BEAGLE BOUND-English fox -h ound in miniature. Solid and big for his inche s, trne beagle has the long-wearing look of the honnd that can last in the chase. One of oldest breerls in history. U. S. s tanrlard s s pecify 15 inches maximum h e i g ht.
He's giving his nerves a rest ...
ADOG'S nervous system is just as complex as your own. His reactions are lightning-quick. But when hi, nerves need a rest, he stops - relaxes. We often neglect our nerves. We press on heedless of nerve tension. Take a lesson from the dog's instinct for protection. Ease up - rest your nerves. Let up- light up a Camel. Keeping Camel s at hand provides a delightfully pleasant way of giving your nerves a rest. Often through the day, enjoy Camel's ripe, expensive tobaccos. Smokers find Camel's costlier tobaccos so soot hin g to the nerves.
People who know the sheer joy of an active~ effective life say: Let 11,p - liglit 11,p a Camel!~~
COVERING TRIALS, ACCIDENTS, sports puts a big strain on the nerves of Wes tern Union telegrapher, George Errickson. "I avoid getting my nerves tense, upset," says operator Errickson. "I ease off frequently, to give my nerves a welcome rest. I let up and light up a Camel."
IN THE HEART OF THE CONGO , Leila Denis and her explorer husband filmed Universal Pictures' epic, "Dark Rapture." She says: "Such ventures can be quite nerve-straining, but it's my rule to pause frequently. I let up and light up a Camel. Camels are so soothin!!."
I THE MESSENGERi
UNIVERSITYOF RICHMOND
i GEORGE SCHEER, Editor-in-Chief; PAUL SAUNIER, JR., Richmond College Editor; i LENORE DINNEEN, Westhampton Editor; Assistant Editors, PHYLLIS ANNE COGHILL, JEAN NEASMITH, HELEN HILL, MABEL LEIGH ROOKE, N. T. BABCOCK, ROYALL BRANDIS, i OwEN TATE, PHILIP CooKE, F. MERRILL O'CONNOR, G. BEN McCLURE, JR., CARL :;:; WoosT; JOHNS. HARRIS, Business Manager,· T. STANFORD TUTWILER, MARY KATHERINE i CURLEY, Assistant Business Managers.
A bumblebee, forgetting it was the Sabbath, buzzed through the Allen's front door, took its bearings on the family Bible, and then made the traditional beeline for the bedroom, where a bunch of virgin dahlias beckoned from a blue Mason jar.
Whop!
Old Garland Allen brushed the fallen flyer off the hickory dresser, toed it gently for any signs of life, and kicked it under the bed. "Marthy," he called, "them danged honeybees is gettin' in the house agin." Murmuring something about screens, he reached for one of the dahlias, plucked it, and dug it into his lapel. Then he stood before the mirror and complimented himself on what he saw.
From head to foot, old Garland on this day was a 1912 pattern of elegance. His necktie, a shoestring affair, drooped just right, and his high collar was yet warm from a recent joust with Marthy's flatiron. His heavy serge ( save for the seat of his trou-
sers, which vied for shining honors with his barren pate) bespoke him a facsimile of Victoria's Albert on the tobacco can. He gave the
white handkerchief in his breastpocket a final tug, clucked to his wife, and went out the same door by which the doomed bee had entered, blithely humming "Bringing. Home the Sheaves."
There was good reason for his dallying before the mirror. It was revival time in Hillsville and old Garland, who fancied himself "a sort of assistant pastor," had been asked to fill the Baptist pulpit. The thought of his rise to glory brought a sudden, warm exhilaration as he reached the roadway, and he raised his voice on high:
"We shall come rejoicing, Bringing in the sheaves."
Now Hillsville, in Carroll County, Virginia, has no courts for juvenile delinquency, but let there be advanced this certitude: If Judge Ben Lindsay's worthy project had, by that time, spread to the little agricultural town, two gangling
nephews of old Garland Allen would have been its principle patrons.
On this particular Sunday morning those [ 3]
nephews, Sidna and Wesley Edwards, were loitering near the general merchandise store which fronts on the present Lakes-to-Florida Highway. Perhaps they had been indulging in the cup that cheers (they are known to have done so frequently), or per:haps it was only boyish devilishness that burned within themat any rate, some stimulus was prodding them, and they were gleefully plotting a means by which they might bring still more notoriety upon their roguish heads.
The plan completed, the pair invoked the Muse of Mischief with raucous shouts and set out for the revival meeting, at that moment being opened with prayer in the plain white church which hunkers on the village outskirts facing Wytheville.
Reaching the church, they entered by a rear door, hid themselves while they whispered, and then, with Comanche whoops, burst into the service, seized their screaming uncle and dragged him from the pulpit, impeaching him as "too damn' mean to preach." After boxing his ears and kicking his shining-and fleeing -seat, they escaped through the terrified congregation, venting triumphant shouts to the rafters.
Post-haste, a deputy was equipped with a warrant and dispatched to the Fancy Gap region, where Sidna and Wesley lived with their clan. Arriving there, he found the Edwards boys sheepish and frightened and took them without trouble, despite menacing grumbles from the mountaineer kinfolk. Chaining them tightly to his wagon-bed, he giddaped to the horses and rolled off on the twelve-mile journey back to Hillsville, and jail.
Shortly after the jail-bound trio had departed, old Floyd Allen, another uncle, arrived on the scene. It is not impossible, nay, not even improbable that he had, at the moment of the
arrest, been stoking or stirring one of the several stills the Allens are alleged to have operated. Neither is it improbable that he had sampled his concoction, as a chef samples his broth.
Old Floyd Allen had the soul of an outlaw if there ever was one. Once a deputy sheriff himself by a freakish turn of politics, he had devoted the most of his fifty-odd years to terrorizing the Hillsville valley folk. Judge Jackson, of the shire of Carroll, describes him in a letter as "a bad citizen ... always overbearing, vindictive, brutal, with no respect for law and little regard for human life." The Richmond News Leader of March 14, 1912, brands him the head of "the notorious Allen gang who had frequently been implicated in court cases for alleged 'moonshining,'" and an editorial in the staid Christian Advocate names him as the leader of a clan which had "disregarded law for twenty years."
So it was this man who set out for Hillsville to post bond for his nephews. It is safe to say, obiter dicta, that had he not been such a swift traveller, Virginia might have been spared a tragedy which subsequently split the Commonwealth into two spluttering, protesting factions.
But old Floyd was a swift traveller, and in a short while he had-without intention-overtaken the bucolic Black Maria placidly rumbling along the red-clay roads.
The old mountaineer's temper blazed to white heat. His pride, such as it was, could not stomach the sight of his own blood chained down like galley-slaves. Roaring insanely, he sprang into the driver's seat, threw himself and the surprised deputy into the road and felled the latter with a literal mule-kick to the head. Then he freed Sidna and Wesley, and the three returned to their Fancy Gap fastness, leaving the deputy lying unconscious in the Carroll County dust.
[4}
Whether old Floyd believed he had thus settled the matter for once and for all, or whether he knew full well a warrant would be issued for his arrest, is debatable. Regardless of what he thought, he was arrested shortly thereafter, charged with assault and the inter£erence with an officer in pursuit of duty, and the date of his trial set as March 14th, just one month and one day before the Titantic disaster was to bring a horrified world to its feet. The nature of his felony made it improbable that he would be sentenced to more than one year's imprisonment, granted that he be convicted. Tearfully, his wife begged him to accept and serve his sentence peacefully, but Floyd Allen was adamant Floyd Allen and in a very few hours the Fancy Gap grapevine had transmitted his famous threat, "Nobody is goin' to put me in no jail," and throughout the hills, Allens and the kin of Allens spat upon the ground in stubborn agreement.
The red-brick courthouse in Hillsville was filled to the overflowing on the morning of March 14th. Corduroy- and gingham-clad farm people who lived within travelling distance of the town milled about, awaiting the opening of court. The tobacco-chewers sat near and in the windows, that they might fertilize the soil outside rather than desecrate the floor inside. Farmwives, scrubbed and bonneted, sat, cowered, abashed a:t the flood of people . Most of the spectators, however, were citizens of Hillsville who had suffered in various ways at the Allens' hands and who had come "in the hope of seeing justice done."
Judge Thornton L. Massie, of Pulaski, a cousin of Senator Bland Massie of Nelson County, was on the bench. A circuit judge for
five years, he was at the time being prominently mentioned for appointment to the Virginia Supreme Court.
Just before Judge Massie rapped his gavel to smother the excited babble bounding from lip to ceiling, approximately twenty mountaineers, obviously Fancy Gappers, filed into the courtroom and silently took seats along the rear benches. There they sat, speaking to no one, their jaws set, their eyes hostile.
Precisely what position the case of the Commonwealth vs. Floyd Allen (see 114 Virginia Reports} page 826) occupied on the docket is insignificant. Suffice it to say that it was finally reached, and in almost less time than the telling requires, old Floyd was found guilty of charges and sentenced to a year's imprison[ 5 J
ment in the State penitentiary at Richmond. Judge Massie had scarcely finished pronouncing sentence on the defendant when the old man drew a pistol, screamed, "You'll never take me to no jail," and began firing at the judge, at the bar, at the jury-block, at any part of the hellish machine that had sentenced him, Floyd Allen, to prison. Too, his first shot was a signal to his clansmen. They lacked reason, but not loyalty. With them it was a case of "Floyd Allen, right or wrong, Floyd Allen." To a man, they arose and lay a wild barrage over the heads of the spectators into the bar and bench.
