The Lampasas Daily Leader. (Lampasas, Tex.), Vol. 8, No. 3110, Ed. 1 Thursday, December 14, 1911 Page: 3 of 4
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The Greater Tragedy
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HEN the aged fa-
ther of the Rev.
C. V. T. Richeson
fell upon his son’s
neck in the prison
at Boston, and
the two men sob-
bed in each oth-
er’s arms, a trag-
edy was unfolding,
a tragedy deeper
and more heart-
rending than even
that which led to
the death of poor
Avis Linnell.
“My boy! My boy!” cried the fa-
ther in his anguish. Almost the words
with which the breaking of King Da-
vid’s heart was registered for all time
when they brought him word of the
death of his erring son Absalom.
“Deal gently with the young man,”
the old king had said to the soldiers
he sent out to capture the rebellious
youth. And when divine justice cut
him off in his sins, David cried, “Oh!
Absalom, my son, my son!”
Through the ages this cry has rung.
Tt has burst from the heart of almost
tvery father whose son has commit-
ted crime.
Much is written and said about the
weeping mother of the son who goes
wrong—a figure full of pathos that
obtrudes itself forcibly, often over-
shadowing the equally pathetic figure
of the father of the prisoner, for a
man’s grief, though no less deep than
a woman’s clamors not from the
housetops, but broods in the dark si-
lences of the heart.
Father’s Grief Worse.
A mother’s grief differs from a fa-
ther’s in this—that she, in spite of
overwhelming evidence, can never
believe her son to be guilty. Thus
her passionate tears are those of re-
bellion against injustice to one who
is dear to her. She ^ill fight, as the
mothers of Carlyle Harris and Harry
Thaw fought, to save their sons from
what they believed an unjust fate. A
father, on the contrary, may know his
son to be guilty. He may be obliged
to let the law take its course, to sit
silently alone at home when his son
is being led to the gallows or the
electric chair, knowing that the boy
so dear to him is meeting a just fate.
In cases like this—and they are by no
means exceptional—the father’s grief
transcends in its miserable tragedy
even that of the weeping mother.
The figure of Judge Paul Charlton
quietly coming to the aid of his son
when the young man returned home
almost boasting of having killed his
wife in Italy had something awe-in-
spiring in its loneliness. Here was a
highly respected man, of good south-
ern family, who had attained a posi-
tion of trust and responsibility in the
service of his country, who had
brought up a bright boy, with all the
care and solicitude of a refined home,
lavishing affection upon him, hoping
great things for him, and suddenly all
these hopes were swept away and In
their place he must needs forge for
himself a solitary grim hope—that of
saving the boy from the disgrace of a
murderer’s death.
Gen. Hams’ Pathetic Figure.
Another heroic figure—heroic be-
cause of the way it stood firm in the
tempest of tragedy, swept about it—
was that of Gen. Peter C. Hains, fa-
ther of Capt. Peter C. Hains and
Thornton Hains. When Capt. Hains
killed the man he believed had wreck-
ed his home, and he and his brother
were accused of conspiring together to
commit murder, the old father’s fight-
ing blood rose and he turned like an
old lion to defend his cubs. In his
eyes his son’s deed was justified. This
point of view was shared by a large
number of people, women as well as
men. That he saved his sons from
the grip of the law was a triumph for
him, but the triumph only attenuated
the grief that the killing had laid upon
him.
So it was with gallant old Gen. Mol-
ineux. He, however, was spared ' the
grim horror of knowledge of a son’s
guilt, for he firmly believed in Rol-
and’s innocence of the murder, and
his fight for the youth’s acquittal was
urged on not only by affection but by
confidence in the triumph of justice.
Another father who was buoyed up
to the last by faith in his boy’s inno-
cence was A. F. Tucker, whose son
Charles was put to death for killing
Mabel Page., To the very last he was
firm in this faith. He aept up the
fight to prove his son innocent right to
the hour of execution, and in one of
his petitions to the governor for clem-
ency he expressed in a sentence the
tragedy of the parent whose son is
accused of a grave crime: “Our hearts
are bursting with anguish.”
Such a case as this was that of
Henry Clay Beattie, the Richmond
banker, whose son has been convict-
ed of murdering his young wife. He
kept up the fight, having appealed for
a new trial, without result. The fa-
ther’s heart must be wrung with grief
over the wild career that led his
wayward son into these direful straits.
