Part 33

Freedom we have won, and glory, yet both have failed-- we have become, not the subjects of native Caesars, but the serfs of foreign Shylocks. Wealth we now have, and Oriental vice, and corruption that reaches even from the senate chamber through every stratum of society. That we are approaching barbarism may be inferred from the magnificence of the plutocrat and the poverty of the working people. The first reaps where he has not sown and gathers where he has not strewn, while if the latter protest against this grievous injustice they are branded as noisy Bryanites or lampooned as lippy Populists. To the superficial observer, a nation seems to be forging forward long after it has really begun to retrograde. There's an era of splendor, of Lucullus feasts, of Bradley- Martin balls and Seeley dinners; there's grand parade of soldiery and ships, miles of costly palaces, and wealth poured out like water in foolish pageantry; there's refinement of manners into affectation, dilettantism, epicureanism--but 'tis "the gilded halo hovering 'round decay."

The heart of that nation is dead, its soul hath departed, and no antiseptic known to science will prevent putrefaction. How is it with us? Forty thousand people own one-half of the wealth between two oceans, while 250,000 own more than 80 per cent. of all the values created by the people. What is the result? Money is omnipotent. Power is concentrated in the hands of a little coterie of plutocrats--the people are sovereigns de jure and slaves de facto. A mongrel Anglomaniaism is spreading among our wealthy, like mange in a pack o' lobo wolves. Our plutocrats have become ashamed of their country--probably because it permits them to practice a brutal predacity --and now cultivate foreign customs, ape foreign fashions, and purchase as husbands for their daughters the upper- servants of European potentates--people who earned their titles of nobility by chronic boot-licking or sacrificing their female relatives to the god of infamy. Year after year these titled paupers--these shameless parodies on God's masterpiece--paddle across the pond to barter their tawdy dishonor for boodle, to sell their shame-crested coronets to porcine-souled American parvenues, who if spawned by slaves and born in hell would disgrace their parentage and dishonor their country. Our toadies and title- worshippers now have a society called the "Order of the Crown," composed of puppies who fondly imagine that they have within their royal hides a taint of the impure blood that once coursed through the veins of corrupt and barbarous kings. Perchance these dudelets and dudines will yet discover that they are descended in a direct line from King Adam the First and are heirs to the throne of Eden. Our country is scarce half developed, yet it is already rank with decadence and smells of decay. Our literature is "yellow," our pulpit is jaundiced, our society is rotten to the core and our politics shamefully corrupt --yet people say there's no need of iconoclasts! Perhaps there isn't. The iconoclasts used hammers, while those who purify our social atmosphere and make this once again a government of, for and by the people may have to empty gatling guns and load them with carbolic acid. National decay and racial retrogression may be inferred from the fact that alleged respectable white women have been married to black men by eastern ministers who insist on solving the race problem for God and the South by giving to the typical American of the future the complexion of a new saddle and the perfume of a Republican powwow. When these ethnological experts tire of life, they should-- come to Texas. When white people lose their racial pride they've nothing left that justifies the appointment of a receiver. We hear a great deal about "race prejudice," and I want to say right here that there's just enough of it in my composition to inspire an abiding faith that the white man should be, must be, will be, lord paramount of this planet. I promise you that when you elect me to the presidency, nothing that's black, yaller or tan gets an office under my administration. I shall certain not follow Mark Hanna's understudy and fill the departments at Washington with big, fat, saucy blacks, to employ white women as stenographers and white men as messenger boys. There's lots of good in the Senegambian--lots of it; but not in a thousand years will he be fit for American sovereignty. Half the white people are not fit for it, else instead of a wooden-headed hiccius doctius we'd have Billy Bryan in the presidential chair today. Whenever I look at McKinley, I think of Daniel Webster--not because Bill resembles old Dan, but because he doesn't. I like the negro in his place and his place is in the cotton patch, instead of in politics, despite the opinion of those who have studied him only through the rose-tinted lorgnette of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." I also like the Anglomaniac in his place, and that is the geographical center of old England, with John Bull's trade-mark seared with a hot iron on the western elevation of his architecture as he faces the rising sun to lace his shoes. As between the nigger and the Anglomaniac, I much prefer the former. The full-blooded nigger is a fool positive, but the Anglomaniac is an ass superlative. The first is faithful to those who feed him; the latter is a sneaking enemy to the country that has conferred upon him every benefit.