In less than a minute, seven persons were killed and as many wounded, some seriously. Judge Massie toppled from the bench, his life's blood draining onto the floor from two holes in his chest, but lived long enough to identify as his slayer Floyd's brother, Sidna Allen. Commonwealth's Attorney William N. Foster attempted to reach the fallen justice, but was felled near his seat, a bullet through his heart. Sheriff T. L. Webb sprang forward, tugging at his revolver, only to be droppedin his tracks by a dual blast from the guns of Floyd's father and brother. Two jurors, one Fowler and one Kane, died in their seats on the jury-block. 11rs. Sidna Allen, Floyd's daughter-in-law, and Miss Elizabeth Eyre ( or Ayre) died shortly afterward from their wounds. Dexter Goad, clerk of the court, was seriously wounded, but remained on his feet, returning shot for shot.
Floyd Allen, himself wounded,* and his clansmen backed slowly out of the building, firing at random. Goad, leading an armed group of officers, followed them to the court-
'''A Mr. Gilman, according to the News Leader of March 14th, told the governor's office over long-distance telephone that Floyd Allen was wounded, fatally, and was at the time lying unconscious in a Hillsville hotel. It is not to be doubted that Allen was wounded, but it is preferable to believe that his wounds were trivial, for it is known that he led his men as they fled on horseback to their homes.
house porch, where a second furious battle was waged.
Nearby, Jezebel Goad, the clerk's daughter, was in her father's office. On hearing the gunfire and the screams rising above it, she flew across the lawn to the courthouse. Seeing her father standing, she believed him not wounded and literally fought her way into the building to care for the dying. Later, she secured ammunition and carried it to her father and the officers. (For her bravery, she was rewarded with a gold medal suggested by the Richmond Times-Dispatch} paid for by popular subscription, and designed and presented by Mrs. Etta Donn on Mann, wife of the then governor of Virginia.)
In the meantime, the Allens had managed slowly to reach their horses. Freeing the beasts, they leapt upon them and, in a curtain of dust and salvo of fire suitable for any Western thriller, made off for secret places in the Fancy Gap wilderness.
Five minutes later, the townsmen had organized two posses, and the manhunt was under way.
Shortly after one o'clock that day, Governor William Mann at his home in Richmond received the following telegraphed message: GOVERNOR MANN - JUDGE MASSIE SHOT AND KILLED ON THE BENCH, COMMONWEALTH'S ATTORNEY SHOT AND KILLED AT BAR, SHERIFF KILLED IN COURTROOM. HELP WANTED. J. C. AYERS, HILLSVILLE, CARROLL COUNTY.
Virginia's chief executive immediately communicated with Citizen Ayers:
WILL SEND OFFICERS AT ONCE: IN THE MEANTIME INSTRUCT DEPUTY SHERIFF TO SUMMON POSSE AND ARREST THE MURDERERS AND ALL CONNECTED THEREWITH.
To W. G. Baldwin, Roanoke railroad detective, later to become head of the Baldwin[6}
Phelps Detective Agency, he sent the following telegram:
JUDGE, COMMONWEALTH'S ATTORNEY AND SHERIFF OF CARROLL SHOT DEAD IN COURTHOUSE AT HILLSVILLE. TAKE SUCH MEN AS YOU THINK NECESSARY AND PROCEED AT ONCE TO HILLSVILLE AND ARREST MURDERERS AND ALL CONNECTED WITH THE CRIME. SPARE NO EXPENSE AND CALL ON ME FOR ANY HELP YO U MAY NEED.
Next he instructed Colonel Dempsey in the Adjutant-General's office to order the four companies of Virginia Militia at Lynchburg and Roanoke to hold themselves in readiness for immediate service. Attorney-General Williams was ordered to Hillsville to assume control of civil authority. A reward of $1,000 was offered for the apprehension of the Allens, dead or alive.
The Richmond News Leader reported: " The entire town of Hillsville is now in a state of uproar, though most of the citizens have joined the two posses that set out after the Allens. Seventeen Allens comprise the outlaws and they are now barricaded in a barn on the outskirts of the town, prepared to resist a siege of the posses. Angry citizens are surrounding the barricade of the Allens, but pref er to take no chances, as the desperadoes are armed heavily with Winchesters and revolvers and are known to be expert marksmen."
(The barn of which the News Leader speaks was far from the "outskirts of the town, " being more in the Fancy Gap region. Most of the Allenists continued past in their flight, some of them crossing the state-line into North Carolina . The News Leader erred again if it meant that "seventeen Allens," that is actual members of the Allen family, " comprised the outlaws." It is known that four different Fancy Gap families were represented in the crime : the Allens, the Edwards, the Marions, and the Stricklands.)
On March 16th, eight members of the gang surrendered and were captured and were indicted by a special grand jury and taken to Roanoke to be held pending trial. All of them had made the mistake of trying to hide too near their homes. On March 22d, Sidna Edwards was captured and two days later Friel Allen was taken. Between that date and March 29th, all of the desperadoes save Sidna Allen and Wesley Edwards were captured, one by one, and indicted by special grand Junes.
On April 30th, court convened at Wytheville, twenty-five miles from Hillsville, and Floyd Allen was placed on trial for his life for the murder of Commonwealth's Attorney Foster. Sixteen days later he was found guilty of murder in the first degree and was sentenced to die in the electric chair at Richmond on November 22d.
Next, Floyd's son Claude, who had been named for the future Secretary of the Navy, Claude Swanson of Virginia, was called to trial, also charged with Foster's murder. He protested his innocence as vigorously as had Floyd.
On July 13th, the Claude Allen jury was dismissed, unable to reach a verdict. Five days later a second trial was opened, and late in July Claude Allen was found guilty of firstdegree murder and sentenced to die with his father.
Sidna Edwards, a half of the plurel who perpetrated the Sabbath assault on uncle Garland's seat, and Friel Allen were tried on a charge of aiding and abetting and were sentenced to terms of sixteen and eighteen years, respectively. Sentences were suspended in the cases of Cabell Strickland, Victor Allen, and Byrd Marion.
In early September, the cherchez la femme theory of detection led to the first substantial clue as to the whereabouts of Sidna Allen and [7}
Wesley Edwards. The latter's fiancee, a slim, bewildered mountain-girl, suddenly disappeared from Fancy Gap. Picking up her trail, officers followed her to Des Moines, Iowa, where she met Wesley. By the middle of the month, Allen and Edwards were standing trial for murder.
Wesley was given a sentence of fifteen years' imprisonment for his share in the shooting-and Sidna Allen, the man whom Judge Massie had named with his dying breath as his slayer, was given a like term! Sidna was pardoned by Governor Byrd in 1926.
By this time the Old Dominion was split. The Allen cases had divided it into cages of squawking jays. Politics was forgotten on Capitol Hill-there were no Democrats and Republicans, only pro-and anti-Allenists. Governor Mann's wife wrote in her diary (The Dietz Press, Richmond) : "Seven people lost their lives in the Allen conspiracy everyone said 'how shocking!' yet as time advanced, some thirty thousand people in Virginia were clamoring for commutation of sentence, some even wanting acquittal."
It was true-at least thirty thousand Virginians were howling injustice, and their howls were based on the following logic: If Sidna Allen's sentence totalled only thirty-five years (he had been sentenced to an additional twenty years for the murders of Webb and Foster, a sentence arrived at by "compromise" measures) for the murders of three men, one of whom had identified him as a murderer, how was it that Floyd and Claude Allen, both swearing their innocence, were given the extreme penalty?
Governor Mann, in reply, made a public address in which he sorrowfully admitted the Sidna Allen trial was "a miscarriage of justice" but refused to interfere with the sentence. "The very foundation upon which society rests
for its protection and safety is threatened and endangered if I yield to that morbid sentiment of mercy at the expense of justice." Nevertheless, the same day, he granted a respite, the second one, for the Hillsville father and son, this time postponing the executions until January 17th.
The Allenists howled some more; William 0. Neff, of Rural Retreat, a Claude Allen juror, committed suicide by cutting his throat. Those who favored the Allens hopped upon his death, bruiting it about as the result of a man's guilty conscience. (There was a great deal of sentiment against the Claude Allen jurors. Recently I talked with a man who was a spectator at that trial, who reported that the jurors were actually stoned from the courthouse at Wytheville to the railroad tracks one mile distant. However, there is no written evidence of this.)
On January 15th, the Supreme Court of Appeals, having reviewed a petition for appeal on the grounds of after-discovered evidence, handed down an opinion refusing the plea. Working on the premise that "love will find a way," the pro-Allenists next devoted themselves to a shrewd but futile diplomacy. Nellie Wissler, Claude Allen's sweetheart, appeared before Governor Mann and begged that he talk personally with Claude, offering herself as hostage to the State while her lover was in the executive offices. The governor courteously denied Nellie's request, but the gubernatorial sympathy was evidently touched, for the doomed men were granted a third respite until March 28th.
