is my Father.  I will trust him without requiring priests
or prophets to indorse his note.  As I write, my little
son awake, alarmed by some unusual noise, and come
groping through the darkness to my door.  He sees the
light shining through the transom, returns to his trundle-
bed and lies down to peaceful dreams.  He knows that
beyond that gleam his father keeps watch and ward, and
he asks no more.  Through a thousand celestial transoms
streams the light of God.  Why should I fear the sleep
of Death, the unknown terrors of that starless night, the
waves of the river Styx?  Why should I seek assurance
from the lips of men that the wisdom, love and power
of my heavenly Father will not fail?"

Like the lowly Judean carpenter who gave his life in a
protest against the wrongs which wealth and power had
done to his fellow man, he was hated by the Pharisees
and hypocrites, but he never cast a stone at the poor and
unfortunate, but was ever ready to support the weak
battling in the cause of right against the cohorts of the
wrong.

He was not only a poet, but was a prophet and a
priest; not the prophet and priest of orthodoxy, that has
handed down to us through the ages, written in the blood
of slaughtered millions, that dark story of forked-tailed
demons and flaming hells, that has given us a God that
loves us better than an earthly father can, yet permits
us in the sight of his great white throne to writhe and
suffer through the endless ages of eternity in the flames
of hell.  But he was a priest and prophet of a greater
and grander faith, that in the evolution of the unborn
centuries yet to come, will strip from the Godhead all
of the horrid concepts, born of the puny hate of man
for his fellow man.

Mr. Brann was a man of the highest moral courage,
no one doubted this, but some doubted whether he had
that kind of physical courage that is necessary to
contend with mobs and assassins, but when the hour came
--when, without the slightest warning or anticipation or
danger, the death wound tore through his back, with
a coolness that few even of the bravest of men would
have possessed under the circumstances, with a courage
that could have led the Irish exiles, in that desperate and
deathless charge on the bloody heights of Fontenoy, he
turned and fired every bullet of his pistol into the body
of his assassin.

I will briefly sketch here some of the main facts that
led to his death, not only justice to the dead, but to his
living friends who only knew him as a writer and have
been compelled to read in the newspapers the loathsome
and lying slanders sent out against him from this
city.

The origin is to be found in the visit to this city of
ex-Priest Slattery, who, for gross immorality, had been
kicked out of the fold of the Catholic church.  He was
accompanied by a woman fully as bad as he, and these
two saints set up to lecture, and the substance of their
lecture was briefly this, that convents and female schools
under the charge of the sisters, were but bawdy houses
to satisfy the lust of the Catholic priesthood.  Mr. Brann,
who heard, in the opera house in this city, these vile
slanders flung amid thunders of applause, mostly from a gang
of blackguards from and around Baylor University, outraged
by the wrong done the pure and stainless women
whose vows bar them from the slightest hope of reward
on earth, yet devote their lives in and out of the convent
walls to soothing the sorrows and relieving the sufferings
of humanity, attempted to reply in their defense, and for
this he was hooted and nearly mobbed by this precious
lot of curs and had to be escorted from the opera house
by the police.  After the Antonio Tiexeria scandal came
out, and he saw the poor girl reduced to ruin, standing
barely on the verge of womanhood, desolate and friendless
in a foreign land, with his whole sympathetic nature
aroused in her behalf, he certainly struck some hard
blows at Baylor.  In his repeated thrusts he made one at
the professors which is believed by many to have cut far
deeper than anything ever said about the Brazilian girl,
and that was his proposition to open a night school for
their benefit.  In last October ICONOCLAST, in a
paragraph, he expressed the hope that Baylor would not
continue to manufacture ministers and Magdalens.  For
this he was twice mobbed, and it is claimed eventually
murdered.

Since Mr. Brann's assassination I have seen it charged
in some papers, notably one bearing the word Christian
at its head, that he was killed because he had slandered
his slayer's daughter, and then follows a lot of hypocritical
rot about regretting bloodshed, but that there was an
unwritten law that required the death of a man who
would slander the female relatives of another.  A greater
falsehood was never published in even a pious Christian
weekly.  He never mentioned the name of any woman connected
with Baylor except the Brazilian girl, and her case
was in the courts, and while his friends deeply regretted
his unfortunate expression it neither justified his mobbing
or his murder.  And in the judgment of all fair-minded
men, under the circumstances could have been more readily
construed to mean Antonio Tiexera than any other woman
on earth, for within Baylor's sacred precincts she had
been reduced to that condition to which, when a woman
arrives, men call her a Magdalene.  If this was the motive
that prompted his slayer, I ask why he did not appeal
to the unwritten law sooner; he who appeals to it must
do so at the first information has been conveyed to him
that the wrong has been done and he cannot wait for
months and then use it as a defense, and I do not hesitate
to say that hundreds besides myself in this city do not
believe that this prompted his assassin, except to be used
as an excuse.

Mr. Brann loved Waco as he never loved any other
place; for he knew that within its borders could be found
as many brave, liberal-hearted men, pure and noble women
as could be found in any other spot on earth with the same
population.  He loved it, for he said that here was the
first place he ever found a real home, and here was the
place he had for the first time been recompensed for his
toil by receiving over a bare subsistence.  Now, did Waco
love Mr. Brann, or did it hold him the foul slanderer
of her purest and best, as some claimed him to be?  Let
us see.  Every effort was made to throw cold water on
any turnout to his funeral; it was told around the city
that no women would attend and that no flowers would
be sent, but what was the result?  From his home to the
cemetery the sidewalks were crowded, save at Baylor
University, the place that is responsible for his death, and
hundreds of men and women who had no carriages walked
from his home over two miles to the cemetery, and when
the long funeral cortege passed within the gates, around
his grave was a sea of human faces unequaled in numbers
ever before gathered around any other grave in Waco.
Yet Waco had lately laid to rest within that cemetery
a man whom she dearly loved and on whom Texas had
been proud to confer her high places, a man who in bygone
years had so gallantly led her sons on so many bloody
fields.  As to the flowers, no greater profusion was ever
seen on any other grave in Waco, or, perhaps, in Texas,
a tribute that the pure and stainless women of Waco paid
to the martyred dead.  At his funeral was noticed a greater
number, both from the city and county, of the sun-kissed
sons of toil than had ever been gathered here around any
other grave.  Why were they there in such numbers?
Why did they bow their manly heads o'er the coffin of
the dead?  I will answer for them.  It was because they
knew that the dead man loved the land that they, their
sires and their grandsires loved; that he was seeking to
uproot the evils, both socially and politically, that are so
rapidly overrunning it; that all the gold of earth, or the
plaudits of those who feel themselves the grand and great
could not win him from his task of defending a people's
rights against those who were seeking to strike them down,
and if he had made an error in a paragraph subject to
a double construction, that above all else on earth in his
heart he sought

"But the ruin of the bad, the righting of the wrong
and ill."


He was followed to his grave by hundreds of men who
but a few years ago had given of their money liberally
to build up the new Baylor, many of whose wives, daughters
and sisters had been educated there.  Is it reasonable
to suppose that these men who clung to him in life with
hooks of steel, and followed him to his grave with tears,
are such cravens that, alike in life and death, they would
stand 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 that
the 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 of
them, from the hundreds that crowded the lawn around
his home, lead their children up to his coffin, and those
that were not able to look into it they would raise up
in their arms that they might look into the dead face
of the Prince of the Imperial Realm of Language.

Mr. Brann was no slanderer of women, no man on
earth had a greater veneration for the good and pure or
more sympathy for the fallen, and he would have died
before he would have wronged intentionally either class.
In this case he had struck in behalf of a poor and
unfortunate 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 defenseless
woman exhibits the highest trait of chivalry, even if he
had made a mistake in striking, but here in Waco, with
its Christian schools and churches, and its so-called Christian
civilization it was rewarded first by mobs and then by murder.

He was a man who was incapable of malice, he bore
none for injuries that most men would have rewarded the
cowardly perpetrators by shooting them down like they
have their prototype, the sneaking wolf; this arose from
the innate tenderness of the man who shrunk from the
taking of life, even of an animal, unless it was necessary.

I have used no words of sympathy for his wife, for
time and not words can soothe sorrow such as hers, but
for the benefit of those at a distance who were her
husband's friends I will say that she has the sympathy of
all the men and women of this city, irrespective of church
or creed, who are not the indorsers and abettors of mobs
and assassins, and I am glad to say that this collection
of hyena-hearted human vultures, though far too many,
are in the minority.

Now, to the dead friend of humanity, the eternal foe
to wrong and hypocrisy, I bid adieu forever here, and
for aught I know, for hereafter.  The greedy grave, whose
hungry mouth is never filled, has claimed him, and in the
arms of old earth, the last mother of us all, we have laid
him to sleep, as peacefully as in infancy he slept upon
his mother's breast, indifferent alike in death as in life
to the human ghouls who pursued him.  Never again will
his splendid intellect drive a pen.  "In thoughts that
breathe and words that burn" against the serried ranks
of injustice and of wrong.  Others will follow in his
footsteps, and battle as faithfully as he for the cause of
right, but, alas, none are clad like him in the Milan mail
of intellectuality, against which the cloth-yard shafts of
foes could rattle but could never pierce.  Now, that for
him the restless dream of life has closed, I know that every
admirer of his genius, no matter of what faith or of no
faith at all, will join me in the wish that for him death
did not bring oblivion's dreamless sleep, where Lethean
waves forever wash the pallid brow of death, but Elysian
fields in which he met in joy the loved ones that had gone
before and will await in peace the loved ones that are
left behind.

