The Washington herald., 1913-07-28
byron NEWTONIS
TREASURES POET
Former Versi6er and News
paper Man as McAdoo's
Secretary Talks of Job.
HIS START IN LIFE
Played the Violin, Followed the Plow,
and Then Went in for
Journalism.

story was wired New York from a small
shot himself six times in the heart and
hved- That was the news, of course.
ana not the fact that the seventh des-
perate and determined attempt at self
destruction was successful. So persist
ent We're the reports-all verified by the
nelshoors-and so amazing the theories
oeouced therefrom to the probable
composition of the poor chaps heart that
the New York Herald said:
Send Newton to the inquest; tell him
to get the score on those holes in the
heart"
1t was bitter cold and the wind shook
the old shack where the tagging vii
layers. who trailed in with the coroner
held two or three tallow candles, while
Newton. shivering and sick with cold,
struck match after match ito get the
scorer'
When he plunged through the wind and
snow at midnight from the Grand Gen.
trail station back to the office again,
Newton was sicker and colder: the noisy
gay crowd jostled him aside; he was
blinded by the millions of dancing lights
cut by the begcars cry, For the love
of God. SIR" and all but swept away by
the mad rush of men and motors, women
and horses.
FOeIn.
A squirming herd, a squirmng herd
he thought, and "a squirming herd" was
the refrain that repeated itself over and
over again until he told the office there
was no score: that THE poor beggar hit
himself often, but his heart only once"
and then Byron B. Newton sat down to
his desk and this is what he wrote that
night:
OWED TO NEW YORK.
Vulgar Of manner orerfeG
Orerdressed and underlined
Heartless. Goddess, hel's delight
Rude BY day and lewd by night.
BeoTared the man, o'ersrown the brute,
Ruled by Boss and prostitute:
Purple robed and pauper clad,
Ravng. rotting money mad.
sluiTming herd in Mammon' mesh
wilderness Of human flesh:
Crazed with avarice. lust and rlrn,
New York, thy names delirium!
1t was only a few weeks after the
lines appeared. and were repeated and
copied again all over the country when
very seedy and sad individual pre-
scented himself a the door of Mr..
Newton's ONCE.
There's a man who's just COM
mitted suicide in Brooklyn" the visitor
explained, and thought you ought TO
know about it: it's out of the ordinary.
He was a poet. in the squalid lodg-
fngs OF genius. starving, unrecognized. !
OF course, that kind OF thing only too |
often ends as this did-days with moth |
ing to eat. no money for rent, yet |!
writing his wonderful verses for the /
world to appreciate when il is too late.
too late, He shut the windows. stuffed |
the keyhole. and turned on the gas
the other day. l found among his eff |
fects these lines, which are most re- |
markable. Read them. see his tired |
body and fluItered brain: see his cruel /
realization OF values which mocks a !
man when he's desperate: see
sequel of Its Wiring.
Mr.. Newton was a man desperately |
busy. and by that time he had the /
verses in his hand and adjusted his !
pince-nez to read:
OWED TO NEW YORK
Vulgar Of manner. oyerfed
OTerdresscd and underlined
Now. Mr.. Newton has the soul of
poet. but his eyes are not large and |
dreamy: he draws from his violin the
symphonies of genius. but his hair is
not long, neither are his hands anemic.
and when it comes TO orthodoxy there
is no doubt whatever as TO what Mr..
Newton believes.
Just one of two thing is true" he
said concisely. as he tore the Owed"
into bits, with his eyes narrowing upon
the gasping visitor. Just one of two
things. Either your poet friend was
liar and has gone TO hell or you
are a liar and will go to HE'LL
But-but," stammered the poets
friend, ready to erect the monument to
genius at 10 cents per line. "but-"
Get OUT" shouted Byron (not Lord) /
Newton.
The delight in the rhythm and beauty
Of poetry was born in the sould of Byron
Rufus Newton. private secretary tn the
Secretary Of the Treasury, when he was
2 boy in Allegheny County, New York,
and followed the oxen and plow through
the fields of the farm which his grand.
father cut out of the forest shortly after
the war of 1872.
Every day after he washed up at the
tin basin outside the kitchen door he
wrote down the verses that had turned
in his mind with the plow in the fur