Despite the optimistic cackle anent the march of science, industrial progress, and all that sort o' thing, it appears to be the general consensus of opinion that there's something radically wrong. There's no lack of remedies-- the political drug store is full of panaceas, each with the trade-mark of some peculiar school of therapeutics blown in the bottle. Strange that all these catholicons for earthly ills propose to inaugurate the millennium by improving the pecuniary condition of the people--as though the want of money in this or the other pocket were the only evil. Certainly a better distribution of wealth were desirable, but a general dissemination of God's grace were far preferable. Given that, all worthy reforms will follow; without it we will continue to chase foolish rainbows to our fall, Dives becoming more insolent, Lazarus left more and more to the care of the dogs. I do not mean that by acquiring a case of the camp-meeting jerks we will solve the riddle which the Sphinx of Time is propounding to this republic--that we will find the solution of all life's problems in the amen-corner. Not exactly. The average church is about the last place to which we need look for relief. It's too often a lying rainbow painted on the dark mist of ignorance by the devil's own artist. It promises more and performs less than a Republican candidate for Congress. I've noticed that shouting hosannahs has little tendency to make one more truthful --that when a man professes himself the chief of sinners, he may feel obligated to substantiate his statement. I've never known a man to borrow any money of the bank on the unctuosity of his amen, but I have known people who could double-discount Satan himself at dodging an honest debt, to weep real water because I declined to come into their sectarian penfold and be measured for a suit of angelic pin-feathers. There are many church people who will slander you unmercifully for dissenting from their religious dogma, then seize the first opportunity to stick you with a plugged dime or steal your dog. There are worshippers who do not consider in outward rites and specious forms religion satisfied; but these never accumulate vast fortunes. The path to heaven is too steep to be scaled by a man weighted down with seven million dollars. He may be long on hope and faith, but he's short on charity, and without charity religion is as big a fraud as McKinley's international bimetallism. Charity is a word that is awfully misunderstood. If a man's income be $5,000 a year and he gives half of it to the less fortunate, he's a pretty decent fellow, but if he reserves for himself half of a $100,000 income while people are going hungry to bed, he's simply a brute. With a world full of woe and want, what right has any professed follower of Jesus to shove $50,000 a year down his jeans? The true test of a man's charity is the sum which he reserves for himself; hence when Jno. D. Rockefeller--my good Baptist brother who's building collegiate monuments to his own memory with other people's money--reserves tens o' millions in excess of his needs and imagines himself full to the muzzle with the grace of God, he's simply chasing a rainbow that may land him in Malebolge with the dull sudden plunk of a Republican campaign promise hitting the tidal wave of prosperity. Imagine Jesus Christ with John D.'s money--loaning it at 5 per cent. a month! Why if he'd had half so much cash he'd never have been crucified. Those who clamored for his death would have run him for mayor of Jerusalem on the reform ticket and tried to work him for his last dollar.

. . .

If all who call themselves Christians were Christlike, then indeed might there be hope for humanity; but what is there to inspire belief that the church will ever win the world from a foolish quest of rainbows? What hope in Talmage, with his nightmare visions and stertorous dreams, his pilgrimings to Palestine and rummaging among the mummified cats and has-been kings of ancient Egypt for "Scriptural evidence?" What hope for a people so mentally emasculate that they can patiently listen to his jejune wind-jamming, can read and relish his irremediable tommyrot? What hope in Sam Jones and other noisy ignorami of that ilk, with their wild war on dancing and the euchre deck, the drama and decollete? Be these the strongholds of Abriman in his ceaseless war on Oromasdes? Does the Prince of Darkness, who once did fill the wondering cosmos with the clangor of celestial steel, now front the hosts of Heaven armed with a euchre-deck? Is Tara Boom-de-aye the battle-hymn and the theater hat the blazing gonfalon of him who strove with Omnipotence for universal empire? Does Lucifer expect to become lord paramount of all the gleaming worlds that hang like jewels pendant in heaven's imperial concave by persuading some miserable son of Adam to work his toes on Sunday, dance with the girls on Monday or play seven-up for the cigars? O Jonesy, Jonesy! would to heaven that thou and all thy brother blabsters and bubblyjocks would go hang yourselves, for you know naught of the war that rages ever like a sulphurous siroc in the human soul. Ye are but insects that infest great Igdrasyl, the ash tree that upholds the universe. One atheistical Stephen Girard playing Good Samaritan in a plague-swept city while the preachers hit the turnpike; one deistical Tom Paine, braving the guillotine for the rights of man; one Father Damien, freely laying down his life for the miserable lepers of Molokai; one sweet-faced sister of charity bravely battling with the reeking slums of a great city, striving to drag souls from that seething maelstrom of sin, were worth legions of those sanctified lollypops who prate of sacrificing all for their Savior, yet never risk life or gold in the service of their God.