"O Jerusalem, Jerusalem!  Thou that killeth the
prophets 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 time
when feeble words come faintly up for utterance--when
the human soul refuses to ease tell its agony in empty
phrases--when neither tongue can tell nor pen portray
the gloom which o'ershadows the spirit engulfed in woe.
This suffering may be selfish, or be merged in a general
sorrow.  As I write the simple sentence, Brann is dead,
a pall settles over my spirit, and, groping blindly in the
dark, I feel there remains on earth scarce a single ray
of light.  I knew this man, and to know him was to
love him--knew his faults and his virtues; loved him in
spite of one and for the other.  His faults were human;
his virtues were Godlike.  For years we trod together
Life's unequal pathway--at times I felt that I stayed
his falling steps, and my own feet have strayed oft
and again has his firm hand led me back into the light.
He was to me a delightful study, for which I found never
failing recompense.  I have watched his majestic mind
expand as the florist watches the budding beauty of a
flower, ever growing in its unfolding loveliness.  I have
lived with him in his home, surrounded by those whom
he loved--seen him joy with their gladness, while his
heart contracted with every pain that approached his
loved ones--have stood with him on the banks of some
mighty river, and watched the evening sun throw its chain
of fire across the bosom of the waters, while his poetic
spirit reveled in the beauties of the sunset sky.  Under
the shadow of Lookout, I have gazed with him upon those
beetling crags, where the fate of a nation was in part
decided, while he thanked God fervently that the heart of
the nation yet beat steady and strong--have strolled with
him in the forests when vernal nature spread its glorious
carpet for the foot of man--have felt his great heart
expand to receive every subtle impression of beauty and
tenderness from nature's matchless canvas--have seen this
man against whom the anathema of infidelity and atheism
have gone forth, humbly bow to worship God in his handiwork.
For him, as for us all, there were times when the
earth was darkened with doubt; but there were moments,
I know, when his aspiring soul mounted the clouds and
caught some reflex of the great white light that breaks
on the throne of God.  It has been charged that he had
neither faith nor religion.  In justice to the memory of
the dead, I deny the charge.  He had a faith as noble
as it was unfaltering--that truth was eternal and the love
of justice could never utterly fade from the hearts of
men.  His religion was simple still, though confined by
neither church nor creed--'twas the fatherhood of God
and the brotherhood of Man.  As he loved truth and
justice even so did he despise falsehood--declaring that he
hated all "who loveth or maketh a lie."  He loved his
fellows as few men have done.  The great desire of his
heart, and no small part of his lifework, was devoted
to the alleviation of human suffering.  In his nature he
was frank and open as the day--generous to a fault.  I
do not believe that he gave his affection fondly or
foolishly.  If those whom he loved failed to reach his high
standard, it was not his fault.  His was a great heart
and he gave its tenderness with a princely hand, feeling
himself rich in giving--glorying in his own munificence.
No man could have been the recipient of this rich bounty
without feeling himself ennobled by the gift.  He had the
faculty of attracting to him all whom he considered worthy
of 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 the
literary firmament, leaving a train of fire behind to mark
his course.  Within a period of four years, in an inland
Texas town, he built up a magazine which was read
by a large percentage of the English-speaking people.
He had at the time of his death a larger clientele of readers
than any living writer.  For years he did all of the work
of the ICONOCLAST himself, but of late he had gathered
about him a corps of contributors in whose genius he
himself reveled--a "bunch of pansy blossoms," he fondly
termed them, whose beauty and fragrance would, he
declared, delight the literary world.  The hand that held
these blossoms is now folded across a pulseless breast;
but the silken skein of his affection will yet serve to bind
the flowers together.  The bright particular star of the
Iconoclastic galaxy is dimmed, but the blended light of
the others may still serve to illumine the dark places of
life, and, in so doing, help to achieve that betterment of
man for which their chief toiled so earnestly, battled so
bravely and hoped so ardently.  The poor and oppressed
have lost a friend and protector--true womanhood has
lost one of its ablest defenders--liberty its bravest
champion--his country a hero, ever ready to fight for a
redress of her wrongs.  He was a humanitarian in the
broadest and best sense of the word.  In his heart there
lived ever a hope that the time might yet come, in this
fair land of ours, when there would be "neither a
millionaire nor a mendicant--a master nor a slave."  In life
he was dear to me, his memory is dearer still, nay, 'tis
sacred.  I would not play Boswell to any Johnson, but
this was my friend, tender, loving and loyal to me, and
now that he is dead I come to lay this tribute in the
dust at his feet.  He has been judged oftenest and most
unjustly, as men usually are, by those who knew him least.
Beneath the iron corselet which confronted the eyes of
the world there beat in this man's breast a heart tender
as a child's, and as loving as a woman's, that throbbed
in agony for every ill to which humanity is heir.  I
remember in the early morning once he came into my room
and silently beckoned me to his study.  There in the vines
at the window, scarce three feet from his desk, sat one
of our Southern Orioles--a feathered songster, trilling
forth the gladness of his heart in song.  Brann watched
the bird and drank in the music of his song.  I saw his
face light up with exquisite tenderness, and I knew that
he accepted this matin song of the bird as a message from
his Maker.  I trust I may be pardoned for relating this
simple incident, but it served to show me the man as
few things could have done.  I know 'tis true that:  "As
snowflakes fall to the earth unperceived and are gathered
together in a pile, so do the seemingly unimportant events
of life succeed one another.  No single flake creates a
sensible change on the pile, and no single act constitutes,
however much it may exhibit, a man's character."  But
it is from simple things that the sum of life is made up
--from those acts which are most spontaneous and usually
least observed that human nature may best be determined
and most justly estimated.  This man made no preachment
of his virtues, believing that "the years are seldom
unjust."  He was the Navarre of modern journalism, and
his white plume ever showed in the thickest of the fight.
It was his strong hand that taught the "doubtful battle
where to rage"; 'twas his to enchain friendship and inspire
followers.  Had he battled for a creed as he fought
for a faith, his bones would have been canonized.  Had
he struggled for a party as he stood for the State, no
political preferment would have been held beyond his
reach.  Had he lived in another age, among other people,
his body would have been inurned in the Valhalla of the
Brave.  As it is, all that is mortal of him occupies only
so much of Texas soil as may serve as "paste and cover
of his bones."  Little does he reck of this, and his friends
should not repine, for the same prairie breezes that waft
incense of flowers over the graves of Travis, Bowie and
Crockett, sing a sad requiem over the final resting place
of Brann.  The aspiring soul has found its fixed abode
among the stars; his Titanic intellect which, here on earthy
ever struggled for the light, now bathes in the effulgence
of the Sun.  His heart, ever unquiet because of the woes
of his kind, now knows that peace which "passeth the
understanding of man."  The hand of the All-Father has
forever soothed the heart-hunger and unrest of life from
his troubled breast.  That hand which swept, at will, every
cord of the harp of life, has fallen nerveless, but its music
will yet linger in the hearts of men until love of truth
and beauty shall utterly fade from the earth.  A long
good-night to thee, Brave Heart, thy better part has
found the better place; to that which is mortal and
remains with us, we say, Rest--Rest in Peace.


A MEMORIAL TO W. C. BRANN.

It has been suggested that the friends and admirers of
Mr. Brann join in a contribution to mark the spot where
he sleeps.  It is proposed, if this meets the approval of
friends, that it be a granite vase, some four or five feet
high, surmounted either by a life size statue in bronze or
marble of the dead, holding in his hand a copy of the
ICONOCLAST, as if offering it to the passer-by, and the
word ICONOCLAST upon it in letters sufficiently large to
be read at a distance of twenty feet.  It is said by those
who claim to know that such a memorial can be erected
at a cost of some $3,000 or $4,000.

Many of his friends would not approve, and neither
would he if he could express himself, of anything that
would require any large expenditure of money while so
many thousands of worthy men and women are struggling
in vain to secure the bare necessities of life, these holding
that costly monuments can do the dead no good, and are
in bad taste in the living.  There can be no doubt that
thousands in the years to come will seek his grave to lay
their offerings upon the shrine of genius, and while his
will be marked I wish to say in this connection to those
asking in what condition Mrs. Brann is left financially
that while she will have sufficient to keep the wolf from
hers and her children's door if properly managed, that
she will not have over a tithe of what it has been published
that she would.

Submitting these few words for the consideration of
his friends, I can say if a response sufficiently favorable
come, 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 standing
in the ICONOCLAST a list of subscribers to the fund; if
the suggestion is carried out it will be time enough to
publish it when the work is finished and the statue
unveiled.  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 always
in an age.  He who attempts an imitation, however clever
his work, would stand before the world, self-confessed, a
failure from the first.  Booth, in his favorite character
inspired us--Joe Jefferson could only prompt us to
laughter.  Yet, is not Jefferson without genius in his way?
There is no reason, however, why he who follows may
not be as loyal to the faith, as courageous in the fight,
as Brann was known and acknowledged to be.  The Chief
is dead, but did not die until he had blazoned the way
for those who dare follow where he so bravely led.

.  .  .

In life Brann often said he wanted no mourning worn
for him, save that which enshrouded the hearts of his
family and friends--that the mere trappings of woe were
but 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 countless
thousands who heard last week that Editor W. C. Brann,
of the ICONOCLAST, was no more.  "The heavens seem
hung 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 immortal
soul of an illimitable genius has been sent to its maker
and scattered with the star dust of the eidouranion
William C. Brann was an apostle.  Like Christ, like Lincoln
and others whom we deify, he was misunderstood and
reviled, and a cowardly bullet pierced him in the back, a
martyrdom of which he had a premonition.

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

The lamented Brann was an educator, and an emancipator
of human liberty and human thought.  The hypocrite
stood in awe of his judgment.  When he indicted him
to be arraigned before the great bar of public opinion he
dipped his pen in acid that seared the eyeballs, and wrote
their sentence diluted with worm-wood and gall.  It is
not small wonder that the Judas Iscariots and the lemurs
trembled at his power.

Brann's tragic exit from this vale of tears is
inspiration now for jackals to attack his name.  Like the dull,
dull ass they are not afraid to kick the dead lion, while
their ears wave to the seventh heaven of delight.  In earth
life they feared his name, but like ghouls they now go
down into the grave to besmirch his memory.  And this,
too, from those who profess to follow the teachings of the
meek and lowly Nazarene.

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

Brann's friends, and they are legion, should not repine
if 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, to
hang, to kill, to crucify and excoriate and trample them
under their stupid hoofs, cloven or webbed, as the case may
be, for a century or two; and then take to braying over
them when you discover their divine origin, still in a very
long-eared manner!"  So speaks the sarcastic man, in
his wild way, very mournful truths.

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

They could better spare the whole State of Texas than
William C. Brann.  While the galled jades winced beneath
the scorpion whips of his satire, and would have preferred
fireballs, they felt the potency of his dynamics and scurried
to the soldier works of the masters for a glint of mental
pabulum they had never known before.