On March 7th, the executive issued a lengthy statement giving his reasons for not interfering with the sentences imposed on the Allens. The Times-Dis patch of that date stood behind him: "The last word has been said in the cases of Floyd and Claude Allen. Governor Mann was right in declining to exercise [ 8}
his prerogative, which, as he says, 'must be used not to def eat justice, but to promote it.' It is to be doubted whether greater or more respectable pressure was ever brought to bear on the Governor of a State to influence him to mitigate a death penalty, but Governor Mann has been obedient to his oath to support the constitution and faithfully and impartially to discharge his duty. The Times-Dispatch commends, as it believes the people of Virginia will commend, the Governor for his refusal to be moved by the argument that, since Sidna Allen was not found equally guilty with Claude and Floyd Allen, the two latter should not die Governor Mann cuts to pieces that contention by replying that the verdict in the case of Sidna Allen was 'a plain and inexplicable miscarriage of justice.' The failure of one jury to do its duty is no reason for undoing the verdicts of two juries that have done their duty. Were the principle otherwise, criminal laws would not be worth the putting on paper. Were a million hearts to beat with sympathy for these two men who, with their kin and kind, slaughtered innocent men in cold blood, without reason, and wiped out a court of justice, that symp athy should have no weight with him who administers the law. Every unpunished murder begets a family of murderers. Human flesh is frail. That is why law is. . . . It is a terrible thing that this old man and his son, in all the beauty and vigor of manhood, should die; but it is not so terrible as the thing they did. Here their hope is gone; mercifully their days have been lengthened that they may make their peace with God "
Needless to say, this appeal for reason was futile. It served only to fan the flames and fluctuate the Times-Dis p atch 1 s circulation, and the cauldron, which had slowed to a simmer while the governor considered, bubbled fiercer than ever before.
On March 21st the case of Claude Allen was
appealed to the Supreme Court of the United States. Nine hours later four judges of that highest tribunal refused to grant a writ of error. The Allenists groaned and remarked that it was all useless. However, they did not give up, nor were they to for many a day. A new tack was lighted upon and a prominent delegation of sympathizers called on Governor Mann, petitioning him to appoint a commission to investigate the Hillsville horror. The request was flatly denied. It is difficult to say whether the findings of such a commission would have affected the death sentences, but it was felt that in the light of the stoning of the Claude Allen jurors by haters of the Allen clan, the incapacity to agree of the first Claude Allen jury, and the army who felt, like the fifty million Frenchmen, that they could not be wrong, it was only fair that an investigation be made It is not at all impossible that Claude Allen went to his death an innocent man.
Still the Allenists did not stop trying. Mrs. Mann writes in her diary: "Today another committee of ladies, headed by the Reverend Dr. McDaniel of the Baptist Church, expect to appear before the Governor to ask that the sentence of Claude Allen be commuted to life imprisonment. I believe the women of our day have gotten beside themselves; if only they would obey the Bible injunction to be keepers of our home our nation would be so much better off."
And again: "We (I say we, because I was likewise beset by foolish women clamoring for what they knew not of) the governor had to stand the abuse of newspapers, slanderou s petitions, circulated broadcast. Bttt we let the heathen rage. (Blessed are the y th at trnst in the lord. 1 11 The italics are mine. * * * *
Comes the most spectacular aspect of the entire case.
On March 27th, one day before those prison [9}
dynamos were to whir and kill, Governor Mann left Richmond for Philadelphia, w here he planned to spend the night before continuing to Princeton to fulfill a speaking engagement. His wife wrote: "I am so glad he has gotten off for a few days, for he has been through such a siege with the foolish Allen sympathizers. I went with him to the train, which he hardly had time to make, being beset at the very last minute by some deluded man with another petition in their (the Allens') behalf. I went with him to the train, for, from the threatening letters, received both by him and my son, one did not know to what end the frenzy might take them! For that morning he had to prevent a medal being given to Claude Allen, which was going to be presented by the penitentiary board. Think of it!" (The gold medal, paid for by popular subscription, was to be given Claude for "Defending his father against attack by court officers.")
Returning from the depot, Mrs. Mann stopped on East Marshall Street to attend the opening of the John Marshall House. Returning home some hours later, she was told that Lieutenant-Governor J. Taylor Ellyson had been "phoning the Executive Mansion all afternoon." In a few moments the lieutenantgovernor called again, but for one who had been trying to reach a party all afternoon, the import of his conversation seemed insignificant indeed. After asking where the governor was-and being told-he chatted amicab1y for a few moments, remarking the weather, and then ended the conversation.
The 2: 10 a.m. train from Washington, blowing for the Main Street Station, awakened Mrs. Mann from her sleep. She was dozing, almost gone, when the telephone downstairs roused her a second time. She dismissed it as "wrong-number" and tried to return to sleep, but the ringing continued, violently and
persistently. Down the upstairs corridor she heard the door of her son, Hodges', room open softly and heard her son's slippered feet go down the stairs to the telephone. In a few minutes he was back and told his mother, who questioned him from her door, that the caller had been Attorney-General Williams, and that he wanted Hodges to come to his office in the Capitol as quickly as possible. Mrs. Mann writes: "I hated for my son to go after all the threats and didn't know what might happen and indeed wasn't sure that it was the Attorney-General speaking. But Hodges assured me that he knew his voice. In a little while he came back, saying that he must telephone to his father at once, for they were trying to make the Lieutenant-Governor act in the place of the Governor and commute the sentence of the Allens/1'
In ten minutes Governor Mann was roused from his bed in the City of Brotherly Love. It was then half-past-three in the morning. At three-forty-five he boarded a train for Washington. Reaching that city, he went by automobile to Alexandria, where he dispatched the following telegram to Lieutenant-Governor Ellyson:
I AM THE GOVERNOR AND I AM IN VIRGINIA. He arrived at Richmond the next morning, was met at the station by a police escort which saw him home, and gave the order that the executions must be carried through as scheduled.
* * * *
Following Ellyson's "treason," the press all over the nation went wild, local papers leading the pack. The News Leader asked: "How was it possible for the Hon. J.Taylor Ellyson to entertain for a moment the proposal that he should take advantage of the temporary and wholly proper absence of the governor to override the judgment of a trial, the twice-affirmed opinion of the supreme court of this commonwealth, and the deliberate, reasoned,
[ 10]
and resolved decision of the governor of Virginia?
"The News Leader understands the pathos of this case in all its tragic surroundings. The horror of death, the cry of youth for sweet life, the unfairness between the death sentence for Claude Allen and the penitentiary only for Sidna Allen and Wesley Edwards, the influences that surrounded Claude Allen's youth, his false standard of morals, his ignorance and wilfulness-all the forces that have led him where he is-have reacted on the public mind and raised for him a deep sympathy. Sympathy is not justice. General Lee himself, bitterly as he deplored executions for desertion, yet insisted that the law must be carried out ... the lieutenant-governor and the superintendent of the penitentiary have added a further weight to the cares that are already burdening the governor, without helping the cause of the Allens the actions of Superintendent Wood and the failure of Lieutenant-Governor Ellyson to declare at once that he would have nothing to do with the suggestion that he could exercise the pardoning power, indicate only hesitation and weakness."
The New York Tribune of March 29, 1913, reports : "What brought forth the greatest indignation from the Governor was the reported fact that the plan to appeal to the Lieutenant-Governor was agreed upon a week ago."
Shortly before sunrise (the executions were scheduled for dawn), the condemned Allens were advised that a respite of half a day had been granted by the combination of circumstances. Claude Allen, who had retained his nerve throughout the months of trying ordeal, gasped and almost fainted at the news, but regained composure as he noted the hopeless and dejected appearance of his father in the death cell across the corridor. Neither of the men held hopes of living; both wanted to die
as quickly as possible. The last respite was not like the former ones; it brought only torture. In all lights it would appear that there was no good reason whatsoever for the delay.
At one o'clock the father and son, in their separate cages, heard the fearsome death warrants read. Tears rolled down Floyd Allen's pale cheeks as he looked upon his son, standing firm behind the steel bars across the metalcarpeted corridor. "There was a pathetic farewell as the old mountaineer, bent and feeble, was led away."
It was necessary for the prison guards on each side of Floyd to support him as the y walked through the little grey door that marks the end of The Last Mile. Mumbling a prayer which only the gods could understand, the old man eased his frail frame into the electric chair. Two minutes after he had entered the chamber, the signal to kill was given, and at 1 :26 Floyd Allen no longer lived. Straps were hastily unfastened, and the body was removed.
It is easy to describe but difficult to imagine the thoughts that must have beat across Claude Allen's brain as he walked briskly into the death chamber a few minutes later. There for the first time he saw the wired engine of death he had been visualizing all the months. Moments ago his father had sat there and died, and now his father could not be seen. He only knew that somewhere, his skin burned and his eyes wide, Floyd Allen lay.
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame!
And bound with bars lest Christ should see!
How men their br others maim.
But Claude Allen had been convicted of taking life, which no man may do-and it was the decree of a greater force than man that he should die. In one minute he was dead.
The Reverend George W. McDaniel, spiritual adviser to the Allens, had to be lifted into his car as he left the prison.
Through the long days in prison Floyd and Claude Allen had steadfastly maintained their innocence. They declared they had acted in self-defence and that they were "brought to their doom through the evidence of their political enemies and alleged perjured testimony." And even after death, they plead their _innocence-in letters left behind.
Claude Allen wrote: "From my earliest recollections I was taught to speak the truth in everything and deal honestly with my fellow men which I have ever tried to do. Our parents have tried to raise us that we might feel honorable and under no consideration speak falsehoods.
