What the Dark-Eyed Angel Knows
by Eleanor Lerman

A man is begging on his knees in the subway. Six-thirty
in the morning and already we are being presented with
moral choices as we rocket along the old rails, through the
old tunnels between Queens and Manhattan. Soon angels
will come crashing through the ceiling, wailing in the voices
of the castrati: Won't you give this pauper bread or money?
And a monster hurricane is coming: we all heard about it
on the radio at dawn. By nightfall, drowned hogs will be
floating like poisoned soap bubbles on the tributaries
of every Southern river. Children will be orphaned and
the infrastructure of whole cities will be overturned. No one
on the East Coast will be able to make a phone call and we
will be boiling our water for days. And of course there are
the serial killers. And the Crips and the Bloods. And the
arguments about bilingual education. And the fact that all
the clothing made by slave labor overseas is not only the
product of an evil system but maybe worse, never even fits

so why is it that all I can think of (and will think of through
the torrential rains to come and the howling night) is
you, sighing so deeply in the darkness, you and the smell
of you and the windswept curve of your cheek? If this
train ever stops, I will ask that dark-eyed angel, the one
who hasn't spoken yet. He looks like he might know

"What the Dark-Eyed Angel Knows" by Eleanor Lerman, from The Mystery of Meteors. © Sarabande Books, 2001. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

It's the birthday of the poet William Cullen Bryant (books by this author), born in Cummington, Massachusetts (1794). In his autobiography he said that he could read all the letters of the alphabet when he was 16 months old but admitted that he was nothing compared to his brother who started to read Genesis when he was two and made it through the entire Bible before the age of four.

But there was no doubt that he was a prodigy. He started writing poems when he was nine years old.  His most famous poem, written at age 17, is Thanatopsis, a poem about death. He wrote:

[...] When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; —
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around —
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air —
Comes a still voice [...]

The outlaw who called himself "Black Bart the poet" robbed his last stagecoach on this date in 1883. His real name was Charles E. Bowles, which he later changed to "Boles." He was born in England and his family moved to New York when he was two. He gradually made his way west, living in Illinois for a while and serving in the Civil War with the 116th Illinois regiment. Eventually, he wound up in San Francisco.

He is believed to have robbed 28 Wells Fargo stagecoaches over an eight-year period. At his fourth and fifth robberies he left notes behind, including a bit of verse, and signed them "Black Bart, the P o 8." His most famous bit of doggerel read, "I've labored long and hard for bread / For honor and for riches / But on my corns too long you've tread / You fine-haired Sons of Bitches." He never fired a shot, and was terrified of horses so he committed all of his robberies on foot. He was also exceedingly polite, asking coach drivers to "please throw down your strongbox" and refusing to take the money or jewels of female passengers, even if they offered.

Boles' robbery career came to an end when he was shot in the hand while fleeing the scene with his loot. He got away but left most of his personal items behind and later wrapped a handkerchief around his hand to stop the bleeding. While searching the area the posse found his battered suitcase containing, among other things, another old handkerchief knotted around a handful of buckshot; the handkerchief bore a laundry mark. The Wells Fargo detective in charge of the case began visiting each of the 91 laundries in San Francisco hoping to find a match. After about a week he did, and the laundryman said the handkerchief belonged to a miner, C. E. Bolton, who stopped into town every week or so. The detectives lay in wait outside Bolton's boardinghouse and apprehended him the next day. Wells Fargo only pressed charges for the last robbery, and Boles was sentenced to six years in San Quentin. He served four, got out early for good behavior, and went back to New York where he presumably died around 1888.

The last public execution at London's Tyburn Gallows took place on this date in 1783. Tyburn was located near the western end of what is now Oxford Street, and the first execution took place there in 1196, long before the famous "Tyburn Tree" gallows was erected (near the current location of Marble Arch) in 1571. The Tyburn Tree was noteworthy in that it had a triangular shape allowing several people to be executed at once; in 1649 24 prisoners were hanged simultaneously. The gallows was in the middle of the roadway and was hard to miss; in fact, it became a tourist attraction and people would journey from miles around to watch the public executions. The villagers of Tyburn erected stands and charged people admission.

The first victim of the Tyburn Tree was Dr. John Story, a Catholic who refused to acknowledge Elizabeth I as the queen and head of the Church of England. Elizabeth's half sister and predecessor, Queen Mary — also a Catholic — had earned the nickname "Bloody Mary" for her relentless pursuit of Protestants during her brief reign: In five years she burned almost 300 religious dissenters at the stake. John Story had been one of the chief prosecutors of heretics, and when the Protestant Queen Elizabeth succeeded Mary in 1558 he ran into some trouble for boasting about his exploits. He was briefly imprisoned but fled overseas; he was eventually captured, tried for high treason, and condemned to death by hanging, drawing, and quartering.

Eventually urban sprawl overtook the village of Tyburn and people began to make noises about having such a macabre landmark right outside their front doors, so the Tyburn Tree was taken down and subsequent executions were carried out on a portable gallows. The site of public executions was moved to Newgate Prison and the last person to be executed at the site of the Tyburn gallows was a highwayman, John Austin. Coming upon John Spicer, a laboring man who was traveling through Kent, Austin had accompanied him on his journey for some several days, sharing lodging and food with him and apparently befriending him. Austin then allegedly lured Spicer to the woods where he and an associate robbed and mangled the laborer. At Austin's trial the judge said:

“Under the mask of friendship you have robbed a poor innocent man, deluded by your treacherous designs, and your false friendship: it is further aggravated by the baseness and inhumanity of your deceit, which cannot entitle you to any instance of mercy, but requires that you may be made an example of immediate justice."

Austin's last words were reportedly:

“Good people, I request your prayers for the salvation of my departing soul; let my example teach you to shun the bad ways I have followed; keep good company, and mind the word of God. Lord have mercy on me, Jesus look down with pity on me, Christ have mercy on my poor soul."

And today is the birthday of playwright Terrence McNally (1939) (books by this author), born in St. Petersburg, Florida, and raised in Corpus Christi, Texas. His first play was produced in 1964, when he was 25 years old. He received generally favorable reviews, but his first big success didn't come until 1987, with Frankie and Johnny at the Clair de Lune, the story of a middle-aged cook and a frumpy waitress who find love in the diner where they both work. Kiss of the Spider Woman (1992) was his first foray into musical theatre; he also co-wrote a musical adaptation of E.L. Doctorow's novel Ragtime (novel, 1975; play, 1997). He's written several plays that take on the subject of homosexuality, including Lips Together, Teeth Apart (1991); Love! Valour! Compassion! (1994); and Corpus Christi (1997). He recently announced that his next project is a new book for the Rodgers and Hart musical Pal Joey.

He said, "If a play isn't worth dying for, maybe it isn't worth writing."

Terrence McNally died on March 24, 2020, of complications from COVID-19.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.^®

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