Much was written about Carlyle
Harris’ mother when that boy was on
trial for killing his young wife, and
old Charles Harris, the father, was
mentioned only incidentally. Bacfe
into the shadows cast by his strong
wife sank the figure of the unsuccess-
ful old man. Nobody paid any atten-
tion to him. He was alone with his
great sorrow.
When Dr. Crippen was being hunt-
ed, tried and put to death for killing
his wife a lonely old man in Califor
ilia followed the reports of the cas«
with trembling interest. Myron A
Crippen was too old to be of any help
to the son who had left him long ago
Though unheralded, the greater trag-
edy was the father’s, not the son’s
When Albert Wolter was convicted oi
killing Ruth Wheeler his old father
a veteran of the Franco-Prussian war,
felt the blow as a long-delayed retri
bution for the one great sin of his
life, and so expressed himself. Alberl
was the child of a woman Carl Alberl
Wolter had known in Germany. De
serting the mother and baby, the eldei
Wolter had come to America and
wedded another woman. She had died
and he, stricken by remorse, had sen!
for the mother and child to join hire
in America and had legitimatized th(
one by wedding the other.
“The Sins of the Fathers.”
And now this child had committed
a murder so fiendish in its horror that
the old Prussian soldier bowed his
head under the shock and murmured
words about the sins of the fathers
being visited upon their children.
Another case was that of Gen. Jere~
miah V. Messerole of Brooklyn, whose
son, Darwin J. Messerole, killed Tlieo
dore W. Larbig in a fight. The old
soldier fought bravely to save his soi
and the verdict of acquittal, followed
as it was by the young man’s conver
sion and reception into Plymoutt
church, was balm to the father s
wounded heart
There can scarcely be a doubt about
the grizzled Confederate veteran, Col
T. V. Richeson, believing in his son’s
innocence. But the tragedy of suet
an accusation against a dearly be
loved son is less only than that of his
conviction.
These fathers whose gray hairs art
brought down In sorrow to the grave
as the patriarch Jacob expressed it
are tragic figures. They appeal foi
sympathy, but their weight of woe is
too heavy to be alleviated by words.—•
New York World.
if
i THE STRANGE COINCIDENCES OF SOLDIERS’SONS
FATHER.
Col. T. V. Richeson,
Confederate veteran.
Gen. Peter C. Hains,
veteran of the Civil war.
Gen. Edward L. Molineux,
veteran of the Civil war.
Gen. Jeremiah V. Meserole,
veteran of the Clvif war.
Carl Albert Wolter, veteran
of the Franco-Prussian war.
SON.
The Rev. C. V. T. Richeson, arrested
on suspicion after the death of Avis
Linnell by poison.
Capt. Peter C. Haines, who was sent
to prison for killing W. C. Annis.
Roland B. Molineux, charged with
killing Mrs. Adams; first convictea out
later acquitted.
Darwin J. Meserole, tried for killing
Theodore W. Labig, but acquitted.
Albert Wolter, convicted for mur-
dering Ruth Wheeler.
it
No Use for Molly.
“Admiral Schley, as his own splen-
did career showed, didn’t believe in
automatons,” said a Washington vet-
eran. “He didn’t believe in the sub
ordinate who lets his boss do all the
thinking for him. I once heard Ad-
miral Schley talking to a young An-
napolis student. He told the student
that unreasoning and unquestioning
obedience to orders was, if the orders
were wrong, a foolish thing. He said
the navy had no more use for men
of that stamp than the Widow Blacb
had for her maid Molly.
“The widow, he explained, told Mol-
ly one evening that if any one called
she was only at home to Mr. Munn
Then she retired to her room and
took a little nap. On toward ten
o’clock she awoke and, ringing foi
Molly, she asked: ‘Did any one call?'
“ ‘Oh, yes, ma’am,’ said Molly. ‘Mrs.
Blank called, and Miss Dash, and ih6
pastor.’
“ ‘And you told them what I told
you to?’
“ ‘Yes, ma’am. I said you was only
at home to Mr. Munn.’ ”
Queensland’s Sugar Industry.
Queensland is one of the greal
sugar-producing states of Australia,
and practically all of the sugar con
Burned in the Commonwealth is raised
and refined in this suite and In th€
northern part of New South Wales
The leading feature of the sugar In-
dustry Is the number of small cane
growers engaged in it, who now sup
ply cane to the central mills or whief
they are proprietors
* * *
By JOHN CHARLETON
(Copyright. 1911, by Associated Literary Press.)