"I went to Hillsville during my father's
trial and heard some of the evidence. The first I knew of any trouble was when it began, and what I did was without any premeditation whatever. And there was no plot beforehand or any conspiracy as far as I know.
"I am not guilty of the charge of conspiracy. I had too much love for my dear mother and my sweetheart, if there had been nothing else to keep me from planning a deed which would have separated me from them forever from this earth.
"If anyone willingly, falsely testified against me I forgive them, and I believe some told such as they knew were false. I did not kill Judge Massie. Those who have wronged me I forgive, and hope that we will meet in a better world where sorrow is never known. Praying God's blessing upon our dear old State and all her people, I say farewell."
Floyd Allen's letter was much of the same nature: "I forgive all my enemies, those who have falsely testified against me and those who have not dealt fairly with me. I hope God will also forgive them. Shortly we will have to stand before God, and each will give an account of our treatment of each other. The true facts will all then be known. I have told the truth. I am innocent of the charge of which I am convicted and I have no fear of meeting God in connection with the crime for which I am dying.
"I hope the lives of my family which I leave behind will show, as far as possible, to the world that we have been wronged. I hope by their lives that they will contradict the statements and untruths that have been stated against us."
By NAOMI LEWIS
Crouching down in the thick, wet fog, which was settling over Woolwich, Jim blinked, trying to make his eyes pierce the denseness to see the light of his house that was now invisible.
He was looking at it for the last time, and his heart was filled with a queer mixture of remorse and freedom. Yes, he, Jim, who for twelve years had tried to make for his wife a happy home, was leaving . Home? That was funny! Jim laughed grimly, but started, as he heard it echo hauntingly from the engulfing fog. Hovel would have been a far more appropriate name. Bitter tears welled into his eyes, tears of utter defeat; but he brushed them away with the back of his hardened hand.
Even now he could see Mary, sitting alone in that bare, damp cabin, tirelessly knitting, stopping now and then to pull her shabby shawl closer over her thin shoulders. If only young Jim had lived; perhaps that would have been enough sunshine to make life bearable. He would have been eleven years old now. But even that joy was not left for them. Why was he running away? Was it just nerve he lacked? No, it was more than that; it went far deeper. He had stood it for twelve years, watching month by month, year by year, his pretty Mary grow thin, wasted, sad, yet never complaining. God! God it was awful to lose one's courage, to suddenly not be able to go on any farther, to realize it was no use.
As Jim plodded slowly, unconsciously on, he knew on one side of him was the Thames, dotted with wherries, dirty, cold, colder even than this abominable denseness, and he shivered when he thought of it; or was the fog al-
ready penetrating to his very bones? Oh, why hadn't he succeeded? Mary and he would have been so thankful for just a little money, but not even a little was to be had. How well he remembered that first year of their marriagehe, with his father's cobbler shop, once his grandfather's. What faith he and Mary had had, what plans for the tiny shop! Then the years went by. Men, women, and children no longer came to him to have their shoes mended, for he didn't have the modern conveniences and machinery that some of the newer shops had, and he couldn't repair them as well as could others with more modern equipment. If only they had been fair, had come to him, then he could have earned enough money to buy some machinery. But he had had to work day and far into the night, cutting, hammering, on shoes for people who scarcely had enough money to pay him. Was it any wonder he wasn't able to buy new leather, let alone food on which not to live but merely to exist?
So now he was running away from all that. No longer would it have to pierce him through the heart to see Mary bravely smiling in spite of her worries, her rags, her starvation. "Oh, God," Jim moaned inarticulately.
Jim's feet began to ache. He became conscious of the rocks on the narrow road bruising him, as he plodded on through the murky fog. Were these thoughts to forever pursue
him? If so, how could he live? Certainly he had been tormented enough. If only he could walk through this fog into oblivion. Jim shook his head, as if to dispel all thought. It was not so cold. He lifted his head and peered around him. Already the fog was lifting, and a dazzling light shone through, reminding Jim of the smile on Mary's face whenever he came home. Where was he, and how far had he come while absorbed in cruel thought?
As he glanced around him, Jim could see lovely rollicking hills, covered with velvety green grass stretching before him.
Walking hurriedly over the newly paved road, Jim saw not far off his own house, white
"Gawd, but he a mean-lookin' nigger! Yassuh, I may be nobody's Joe Louis, an' I may be nobody's Chris'phuh Cullumbus fo' looks, an' I may eben be downright ugly, but I ain't as mean a lookin' nigger as that man is. He sorta light-colored, wif freckles on his cheeks. He got high cheeks, like a Injun, an' a long, narrer chin. That chin is jus' all bone! His nose ain't built fo' smellin'; jus' snawtin'. It lays flat ag'inst his face so you can't hit it, but it serves him to breathe with. His ears is set way back, like he kin hear anything behin' him,
and warm looking, nestled among the hills. To one side stood "lizzy" his beloved car, while framed in the tiny doorway stood his lovely wife, pretty and happy, waiting for her husband of only three weeks.
Jim, seeing all this, shook his head vigorously and smiled.
Looking down at the roll of blueprints that he was carrying, he recognized the top one as the plan for Mary's and his new house, which he himself had designed, and he chuckled.
"Cobbler? huh!"
Jim saw cars driving up to his house and quickened his step. "Good Lord!" he cried, "J had better hurry or I'll be late for our housewarming."
and his forehead long an' low, too. Got hair way back. An' them eyes! They's sorta slanted, like a Chinaman, an' they's wide, an' narrer. His head stick out over 'em, so you can't hit 'em, and Gawd, kin he use 'em to look mean! Look a hole through a six-inch bo' d. An' he hols his head over one side, an' turns 'em slantin' eyes down atcha, an'-I don't hardly b'lieve any man kin look that mean an' be all nigger! He mus' have a li'l sumpin' else in him back somewheres.''
PAUL SAUNIER, JR.
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1u't~ ot tf:te?noment
The numbing shock of loss is felt but when
Vast waves of sorrow rise in wind-fierce symphony
Right with the fury of the moment; then
Arrives cool sleep and hushed philosophy.
At first quick vortex forces steal .the mind With glacier streams of pain and blind emotion,
Unleash the brooding beast within, remind » The heart of gnawing hunger and commotion » In the Will. Regretful tears prevail: » Deep grief weaves needle-like throughout the soul;
Great thoughts are lost in darkness of wide gale,
Breaking like electric on a tragic whole .
But soon sweet music rises from blue cloud:
The flower opens, butterflies shed wings,
Soft notes blend with white rays of sky, allowed
The soul as wine for thirst of lovely things.
The moment then becomes a memory No longer in the flame but in the mind,
And humored into mellow-cured maturity.
For this wise ultimate alone they pined. »
BY SAMUEL COHEN.
''.findther!athedTal-Sj.
By HENRIETTA SADLER
The cathedral looked down like a wise old grandfather who had lived his years richly and well. You could almost see his smile, as he watched the romping of the younger generation. Time had picked many flaws in his face. He sat back and chuckled. The laughter lines were in the corners where laughter lines ought to be.
He is a sentimental old fool after all. His self-imposed task of bringing peace into life has a new zest, when he has smoothed out the kinks of some knotted romance. Here he seems to be in his element. The experience he likes most of all is a strange one.
A gray fog hemmed the day in with gloomy threads. A boy entered with some of those threads still clinging to him, or perhaps it was his face that was the fog. He slid into a seat, eyes stonily ahead, brows plowed up with worry. Through the drip of rain the cathedral spoke. "So you can't have her, my son. Too bad."
The old man stopped. For once there were no comforting words; he was stumped. She had refused the boy's love, because he had loved so much, so of ten. Her logical mind kept her from believing that, with his "past,"
he could possibly love sincerely. So she had said no, not unkindly, but nevertheless firmly. After staring for hours the boy left, the fog still close around him.
Days went by. The cathedral became a grumpy, disillusioned old man. For once, he'd failed. The boy finally returned. "It's no use. I've tried, but it's no use." The words threw up hands in despair.
The cathedral had a sudden inspiration "My boy, write a letter."
"Old man, you don't know. '' I've written hundreds of letters with millions of dollars of stamps on them, and what do I get? One post card, 'Be good. As ever, Bet.' "
"My boy, look around you. Now write.'' The words were the whisper of pigeon wings in the window.
The boy wrote, "Bet, my dear; it's all so still here that it frightens me. The old man said I should write, so I do. The light comes in slanting beams through which dust fairies play . The silence vibrates with low tones of age. Here life seems to be so far away that I can look at it and see the broken places. See that rip there? I've mended it, I hope. I've never seen that person again. And look there,
that burned hole-Well, I darned that as best I could. That cut-I'd better tell you about that. That's where I broke all bonds of everything. I was trying to forget, but found that I was cutting at the roots of things, real things. So I came to the cathedral. He began to take the needle of common sense to the place. He certainly can jab deeply. But he must know best; he's lived so long.
"Here I am, Bet, much darned, patched, and sewed together anew, but I'm all in one piece. More than that, I realize that life has to be worn or it becomes dusty. Bet, help me keep my life sewed together, will you?"
He stood, squared his shoulders, walked out. He turned to look at the cathedral. "Funny place to write a letter. Wonder why I did it?"