. . .

"Work is worship," said the old monks who carried the cross into the Western wilds despite all hardships, in defiance of all dangers--men for whom life was no Momusmasque, but a battle and a march, men who sacrificed all for other's sake, accepting without a sigh disease and death as worldly reward. Those monks were real men, and real men are ever the world's heroes and its hope. The soul of a real man is never hidden behind the cowardly superficies of policy or expediency--his heart is an open book which he who runs may read. Deceive he cannot, for the lie blooms only on the lips of cowards. Public opinion he may treat with kingly contempt, but self-respect is dearer to him than life, though dowered with a monarch's scepter and all the wealth of Ormus and of Ind. There's something in the words of a woman, spoken during the civil war, which indicates that despite all artificiality and folly, beneath the cheap gilding and showy lacquer of life, the heart of the race still beats steady and strong; that above the infinitude of goose-speech and the trumpeting of tin- horns on the housetops may still be heard "the ever-pealing tones of old Eternity." From out the mad hell of the fight a wounded hero was borne to the hospital. Neither pain nor approaching death could break the courage of that heart of oak, but a prurient little preacher, one of those busy smooth-bore bigots whose mission seems to be to cast a shadow on the very sun, convinced the stricken man that he was an awful sinner, whereupon he began crying out that he was doomed to be damned. The nurse, a muscular woman who believed with the old monks that "work is worship," took the parson by the pendulous 8 x 10 ear, led him aside and sweetly said: "Mr. Goody Two-Shoes, if I catch you in this ward again I'll throw you out of the window." The brimstone peddler felt that he had an urgent "call" to other fields. He stood not upon the order of his going, but hit the dim and shadowy distance like Nancy Hanks. He couldn't even wait to pray for his persecutor or take up a collection. In vain the nurse strove to soothe her patient by telling him that the man who gave his life for his native land cannot miss heaven's mercy--he but wailed the louder that he was lost. "You came to me a hero," she cried, "and you shall not leave me a coward. If you must go to hell, go like a man." If Romans nursed by a she-wolf became demigods, what might not Americans be sprung from the loins of such a lioness! Milton has almost made Satan respectable by endowing him with an infernal heroism, by making him altogether and irremediably bad, instead of a moral mugwump--by giving him a heart for any fate instead of picturing him as willing to wound and yet afraid to strike.

. . .

By God's grace, I mean not the kind you catch at camp- meetings with sand-fleas, wood-ticks and other gifts of the Holy Ghost; but rather an end everlasting to brummagem and make-believe, a return to the Ark of the Covenant, a recognition of that fact that the soul is not the stomach --that a man owes debts to his fellows which cannot be cast up at the end of the month and discharged with a given number of dollars. Man was not made for himself alone, but all were made for each and each for all. The doctrine which now prevails of "every man for himself," is the dogma of the devil. It means universal war, shameful wrong and brutal outrage--the strong become intolerable tyrants, the weak go to the wall. It transforms this beautiful world into a basket of adders, each biting, hissing, striving to get its foolish head above its fellows. If the Christian religion contained naught else of worth, its doctrine of self-sacrifice should earn for it the respect of every Atheist in the universe. Through the fogs of ignorance and the clouds of superstition that enshrouded the Biblical ages that touch of the divine shines like a pilot star.

. . .

That Persian poet who prated of "the sorry scheme of things" would deserve pity were he not beneath contempt. He imagined that there was a screw loose in the universe because his quest of pleasure slipped its trolley-pole and could not make the bubble Joy to dance in Folly's cup.