His name was Giles Weedon, but
far and wide his friends had nick-
named him “Cupid,” for the reason
that he was small and plump, with a
round, rosy, cherubic face and inno-
cent blue eyes, and also because of
his fatal tendency to bring about
marriages between his acquaintances.
A bachelor himself, “Cupid” Wee-
don lost no opportunity to mate men
and maidens whenever they ventured
in his vicinity. Thus he had married
off not only his pretty girl cousins,
but even the plain and elderly ones
who had long since despaired of
matrimony. Many a contented bach-
elor had found himself engaged and
married to some charming spinster
or widow before he could catch his
breath; or some inconsolable widower
would take to himself a second wife—
as the result of “Cupid” Weedon’s
personally conducted, whirlwind mat-
rimonial campaigns.
As most of these marriages turned
out happily—Cupid possessed a weird
prescience of the affinity between
congenial 'spirits—his beneficiaries
were correspondingly grateful, and
therefore he enacted the part of best
man at innumerable weddings and
never demurred at the gifts called
forth on these occasions or the
christening cups which as godfather
he presented later on.
At last the day came when most of
Mr. Weedon’s friends had entered the
married lists and his occupation seem-
ed to have ceased. But still there
remained his friend and bosom com-
panion, Hilary Ingram, who had just*
returned from a trio around the
world, handsome, rich, unattached and
heart untouched, and consequently
Cupid’s active brain and his kind
heart co-operated to find a suitable
mate for Hilary.
Hilary Ingram objected at the first
intimation of his friend’s interest in
his behalf.
“See here, my fat friend,” he said
bluntly, “you may constitute yourself
mixer of love philters and minister
extraordinary to the court of love,
but I’ll be hanged if I’ll permit you
to drag me into your matrimonial
bureau!”
Cupid Weedon eyed his friend
doubtfully. “But you can’t go on like
this, old man. You ought not to be
living around at hotels. What you
need is a home where you can have
all your stuffed birds and animals
around,” he added slyly.
“For that matter, why can’t I put
them in a museum? It would be much
more appropriate than messing up a.
home,” returned Hilary contemptu-
ously. "Before you marry me off, Cu-
pid, why don’t you try a dose of your
own medicine?”
“I may, some day,” returned the
matchmaker loftily, “provided I ever
fall in love with a girl.”
"Take it from me,” predicted Hil-
ary darkly, “that when you fall in
love with a girl—then I, too, shall fall
in love with her and cut you out.”
“I dare say you will,” was Cupid’s
grinning retort, and they resumed
their golf.
Several weeks afterward it hap-
pened that Hilary Ingram discovered
Cupid Weedon mooning about the
country club. His blue eyes eagerly
searched the occupants of motor cars
as they stopped, and listlessly turned
away when he had scanned the faces
beneath the disguising veils.
“Who is she?” demanded Hilary.
“Who is who?” retorted Cupid
sheepishly.
“The one you are waiting for—the
girl with the—what color eyes?”
“Blue,” admitted the matchmaker.
“Blue as your own cornflower op-
tics,” commented Hilardy. “I greatly
fear you have made a miscalculation,
my friend. You should have chosen
brown eyes or black. I predict un-
happiness in your married life with a
dark man in the background.”
“Who is the dark man?”
Hilary bowed. “Myself,” he said
modestly.
“Get out!” ordered Cupid, his eyes
still seeking the driveway.
“I shall remain, Cupid,” protested
Hilary firmly. “You may count on me
for best man and—er—by Jove, who
is that?”
“It’s Miss Wall,” breathed Mr.
Weedon aB he bounced down the steps
and assisted a graceful form to alight
from a luxuriously appointed car.
She was a lovely girl. She was
gowned in a pale blue robe that fell
about her feet in simple lines, and
her flopping hat was of the same
blue, trimmed with pink roses.
Hilary saw all this as she tossed
off a big chiffon veil and loose coat.
An elderly woman followed and an-
other cavalier was ready to attend
her in the person of Major Demmet.
Hilary knew Major Demmet, and he
resolved to seek out the major later
and gam an introduction to Missl
Wall.
“You will excuse me, Hilary,” sc-'li
Mr. Weedon as he passed his chum,!