Later, a couple stood under a shaft of dust fairies. "Here's where I wrote that letter. I've often wondered why."
"I know," deep, soft voice, understanding grey eyes. "Thank you, sir, for sticking your needle deeply."
"What's that?"
"Nothing, my dear. See that arch over there? They say..
The old man smiled. Life again had been born anew, because he had lived. His shadows had driven men again to light. He settled back to dream, chuckled. The laughter lines were in the corners w here laughter lines ought t o be.
I, Walter E. Bass, was walking alone one day through the valley of Wasisdass, when suddenly an Angel appeared to me, descending on a white cloud and alighting near my right side. This Angel spoke to me and said, "Walter, I am Gabriel who standest at the right hand of God. Look now beneath the stone upon which thou art standing. Thou shalt find a tablet of prophesy written in Skidoo. Translate it and give it to the world." The Angel then vanished . I obeyed, lifting up the stone by the sheer force of my remarkable strength, and I found the tablet. It was the prophesy of Pariah, that ancient sage whose oratorical charm swept nations off their feet. This tablet had been long lost, and I praise God that he permitted me, after these man y centuries, to give it to the world.
THE PROPHESY OF PARIAH*
CHAPTER ONE
The word of the Lord came unto Pariah , the son of Wuz, the son of Hazben; and Pariah was the sweeper of the streets in Yhouncharzs, in the land of Abece, when De Lan Yo ruled over the land, and Black Lip ruled over Germanicus, Stone Face in Latinum, and Consternation over the rest of the world. And as I swept the streets I looked up and * Int rod u ctory No te: T ra n s la te d fr o m Skid oo- The charac te r s dep icte d h e rein a r e e ntir e ly fictiti o u s, a nd a ny resembl a n ce t o hum a n be in gs is a n unint e nti o n a l mi s ta ke. If a n yone a ccuses thi s tr ea ti se o f being a tir a de aga in st exi sting so cial and p o litic a l ' conditi o ns, he is a liar And a ny o n e wh o sees any truth in th ese f e w w o rd s is a pers o n o f vain a nd wild im agination
behold! A fire was raging in a building across the way. And the Lord said unto me, " Pariah , what seest thou?" And I answered, "Lord! I see a fire." And He said, "So it is! And so thou shalt be. Thou shalt be a fire unto this sinful people to consume them from off the face of the earth, for the stench of their sins is foul unto my nostrils, and their sins are grievous.
" They have forsaken the w ays of pride and greed to follow gods of love and peace.
" They have abandoned the righteousness of plutocracy and have mired themselves in the stagnation of equality.
" They have made themselves impure w ith charities and benevolences .
" They have worshipped gods of tendernes s and care. How can God be tender? Tenderness is the stuff out of which I have made the weaker beings of the earth. How can God seek glorification and exaltation, when he lowers himself to the affection of a father? Their w ays are idle. Their hopes are vain. I, the true God, am a jealous God , full of wrath and hatred. Man must worship me alone: and if anyone sins, I will visit my wrath upon his innocent children unto the third and fourth generation. Who said: 'Be not overcome with evil, but be overcome with Good?' He was a babbler whose tongue was in his mouth! Let the whole world be proven just and God a liar! So What?"
Thus God spoke.
And God, the Lord God, said unto me, [ 18}
"Pariah, leave this thy sinful and honest task, and girt thy loins with golden girdles, and gather into thy mind the superstitions of the ages, the lies both old and new, the profane knowledge of this world, and prophesy unto these good and sinful people; and tell them that I, the Lord, have spoken. And this shalt thou tell them:
"I will have no more of this intelligence in religion. It is an abomination unto me. Have I not made man wise enough? To be ignorant is his lot, for thus I created him. In his sinfulness he has wandered away from his pristine ignorance and entangled himself in the meshwork and hell-pots of reason and knowledge. I send plagues upon man, and he endeavors to conquer them. I create the floods and storms, unbearable heat and piercing cold for man's discomfort, and he has sought means for overcoming these blessings of my eternal hatred. Not being satisfied with this, he looks back into those same sinful pursuits of past ages that he might learn from them more about those things which I would not have him know.
"In my hatred for women I caused them to suffer in childbirth. In giving birth there were pains and dread. I made women look upon this event with a quaking fear whi~h increased to direst intensity as the hour of labor approached. Agony was rife, and I was pleased. But what has this sinful generation done? Pain at birth has been lowered. Deaths during childbirth or from childbirth have been decreased. But even more sinful it is that men have learned to control the birth rate, making it no longer necessary to bring into the world children who will starve or freeze from poverty. They no longer have to bring into the world children whose minds are incapable of meeting life because of heredity. All my plans for the propagation of the races and the agony
of labor and the sorrow of child-deaths are being profaned.
"Yes, men are fighting for intelligence and knowledge, and laughing at me. Why do they torment me? Why are they not content with the beautiful and remarkable ignorance with which I have blessed them?"
The Lord thus spoke.
CHAPTER TWO
And I, Pariah, the son of Wuz, trembled as I heard the awful voice of God. I tried to move, but the joints of my limbs were locked. I sought words, but my tongue remained glued to the roof of my mouth. I had stood face to face with God, and so must die. Soon the torpor of my bones gave way. I dropped my broom and fled from my sinful task. The call had come for me to preach, and the time was short. I must go forth to spread this blanket of sublime and deified horror to the people of my land. And as I went the spirit of the Lord came upon me, and I felt ashamed, for I suddenly realized that I, too, had been guilty of these heinous sins for which God had condemned the world. I had been unclean in a land of unclean people. I, too, had drowned my hate and bigotry. I had looked upon the holiness of denominational greed , with disgust. All men I had called my brothers. ( 0 wretched sinner that I was.) This was my sin, and the oppression of my guilt lay heavily upon me. How unworthy I was to be called! I prostrated myself upon the ground and licked the dust that was far more holy than I; and I begged God to forgive me of my wickedness. 0 how merciful he was! He gave me full pardon, after I had performed the required penance. For seventy times seven and seven nights I slept on a bed of pointed nails, and ate only bread and water. What a wonderful God that he looks down upon his
[ 19}
unworthy children with such passionate disgust and hatred.
After my days of joyful penance were over, God said to me, "Pariah, now is the time to go forth and preach. Take with thee naught of comfort; take only a scourge and a covering for thy body. And make thy departure in the winter when the storms beat most furious! y against you. Take no thought for comfort or for life, for I, the Lord God, have sent thee." And I praised God when he spoke these words, and I marvelled at his majestic cruelty. God looked down at me and spat upon me. 0 what rapturous reward for my pains!
CHAPTER THREE
I, Pariah, son of Wuz, went up into the mountain that is called Arrogant, that rose out of the valley of None, that is in the province of Pride, the Holy Land of God. And there resorted unto me the people of the land in hundreds and in thousands. Among those in the crowd were some priests, preachers, and laymen who had clung tenaciously to the true God even when the more wise and sinful people were worshiping other Gods. There they were, both high and low, waiting for me to speak. And I, the street-sweeper spoke.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thus saith the Lord:
' ' For three transgressions of Latinum and for four I will not turn away the punishment thereof. For they have forgotten the spirit of their forefathers who fought with courage that they might gather unto themselves riches and bring nations into subjugation. They have filled their veins with water, and their spine is as a snake's. They lie back in the laxity of comfort, not desiring to build the nation again into imperial majesty. Comforting themselves with the heritage of greatness, and not once lifting a finger to deserve the honor of their
ancestors, they have descended into the craven animals, not worthy of the soil which they till. But this alone is not their sin. For they have broken away from the one requisite of human progress and warfare, to be fruitful and multiply. And thus I commanded them. But no! They pref er to let the land fall into disuse, the population into a convenience, even offering rewards for barrenness. By this necessity, war is removed from them. And when the Dark Clouds of the south lifted up their ebon might to suppress Latinum and sought to darken the day of the people, they hid cringingly in their caves or stood without defense as the rain beat down upon them, although they were innocent of any offense to these Dark Clouds, the tyrants. And because they have thus sinned by humility and cowardice, because they have sought peace instead of war, because they love instead of hate I shall completely destroy them. I shall burn their lands with fire; I shall trample them in the winepress of my wrath and completely Fascinate them."
And when I, Pariah, had thus prophesied, the hills clapped their hands and the multitude shouted amens in their familiar tongue:
"Rah Rah Ram Ram Ziss Boom Jam Jam Latinum Down Latinum Down Pariah Pariah Pariah Rah Rah Rah''
And I spoke again:
"Will the elders now pass the plates?"
CHAPTER FIVE
Thus saith the Lord:
"For three transgressions of Germanicus and for four I will not turn away the punishment thereof. For they have exceeded all bounds of human ungodliness. Suppressed with horror and intolerable persecution, they
[ 20]
rose up against that power which would force hate upon them, and they put at their head a government which would give them that which they desired beyond all else-happiness. Happiness! Bah-Hamburg. And this leader gave them love and liberty, letting them continue their pursuits of reason and intelligence, advancing the illegitimate cause of peace and righteousness, encouraging the churches to help the needy, preach as they desired, train their adherents in the ways of joy and understanding. He exhorted them to worship the God of love (the pretender) and turn his back on me-and who wants a cold shoulder? But he did more--1 had ground my people underfoot, keeping them from light and happiness. I had made them suffer in prisons, in cellars, in hunger, in thirst. All things which were good for them I had given them. And he, this Furor, gave them freedom, built comfortable homes for them, put them in places of high honor, in offices, in colleges, and the world looked on, not knowing what to do. Only after years did they make any effort to put these people back in chains. Then he sinned a great sin. He had with him all the equipment of war through which he could spread his peace over all the earth. The decisive moment came! He feared! He doubted! He failed! The world had been waiting for war. The munitionists of five countries were waiting with eager anticipation-and he failed them. His sin is great, and I shall completely wipe out his power. He would have been my child, my chosen offspring, but he let love come between him and me. And because of this I shall spew him out of my mouth and shall scatter him to the six winds."
