The Complete Works of Brann, the Iconoclast — Volume 12

by William Cowper Brann

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.