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 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 clientèle 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.