The editor of The Sunday Eye is in receipt of many
letters from admirers of the late lamented genius.  They
are rich in anathema and maranatha of Brann's heartless
and cruel detractors.  With one accord they have expressed
the wish that I excoriate the revilers who desecrated
by bludgeon words the sacrosanct acre of God in
which 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.  Nor
do I think as Mr. C. E. Stewart, of Minier, does, that they
should be lashed naked through the world and lambasted
till death ends the heart throbs.  I believe that they should
be permitted to live until they have read the great genius
and learned to understand and exalt him.  It would make
them better for it, religion would not suffer by it, though
Baylor sank a thousand leagues beneath the seven-hued
regions of Tartarus.

The ICONOCLAST minced no words.  When it dealt body
blows they landed in the brisket and affected the solar
plexus in a very apprehensive way.

Lincoln was gentle and generous, Ingersoll was brilliant
and broad, but Brann was all this and greater.  His
untimely death was a distinctive loss to the march of
civilization and a gain to the shams of hypocrisy which takes
now a new grip on the English language to batter down
the shackles Brann had welded about them with public opinion.

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

I have no fear of his acceptance on the right hand up
there where men are judged by their deeds and not by
semblance of better things that a canting world may
simulate.  He is in Valhalla with the other battling heroes
where the alabaster boxes of eternal love are showered
upon the halo of their brighter radiance.  Brann wrote
to catch the wide world's attention that he might teach
them gentler things than feculent shocks.  He was essentially
an 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 were
as an open book to him.  When he soared to the sun
he never dropped into the sea from Icarian wings.  His
iconoclasm was the decadence of the social cesspool and
the expurgation of money power which he believed was
the ne plus ultra of anarchy and the genius of diabolic
perfidy.  He preached as he felt, tender and terrible,
loving and vehement, a strange commingling of Titanic
vulgate and cooing peace.  Brann was eccentric but all
genius must have a certain leeway without being dubbed
Quixotic.  He was a man whose loftiest ideality was purity
in womanhood.  He adored children and was in many
respects 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 sympathetic
tears, I say adieu.--Geo. L. Hutchin, in the Bloomington
Eye.

*  *  *
A PEN PICTURE OF BRANN

It is hard for me to realize that Brann is dead.  It seems
only 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 the
ICONOCLAST.  His pyrotechnic vocabulary, his strange
admixture of erudition and slang, his almost womanly
sympathy and the more than Apache ferocity with which
he pursued his enemies, the tender and poetic metaphor
that gemmed his iron prose, and the singular blending of
optimism and pessimism that characterized most of his
work 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.  I
knew his business manager, Mr. Ward, who figured in the
dreadful duel in which he lost his life, and who was, at
that time, arranging his lecture dates.  Ward is a big
Texan, over six feet high, and I suppose he weighs all
of two hundred pounds.  He is a lawyer who drifted into
journalism years ago, and under a somewhat rough-and-
ready exterior there is not much trouble in finding the
gentleman and the scholar.  Well, Ward introduced me to
Brann, and after a while the three of us foregathered in
a private room of a down-town cafe, and stayed there for
several hours that I remember with unmixed delight.

Looking back at the episode, I have difficulty in framing
my impressions of the famous Texan editor.  I think the
principal thing that struck me was his lack of pose and
affection.  All through his talk, and he was in high spirits
and talked a great deal, there were sparks of delightful
naivete.

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

Had he any suspicion of the prophecy that lurked in
these words?  Perhaps he had; for when I suggested to
him the advisability of leaving Waco, with its petty local
dissensions and the personal dangers incident to them, he
shook his head.

"I got together $11,000 not long ago," he said, "and
put it into a house.  It is the first money worth talking
about that I ever had, and I feel that the investment ties
me, more or less, to Waco.  But aside from that," he went
on to say, "I am a little afraid that the ICONOCLAST
would lose its characteristic flavor if I moved it to one
of the big Eastern cities.  You will remember that that
experiment was tried with the Arkansas Traveller, which
was moved from Little Rock to Chicago, and promptly fell
flat.  The same thing happened to the Texas Siftings,
when it was taken from Austin to New York.  I am inclined
to believe that a publication acquires a savor of the
soil in which it springs, and it is a mighty risky business
to try to transplant it."

He told me of Col. Gerald, who had killed the Harris
brothers only a few weeks before.  "Gerald is a wonderful
old man," he said.  "He is over sixty, but he is as straight
as a pine.  He has a light mustache and chin beard, and
eyes the color of the blue you see in old china.  He don't
know what fear is.  He thinks it is some kind of a disease
like smallpox or appendicitis, and only know that he has
never had it."  Between talk we ate oysters and drank a little
beer.  Brann impressed me as being a very temperate man.

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

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

Poor Brann!  It sickens one's soul to think of the value
of such a life as his as against that of his slayer.  Good
God!  His little finger was worth all the Texas pot-house
politicians and Baylor University pharisees that could
be lined up between her and Orion.--O. H. S., in the
Looking Glass.

*  *  *
SEMPER VIVAT IN MEMORIAM.

Now that partisan hate has succeeded in hounding to his
death America's most eloquent champion of humanity; has
driven to the verge of insanity an adoring wife, and
thrown o'er the roseate lives of two tender, clinging
children the black pall of a sorrow that will forever embitter
their hearts, perchance it will pause; will remember the
teachings of that other "friend of humanity" who, nearly
nineteen hundred years ago, was crucified for daring to
fight what he believed to be wrong; whose religion may be
summed up in one word--"forgiveness."

Brann's enemies were professed followers of this Christ.
With tearful eyes and uplifted, supplicating faces they
besought the God of Justice to--in the beautiful language
of the prayer left us by his Son--"lead us not into temptation"
and "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those
who trespass against us"; and the next day passed
resolutions congratulating a mob of brutal ruffians for
frightening a sick woman nearly to death, kidnaping her
defenseless husband and forcing him--under threats of
instant 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 a
monument to the memory of two would-be assassins who
were killed while attempting to carry out their cowardly
work.  Oh, Christianity!--that thy cloak--pure as polar
snow--must cover such infamy!

Brann's death blots from the firmament of American
journalism its brightest star.  He was an intellectual
titan.  In him was embodied the philosophy of Carlyle--
the brilliancy of Voltaire,--the withering sarcasm of
Desmoulins--the poetry of Ingersoll.  His genius,
universal as that of Shakespeare, was ever aligned on the
side of the weak and oppressed; ever, with god-like
fearlessness, he stood for Right against Might--for purity
against corruption.  In church, in state, in society--
he tore the painted mask from the face of hypocrisy and
exposed it, in all its festering hideousness, to the world's
ridicule.

Brann has been damned as an atheist--by people who
have never read, and are incapable of reading and
understanding, a single paragraph from his pen.  The author of
"Tiens ta Foi," "Charity," "Man's Immorality"--was
not 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 through
nature.  The flowers he so passionately loved were
reminders of His loving tenderness; in the divine music of
Wagner, 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 genius
needs must be the favorites of Omniscience.  Yet
theologians vilify Brann from the pulpit--teachers denounce
him to their pupils.  For nearly ten years he has been the
target of vindictive spite--such spite as only a narrow,
bigoted mind can be capable of.  This is the greatest
compliment mediocrity can pay to genius.

Brann is dead!  Still forever is the pen whose wondrous
alchemy transposed the English language--with all its
inherent 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 sunk
beneath the wave of oblivion; when the very bones of the
splenetic-hearted hypocrites--who goaded to his death
the grandest man America has ever produced--have crumbled
into the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust--
Brann's name will live--a beacon light for those who love
truth for truth's sake.

Brann is dead!  The blow that wrung our hearts with
unavailing anguish but ushered him into the company of
Shakespeare, 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 than
that pictured by Dante--is the true Heaven.--Abbott
Graphic.

*  *  *
BRANN'S BRAVE BATTLE.

With humble soul and heavy heart we take up our pen to
chronicle the death, yea the murder of one of the brightest
and purest noblemen that God ever created--W. C. Brann.
A few years ago he, W. H. Ward and the writer each
occupied desks, side by side, in the editorial rooms of The
Waco Morning News.  There budded a friendship between
that trio that we full believe shall blossom into ripe
fraternal love on a shore as yet unknown to Mr. Ward and
the writer.  Mr. Brann was editor of the ICONOCLAST,
and as its name indicates it is a smasher of idols from
Tadmor in the Wilderness to the mountains of Hepsedam.
Scorning the sensual, always against the vulgar, in much
the same manner as Carlyle, Brann stuck the gaffles of
truth deep into the sides of wrong in high places, and
exposed rottenness wherever found.  With rugged English,
twisted into sentences more cutting than whips of
scorpions' tails, he stood up and fought for right as opposed
to might.  He tore off the plaster of moral cancerous
ulcers, 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 accepts
hidebound dogmas for the ultima thule of reasoning and
truth; precept for right and in reality worships at the
shrine of exploded fables and crowns, by its own acts, the
parrot as its preceptor--lives and dies, having no desire
to do anything that somebody has not done before!  Is
it any wonder that such a man as W. C. Brann should
fall a victim to such a populace?  He was hounded to his
death--mobbed, spat upon, shot and murdered, by several
thousand pin-headed obstreperous patrons and followers
of a little pee-wee college, that turns young ladies out
enceinte almost yearly and hires its professors for less
salaries than a railroad brakeman gets.

Brann's good work will live, his fame will survive and an
intellectual race yet will rise up and bless his name when
the lying epitaphs of the assassin sent to the d---- by him
shall have crumbled to earth ten thousand years.  We cannot
close this faint tribute of respect to our dead friend
without acknowledging the worth of such true men as Mr.
W. H. Ward and Judge G. B. Gerald, both of whom are
able, brave, high-toned gentlemen, and both of whom came
near dying, and both were willing to die, or see that Mr.
Brann got fair play while he lived.--S. M. Scruggs, in
the 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 other
with bullets in Waco, Texas.  Both of them died the
following day.  The trouble between them grew out of the
attack 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 the
college of immorality, he was assaulted by them, and barely
escaped lynching at their hands.  He was forced to make
a retraction and was ordered to leave town.  Being a
courageous man Brann refused to emigrate.

