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Updated: June 28, 2025
The blacks broke wildly, but, strange to say, the old sorrel increased his speed. Again Brann struck, but the lash fell on Bert's outstretched wrists. He did not see that the blacks were crowding him to the gutter, but he heard a warning cry. "Look out, there!" Before he could turn to look, the cutter seemed to be blown up by a bomb.
Brann, the poet, the lover of beauty, speaks even amidst the ruins of the houses of hypocrisy and shame which he has wrecked. There is scarce a page in all his writings in which sheer beauty does not stand out amid the ugliness of carnage and destruction in which the strains of celestial music are not heard above the roar of earthly battle.
To read only such as these is to know a very different Brann from the author of "The Bradley-Martin Bal Masque" or "Garters and Amen Groans." The Brann who wrote "Life and Death," by that work alone, wins to undying fame as surely as does Grey by his "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard." I have combed my memory in vain to match it from an American pen.
He turned to see what Brann meant by it; he did not see that the blacks were crowding him to the gutter; his hands felt numb. "Look out, there!"
Ed Brann came in a moment later with his brother, and there was a significant little pause a pause which grew painful till Albert turned and saw Brann, and called out: "Hello, Ed! How are you? Didn't know you were here." As he held out his hand, Brann, his face purple with shame and embarrassment, lumbered heavily across the room and took it, muttering some poor apology. "Hope y' don't blame me."
This last is a difference that cries to heaven for vengeance, and if it does not always cry in vain, will W. C. Brann be able to draw his robe close around him and with a good conscience exclaim, "It's none of my fault; I am not my brother's keeper."
He had been out late the night before with Maud at a party, and slumber came almost instantly. Maud came in shortly, hearing no response to her knock, and after hanging some towels on the rack went out without seeing the sleeper. In the sitting-room she met Ed Brann. He was a stalwart young man with curling black hair, and a heavy face at its best, but set and sullen now.
Then he opened his lids, but the glare of the sunlight struck them shut again; he saw only Maud's face, agonized, white, and wet with tears, looking down into his. They raised him a little more, and he again opened his eyes on the circle of hushed and excited men thronging about him. He saw Brann, with wild, scared face, standing in his cutter and peering over the heads of the crowd.
What he possessed, however got, was a combination of all those recognized elements of literary greatness except one thing; he heeded not the warning of cultured mediocrity that commands most writers what to leave unsaid. Brann left nothing unsaid, and because of that fact was locked out of colleges, libraries, encyclopaedias and halls of fame.
"Maud! child!" cried the mother, as Maud appeared, followed by a bevy of girls. "I'm all right, mother," she said, running into the trembling arms outstretched toward her; "but, oh, poor Albert!" After the wounded man disappeared into the house the crowd dispersed. Brann went off by the way of the alley; he was not prepared to meet the questions of his accusers.
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