Millions make continual moan that they are not happy when they ought to be thankful that they are not hanged. They shake their puny hands at heaven because not provided with a terrestrial Paradise, when they ought to be giving thanks that I'm not the party who holds the sea in the hollow of his hand. I'd make good Baptists of the whole caboodle--would hold them under water long enough to soak out the original sin. A man complains because Fortune doesn't empty her cornucopia into the pockets of his pantalettes while he whittles a pine box and talks municipal politics instead of humping himself behind an enterprising mule in the cotton-patch. If his sweetheart jilts him, he's in despair, and if she marries him he wishes he were dead. He has the mulligrubs because he cannot plant himself on a Congressional cushion, or because he finds his wife awake and nursing a curtain lecture to keep it warm when he falls through the front fence at 5 o'clock in the morning. It seems never to have occurred to these Werterian wailers that the happiest existence is that of the lower animals--that the human being of fine brain and keen sensibilities cannot possibly be content. It is this very unrest, this heart-hunger that drives a man on to noble deeds--that lifts him out of the gutter where wallow the dull, dumb beasts and places him among the gods. Of suffering and sorrow were born all life's beauty. The kiss of Pyramus and Thisbe is an ecstasy of pain. The hope of immortality sprang from breaking hearts. Nations rise through a mist of tears. Every great life-work is an agony. Behind every song there lurks a sigh. There's an element of sadness in humor itself. The Virgin Mother is known as Our Lady of Pain. The cult of Christ is hallowed by the blood of self-sacrifice and known as the Religion of Sorrow. The first breath of life and the last gasp are drawn in suffering; and between the cradle and the grave there lies a monster-haunted Sahara. Yet men choose the ignis-fatuus called Happiness, and mourn that they cannot cover it with a No. 6 hat. They should pray the gods to transform them into contented goats and turn them out to grass. People who cannot find happiness here begin to look for it in heaven. Eternal beatitude is another ridiculous rainbow. Nirvana is nonsense. If there be a life beyond the grave, it means continued endeavor, and there can be no endeavor unless there's dissatisfaction. The creature cannot rise superior to its creator--and the universe is the result of God's unrest. Had he been perfectly content he would not have made me.

Carlyle--not Mugwump Carlisle of Kentucky, but Thos. Carlyle of Great Britain-the lord of modern literature-- says the hell most dreaded by the English is the hell of not making money. We have imported this English Gehenna, duty free, despite Mr. Dingley, and now the man who doesn't succeed in accumulating dollars is socially damned. How many of this generation can understand the remark of Agassiz that he had no time to make money?--can realize that such occupation is not the sole end of man?-- that time expended in the accumulation of wealth beyond the satisfaction of simple wants is worse than wasted? It is so because from our numbered days we have stolen years that should have been devoted to soul-development, filled with the sweets of knowledge; hallowed by the perfume of love, made gracious by noble deeds--because we have blasted life's fair fruitage with the primeval eldest curse. Omar strikes one true chord when he doth sing:

"A book of verses, underneath the bough, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou Singing beside me in the wilderness-- O wilderness were Paradise enow!"

. . .

Diogenes was content with a tub while Alexander sat him down by the ever-moaning sea and wept his red bandanna full of brine because he didn't know that the empire of Czar Reed yet remained unconquered. And now both Diogenes and Alexander have "gone glimmering through the dream of things that were," and little it matters to them or to us whether they fed on honey of Hymettus and wine of Falernus or ate boarding house hash off a pewter plate and guzzled Prohibition busthead out of a gourd. The cynic who housed in a tub and clothed himself with a second-hand carpet is as rich to-day as he that reveled in the spoil of Persia's conquered king and kicked the bucket while enjoying a case of katzenjammer. King and cynic, tub and palace, lantern and scepter--all have perished; and he that butchered thousands to glut his greed for what fools call glory, shines less brightly through the murky shadows of the century than he that made a nobler conquest of himself. The haughty empires one did rear have long since crumbled into dust; the wild goat browses in their deserted capitals, the lizard sleeps upon their broken thrones, and the owl hoots from their forgotten altars and ruined fanes; but the philosophy of the other lives on from age to age, to point the folly of such mad rainbow-chasing as that of him who thought to make the world his monument.

. . .

Know ye not that the poorest beggar is an earth- passenger also, that thy brother, traveling his millions of miles per day?--where, think you? Among the stars. For him as for thee does Aurora gild the morning and Apollo hang the evening sky with banners of burnished gold; for him as for thee doth Selene draw the limpid waters behind her silver car around the rolling world and Bootes lead his hunting dogs afield in their leash of celestial fire. Ten centuries hence the dust of the millionaire will have mingled with that of the mendicant, both long forgotten of men; ten centuries hence the descendants of those now peddling hot wiener-wurst may proudly wear the purple, while the posterity of present monarchs creep through life as paupers. A thousand years are but as one tick of the mighty horologe of time--and the allotted life of man but three score years and ten! And this brief period we expend, not in living, but in providing the means of life; not as creation's lords, but as slaves to our own avarice, the most pitiful passion that ever cursed mankind. If there be a God, be thou his messenger unto men; if there be no God, then have thy unfortunate fellows the more need of thee. Wait not until a man is driven to crime by the iron law of necessity, a woman to dishonor, a child to beggary, then organize some fake relief society for thine own glory, but put forth a helping hand in time to avert the sin and shame. The most pitiful failure in all God's universe is the man who succeeds only in making money. A thieving fox will grow fat by predacity while an honest dog starves in the path of duty. And we have too many sleek Reynards prowling 'round the sheep-pens and dove-cotes of this people, too few faithful Gelerts doing stubborn battle with predaceous beasts.