The Irish Standard chronicles the untimely and awful
death of Mr. Brann with poignant regret, and tenders its
condolence to his afflicted family.  In many ways he won
the admiration of the American people.  He was a man
of great mental endowments, and in the use of invective,
often degenerating into billingsgate, he stood without a
rival in American journalism.  His mind was broad and
he despised religious intolerance.  As an American he
loved the stars and stripes and was opposed to an Anglo-
American alliance.  He held hypocrites in supreme
contempt and lashed the pharisees unmercifully.  When
Catholic priests and sisters were misrepresented by
sectarian bigots, he used his tongue and pen in their defense.
So ably did he vindicate the Catholic church from their
aspersions that many supposed him to be a Jesuit in
disguise.  In the last issue of the ICONOCLAST he told a
correspondent what he thought of Mrs. Shepard and ex-
priest Chiniquy.  Had Brann lived in a more civilized
community than among the bigoted Baptists of Texas, he
would have used more elegant language in his magazine
than it contained for the past few months.

We entirely disagree with the Pioneer Press in its
characterization of the deceased journalist when it says:
"From attacking the private lives of the prominent and
successful men of every quarter of the union and
levying blackmail as the price of silence from those whose
slips or frailties his keen hyena-like appetite for filth
had enabled him to scent, it was an easy step to the most
scurrilous assaults on men and women whose only offending
lay in their uprightness and virtue."

Brann never attacked men and women for their
"uprightness and virtue," and our St. Paul contemporary is
guilty of calumny when it says so.  Every evildoer and
hypocrite feared him, while upright men and virtuous
women had a champion in him.  His bitterest enemies
never accused him of being a blackmailer, and the editor
of the Pioneer Press took care he was dead before he made
the unwarrantable charge.--The Irish Standard.

*  *  *
BRAVE AND BRAINY BRANN

The killing of W. C. Brann in a duel at Waco, Texas, a
few days ago, is but a repetition of the punishment that
generally falls to newspaper men who persistently print
the truth.  Brann was an intellectual giant.  The rarest
accomplishments possible for a human mind to acquire
were not too intricate for him to master.  His versatility
was as boundless as his originality was unique.  Absolutely
fearless and utterly indifferent regarding his personal
safety, he dared to expose the charlatan and the
trickster in whatever walk of life he chanced to meet
him.  Endowed with a mind that was only circumscribed
by the Infinite itself and fortified with a thorough classical
education, he held the hypocrite up to contempt and public
scorn and deservedly lashed him with the lash of sarcasm.
True, some of our erudite(?) members of the press have
presumed to pass judgment upon him; men as incapable
of rendering a just criticism of his talents as they have
found it impossible to rise to his standard of excellence.
One who is especially in love with himself has said that
had Brann been less soulless he might have been an
ornament to his trade.  Trade!  When men attain Brann's
intellectual standing, and they are as rare as the
intellectual sloven is numerous, the TRADE evolves into a
profession.  It is indeed disheartening to see one devote his
life and his talents to truth and justice, only to be
belittled after death by those whose poverty-stricken
understandings render them incapable of half-appreciating the
man's genius, to say nothing of his nobility of purpose in
endeavoring to elevate mankind.  He has been accused of
blasphemy by another who has probably been as startled
by Brann's truthful declarations as he himself would have
been had he at some time dared to commit such a rash
act.  Despite these intellectual "pee-wees" Brann's
writings will live long after the surf of eternity has carried
the penny-a-liners out upon the sea of oblivion.  In the
tragic death of W. C. Brann the world has lost the most
versatile pen the century has produced and it is with
sincere grief that we chronicle his sudden taking away.--The
Gilroy (Cal.) Telegram.

*  *  *
BRANN, OF THE ICONOCLAST.

W. C. Brann, the fearless editor of the ICONOCLAST, is no
more.  The ICONOCLAST is published at Waco, Texas, and
was started but a few years ago by its gifted author with
no more capital than his genius and the courage of his
convictions.  The ICONOCLAST assailed every form of
avarice, hypocrisy and infamy; in a few months the
publication gained a world-wide reputation and amassed for its
editor a handsome fortune because it was bought and read
by thousands of people who love truth, when boldly proclaimed,
for truth's sake.  Some time ago the ICONOCLAST
laid bare the iniquities of some white-sepulchral hypocrites
having charge of a young ladies' seminary under the
auspices of a religious denomination.  The pious and
lecherous scoundrels, and their ilk, who felt aggrieved by
the publication of the sensational facts, instead of resorting
to the law and proving that they had been libeled, and
vindicating themselves by the imprisonment of Brann,
resorted to mob violence, and what they lacked in courage
they supplied with numbers, and beat their helpless victim
into insensibility.  In the very next issue of the
ICONOCLAST, Brann, its outraged but incomparably fearless
editor, in speaking of his cowardly assailants, used the
following defiant and sadly prophetic words:  "Truth to
tell there's not one of the whole cowardly tribe who's
worth a charge of buckshot who deserve so much honor
as being sent to hell by a white man's hand!  If Socrates
was poisoned, and Christ was crucified, for telling
unpalatable truths to the splenetic-hearted hypocrites of
their time, it would ill become me to complain of martyrdom
for a like offense."  Brann was shot in the back by a
drunken "local" politician, who doubtless had as much
conception of morality and honor as did those whom Brann
had assailed openly and above-board in the ICONOCLAST.
Brann, though mortally wounded, turned and shot his
assassin, wounding him fatally--Brann and his assassin
have both died--one, mourned as a martyr in the cause
of truth; the other mourned by the "splenetic-hearted
hypocrites" of Waco and elsewhere.--Charleston Enterprise.

*  *  *
A MARTYR TO FREE SPEECH.

Poor Brann has fallen a martyr to Baptist bigotry.  The
foul minded crowd who imported Slattery to Waco ran a
university whose iniquities Brann exposed.  The deacons
of the church and the preachers combined against him and
his life was attacked again and again because he was
not afraid of telling the truth.  The last attempt was
successful and his blood is on the head of the bigots of
Waco.

We have not read in any of our "American" dailies
nor have we seen in any of our Evangelical weeklies a
condemnation of this outrage on free speech.  If the
conditions had been reversed, if a Catholic had shot down
the defamer of Catholic women, the country would have
rung with denunciations of Catholic bigotry.  But the
Baptist beetle-browed can for months plan the death of a
man who has exposed their hypocrisy and the assassination
is taken as one of the few "occurrences" which
diversify life in those monotonous Texas towns.

Brann was not a Catholic.  In the eyes of the majority
Baptists of Waco he was an infidel.  He had no sympathy
with any creed as a creed; but as far as we can
judge he loved truth and justice and hated wrong and
hypocrisy.  It was this natural feeling for right and fair
play which led him into the battle with the A.P.A., the
battle in which he perished.  We believe that he acted
according to his lights, and to those who live by the law
as it is shown to them, God will not deny grace.  Many a
man and woman who never saw Brann, and do not sympathize
with the extreme views he held on certain religious
matters, and might perhaps take exception to his style of
conveying his opinions, will yet because of his manly
defense of ladies slandered without cause by the vilest of the
vile, breathe a silent prayer that God may have mercy
on his soul.  As long as ye did it unto these you did it
unto Me.  Even a cup of cold water shall not lose its
reward.--The Monitor, San Francisco, Cal.

EDITORIAL ETCHINGS.

TO THE PUBLIC.

The editorial supervision of the May ICONOCLAST has
been to me a labor of love.  The stress of circumstances
under which the work has been done, is too well known for
either explanation or apology for its shortcomings.  This
issue of the paper is intended as a memorial of the man
who founded it; whose genius has so long adorned its
pages, and whose personality has endeared it to so many
thousands 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 which
she 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 lecture
tour, and is peculiarly appropriate to this issue of
the ICONOCLAST.  I therefore reproduce it with pleasure:

"The development of all really great forces afford an
interesting study for the mind capable of grasping and
measuring them.  The overflow of a river, the eruption
of a volcano or the devastation of a storm arouse admiration
even while they inspire terror and awaken awe.  But
it is the purely human force, with its infinite variety, which
charms while it enthralls.  A man born and reared, as
other men, bound by the same ties, subject to the same
laws, fettered by the same conventionalities, to throw off
the yoke of circumstances, break through the trammels of
the conventional, grapple with and overcome every obstacle
that lies in his path, until he reaches the summit of
Olympus and bodily fronts the Gods, or towers among men,
like Saul above his brethren.  We may envy him, as we
ever envy the truly great, or be disposed to close his lips
in death, because he tells us unpalatable truths, yet
admire him secretly and in our hearts exalt him.  We may
not confess as much while he lives and labors, but when
his lips are dumb in death, his breast pulseless, we lay our
hatred and envy in the dust at his feet, and rear in marble
a 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 sung
loved by half the world, by the other half condemned, whose
whole life has been a battle and a march, who wars as did
the Titans and if he gropes blindly at times ever struggles
toward the light.  This is the man who began his education
while rearing a family, and went from behind the
smokestack 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 more
than half a million people, many of whom he does not and
can not convert, but all of whom he impresses.  A man
who is said to be an ideal husband and father, a tender,
loyal and devoted friend, yet whose entire existence is
devoted to a warfare against existing evils, bitter as death,
and uncompromising as the grave.  You may not always
be right, Mr. Brann, indeed, we shrewdly suspect you are
not, but we respect you and admire you just the same,
because you attack boldly and fight fearlessly.  Yes, we
admire you, and shall not wait to whisper it to your
tombstone either."

.  .  .

If the futility of brute force as an appeal to reason
required an object lesson, it might easily be found in the
fact that while the hand that wielded one pen lies
motionless in death, hundreds of others have been raised up to
fight under the same banner.

.  .  .

Several months ago a number of the students of the
Baylor University, acting without regard for the laws of
either God or man, attempted to mob the editor of the
ICONOCLAST in an effort to bridle his pen.  The hand
which they sought to restrain has now been enjoined by a
court whose order is irrevocable.  In every state in the
union men have come forward to take up a fight which
Brann himself considered ended, and the object is
accomplished.  In reproducing tributes to the memory of the
dead editor I have felt it my duty in several instances to
blue-pencil certain passages which might have been
considered as reflecting upon those who are innocent and
unoffending.  The moral here needs no pointing.

.  .  .