When I had spoken, the multitude arose in the fury of approbation. They praised me to the highest heavens and sang me a song.
"Who is wise and who has wisdom?
Who can speak the words of truth?
Who can fill the heart with dreading?
Who can shout with direst ruth?
Is it John or EbenezerAlcatraz or Sop or Fire?
'Tis none of these, not one of these 'Tis one alone, 'tis our Pariah."
And I, Pariah, spoke again.
CHAPTER SIX
The Lord Saith:
"For three transgressions of Albion and for four I will not turn away the punishment thereof. For they, too, have aligned themselves with the forces of peace and reason. For the cause of happiness and human welfare they have humiliated themselves before false God. When they could have done good, they did evil; they could have destroyed civilization, but in their craven stupidity they sought to avert such a catastrophe. And it was all in the spirit of play. Brutus and Bismarck met one day and sat down for a little play at cards Not having any money to put up, they decided that, if Bismarck won, he would receive Edward's pants (Edward was a bit underfed and couldn't resist). And a nice pair of pants it was, too. It had, among other things, coins in the pockets and a ticket to the Agricultural Fair. But best of all-the pants would just fit Bismarck. If Bismarck should lose, he would have to lick the dust off Brutus' shoes. They played in the friendliest of spirits. Brutus lost -and Edward lost his pants.
"And O the sin of it all. They could have had such a big fight. They used cards instead of stones and bludgeons. And for this sin I shall destroy Albion. I shall submerge him beneath the seas and men shall never more look on him. The annals of ages shall remember him as the epitome of disobedience."
When I, Pariah, had left off speaking, the crowds below cried a great amen. They praised me for my just condemnation of this
[ 21}
sinful state which had so wandered away from God. They all cried, "There is none like Pariah. From all the races of men there has none arisen in whose lips is justice except him. We shall praise God for sending us this prophet. To him the eternal ages bow down. We honor the God of Pariah."
CHAPTER SEVEN
And I, Pariah, spoke again: "For three transgressions of Abece and for four I shall not turn away the punishment thereof. For whereas the sins of Latinum, Germanicus, and Albion are foul, the sin of Abece is a stench beyond the foulest pollution. These other nations have sinned, but Abece has exceeded all bounds of iniquity. Even in its birth it was vile. Born illegitimately of Equality and Freedom, it first lay down in a cradle of ungodliness. Its history has been one of continuous rebellion to my desires and aims, completely withdrawn from human persecution . You people of Abece, your sins are damnable and your heritage is abominable. There has never been among you greed, lust, nor dishonesty. Your great industrial systems have been built upon the principle of cooperative equality and human brotherhood. Your capitalists are men whose spirits are blended with the cause of happiness for all men. In their sinfulness they threw away individual desires and drowned selfishness in the whirlpool of sharing. Their wealth is the common wealth of all. They would pour out their souls to bring succor and happiness to the masses. Their sumptuous homes, their elaborate parties and shows, their reckless spending upon themselves: these are not wastes or selfishness, but the expression of what they desire for all. While men starve they load tables with delicacies; while men freeze they overload their wardrobes. They lavish wealth on dogs, automobiles and gambling, and fiddle
sticks. But why? From Selfishness? No! For Show? No! No! No! No! Just a little expression of the luxury and plenty that all should possess. In this they have sinned, for tomorrow night, to show their love, they will invite to their feasts the homeless, the men of the highway. They will cut their own salaries. They will create equal wealth for all and bring comfort to all. And this is their sin.
But your sins are more grievous than this. You withdraw in horror at the racial persecution of the Germans against the Jews-and your leader just recently said that he was glad that we no longer persecuted your Negroes, but considered them human beings. You deplore the poverty of the Chinese-and the tenant farmers of your Southland. You express disgust at the moral laxity of heathen nations, and the moral degeneration of your own people-
You have destroyed social inequality · You have created healthy prison conditions
You have stopped police-court-third-degrees
Political corruption exists no more
The rich no longer evade the law
Both the $100,000 thief and the $30 thief get justice
The industrial worker is protected from accident and unemployment
Religious prejudice has been destroyed
Intelligence has replaced superstitions
Sanity replaced insanity
Love exists instead of hate
Peace instead of war
The hungry no longer walk the streets
The naked no longer freeze
Men can be proud of their independence
The diseased receive sufficient medical care
Public defrauding has been abolished
Divorce is shunned, marriage made honorable
Bribing is no more [ 22]
Oppress10n is gone
Lying is abhorred
There is no sin which you have not committed. When I desire hate, you make love. Peace reigns over your land as the wind rules over the sea."
As I, Pariah, thus spoke the people began to stir. A murmur began and grew until it reached such an amplitude that my voice was drowned. Then from the crowd one stood up and spoke for the multitude:
"Pariah, your accusations of the nations outside were just and true. Their sins are great and God should chastise them. But there is no such evil in us. We have always followed your God. Our pages of history are filled with hate, strife, prejudice, war, oppression, political debauchery, immorality, and crime . We have followed God implicitly. We are without sin. Your vilification of us is untrue .
The Non-fiction Awards
Two optimistic aspects of the university literary scene have presented themselves in THE MESSENGERNon-fiction Contest. Last spring in the stories submitted for the fiction award, there was a predominance of "stiff" writing. We then deemed as contributing factors in the lack of smoothness, "copy-book expressions, thesaurus-thumbing for synonyms, stilted language, and obvious laboring by the writer." Few of these faults existed in the non-fiction stories; the trend was almost in an opposite direction. Where informality was the keynote of a paper it was fairly well sustained and the usual tendency toward bombast checked.
you are a good man, we know, filled with noble aspirations, and we pat you on the shoulder as long as you stick to the truth and fight sin. But to attack us, who are the chosen of God, is wrong. You are young and will learn how Godly we are. So go back to your street-sweeping and come back when you are a bit more mature and understanding."
And I, Pariah, answered:
"I was a street-sweeper of ignorance, doing my work faithfully, and God came to me and told me to preach. And I have preached. But because you think yourselves so good, you shall be cast to the lowest depths. In your pride you think that you are the best of the peoples in the world. But your destructions shall be more terrible than that of Sodom and Gomorrah."
Thus saith the Lord.
There seems to be, however, a misconception of the construction and styling of nonfiction articles. Non-fiction articles are not editorials. Too many of the submitted manuscripts were written from an editorial standpoint, dealing in vague generalities or allowing them to so weaken phases of the paper as to render it ineffective; most blithely ignored both specific examples of evils attacked and constructive criticism. We were surprised not to find more articles drawn from the personal observations of the writers and at this unanimous tendency to editorialize every subject.
The majority of papers were from Westhampton College. This is indeed encouraging, for ever since THE MESSENGERbecame a joint publication we have striven for the interest and support of both schools.
(Continued on page 32)
[ 23}
1lie1teWas?10a11swe1t
Skull , Emblem of Time, Ugly, Bony, Sinister, Packing CaseEgo in Calcium and Lime, Rude, Hateful Minister Of a Dead Race-
What are you to me? How do I love you ? I fear, Grinning Dead Thing, that I hate you, Rather than love you, Hate you with a hate the dead windows cannot perceive For back in the dripping haze that curtains the beginning, Did not there once repose, within those bleached walls, From which the blood has dried and the membrane rotted, A thing of grey wonder, alive, pulsating, Even as my brain now? And even as my brain now, did not your brain struggle In the dark recesses, with thought, and care, And hurl the imposters into nothingness? And did you, Hypocritical Haven of Life and Death, Not open yourself in compassion, For another like you, Even as I, For you?
Oh-ho! Messenger from Irony, I hate you, yesF or you are me, What I was , What I will be .
) OTTO WHITTAKER I Border by REX ALLYN
Pop,~teelman
ByROYALLBRANDIS
Everyone in the gang knew Pop was too old to be a steel man, for Pop was fifty, and in a rivet gang that's old. A man's got to be young and quick to walk steel beams forty stories above the street and not make that fatal misstep. In the steel business you make only one mistake .
But everyone knew that this job meant food for the old man, and he had stayed He was "heater" and spent most of his time on a shaky wooden platform turning the handle of his forge, supplying hot rivets every time the "catcher" called for them. His throwing arm was still good and his eye still keen; long looping arcs from his tongs to the bucket a story or two above or below him was ample testimony of this . It was only when he had to walk steel that his age told on him. But I noticed on my first day on the job that what his legs lacked in elasticity his head almost made up m experience.