There's one class of people whom we cannot brand as arrant knaves and put in the pillory, yet who are a curse to any country. These are your Laodiceans in religion and politics, your luke-warms, your namby-pamby milk- and-cider set who are neither cold or hot. These are your eminently proper people, your stereotyped respectables. They accept the Gospel as true, not that they can comprehend it, but rather because they lack sufficient mental vigor to deny it. They join the church and align themselves with that political party to which the local nabobs belong. "What will people say?" is to them the all- important problem. They have followed some old bell weather or lead-gander into the wire-grass pasture of Respectabilia. They observe all the proprieties--at least in outward appearance. These are the animals whose vis inertia perpetuates all the abuses of wealth and power-- whatsoever has the approval of two or more generations of infamous rascals is so eminently respectable. These are the people who are so profoundly shocked by the alleged slang of Hugo and vulgarities of Goethe, while compelling their daughters to read the Canticles. They have a conniption fit and fall in it because some shapely danseuse kicks up her rhythmic heels on the vaudeville stage, then organize Trilbys auctions, kissing bees and garter raffles for the glory of God. Their ideal is expediency and their moral law the Eleventh Commandment-- Don't get caught. These are the people who stone the prophets of progress. They are to the social organism what a pound of putty would be to the stomach of a dyspeptic. They are a mill-stone slung about the neck of the giant of civilization. "What will people say?" Well, if you tell them a new truth, they will say that you are a demagogue or a blasphemer, an anarchist or a Populist; but when your new truth has been transformed by Time's great alembic into an old falsehood, they will have absorbed it--it will have become respectable--and you couldn't purge it from their soggy brain with Theodorus' Auticyrian hellebore. They said of Galileo, "Imprison him!" because he denied the old falsehood that the world is flat; of Servetus, "Burn him!" because he dissented from the ipse dixit of another heretic; of Socrates, "Poison him!" because he laughed at the too amorous gods of Greece; of Robert Emmett, "Hang him!" because he wasn't a Cleveland-Bayard Anglomaniac; and they said of Jesus Christ, "Crucify him!" because he intimated the fashionable preachers of his time were a set of splenetic-hearted hypocrites. That's what people say; but occasionally there's one to answer that 'tis not in the power of all Xerxes' hosts to bend one thought of his proud heart--"they may destroy the case of Anaxarchus, himself they cannot reach." It is not what foolish sound is shaped by a deal of stinking breath and blown adown the wind to be forgotten like the bray of an asthmatic burro, to perish like the snows of yesteryear, that should be our concern--not what the idle gabble of Mrs. Grundy proclaims us, but what we actually are. Public opinion is an ever-shifting rainbow. The "heretics" of one age are the saints of the next: the "cranks" of our own time may be the philosophers of the future; the despised rebels of a century ago are the men whose graves we bedeck with our garlands. Soon or late, those who court the many- headed monster, who "flatter its rank breath and bow to its idolatries a patient knee," are trampled beneath its iron heel; but those who take duty for guiding star and are strong enough to withstand the gibes of malice and the jeers of ignorance will find that the years are seldom unjust. It has been well said that one eternity waited for us to be born, that another waits to see what we will do now that we are here. Do what thou canst and do it with all thy might, remembering that every fice that doth bark at thee this day, every goose that stretches forth its rubber neck to express its disapproval, will be dead in hell a hundred years hence, its foolish yawp gone silent forevermore, but that thy honest act affects in greater or less degree all God's universe.