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

*  *  *
SIMPLE STATEMENT OF FACTS.

BY W. H. WARD.

Concerning the tragedy of April 1, in which W. C. Brann
lost his life and I, myself, was slightly wounded, as a
sensational event, enough and more than enough, has
already been said in the daily press.  I should not have
mentioned the matter here at all, but I know the readers
of the ICONOCLAST will expect a statement of the facts.  I
therefore give a subjoined account of the affair from the
Independent Pulpit, published in Waco by J. D. Shaw.
Mr. Shaw is well known to the people of Texas.  There is
not a man in the state who will doubt that his account of
the 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 to
correct some false impressions with regard to the recent
tragedy in which W. C. Brann lost his life.

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

The idea that Brann was seeking a difficulty with Davis
is certainly false.  He had made his arrangements to go
on a lecturing tour, had spent the day at his home, went to
town about 4 o'clock that afternoon to get a shave, and
on 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 out
and shot him in the back.  This was the shot that killed
him, and it was after receiving it that he turned, drew his
revolver and opened fire upon his assailant.

Now as to Mr. Ward:  He left Brann's house some time
after Brann did, had joined the latter a few minutes before
the firing, and was at the time walking by his side.  When
Davis fired, Ward jumped at him in an attempt to get
his, Davis' pistol, caught hold of it over the muzzle and
was shot through the hand.  Ward was unarmed, having
left his revolver in a grip at Mr. Brann's house.  His
hands were gloved and he had no idea of a difficulty at
the 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 understand
how an excited observer, seeing Mr. Ward extend his
hand to get Davis' pistol and seeing immediately the fire
of 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 nor
myself were in the slightest anticipation of trouble.  He
left 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 my
brother, whom I was expecting with a party of friends that
evening.  At 20 minutes to 6 o'clock he had not returned
and I took the first car down, as several ladies who chanced
to be at Mr. Brann's home will testify.  I left the car at
Fourth and Austin streets at about 6 o'clock, walked to
Herz 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 walked
on, and Mr. Brann and myself crossed the street and
walked towards Austin avenue.  We had passed the place,
where I afterwards learned Davis' office was located, about
ten paces, when Davis came out and opened fire from the
rear.  His opening fire was the first warning of the trouble.
We were walking side by side, conversing together, when
the first shot was fired.  That shot entered Mr. Brann's
back, and caused his death.  I will add, that I was
unarmed, and had not removed my driving gloves, which were
taken off when my wound was dressed, and had been with
Mr. Brann not more than three minutes when the shooting
occurred.  These are the facts, as substantiated by the
signed statement of over a score of eye-witnesses, the same
now being in the hands of my attorneys, Messrs. Baker &
Ross, and C. R. Sparks.  I do not wish to speak ill of the
dead, therefore I shall have but little to say of Mr. Davis.
My acquaintance with him was brief; I never met him but
once--when he was shooting another man, IN THE BACK.

*  *  *

Reference has been made by Judge Gerald to the pathetic
tragedy 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 written
by 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 ever
fabled in home and happiness, the young father toiled
and hoarded his scant wage; the little mother denied
herself a thousand things that women covet, and they said:
"It is for her, our Inez, our fairy queen.  Her feet shall
find no thorns in life's path; a father's strength a
mother's love shall fill it with sweetest flowers."

Beautiful to their eyes, and other eyes, was she, as
Grecian sculptor's dream and still more beautiful when
childhood's early years flashed by and the bud was bursting
into womanhood's glorious bloom.  No crowned empress
so imperial seemed, yet pride so womanly and softened
by such grace that each and all yielded sweet allegiance
to her sway.

And they would sit and watch her at her books or play,
drinking with greedy ear her admiring teacher's oft-told
tale of triumphs won in classroom or on the green, and
watched her comrades,--loving subjects they--weave
crowns 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 swains
began to sigh for her and bashful cast their tribute of
flowers--such as they knew she loved--into the open door,
then blushingly retreat, fearing cold comfort from her
imperious eyes.  And one there was of her own age, who
seemed to haunt the street, until the mother noticed it
and 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 the
little 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."  And
she arose, and taking her music roll went forth and the
boy followed her.

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

"You have deceived me, Daughter!"

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

And the little mother fretted and lectured her; but she
sat silent, brooding upon the great wrong, and the queenly
eyes were full of tears that seemed frozen by her pride
and could not fall.

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

And the father kissed the dead lips of his first born
and knew that he had killed her.  And ever in his heart
there is a cry, "I killed her!"  And night and day that
cold, sweet face doth haunt him; and day and night he
hears that piteous cry, wrung from his child when he
broke her heart, "Oh, Father!" and ever the little mother's
lamentation goes up to heaven, "Our house is left unto us
desolate!"


SALMAGUNDI.

There is a class of men who take especial delight in pistol
practice--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-developed
Texas "jag," sees keyholes in the door at 3 o'clock A.M.
--just legions of them.  As a matter of fact when pistols
are really cracking, powder actually burning and bullets
sweetly singing "Nearer my God to Thee," these are
the 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 ICONOCLAST
to the pack of journalistic jackals who are raising their
illfamous howl over the body of Brann.  As usual, when
the lion is dead the hyena comes forth for a feast.  Life
is too short and the game too mean to justify individual
firing, so I will take a pot-shot at the pock; these animals
are so much alike in tastes, character and habits that one
will typify all.  I therefore call attention to "Majah"
Burbanks of the New Orleans Picayune.  The state
Constitutional Convention has eliminated the negro from
Louisiana politics.  Had that body also placed journalism
under the color ban they would have disposed of the
"Majah" most effectively, and, I might add, to the entire
satisfaction of all concerned; unless, indeed, the coons
had objected to their company.  So help me God, I would
rather be a yellow dog, with an abbreviated narrative,
and belong to a disreputable negro, than go around with
my cowardly heart in my throat, fearing to look a man in
the face while alive, then mercilessly assail his character
after death.  Bah! the mere existence of such creatures
revolutionizes Darwin's theory--argues the survival of
the unfittest.

.  .  .

It is well for the public to understand that the murder
of W. C. Brann did not remove all of the abuses from
which this country suffers, and the frauds and fakes which
prey upon it.  Assassination may shatter an instrument,
but it cannot conquer a cause.  There is still work for
the iconoclast to do, and it will be done.  It will continue
to place its brand upon the forehead of the seducer, the
whining hypocrite, the sniveling rogue, the confidence man,
the fakir and the fool.  It is proposed to show this country
that the pistol is unconvincing as an argument and
useless as a brake upon reform.  Brann is dead; but there
are men alive who lack his phenomenal ability, perhaps,
but who share his deathless hatred of the rotten in morals
and in politics.  The mission for the ICONOCLAST is
unchanged and unended.  Its field is its own.  It will be
filled.

.  .  .

The man who seeks the American spirit must look for it
in the South and West.  He will not find it in the East.
That part of our common country is inhabited by a nation
of shopkeepers as distinct from the peoples of the other
sections as the lion is distinct from the jackal.  They are
smooth-faced, snub-nosed rogues, tied to the counter and
till, 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 his
country and the peril of his kinsfolk were to be shot this
morning, the air of the North Atlantic states would be
heavy with powder smoke.  From that well kept and wearisome
prostitute and buffoon, Chauncey Depew, down to the
smallest operator of a bucket-shop, they are all tarred
with the same brush--things in trousers who would sell
their souls for coin.  They own the President of this
country, and they own many of the congressmen, having
bought and paid for them.

.  .  .

America, I suppose, is as religious as its neighbors, but
it is for the dollar first and for Christ afterward.  Easter
is a period devoted to commemoration of the saddest and
noblest event in human history, the highest and most
important 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 maker
of hot cross buns, the signs and symbols of religion are
made the means of chasing the nimble 10-cent piece.  The
cross is the hall mark of printed sentiment, to be sold for
a quarter, and the crucifixion is done over and over again
in gingerbread.  The ICONOCLAST may not get to heaven
by the Baptist route or the Methodist route, or by any
one of the thousand routes which "Christians" have been
pleased to blaze out for sinners in the centuries since Christ
died, 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 it
the party of patriotism?  May it be trusted to uphold
the honor of the nation?  Is it honest?  Is it even decent?
Nay.  I say that nine out of every ten Republican
congressmen who voted for the intervention resolutions did
so because they were driven to it by fear of outraged
citizens, Democrats and Republicans alike, not because they
were patriots.  I say that the representatives of the
Republican party are bound hand and foot to the millionaires
of America.  I say that the leaders of that party
are without principle.  The polls next November will
show what the honest money and honest patriotism people
of the nation think of the Republican party.

.  .  .

From the time that Fitzhugh Lee reached Washington
the myrmidons of William McKinley sought to detract
from his services to the country and to belittle his rugged
patriotism and love of truth.  The popinjay in the White
House could not bear to listen to the roar of welcome that
greeted him as he stepped from the train.  It was like
the oleaginous Ohio poltroon to inspire detraction of one
who is his official inferior, and his superior in everything
that goes to make a man.  The Virginian is not intellectually
great.  He is plain of speech and manner.  But he
has carried high the unstained banner of the lees.  He
has stood to his post in the face of danger.  He has bearded
the traitorous Spaniard in his stronghold.  He has
demonstrated once that God never made a more courageous
animal than the Southern gentleman.  Beside such a
man, the purchasable McKinleys and gross scoundrelly
Hannas of the nation are dwarfs.

.  .  .

Dr. Dowie, of the Chicago "Zion," a place where faith
cure fools who have cirrhosis of the liver are allowed to
die for a consideration, has written a circular and sent
out a million or two of copies.  He wants every adult
person in the United States to send him 50 cents, so that
he can have money to send out more literature with which
to catch more fools.  The people of Chicago can confer
a favor upon themselves and humanity at large by taking
Dowie five miles out into Lake Michigan, tying three
hundred pounds of scrap iron to his heels and dumping him
overboard.

.  .  .

Mrs. Henrotin, president of the Federation of Women's
Clubs, has telegraphed McKinley from Chicago that she,
as the representative of that influential band of hens,
cordially and heartily indorses everything he has ever
done or thought of doing.  It is proper to say that Mrs.
Henrotin no more represents her sisters than I represent
the W. C. T.  U.  She is only another instance of the
modern highly developed female, eaten by an itch for
writing and getting her name into the newspapers.  The
mothers, sisters, wives, daughters and sweethearts of
America no more indorse William McKinley than they
indorse any other coward.  The women of the federated
clubs are much like other women when they stop playing
upon 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 of
which is proper.