“but I am lunching with friends.”
They disapepared and Hilary found!
himself standing there on the piazza;
gazing after them with undoubted
jealousy hammering at his heart. Why!
should he be jealous of a girl whomi
Le had only gazed at for two moments^
and whose eyes had only met his ini
a sweeping, casual glance as she earner
up-the steps?
He had met women of every nation-1
ality, and not one had ever brought,
him this thrill of feeling. It was a
malevolent fate that had decreed her
should fall in lave with the only girl!
Cupid Weedon had really appeared!
personally interested in. He deter-
mined to go away.
Cupid Weedon intervened. Later
in the"'day he introduced Hilary toi
Lucy Wall, and that was the begin-
ning of the end, for the girl was at-
tracted by the dark handsome man,,
and it soon ceased to be a secret that
Hilary Ingram and Lucy Wall were in.
love with each other.
At last came the night when Hilary1
had his blissful answer, and, feeling
like a traitor, he sought Mr. Weedon’s'.
apartment, prepared to receive al-
most any sort of condemnation from
his friends’ lips.
Mr. Weedon was seated before a
snapping fire, for it was November!
and the air was crisp. The lamplight-
shone on his slightly bald head, and’
shining through his straw-colored hair,
made him look like a halo-encircled'
cherub. He arose from his chair and
held out a cordial hand.
“I’ve been expecting you, Hilary,”'
he said, smiling.
“You have?” muttered Hilary guilt-
ily. “How long?”
“From the beginning,” returned
Cupid, setting a chair for him and
pushing the box of cigars across the
table.
“Cupid, old boy,” murmured Hilary,
“you don’t know what a cur I feel!
I didn’t know that day when I predict-
ed that when you—er—that I would
—er-”
“You miscalculated my ability as a
mixer of love philters if you thought
I’d let you escape my matrimonial
net, Hilary!” laughed Cupid Weedon.
“It was a put-up job on my part, and
I must say that I never saw two peo-
ple walk into a trap as did you and
Lucy.”
After Hilary had pounded his friend
lustily, that plump young man conde-
scended to listen to Hilary’s rhap-
sodies. As Hilary paused for breath
before beginning again, he noticed
that Cupid Weedon’s eyes had lost
their careless light and were sadly*
fixed on the darting flames.
“Cupid,” said Hilary doubtfully^
“you are sure—aren’t you ever going
to find the girl of your heart and fol-
low the example of the rest of us?"1
For answer Cupid detached a lock-
et from his watch fob and opening it,
gave it to Hilary. Within was a pic-
ture of Hilary’s younger sister, who
had died a dozen years before. He
was startled, for he had never sus-
pected a romance between them.
“I found the girl of my heart and
lost her again,” said Cupid Weedon
gravely, as he replaced the locket-
“But I want all my friends to be as
happy as I once hoped to be.”
Helping the Pony Out.
E. B. Johns, who is a crony of all
the Ohio politicians in the national
capital, took his four-year-old daugh-
ter to the circus one night. When the
time came for a specially fine act by
the prize pony, all other “acts” were
stopped, the band was silenced, and
all noise hushed. Amid dead stillness
the pony entered the central ring,
and, as a preliminary to its wonderful
trick, fell to its knees, laying its head
on the ground.
Then it was that'little Miss Johns*
reminded of the evening hour at home,
broke the silence in a shrill, treble
voice, saying, “Now I lay me down to
sleep-”
Mr. Johns cautioned her to be quiet:
whereupon she piped out:
“Well, the pony didn’t seem to know
his prayers; so I was saying ’em for
him.”—The Sunday Magazine.
The Quiet Way.
He met his fellow-workman rushing
down the street at express speed.
“Hullo, John,” he said, “what’s
wrong?”
“Wrong,” said John, “I’ll just tell
you. When I went home the night 1
caught my wife sitting on anithel
man’s knee.”
“An’ did ye bust him, John?”
“Na, na, man; I jist turned on my
heel, an’ cam awa’ oot again, but 1
didna forget to bang the door tae let
them see I wisna at all pleased.”
m
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Vernor, J. E. The Lampasas Daily Leader. (Lampasas, Tex.), Vol. 8, No. 3110, Ed. 1 Thursday, December 14, 1911, newspaper, December 14, 1911; Lampasas, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth910828/m1/3/: accessed July 17, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Lampasas Public Library.