I am neither a Jeremiah with a lung full o' lamentations, nor a Jonah rushing round like a middle of the roader and proclaiming, "Yet forty days and the woods will be on fire." I do not believe that we can pick ourselves up by our own embroidered boot-straps and hop blithely astride a millennium built to order by McKinley, Bryan, or any other man; but I do believe that the human race is slowly but surely working the subsoil out of its system, is becoming ever less the beast and more the god. Nations grown corrupt with wealth and age may fall, but others strong in youth and innocence will arise. Old faiths may be forgotten, but from other and purer altars will ascend the smoke of sacrifice. Freedom may be wounded grievously in her very temple by Anglomaniacs who needs must have a royal master, yet her banner, torn but flying, will stream triumphant over the grave of tyranny. The black night of barbarous ignorance may often engulf the world, but "Thou, Eternal Providence, wilt cause the day to dawn." The Star of Bethlehem cannot go down in everlasting darkness--the bow of promise gleams softly luminous behind the thunderbolt. I care not whether the Noahian tale be true that never again will the shifting axis of the earth pour the sea upon the plain--the rainbow is nature's emblem of peace, her cestus of love, and in its splendor I read a promise that never again will this fair earth of ours be swept with sword and fire, deluged with blood and tears. Not to the past, but to the future, do I look for the Saturnian age, when the demons of need and greed will be exorcised, when love will be the universal law, the fatherhood of God the only faith. Such, my friends, is the rainbow to which I have turned my feet. It lies afar, across dismal swamps o'er whose icy summits only the condor's shadow sweeps--across arctic vast and desert isles beyond tempestuous ocean rank with dead men's bones and the rotting hulls of ships. I shall not attain it, nor shall you; but he that strives, though vanquished, still is victor. A dreamer, say you? Ah yes, but all life is but a dream, mystic, wonderful, and we know not when we sleep nor when we wake. I love to dream so when the storm beats upon the great oaks, hoary with their hundred years, and they put forth their gnarled arms and grapple with the blast, when the lightning cleaves the inky sky with forked flame and the earth rocks neath the thunder's angry roar. When the dark clouds roll muttering unto the East and the evening sun hangs every leaf and twig and blade of grass with jewels brighter than e'er gleamed in Golconda's mines; when the mock-birds renew their melody and every flower seems drunken with its own incense, I look upon the irisate glory that seems to belt the world with beauty and my heart beats high with hope that in years to be the storm-clouds that o'ershadow the souls of men will recede also--that time shall come when the human race will be one universal brotherhood, containing neither a millionaire nor a mendicant, neither a master nor a slave.

INDEX TO THE TWELVE VOLUMES OF BRANN THE ICONOCLAST

All titles of articles appear in this index in capitals--except "Salmagundi," "Editorial Etchings," "Political Pot-pourri," and a few other stock titles which were used in the ICONOCLAST as general headings for groups of untitled short articles. The more important of these untitled brief articles are indexed under the theme or subject.

The index entries appearing in small or lower case type comprise a subject index of the leading topics discussed by Brann. As the same subject may be variously phrased the student of Brann is advised to glance through the index to familiarize himself with the terminology used. Articles relating to individuals are not indexed under the proper names unless the individuals are generally known to the reading public. Articles contributed to the ICONOCLAST by others than Brann are indexed under title and name of contributor but not by theme or subject.

ADAM AND EVE, I, 226 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS IX, 206 ADVERTISING ADVENTURES III, 210 AGE OF CONSENT, THE, II, 30 AGE OF POISON, THE, XI, 202 AIR-JAMMING JINGOES, THE, III, 300 Allegorical Tales, I, 32, 1. 9, 203 AMATEUR EDITOR, THE, X, 179 AMBASSADOR BAYARD, IX, 37 AMELIE'S NEW MARRIAGE, IX, 209 AMERICAN DRUMMER, THE, II, 188 AMERICAN MIDDLEMAN, THE, VII, 122 AMERICAN PRESS, THE, VII, 52 AMERICAN SOVEREIGN, THE, V, 69 Anarchy, VI, 115; IX, 254; X, 11 ANGLO-AMERICAN INFAMY, VIII, 126 Anglomaniacs (see also England), III 73, IV, 37, 260, V, 6, VI 254; VII, 226, VIII, 30, 126, 281; IX, 153 ANTHONY THE ABOMINABLE, XI, 235 ANTI-DANCING DERVISH, AN, IX, 183 ANTONIA TEIXEIRA, II, 286 A.P.A. (see also Catholicism), 11, 111, 187, 215; III, 12, 229; IV, 41, 135, 264, 311; V, 242, 299, 312, VI, 4, 159, 232, VII 27, 87, 223, 295, VIII, 161 A.P.A. IDIOCY, THE, III, 12 APOLOGY FOR PATRIOTISM, AN, V, 201 "APOSTLE" AS POLYGAMIST, THE, III, 198 APOSTLE'S BIOGRAPHY, THE, II, 103