.  .  .

Little Jimmy Eckles, Cleveland's undersized underling,
got some handclaps and whoops from the Chicago Credit
Men's Association when he addressed the members at the
Grand Pacific Hotel on the night of April 12th.  He talked
about the business men's longing for war when the country
is insulted, and these snipes and jack bailiffs of the big
mercantile houses, warmed into drunken courage by gallons
of cheap wine, yelped in unison.  This auriferous
insect, who was for four years comptroller of the currency,
is remembered in Washington chiefly for a remarkable
burst of speed displayed one night when his timorous
mind conceived the idea that a somnolent hackman was
going to rob him.  He had his dress suit case in one
hand and his plug hat in the other, and he covered three
blocks in ten seconds.  The cabby, whom he had hired,
waked in time to discover the meteoric dash, and was the
most 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 am
informed, "Brann No. 2."  Like most other men, he was
far behind W. C. Brann in wealth of intellect, in largeness
of heart, in charity, in his hatred of wrong and the
oppressor.  It appears, however, that he had the habit of
speaking his mind and he was shot for it.  Also that he
was shot in the back.

.  .  .

Joe Leiter, the wheat speculator of Chicago, is followed
about all day by detectives whom he has hired to protect
him.  I do not know if anyone contemplates giving him
his deserts, but since he has used his inherited millions
to make bread dearer in thousands of poor mouths, he
should be whipped twice a day for a month.  Under a
properly constituted and administered government, Leiter
and his kind would be sent to the penitentiary at hard
labor.  He is as much a robber as any brigand of the
Italian passes, and as much of a thief as any pickpocket
in America.

.  .  .

A great many people imagine that "your Uncle Sam"
will frazzle hell's bells out of Spain in one word and two
motions, that all of this preparation for threatened
conflict with Spain is much ado about little; that the United
States will get up early some morning and administer the
paternal slipper to the Spanish pantaloon, simply by way
of diversion or to get up an appetite for breakfast.  The
result of the scrap may show that the job had best be
undertaken after a square meal.

.  .  .

As the war is not yet on I rise to remark that it is my
sincere wish that those who have lost a scrap may find it
--that those who have clamored so hard and so long for
hostilities to begin, may find standing room only in the
theater of war, and be given positions in the full glare
of the footlight, with a corporal's guard behind them, to
see that they do not strike a retrograde motion when the
curtain rises on the first act.

[This completes the last issue of the ICONOCLAST.  The
publication of the paper was not continued, though evidently
this was intended when the May issue was printed.
The following articles were written shortly after the death
of 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 a
much greater man than even his admirers knew.  He had
many virtues which, in a way, his peculiar tactics in
journalism belied.  For instance, his paper was read, for
the most part, by people who took a delight in his calling
a spade a spade, and, in fact, in his seeking out spades to
write about.  This was not the true Brann at all.  The
man was clean-minded in his conversation.  He thought
cleanly.  He lived cleanly as a gentleman should, though
he did not leave off sack.  He was not a brawling, boisterous
ruffian, reveling in the slums.  He was essentially
a family man and a student who "scorned delights and
lived laborious days."  His regard for the purity of
women amounted almost to a monomania, and he lived up
to his own preachment on all the various forms of integrity
with much more strictness than people who affected
to believe he was leper.  Furthermore the man was an
ascetic in his essential spirit.  He had the true taste for
the finely done thing in letters and if he did not devote
himself to what might be called the more refined literary
artistry, it was because he felt that there was danger
of drawing too fine the lessons he thought it his duty to
impart.  There was no use, he said, in writing to the
few.  One should write so that all might read, running.
He maintained that the way to instill principles in the
people was to secure their attention first, and he did not
hesitate to secure their attention by any device that seemed
available.  Therefore he felt himself justified in appealing
to the lower instincts in men in order that, while they were
all unsuspecting, he might inculcate something better.
And so there ran through his publication the strangest
contrasts of sweetness and salacity, of eloquence and
bombast, of purity and pornography, of jewel-phrases and
gutter slang, excerpts of enthralling poetry and brothel
billingsgate.  He pointed his morals with putridity and
he adorned his really beautiful style with barbarities and
banalities which make one shudder.  He set his fine
thoughts like jewels in compost.  He ravished the classics
to mix them up with sentences that stunk of the stews.
The man seemed to indulge in special flights of poesy with
no other purpose than to achieve a disgusting anti-climax
of muckery and mockery.  The person who read Brann
intelligently was impressed most by this habit of irony in
the Waconian.  It was of the essence of his iconoclasm.
He had something in his effects in this line that was
piteous.  There was no denying his appreciation of the pure
air, of the beautiful in life and nature, of the truth
as thinkers see and feel it.  It seemed to me that when
he had soared up towards the ever vanishing ideal, he
reached a point whereat he turned in disgust and hurled
himself madly back to the dungiest part of this dungy
earth.  There was a mighty dissatisfaction, even a despair,
in Brann, and a touch of sadness in his writing as in his
face.  The more I read of his deliberate pandering to the
literarily excrementitious appetite, the more I saw, or
thought I saw, that he was afflicted with a mighty ennui,
and was chiefly trying to escape from his own torture as
one who knew not whether solace was to be found either
in the spiritual or the earthly nature of man.  Such a
one as he might have been expected to take up any cause
that assailed the existing condition of things politically
and sociologically.  While he was an ascetic his asceticism
was only a wreaking of his own bitterness upon himself.
He was a man in whom strong emotions were easily excited
and he put into his writing all the passion which he
suppressed in his dealings with his fellows socially.  He never
felt malice towards people whom he assailed most
maliciously.  He saw them simply as representatives of some
fault in our social or political system, and he felt that he
was doing his duty by his own conception of what the
world should be, by pillorying them as object lessons of
characters to be eliminated in his good time coming.  When
he saw a foul wrong he saw it personified in some man or
woman.  Then he went abroad in search of foul things to
say about it.  And he found them and he hurled them at
the object, and he polluted the atmosphere for a mile
around.  When he wrote about the abstractions of poetry
and philosophy he wrote with a sweeping, swinging rhythm
that 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 out
fecal flashes to illuminate them.  His correggiosity was
at times overpowering.  His vocabulary overcame him
often, bore him away from his thought and landed him in
some swamp out of which he was wont to extricate himself,
to the great delight of the semi-educated reader by some
quip or quirk equally meretricious and mephitic.  Thus
would he, metaphorically, throw filth at himself.  He felt
all the time that he was pursuing the best course, bending
things he despised and loathed to better purposes.  Mr.
Brann believed that the country was, if not in itself
decadent and degenerate, under the control of decadent,
degenerate and depraved men.  He believed that society
was a social cesspool.  He thought that most religion was
hypocrisy.  He believed that most wealth represented
nothing more than the superior and diabolic genius of
dishonesty.  So believing he so preached and he preached with
a vehemence that was in a sense vicious.  His terribly
irony made his work an engine of anarchy.  Not that he
meant anarchy at all, but because the people who were
caught by his banalities could not differentiate sufficiently
to extract the core of truth from the great superstructure
of extravagances with which he hid it.  Mr. Brann meant
only to lift the world up, and one of his queer conceptions
was, that his own dragging down of things pure to the
lowest levels of life and thought and feeling was calculated
to make his multitudinous clientele look upward.  He
was mistaken.  He came to know it, too, for he said to
me one evening, "I am only a fad."  "I'll pass away when
my vogue is done, like brick pomeroy."  He wished he
could believe that the best way to help people up was to
take a stand and view a little above them.  He said, when
it was suggested that he try this tack, that he feared it
was too late.  Not that he wholly abandoned his belief
in his own plan, but it seemed to me that he felt sorry that
once attention could be attracted by being shocking it
could only be held by a continuance of the shocks.

.  .  .

In my personal dealings with Mr. Brann I found him a
person of almost feminine fineness.  It was amusing to
meet him after some particularly atrocious issue of the
ICONOCLAST, either personally or by letter, and have him
"roar as gently as a sucking dove."  In such moods he
revealed a character that was really sweet--though I must
apologize for that misused word.  He was impressed with
the pity of life.  He loved to toy intellectually with
subtleties of thought.  He had intuitions in art and poetry,
and music touched him truly and deeply.  I never have seen
such 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 virtuous
womanhood was unpleasantly associated with ideas that
revolted you, it was his peculiar belief that purity was all
the purer for the contrast and antithesis.  He loved
children, too, and in his more familiar moods, according
to his intimates, he was like one whose heart was as a little
child.  He cared no more for money after he began to
make it than he cared in his bohemian days when he was
readier to give than to take.  He loved his friends blindly.
He did not hate his enemies, he despised them.  He had
all 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.  His
friendship was almost foolish.  He praised too generously.
He was inclined to help everybody he could and I am sure
that he never assailed anyone or anything that did not
represent to him uncharity and snobbery.  He was not
envious.  His mind was on the Texas scale; he knew no
meanness.  His was Kentucky origin and he was tainted
with Kentucky's quixotism.  He loved liberty and he
loved love.  He was the friend of the people as he dreamed
they should be.  He was the advocate of the greatest
enlargement of rights.  With little of what he strove for in
immediate political issues did I sympathize.  He believed
more in what is called socialism than I do, but he believed
it most earnestly.  He was the greatest force in this
country, with his 80,000 issues of his magazine per month,
for all the things that go with free silver.  His following
included all the thinking followers of Bryan and his work
had no little effect, in its powerful music and color, upon
many people to whom Bryanism represented the political
abomination of desolation.

.  .  .