We were carrying the furnace, Pop and I, across an "I" beam to the newly-erected stand. Though only four stories up at the time, I could feel the tension in the old man as we started across. After all, it makes little difference whether you fall four stories or forty, and Pop knew it. He knew he ' d be lucky to live through this job, and his nervous strain seemed to become worse as we progressed higher and higher. I was watching him as closely as I dared, when his foot slipped. The beam was moist from the early morning dew, and his worn shoes failed to hold. But quicker than light his foot had caught in the under
projection of the beam, and with his knee pressed against its side he kneeled on it as though in prayer.
On the other end of the furnace I stooped under the sudden shifting of weight and caught my balance by flexing my knees. For a full minute we paused there in what must have been a breath-taking tableau. Then slowly, cautiously, Pop began to get up until his foot was again on the top of the beam. Ten faltering steps, and we were on the platform . In two steps I was around the furnace where Pop half-stood, half-leaned against the iron wheel of the blower. His face, under the stubby bristle of beard, was a ghastly white. He had looked Death in the eye and outstared him.
When he spoke it was almost gibberish. "Gimme a chew."
I did, and a half-hour later he was throwing rivets with his customary accuracy.
In the weeks following, it seemed that Fate was playing the old man as a cat plays a mouse. The certainty of the end was just as comparable. First to crack under the strain was Mike, who generally bucked the rivet gun. Pop threw a rivet too low and Bulldog,
the catcher, nearly fell from his place on the swinging platform in catching it. Mike stood up, and, dangling the gun from his right hand, began to curse the old man. The profanity flowed as only a steel man knows how to make it flow. When he had finished, Mike was shaking like a leaf, and Pop stood on the platform fifty feet away with the look of a hurt child on his face.
That night I went to the bar that is a fixture on every construction job and saw Pop sitting alone with a half-empty bottle of whiskey before him. He was getting drunk and making no bones about it. I went over and tried to make him come back to the boarding-house, but I couldn't until he was so drunk I almost had to carry him.
The next day we moved our stand up to the fortieth floor, while Pop remained on the one below with the heater. The throws would be difficult, but the foreman had warned us twice about being slow on the week's job, and we were anxious to make up the work. For the first throw, Pop stood on the edge of the platform and tried to make the shot. The rivet hit the beam above and dropped five stories into
some freshly-poured concrete; it hissed and went out.
Almost mechanically Pop took another rivet in the throwing tongs and walked out on the beam to get a better angle. On the backswing he failed to take into account the air hose behind him. The tongs caught in the hose and Pop, thrown off balance, swayed drunkenly on the beam. For a moment his arms make a windmill as he beat the air in an attempt to regain his balance, but he failed and pitched forward, down to the next floor, where a teninch beam caught him across the middle. His scream choked off in a gasp of air, and for a moment his body balanced there. Then he began to slide off slowly, feet first. His belt buckle stopped him for a moment, then suddenly let go His body turned over and over until it hit the steel reenforcing rods protruding . from the newly-poured concrete on the thirty-fifth floor. One rod, longer than the rest, spitted him like a pig . The ugly round end protruded from his stomach.
We didn't work any more that day . The next morning there was a new kid on hand, and we began to break him in for the heater's job.
We ?1.eiJe'tKttow
And then I cried-
There may be some who understand.
You never tried:
You dismiss me with a glance
And do not care ;
You never even knew nor thought
That I was there.
And the while my very being
Throbbed with fire,
Was burning so, and all alight
With mad desire .
But now we both ha ve changed;
What wasted passion,
Had I but known you loved
In serene fashion.
BY KIRA NICHOLSKY
War's End
By HUGH A VERY
He fell. . . . A bullet through his brain had found its mark, but, strangely, no hated Hun, no man in his company had fired that shot. He had died by his own hand To some his deed might be cause for some condemnation, but who among the living can perform autopsy on the workings of a suddenly shattered mind?
To completely comprehend this fulfilment of a life, the events of the preceding twenty-four hours must be reviewed. Even before the dawn of November 11, 1918, broke, the men along the line held by the Fourteenth Division, south of Verdun, knew that it was to be the final day of the holacaust. They appreciated, more than can be set on paper, that this " Hell on Earth" was to end at eleven o'clock.
Orders had gone up and down the line that a final volley was to be fired at exactly one minute to eleven. It was to be a tremendous thundering good-bye to war-to all that war implied. It was to be a happy, jubilant welcome to the peace which they had all sought.
Severance McElroy breathed a sigh of relief, as he painstakingly noted the long desired orders He issued precise orders for the gunpowder requiem to that horror they called "war." "Thank God!" was his only comment.
Eleven o'clock seemed so far away, the hours and even the minutes dragged by. Long hours before the final volley, he was glancing frequently at the watch strapped to his wrist for when the time came , his crisp order to fire would be spoken , as he had been trained on time to the second.
Ten o'clock, ten forty-five, ten fifty-five ten fifty-nine precisely on the second he gave the command . . . "Fire!"
The guns roared their answer . . . responded with a thundering adieu to arms, a farewell to murder.
The curt, ever-efficient lieutenant shook with a deep sense of emotion. Four years of Hell had come to a close he had done his part-done it well, and now the guns of his company had just sounded the end of it all, the beginning of his new life.
The echo of the salvo reverberated and faded
away. His soldiers , the burden of warfare lifted suddenly from their torn bodies, their worn and weary souls, leaped from the trench and stood in the open . . . into the sunlight. They waved their arms, their h~nds in delirious joy and exuberant happiness, and shouting:
"The \"Var's over! The Armistice. It's all finished!"
Out across the forsaken " No-Man's Land" suddenly poured the deadly hot lead of the machine gun . . . carrying death at each spurt.
One, four five six men of Lieutenant McElroy's command fell ... all mortally wounded.
The smile faded from the lieutenant's face .. . bewildered and stupified, a million thoughts raced through his mind. What had happened? It was the Armistice, wasn't it? Hadn't the war ended? Yet the enemy was still active they still fired, still killed his men. For God's sake , why why?
Severance McElroy ran along the trenches, to where another officer stood " Lieutenant, in heaven ' s name tell me what time is it?"
The officer pushed back his sleeve, and glanced at his wrist watch. "Exactly eleven o'clock."
Lieutenant McElroy shaken and with his world tumbling about him, looked at his own watch. It read . . . four minutes past eleven.
Slowly, painfully he dragged himself back to his company Six men, who a brief few minutes before, had hailed the end to terror, now lay there before him . . . dead!
Severance McElroy stood among the dead . . . slowly, precisely, and expertly he drew his service revolver from the holster on his hip
Up and down the entire line , pandemonium held sway, laughing men , crying men, running men screamed and shouted " War is over. "
Lieutenant Severance McElroy slowly, precisely placed the gun to his temple . . . and pulled the trigger.
- The South ern Collegian, Washington and Lee University f f f
We Dock Tomorrow
By ELBERT G. SLAUGHTER
They arrived at the stern rail and leaned against it-the same rail at which they had met two nights before. Both stood in silence, gazing at the wake of the vessel. The moon was reflected in the churning waters. ' [ 28]
"Well, Tom, tomorrow morning we dock. This trip ' s been fun, hasn't it?"
"It certainly has, Dot-unexpectedly so."
"I suppose I'd better go to bed now. I will have to do some fast packing in the morning."
"Well, I haven't packed either. Maybe we'd better call it a night."
He started to leave.
"Wait, Tom . This is where we met and I'd like it to be the place where we part. What do you say?"
" All right. But why?"
"Just a whim-on the sentimental side. I've really had a grand time with you, Tom, and I shan't forget it. It's a trite truth that all things must end."
" All what must end?"
" In a couple of weeks you ' ll be back in college absorbed in your friends and lessons. If you ever chance to hear the name 'Dot Fontaine' again you' ll fr own thoughtfully and repeat, ' Dot Fontaine, Dot ... Fontaine; oh, yes, she's some girl I met on the boat coming home.' "
" Hey, wait a minute. Where did you get that idea?" Tom laughed. " What makes you think I'll forget you like that?"
" I bet you do "
' 'I'll take that bet. Say, you look serious Are you really? "
" Yes, I guess I am " Tom himself grew serious then.
" Don't you think I've had a good time with you?"
" You seem to have had fun too, but you probably have fun all the time, and this time will be nothing unusual."
" I usually manage to enjoy myself most of the time , but I really have had more fun than usual with you. You're a swell kid I-I like you lots Have I seemed indifferent and insincere?"
" Oh, no, but the romantic atmosphere of the ship has distorted your normal sense of values, so that you ' ll be disillusioned when you ' re back in the m o re sensible atmosphere of the States. "
" You certain! y are in a reflective mood tonight ," Tom observed, taking both of Dot's hands in his own.
"Does it mean so much to you? Aren ' t you likely to forget me as quickly as you seem to think I'll forget you?"
" No I won't forget you soon. You've taught me just how grand a boy can be I'll always appreciate your doing that for me. "
" You ' re sweet, Dot , but aren' you likely to be disillusioned when you get back to the States? "
" I don ' t think so ."
" I hope you won't.''
Holding her by the shoulders , Tom kissed D ot gently , then he took her into his arms. " For g et you? That wouldn't add up."
" I wish I could believe you'd repeat that in a couple of weeks. I've had such a grand time with you. I'll add this trip to my pocketful of dreams and call it to the fore at will."
"You' re a dreamer, too, huh?"
" Yes, indeed Can you imagine this world without dreams?"
"It would be dull, all right."