APOSTLE IN PERDITION, THE, IV, 97 APOSTLE vs. PAGAN, I, 37 APOSTLE'S RAG BABY THE, VI 154 ARE SECOND MARRIAGES LAWFUL? VI, 284 ARMENIAN MUDDLE, THE, III, 271 ARE WOMEN DEVOID OF DESIRE? I, 135 Army, Social Snobbery in, VII, 1 ASSIGNATS vs. INSANITY, VII, 42 Atheism (see also Faith; Immortality), I, 37; III, 207; IV, 53; V, 54; VI, 288; IX, 296, 308; XI, 95. ATHEISM AND ORTHODOXY ATHEISTS AND IGNORANCE, XI, 282 AT THE EXPO., III, 148 ATKINSON'S FINANCIAL FOLLY, III, 200 AUTHOR OF EPISCOPALIANISM, THE, X, 115 BACHELORS vs. BENEDICTS, II, 134 BAILEY AND THE DAL-GAL, VI, 52 BAPTIST BELLIGERENCY, IV, 135 BAPTIST BOYCOTT, A, III, 144 BARDWELL SLOTE OF COHOSH, THE HON., X, 155 BARONS vs. BARONS, IX, 250 BAYLOR IN BAD BUSINESS, III, 29 BAYLOR'S REJOINDER, III. 150 BEANS AND BLOOD, III, 240 BEAUTEOUS REBECCA, THE, II, 12 BEAUTY AND DEATH, VII, 205

Beauty Contest, VII, 120 VIII, 307 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, VI, 312 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, IV, 93 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, XII, 193 BEECHER AND THE BIBLE, IV, 147 Beecher, Henry Ward, IV, 147; VII, 206 BEHIND THE SCENES IN ST. LOUIS, X, 205 BEHIND THE SMOKESTACK, VI, 60 Bible Stories Revised, I, 1, 226, 285; II, 94, 277; VI, 193; VII, 243 Bible, Criticism of, I, 285; IV, 147; VII, 9, 115, 195; VIII, 201 BIBLICAL BEAR STORY, A, II, 277 Bicycle Craze, I, 252; III, 146; IV, 258, V 11, 218; VI, 161; VII, 79 BICYCLING AND BAWDRY, III, 146 BIGOTED ARCHBISHOP, A, X, 270 BIKE BACILLUS, THE, I, 252 BILLY HOWELL'S BAD BREAK, VIII, 299 Bishop, Julia Truitt, Articles by, VII, 143, 309; VIII, 93; X, 222; XI 25, 159. 193 BISMARCK, II. 50 Blasphemy, V, 134; VI, 122 BLUE AND GRAY, XII, 143 BOLTING POPULIST BOSSES, VII 19 BONDS vs. BUNCOMBE. IV, 56 BOOZE AND BABY SHOES. V, 39 BRACE OF BELLYACHERS, A, II, 159 BRACE OF MISSOURI BEAUTS, A, V, 109 BRADLEY-MARTIN BALMASQUE, I, 81 BRANN AND BAYLOR, XII, 29 Brann, Life of, 11, 103; VII, 25; X, 143; XII, pages 1 to 114 BRANN IS NO MORE, XII, 74 BRANN OF THE ICONOCLAST, XII, 77 BRANN THE FOOL, XII, 106 BRANN, WILLIAM COWPER, XII, 109 BRANN'S BRAVE BATTLE, XII, 73 Brann's Death, XII, 11 Brann's Death (and events leading thereto; see also Teixeira Case) Brann's Lectures, XII, pages 115 to :2013 BRANN'S REPLY TO SLATTERY, XII, 204 BRANN vs. BAYLOR, X, 77 BRANNAN vs. SEASHOLES, VI, 32 BRASS COLLAR DEMOCRAT, A, VI, 57 BRAVE AND BRAINY BRANN, XII, 76 BRAZEN HUMBUG, A, V, 275 BRER. CRANFILL'S LITTLE BLUFF, VIII, 250 BRER. JONES ABILIN, IV, 297 BRITISH vs. BOERS, IV, 119 BRO. EARLY'S BAZOO, IV, 242 BROTHERLY REBUKE, A, II, 78 BRYAN, D. D., VII, 39 BRYAN PANIC PENDING, A, VI, BRYAN. WILLIAM JENNINGS, V 253, VI, 78, 85, 221, 308; VII, 34, 111, 238; VIII, 47, 139 BUCK NEGRO, THE, II, 15 Business, Corruption in V 234; VII 218 BUSINESS REVIVAL, THE, III, 58 BUSINESS WOMAN THE, VII, 143 BUZZARDS ON THE WING, III, 114