As to the manner of Mr. Brann's death there is only to
be said that he expected it.  He judged from the characters
of those he attacked, that they would assassinate
him.  He died as he expected to die, without any cringing
to his enemies.  Some people he attacked who did not
deserve his vitriolic attentions, but he thought they did.  In
the main he scourged and sacrificed only those who deserved.
The manner in which he was killed and the cause in which
he was killed--the cause of an institution in which a girl
was debauched in the name of Christ and turned out of
doors to starve to the glory of religion--glorify him.  He
who 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 qualities
of the men who immortalized the Alamo.  He was the
first man who identified Texas with thought.  He loved
Texas so well that he defended the code of private and
public mobbery for righting wrongs.  To that cruel
coward code he fell a victim.  With all his faults as I see
them, I can think of him only as worthy of being buried
in some high place, to the strains of Sigfried's Funeral
March, 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. Brann
wantonly attacked spotless reputation, that decency and
purity were not sacred to him--an assumption, by the
way, that is a rank injustice to Mr. Brann's memory--
let us see about this matter of private vengeance which
the Picayune approves.

Are there not laws in all the states against libel?  Are
there not laws against publishing obscene and defamatory
matter?  If there be, then what justification can there be
for private vengeance?  What is the use of laws if men
on any provocation may set aside those laws and set
themselves above them and execute the person who may
have offended, or who may be imagined to have offended
them?  If private vengeance is to prevail what is to
prevent any person construing any criticism into a mortal
offense and assassinating the critic, even though the critic
be palpably and undeniably criticizing for the public
good?  When the individual is made the judge, jury and
executioner of whomsoever displeases him, what becomes
of law, of order, of civilization?  There is not a day in
the year that one could not justify the murder of a
hundred editors, if the rightfulness of the killing were
determinable solely by what the killers thought of the
criticisms against them in the papers controlled by those
one hundred editors.

If we can tolerate a state of society in which any man,
for what seems to him good and sufficient reason, for
anything from biting the thumb at him to jesting about
his whiskers, may take the life of another, why shall we
not tolerate the man who will take another's property
because the taker deems the other has too much or has
unjustly accumulated what he has?

What is the result of this sanction of private vengeance?
It is anarchy.  Pursued to the ultimate of its logic it
means that every man is a law unto himself and the justice
of an execution rests upon nothing but the opinion, or
delusion, of the executioner.  What one man might call a
trifle might, to another man, call for blood.  You could
kill a man because his boots creaked or his eyes squinted or
he wore the wrong shade of your favorite color in his
necktie.  Ridiculous?  Not at all.  Liking or disliking any
of these trifling things is only a matter of personal
preference.  They may be as distasteful to one person as the
tone of an editorial is to another.  If a man may rightly
kill a writer, like Mr. Brann, why would it not be right for
someone to kill any editor?  At one time there was talk
in the south of killing the late Joseph B. McCullagh for
his editorials.  How if Senator Hanna were to "go gunning"
for the editorial "roasters" of himself, or for
the malevolent cartoonist?  Mr. Brann attacked hypocritic
preachers, snide politicians, shoddy society people,
shyster lawyers.  He did it in, to me, an exaggerated
manner, but he felt that such manner was necessary to arouse
the people.  Were Brann's blasts against Baylor University
intrinsically worse, more a license of the press than
let us say the assaults of the New York World, the New
York Journal or the Post Dispatch upon Pierpont Morgan
and the trusts?  And yet, if any trust magnate, crucified
as a blood-sucker on the poor, were to shoot the editor
of one of these sheets, he would be howled to the hangman's
noose.  The trust magnate would be told he should have
had recourse to law.  But in the south, no--Mr. Brann
was rightfully assassinated.  No law for him!  Why?
Because Mr. Brann assailed a few southern "josses."  If
Mr. Brann were justly slain then the next person who
may dislike an editorial in the Picayune may kill its editor
on the ground that the editorial--no matter how trifling
in its imputation--is "carrion journalism."  This law of
chivalric private vengeance would justify a saturnalia
of murder in every large city where gossip circulates in
society.  The chivalry of it!  A man has written something
he deems to be true and comments upon it as he
deems it his duty in a quasi public capacity.  Everyone
who does not like the article can "take a pop at him."
But, says the chivalrous Picayune, the law of private
vengeance does not apply to anything save grave offenses
in scurrility.  Ah!  The offensiveness of a criticism is
only a matter of individual capacity for pain or humiliation.
The trifle is only a trifle, because a man thinks
it so.  It may become a thing of importance at any time
if you leave the decision of its importance solely to the
judgment of the man who is going to resent it.

Private vengeance makes for the creation of a caste
of bulldozers.  Let it become known in a community that
criticism is an invitation to death, and who profit?  Not
the men of spotless reputation.  Not the decent and pure
elements of the community.  Not at all.  The ruffian gang
in politics profits.  The sanctimonious crooks profit.  The
seducer and betrayer, who is a dead-shot, profits.  Every
social and civic iniquity flourishes under this dominance of
the law of private vengeance.  All the people who deserve
criticism are ready to shoot.  They are the judges of their
own spotless reputations.  They will kill the man who spots
it.  So it is that in almost every southern city there has
grown up a class of political brahmins absolutely secure
from criticism that counts.  Take New Orleans.  The
papers feared for years to breathe a breath of attack
against the "spotless reputations" of its leaders.  The
story of the corruption that developed is too well known
to require telling.  After all, it is not the people of
spotless reputation who are assailed in the papers.  Whenever
anyone is assailed the chances are there is ground for the
assault, and there is at least a prima facie evidence that
attack or exposure is necessary in the interest of public
morality.  Any reputation would be spotless if no one
dared attack it.  If it were high crime to assail people
vigorously how would dishonor, debauchery, fraud and
crime in high places ever be brought to light.  If the
right of private vengeance shall prevail in any community
then the ruffians and blackguards may pursue their
nefarious ends unhampered because of the terror they
inspire by threats to shoot their critics.  This recognition
of the right of the individual to punish, by the infliction
of death, the person who has injured him, puts the
community at the mercy of the worst elements in it.  It is
the extension of the barbarism of lynch law.  It makes
every man, who wants to be one, a mob.  It develops the
idea of savagery in revenge to such an extent that the
individual executioner of the offender against himself does
not hesitate to wreak his vengeance from behind.  It
promotes assassination.

Aspersions upon the virtue of women are certainly
indefensible on any imaginable ground.  They demand
often a punishment which the law is inadequate to provide.
They cannot be ignored.  They constitute the
exceptions which confirm the rule that it is well to let
the law punish slanderers.  And in general men are
expected to protect to the last extremity the reputations of
the women of their family and their acquaintance.  The
person who attacks publicly or privately the virtue of a
woman deserves the limit of vengeance, for the publicity
of legal proceedings toward punishment only aggravates
the original wrong.  Mr. Brann did not attack the virtue
of girl-students at Baylor University.  He attacked the
administration of that institution and the killing of him
was the result of a distorted view of the trend of his
criticisms.  If it were believed that he assailed the virtue
of girl-students at Baylor he would not have a single
mourner in the southwest.  And no man in any part of
the United States can have a following of respectable
people, if he defames women.  The feeling of reverence
for woman is so general that it is often a defense for
personal violence against writers who never dream of
attacking feminine honor.  Aside from the fact that death
is too light a punishment for the man who attacks womanly
chastity, the law of private vengeance is not sweepingly
and invariably to be condemned.  I am not liberal enough in
recognition of the great fact of human nature to admit
that the objection to private vengeance is mainly an
objection to the recognition of the right of individual execution
of the death penalty for any criticism.  Men ought not to
be shot for criticisms of public institutions.  It would be
foolish to argue against the fact that men occasionally feel
called upon to resent criticism by an appeal to battle
without weapons.  The killing of critics at the whim of the
criticized is the evil against which protest is made.  Plain
assault and battery is easily defensible on the ground that
no one can be expected always to have his temper in control.
It makes writers careful, and it is not followed by
the regret which follows killing.  Writers are expected to
keep within bounds in their criticisms, and even then they
are certain to generate ill feeling in the criticized and their
friends, but so long as the offense is not murderous of
reputation and mortally malevolent the private execution
of writers is an offense not to be condoned on a mistaken
interpretation of chivalry.  For all sins of journalistic
criticism, outside of the diabolism of blasting reputations
for virtue, the law provides adequate remedy, and if it
does not, then it were idle to say that the exasperated
victims of criticism should not have recourse to their fists,
although decent criticism, free from malice, addressed to
people in position semi-public would not seem to call for
violence under pretense of resenting something much worse.
As a rule I should say that the criticism which does not
call for extreme and desperate punishment calls for no
notice at all, or if it does, in the case of men, there are
laws, civil and criminal, that cover the case, with ample
punishment for the offense.  This is the practical view of
the remedies against "carrion journalism."

A public sentiment strong enough to support private
vengeance is strong enough to support the law.  There
are laws for the punishment of slander.  More rigorous
laws could be enforced.  If the people hate slanderers
bitterly enough to kill them, then they should hate them
enough to see that the laws against slander are enforced.
The moral sentiment that can sustain the one could sustain
the other.  But the individual execution of vengeance
is a turning away from the law.  It is the fostering of the
bully and the killer for drunken pastime.  It is a bulwark
for boodlers, blackguards, frauds and lechers.  It gives
rein to individual passion without limit.  Such chivalry is
barbarism.--Pasquin.

BRANN, THE FOOL.

BY ELBERT HUBBARD, EDITOR OF THE PHILISTINE.

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

The fool is not malicious.  Stupid people may think
he is, because his language is charged with the lightning's
flash; but they are the people who do not know the
difference between an incubator and an egg plant.

Touchstone, with unfailing loyalty, follows his master
with quip and quirk, into exile.  When all, even his
daughters, have forsaken King Lear, the fool bares himself
to the storm and covers the shaking old man with his
own cloak.  And when in our own day we meet the avatars
of Trinculo, Costard, Mercutio and Jacques, we find they
are men of tender susceptibilities, generous hearts and
intellects keen as a rapier's point.

Brann was a fool.

Brann shook his cap, flourished his bauble, gave a toss
to that fine head, and with tongue in cheek, asked
questions and propounded conundrums that stupid hypocrisy
could not answer.  So they killed Brann.

.  .  .

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

He graduated at the university of hard knocks and
during 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 those
whom God had tempted beyond what they could bear, his
heart went out.  He read books with profit, and got great
panoramic views out into the world of art and poetry;
dreaming dreams and sending his swaying filament of
thought out and out, hoping it would somewhere catch and
he would be in communication with another world.

Discreet and cautious little men are known by the
company they keep.  The fool was not particular about his
associates; children, sick people, insane folks, rich or poor
--it made no difference to him.  He sometimes even sat at
meat with publicans and sinners.