" Speaking of dreams reminds me that by this time Mother is probably dreaming that I've fallen overboard or into a ventilator or something. I must go ."
" Stay a couple more hours, and we can see the sun nse."
"I wish I dared to, Tom, but I mustn ' t."
" All right. You know, Dot, I feel so full and contented now. I feel like I've got the world by the hand, and I can swing it any way I want to I don ' t want to let go of it. "
" Maybe not, but I know one hand you've got to let go. That light burning in the cabin means that Mother is still awake. "
" She'll understand Well, saying ' good-bye ' and ' good night' at the same time is a pretty big assignment. I'm afraid I won ' t see you tomorrow morning before I leave the boat. Dad's going to be waiting for me , and I'm going to leave as soon as I can ."
" Mother and I will probably leave early too. I g uess she's already packing everything ."
They kissed once firmly.
" That for ' good night.' " Tom said.
They kissed again , a little longer " That's for ' good-bye .' "
" Good-bye , Tom Keep out of dark alleys " Then she was gone.
Gazing into the darkness from the point of the bow , hearing the swish , swish of the water breaking on the prow below him, Tom felt that only half of him was there .
- The Royalist, College of William and Mary .,, .,, .,,
From Our Angle
By SIDNEY JAFFE
Professors have written volumes about students until the subject has become somewhat hackneyed , but only seldom has a student reversed the tables t o write about professors. It is time that a student
29)
gives the professors the searching analysis with which, in the past, he has been so generous in giving to students, and with that the proverbial worm now turns.
There are many kinds of professors and no two professors are exactly alike, but for the purpose of analysis they can be divided into three general classes, which we may call factual, idealistic, and inspirational. There is much overlapping and a single professor might possibly be included in all three groups.
First there are the factual professors. In the fall they sow their facts giving ample time for them to be forgotten, and when examinations come around they reap the harvest of failures. They sow facts into stubborn, untillable minds by a mere magic wave of a mark book. In this sense the mark book might be called fertilizer. For months the diligent professor jams facts tighter and tighter into unwilling minds until at examination time, like a shaken-up beer bottle when just opened, the student fizzes the facts out onto the paper, to be lost forever.
In the classroom there is a sporting atmosphere. The contest is between the student and the prof essor, the one trying to "bull" around a question he does not know, the other trying to pin him down so that the ever present gradebook will record the results of the battle.
Professors who teach only factual courses are in danger of acquiring the dull pedantry which the man in the street often thinks is a characteristic of all professors. This blank, textbooky kind of professor suffers from a disease, an occupational disease, comparable to housemaid's knee or "dishpan" hands. They are the professors who walk into the classroom, whip out the notes and go to work to the tune of scribbling pencils.
"The following facts are significant in the history of the mugwumps," he says, rather pompously, and sometimes with vigor. "The ... following . . . facts . . . are . . . significant . . . " away scribble the pencils. Finally a sweating and now fidgety class moves gratefully to the door at the welcome sound of bells. The professor leans over, places a mark on the notes to indicate the spot where education stopped and where it is to begin on the morrow. There is no censure here directed at the professor, for obviously the factual courses are necessary; the censure comes only when the professor allows the course to mold his own personality instead of inserting his personality into the course. One might know of many professors who have become in their devotion to facts mere auto-
matons losing all sight of the true aim of educat1ou. Then there are the idealistic professors. They are the ones who mean well, but who are so far removed from their own youth, or, not knowing or understanding the youth they teach, expect the impossible. They are the ones who could be found saying: "We have the stuff. Let the little lambs come and get it if they wish. If they are goats who won't eat good food, that is their affair. Why should I coddle them?" These professors are the ones who ramble on in class shedding their erudition, not giving direct assignments, expecting students to study on their own - giving examinations that are known as comprehensives. There is no serious objection to the idealistic professor, and in graduate study he would be perferable. But to teach undergraduates in this manner is to disregard the students who make up normal undergraduate classes. We students simply don't work that way, and the professor simply does not face the facts when he thinks his students will work without pressure. There are too many outside activities that can be slipped in when the pressure of studies is relieved.
The idealistic professor is the kind who thinks that a gerund is a splendid little beast, and that given the coterminous elements there is indeed no earthly reason why a normally intelligent student cannot find the coefficients of correlation. He expects students to find the same delight in comparing Shakespeare with Spencer that he does; he expects a great bruiser of a football hero to stalk into his class and quietly but with enthusiasm divide all Gaul into three parts or decline a Latin noun that met its death along with the Dodo bird; he expects a young chemist to read and delight in Marx, Laski, and Adam Smith; he expects a budding young musician to balance a bank statement with gusto. The idealistic professor is a very sincere creature who loves his students dearly, who takes his work with all the seriousness of the world reformer, but who does not fully understand the pupils he has devoted his life to teaching. It is ironical, but understandable, that this kind of professor is often disliked.
Finally, and happily, there is the inspirational professor. Although the name "inspirational" is trite, this kind of professor is never trite. He is the professor who is admired by all students, good and bad alike. He has that ability to understand each individual student as a person, and adjust himself to the student. He is an intellectual, but in a way which attracts even the student who scorns the intellect. The student who scoffs at study, who [ 30}
thinks big words are just affectation , he even cultivates Soon the student is found reading, beginning even to take other than a purely grade-interest in study. He is the professor who detects the spacious reasoning in the hot words of the radical, and, while sympathetic, points out the errors. With the conservative student, he introduces a liberal element. He is an energizing influence, like heat. At any time of the day he is willing to wax enthusia stic over an idea. He does not tell his students that they must learn to think , to evaluate, to be nonconformists; it is not necessary , for with him they disco ver it themselves He studie s constantly , and
though with no Sabbatical leave to permit extensive writing, he nevertheless writes some, gaining the respect of his students. By example he is what the students discover they would like to be. He is a humanist. He is, in short, almost everything that is truly pedagogical.
Of these three types , factual , idealistic, and inspirational , the inspirational professor is most rare , and where found is an idol of the students. He is an embodiment of all that is desirable in a prof essor. He is what all professors can be, but what fe w are.
- Th e Ro yalist, College o f William and Mary.
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"So far," WALTER BASS said recently, "I've stuck pretty close to poetry in my writing, but I'm pliable if my prose should please even thr ee or four readers." And if the satire of "The Lost Prophesy" doesn't please considerab ly more than its author modestly hopes, we wi ll be vast ly disappointed. Bass, a ministerial student, manages the college shop and lists three hobbies: "books, 'Johnson's wax for rough floors with Bob Hope every Tuesday night at ten o'clock,' and good laughter." Hailing from the show-me state, HENRIETTA SADLER lists dramatics among her principle interests and shows us something about rich, sensitive writing in "And the cathedral spoke. . . . " It contains some of the smoothest lines of the year. One cannot deny the vividness of such choice examples of the bully King's English as " the words threw up hands in despair" or "brows plowed up with worry." We promised more of FLORENCE LAFOON'S illustrations, and one accompanies Miss Sadler's story. Attaining the same subtleties of mechanical skill and interpretation that heretofore marked her drawing, with this one the artist brings atmosphere and strength of tone to a charming piece of romantic narration Possibly no single contributor works under more trying hours, for it seems that circumstances seldom allow us to assign stories to her with much dead-
EDITORIAL
(Continued from page 23)
On top of our commendation of Westhampton, it may appear strange that we have selected as the prize-winning manuscript "Murder in the Mountains," by Otto Whittaker, Richmond College student who won the fiction award in April. "Murder in the Mountains" was such a superior work that there was no doubt in the minds of the judges about the decision Spotlighting subtly and objectively a vital question, it is especially appropriate at this time of discussion of legal lag and revision of the criminal code. A most
line allowance. Yet, when called upon in the proverbial eleventh hour, she never fails to produce a remarkably fine illustration. ROY ALL BRANDIS, author of the cogent "Our Day" column in The Richmond Collegian, in which he enlightens an eager campus on the pressing political problems of the day with unerring accuracy and trenchant analytical power, now turns his talents to the field of the short story and gives us a gripping drama of men and steel. We do like "Pop, Steelman." ... SAMUEL COHEN returns to THE MESSENGERafter an absence of a year, during which he did graduate work at the College of William and Mary. Admirers of his poetry in past years, we are extremely pleased to present the first of his work of this year. One of the members of our present staff frequently quotes the lines: "I feel that somewhere in this peopled sea, a few will break their bread with me; and they will come in stress of need to heal their hearts by human creed ,'' from one of Cohen's poems of 1937. . . . All we can say of REX ALLYN'S border for the very effective poem, " There was no Answer," is that it is one of the most dramatic and artistic inks we have enjoyed since Dore illustrated Poe ' s "The Raven ." To say more than that of Allyn's skill we would have to trot out all the adjectives we've app lied to his work since we first knew him in prep school -and they are quite a thesaurus. We would remember Carling and Kley and numberless others, and in our admiration, they would lose height against our own proud border.
creditable narrative, the challenge it flings down, "Will you let this happen again?" is apparent.
The deplorable feature of the contest was the paucity of manuscripts submitted. There should be no scarcity of literary talent on a campus as large and diversified as ours; yet contributors to the contest were almost too few to be representative. We can do but one thing: reiterate that THE MESSENGERis your literary publication, looking to you for support, giving every single manuscript full consideration with the hope that it might be presented to the university at large in our pages.
I [ 32}
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