CALVINISTIC CALF, THE, IV, 309 CAMPBELLITE FAMA CLAMOSA, A, IX, 268 CANDIDATE FOR CASTRATION, A, IV, 307 CARNIVAL OF CRIME. A, II, 99 CARNIVAL OF CRIME, A, VI, 301 CASH vs. COIN, II, 293 CASTOR AND POLLUX, II, 125 CAT, THE, II, 201 Catholicism (see also A. P. A.), II, 111; III, 190; V, 118, 163; VI, 33- VII, 87, 295- VIII, 1, 181; IX, 1, 173; X, 8, 195, 270; XII, 204 CATHOLIC vs. PROTESTANT "CRANKS," V, 163 Canfleld, H. S., Articles by, X, 149; XI, 139 CHAPTER WRITTEN IN THE LIFE BLOOD, A, XII, 1 CHARITY, I 16 CHILDREN OF POVERTY, THE, XI, 25 CHRIST COMES TO TEXAS, I, 70 CHRISTIAN, THE, X, 222 CHRISTIAN COURIER, THE, V, 41 CHRISTIAN ENGLAND IN INDIA, I, 48 Christian Science VII, 253 Christmas, X, 274 CHRISTMAS CRIMES, IV, 34 Chrone, H. F., Articles by. XI, 266 CHURCH OF ENGLAND, THE, IX, 1 CHURCH AND STAGE, VII, 63 Church (see Religion, Catholicism, Preachers, etc.) CIVILIZATION. IV, 184; I, 129

Civil War, The, I, 116 V, 5, 201; VII, 114, VIII, 159, 272, XII, 143 Cleveland. Grover. II, 3 III, 21, 257; IV, 56, 161; V, 138; VII, 5; VIII 232: X 5 CLEVELAND AS CATO, III, 143 COINING BLOOD INTO BOODLE COLCHIAN DAYS, II, 308 Colonel, The (Pseudonym) Articles by, X, 105- XI, 223, 240 COMMISSION CRAZE, THE, IV, 137 COMMON COURTESAN, THE, IV, 5 CONCERNING HELL, III, 196 Connolly. M. W., Articles by, VII, 132, 283- VIII, 84- X, 185; XI, 69, 272, 297 Consent, age of, XI, 90 CONSTRUCTION vs. DESTRUCTION, VIII, 1 CONVICTION OF DURRANT, THE, III, 295 CORBETT-FITZSIMMONS AFFAIR, III. 52 CORBETT-FITZSIMMONS FIGHT, THE, III. 161 CORONATION OF THE CZAR, I, 118 CORRESPONDENT'S CURIOSITY, A, V, 46 COSTLY KISS, A, IV, 217 "COUNTESS" CASTELLANE, THE, IV, 1 COURAGE OF WOMENKIND, THE, VIII, 170 COURTESIES AND CORRUPTION, II. 260 Courts, Criticism of, XI, 99; III, 34, 295- V, 316- IX, 27; X, 257 COUPLE OF HIGH-TONED KIDS, A, IX, 128 COUPLE OF UNCLEAN COYOTES, A, X, 257 CREDIT AND PRICES, IX, 237 Crime, Suppression of, II 99, 113; VI, 301; X, 31 CRUSADE OF CALUMNY, A, VI, 78 Cuban Question, VII, 232 CUBAN STRUGGLE, THE, IV, 203 CUCKOO CONFERENCE, THE, II, 247 CUCKOOS AND COME-OUTERS, VIII, 84 CUPID vs. CHRIST, XI, 174 Currency (see also Free Silver) II, 3, 59, 85, 109, 162 176, 243 247; III, 58, 114, 149 200; IV, 56, 161; V, 187, 261; VI, 154, 168 V 11, 42, VIII, 5. IX, 10.-,. 237, X, 1; XI, 133 137, XII, 249 CURRENCY AND COMMON SENSE, II, 162 CURRENCY AND COMMON SENSE, II, 243 CURRENCY AND COMMON SENSE, XI, 146