He was a mystic and lived in the ideal.  This deeply
religious quality in his nature led him into theology, and
he became a clergyman--a Baptist clergyman.

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

So the fool had to go.

Then he founded that unique periodical, which, in
three years, attained a circulation of 90,000 copies.  This
paper was not used for pantry shelves, lamp lighters, or
other base utilitarian purposes.  It cost ten times as much
as a common newspaper, and the people who bought it
read it until it was worn out.  All the things in this paper
were not truth; mixed up amid a world of wit were often
extravagance and much bad taste.  It was only a fool's
newspaper!

In this periodical the fool railed and jeered and stated
facts about smirking complacency, facts so terrible that
folks 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 of
the State of New York.  If a man takes from you your
good name you can put him behind prison bars and place
shutters over the windows of his place of business.

The people who thought Brann had injured them did
not invoke the law.  They invoked Judge Lynch----

A mob seized the fool, and, placing a rope about his
neck, led him naked through the October night, out to
the theological seminary, which they declared he had
traduced.

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

But the next day he refused to leave; and his flashing
wit still filled the air, now embittered through the outrage
visited upon him.

His enemies held prayer-meetings, invoking divine aid
for the fool's conversion--or extinction.  One man quoted
David's prayer concerning Shimmei:  "bring thou down
his hoar head to the grave in blood!"  And others still,
prayed, "let his children be fatherless and his wife a
widow."

But still the fool flourished his bauble.

Then they shot him.

That hand which wrote the most Carlylean phrase of
any in America is cold and stiff.  That teeming brain
which held a larger vocabulary than that of any man in
America is only clay that might stop a hole to keep the
wind away.  That soul through which surged thoughts
too 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 fool
eloquently, and oh! so foolishly, plead the cause of the
weak, the unfortunate, the vicious.  No more shall we
behold the tears of pity glisten in those sad eyes as his
heart 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 was
not raised in the home of his parents, though his father,
Rev. Noble Brann, survived him, and is still living.  His
mother having died when he was two and a half years old,
he was within the next six months placed in the care of
Mr. William Hawkins, a Coles County farmer, with whom
he lived about ten years.  As to his childhood experiences
on the Hawkins' farm nothing is now known.  They were
probably such as are common to children raised in the
country.  Of Mr. Hawkins he always spoke kindly, referring
to him as "Pa Hawkins."  His nature was not suited
to farm life, however, and he finally made up his mind
to see more of the world, hence without ever having
disclosed his resolution to any one, he quietly walked away
one dark and cheerless night, carrying in a small box under
his arm all that he then possessed, and leaving behind him
the friends of his childhood in the only place he had ever
known as his home, thus entering upon the active struggle
of life at thirteen years of age, without friends, destitute
of means, and almost entirely uneducated.

The first position he obtained was that of bell boy in a
hotel.  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 whatever
he 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 eager
diligence.  Nature had endowed him with keen perceptive
powers, a retentive memory and great mental vigor, by
means of which he soon accumulated considerable knowledge.
Every moment that could be spared from his daily
toil was spent in reading books of science, philosophy,
history, biography and general literature.  In this way
he became thoroughly informed on almost every important
subject, as will be seen by the contents of his writings.

On March 3, 1877, at Rochelle, Illinois, he was married
to Miss Carrie Martin, who, with their two children, Grace
Gertrude and William Carlyle is now living in the beautiful
home, here at Waco, from which he was buried April 3, 1898.

During all the years, from the time he left the
hospitable home of Mr. Hawkins, in 1868, until after he had
successfully launched "Brann's ICONOCLAST," he suffered
the harassing annoyances of extreme poverty, in the
endurance of which he was cheerful, hopeful and diligent in
the equipment of his mind preparatory to the work he
always believed he would some day be able to accomplish.

Beginning his literary career as a reporter, he was soon
made an editorial writer, in which capacity he became
well-known throughout Illinois, Missouri and Texas.  As
such he was versatile, forceful and direct.  There was
no needless repetition of tiresome circumlocution in his
composition.  He possessed an inexhaustible vocabulary,
from which he could always find the words best fitted to
convey 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 first
number of "Brann's ICONOCLAST."  Only a few numbers
appeared, when it was suspended and he resumed his
editorial 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 establish
the ICONOCLAST that he delivered a few lectures that were
well received.  In later years he went upon the platform
again with every prospect of a successful career in the
lecture field.

In the summer of 1894, he settled here in Waco, and, in
February 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 thousand
copies.  It was through the ICONOCLAST that his genius
found full scope for development, and that he became best
known to the public.  In its columns he dared to be
himself.  There was now no restraint imposed upon him by
timorous publishers.  It belonged to him, and in it he
gave full wing to his own thought.  It was this intellectual
freedom, sustained by the magic power and personality
of 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 content
with merely having amused or entertained the people, he
aspired to arouse public sentiment in the interest of
certain reforms.  He was a hater of shams and defied every
form of fraud, hypocrisy and deceit.  He made of his
humor a whip with which to scourge from the temple of
social purity every intruder there.  He joined in no
partisan schemes for place or power, but, confident of his own
ground, he would stand alone in the defiance of popular
humbugs and frauds.  This heroic independence, while
admired by many, made him a mark for the envy and
hatred of such as feared him, and in the end proved to be
the cause of his death.

But with all his uncompromising hatred of shams, there
beat in the bosom of W. C. Brann a warm and generous
heart for the world at large, and no man was ever a more
devoted friend to the poor and needy.  No beggar was
ever turned away from his door empty handed, and no
worthy cause ever asked his help in vain.  His religion
was to do whatever he believed to be right, and to defy the
wrong even though it should be found parading in the
garb and livery of righteousness.

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

His sudden death was a shock not only to his immediate
friends, but to the hundreds of thousands who knew him
through the ICONOCLAST.  Walking quietly along the
street, talking with a friend, he was shot in the back by
one T. E. Davis, a partisan on the Baylor side of the
Brann-Baylor trouble.

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

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

The impression has gone abroad that Mr. Brann was
without friends and admirers in Waco.  The falsity of
this impression was made manifest, by the funeral
attendance, said, and generally believed, to have been the
largest ever seen here.

He was a believer in religion, therefore, it was not
improper that a religious service was held, conducted by
Rev. Frank Page, D.D., of the Episcopal church, though
the writer, acting in according with the wishes of the
family, spoke a few words at the grave.

In Oakwood Cemetery the body of Brann was laid to
rest in the embrace of our common mother earth, and
under a mound of floral offerings, which though profuse
and costly were but a feeble expression of the sincere
grief that struck dumb with awe the thousands upon
thousands who had learned to love him with an affection
accorded to few men.

.  .  .

My position as to Mr. Brann's style of journalism has
been freely expressed, and while he was still alive.  I do
not approve of all he saw fit to write, nor of the spirit
in which he wrote, but that he was a real genius and a
benefactor of his race cannot be denied.  It was with him,
as it is with all men of his type, he made strong and bitter
enemies, still his friends and admirers were numbered by
thousands, I may safely say hundreds of thousands.

The purposes, direction and character of the ICONOCLAST
were in many respects different from those of this
Pulpit, nevertheless there was between Mr. Brann and
myself a strong tie of friendship that, so far as I know,
never suffered the breach of a single moment, and I
sincerely mourn his loss as a personal friend whose kindly
greetings were to me as glimpses of the sun on a winter's
day.

Of humble birth, beset by poverty and environed by
many difficulties, he applied himself to the study of
literature with such diligence as to acquire abilities possessed
by few, and when once equipped for the field he occupied
with such consummate skill, no power of prejudice could
keep him from rising like a star of the first magnitude.
Alas! how soon that star has been obscured and by what
ignoble means!  But, against great odds, its brief
existence was characterized by a brilliancy that no prejudice
or hatred can ever obliterate.

Having dealt candidly with Mr. Brann while living, I
will not now ignore the fact that he had faults, and his
inability to overcome these marred, here and there, the
splendor of his intellectual achievements.  His faults,
though, were of a kind that may be permitted to pass into
the grave with his body.  His virtues were many, and for
these he was loved, despite the imperfections he could not
always control.  His services to mankind were numerous
and they were rendered with a devotion as ardent as that
of a lover; for these he will be remembered, nor can any
power 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 selecting
sweet words in which to handle it.  There's no surplus
of sweet words in my vocabulary anyhow.  I have
never yet been able to rent my mouth for a taffy mill.
Webster gives several definitions of Gall; but the good
old etymologist was gathered to his fathers long before
the word attained its full development and assumed an
honored place in the slang vernacular of the day.  It was
needed.  It fills what editors sometimes call a "long-felt
want."  Gall is sublimated audacity, transcendent
impudence, immaculate nerve, triple-plated cheek, brass in
solid slugs.  It is what enables a man to borrow five
dollars of you, forget to repay it, then touch you for twenty
more.  It is what makes it possible for a woman to borrow
her neighbor's best bonnet, then complain because
it isn't the latest style or doesn't suit her particular type
of beauty.  It is what causes people to pour their troubles
into the ears of passing acquaintances instead of reserving
them for home consumption.  It is what makes a man
aspire to the governorship, or to air his asininity in the
Congress of the United States when he should be fiddling
on a stick of cordwood with an able-bodied buck-saw.  It
is what leads a feather-headed fop, with no fortune but
his folly, no prospects but poverty--who lacks business
ability to find for himself bread--to mention marriage to
a young lady reared in luxury, to ask her to leave the
house of her father and help him fill the land with fools.
Gall is what spoils so many good ditchers and delvers to
make peanut politicians and putty-headed professional
men.  It is what puts so many men in the pulpit who
could serve their Saviour much better planting the mild-
eyed potato or harvesting the useful hoop-pole.  It is what
causes so many young ladies to rush into literature
instead of the laundry--to become poets of passion instead
of authors of pie.

Gall is a very common ailment.  In fact, a man without
a liberal supply of it is likely to be as lonesome in this
land as a consistent Christian at a modern camp-meeting,
or a gold-bug Democrat in Texas.  Nearly everybody has
it and is actually proud of it.  When a young man is first
afflicted with the tender passion; when he is in the throes
of the mysterious mental aberration that would cause him
to climb a mesquite bush a

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