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.