The Complete Works of Brann the Iconoclast, Volume 12 | ||
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 G.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
. . .
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
. . .
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 buffon, 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
. . .
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 becasue 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
. . .
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,
. . .
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
. . .
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 Complete Works of Brann the Iconoclast, Volume 12 | ||