Victory of Anti-Christ
Old Glory was shaking her
red, white and blue folds ten thousand strong; bands were playing
and the gladness of expectancy showed on the faces of tens of thousands
who waited to greet the Chief Executive of a Nation.
It was in a great city, where a mighty
Republic was showing to the peoples of its own vast borders and
to the nations of the earth, what can be wrought by progress in
a land of peace and plenty where the door of Opportunity stands
open to every man who will enter.
But with such evidences of phenomenal progress
and prosperity on every hand as the great Exposition gave, that
giant vandal of Destruction named Anarchy was even then reaching
its gaunt arm up the flag staff of a Nation’s emblem and feeling
with fiendish eagerness for the starry folds which it would tear
from its height, shred to rags, spit on and grind in the dust.
With the thousands of visitors that thronged
the city had arrived the Catspaw of Destruction but a night before.
He was one of the ever changing throng
and came bringing nothing but a cheap valise—such a one as the wage
earner buys with the pennies he has left when the saloon till holds
Although a stranger, this Catspaw had no
trouble locating his home atmosphere, and with the instinct 
of the fly that seeks putrefaction to breed its kind, he gravitated
toward the nesting place of criminals and took lodging at a saloon.
With claw and fang was the Government of
the Republic to be set upon, and the target for the claw and the
tenderest spot for the sinking of the fang was in the heart of the
well beloved President—a President elected by the people, for the
people and with a majority of the people’s votes.
But no hint of tragedy, no suggestion of
Anarchy came now.
No shadow of the blood red flag obscured
the Nation’s emblem as twenty thousand people crowded nearer and
nearer the great Temple where the President was to receive them.
Eager they were, every one to look into
the kindly face of the great hearted Christian President, eager
to feel the hand grasp that spoke louder than words of brotherly
At the appointed time he came, and as the
great organ burst into peals of patriotic melody which the bands
took up while the thousands cheered, the crowd stood back as the
President went to his place in the front.
Among those first in line to greet the
Nation’s President was the Catspaw.
Scarce a hundred had shaken hands when
he found himself near the front.
But three remained between him and the
President, a woman, a white man and a negro.
Nearer and nearer, a step at a time they
He heard the kind greeting of the President
to  the working woman; he heard
his courteous greeting to the business man; he saw pleasure on the
face of the black man as the President gave his hand a kindly grasp.
Then he stood before the President, and
in the presence of twenty thousand people, not the peaceful citizen
he seemed, but the Catspaw of Anarchy whose gospel is Murder and
whose slogan is MIGHT IS RIGHT.
There was nothing in his appearance to
attract attention. His clothing was neat and clean. He had a frank,
honest face, as kindly as that of the President into whose eyes
As he extended his left hand, the President
glanced at his right, and seeing that it was folded in white and
held behind his coat lapel, he did not hesitate to take in his friendly
grasp the offered hand.
The friendly hand grasp of the President
was returned with more than a clasp.
It was a grip like a vice, and leaning
a bit forward the Catspaw drew the President slightly toward him,
at the same time placing his white wrapped hand quickly against
the heart—the big, kind heart beating even then in friendly sympathy
for one afflicted.
Immediately two pistol shots rang out,
for in the wrapped hand were hidden claws of steel and fangs of
As the pistol shots echoed back from the
lofty walls of the Temple, the President dropped the hand he was
holding and staggered back a step. 
Sinking into the arms of those nearest
him he said, “May God forgive him!”
A warm blood stain showed itself.
“Do not be alarmed!” said the President,
noting that those about him were frightened.
“But you are wounded!” they said.
The President slipped his fingers through
his shirt and pressed them against his breast—over the hole torn
of the claw and fang.
When he withdrew his hand, blood dripped
from his fingers.
A sharp pain gripped him.
He pressed his lips tightly.
His head sank back.
Drowsiness overcame him.
There was for a moment the silence of death,
for those nearest had been stunned by the enormity of the crime.
Then pandemonium broke loose as word was
passed that the President had been assassinated.
The burly negro, whose hand the President
had last grasped, had the Anarchist pinned to the floor; and lest
he might escape, twenty others had thrown themselves in a heap on
the assassin, while thousands crowded forward eager to lay hands
He was secured by guards.
To have done him violence would have been
to grieve the President.
The guard and police knew this and he was
held in safety.
Outside the great building the thousands
yet  waited their turn to shake
the hand of the President, and when news reached them of the crime,
peace was turned to wrath and an orderly body became a mob.
It was through this mob a passage must
be cleared for two people.
First came the President of the United
States, borne on an ambulance stretcher.
His face was ghastly.
There was no gleam of recognition in his
eye for any man.
His white shirt front was crimson with
With uncovered head and white lips tightly
pressed, the throng stood silent as the bleeding body was carried
to the ambulance.
The second person was the Catspaw—a young
man, scarce less ghastly than his victim.
But the Government at whose heart he had
struck was to protect him, and responding to the call, the Marines
arrived none too soon.
“Load rifles!” was the order, and when
the thousands heard the breeches click they stood back while the
prisoner was hurried into a closed carriage.
He sank into the cushions, white and trembling,
only raising up at intervals to look through the windows at the
As their cries for vengeance reached his
ear, convulsive shudders ran through his body and his terror stricken
eyes seemed bursting from his head.
When it became known at the police department
 that the new criminal was
no common law breaker, that he was an Anarchist—an assassin of the
President—the tens at first around the building grew to hundreds
and to thousands, and again the Government he had struck at came
to protect him from the mob.
When questioned he gave his name as Nikola Golzosch.
When asked why he had committed the crime,
he answered: “I am an Anarchist and I have done my DUTY.”
The President of the United
States knew that he must die.
Since early morning the sun had been hidden,
and the sky, as if weeping for a Nation, had poured a steady flood
But the President knew nothing of dark
clouds or storms.
For him the joys and disappointments of
Life were at an end.
For him the mortal pain of Anarchy’s claw
and fang, and that greater pain, the knowledge that a fellow being
whom he had never harmed had struck him down, were alike calmed
by approaching dissolution.
His waning strength was fast ebbing and
it was only at intervals that he was conscious.
While the Life cord weakened, a Nation’s
millions waited the minute bulletins for news from the bedside.
But there was only one among them the Presi-
 dent thought of now.
This was his wife—his frail, devoted wife.
When he realized that the end was very
near, he sent for her.
With unutterable misery pictured in her
sad eyes, she came and knelt by his bedside.
He reached his hands, trembling in their
last weakness to her’s [sic], drew her toward him, and with
faltering lips whispered a message against her breast.
Her heart was breaking.
Her worn face was wet with tears and pitiful
with the anguish of the parting, as she raised it to the physician
and in agony of soul cried, “I cannot let him go!”
Appeal to the physician was however of
All that medical science could do had been
Anti-Christ was to have seeming victory.
Overcome by the slight exertion, the President’s
strength gave way and those watching thought the end had come. Once
more he rallied.
Voices sounded far away.
Faces were dim.
Yet there was one face he saw.
There was one voice he could hear, and
with his last strength he again reached for the hand of his wife
and tried to take it as of old in his grasp.
She bent over him.
His lips moved faintly.
He was saying, “Goodby—goodby! It is God’s
way! His will, not ours, be done!”
The death film had obscured his vision.
The cold of death was chilling him.
His last breath was in his throat.
And yet once more he spoke, and leaning
close to catch the message from the Valley of the Shadow, they heard
the dying whisper, “Nearer my God to Thee.”
Then there settled over the face of suffering
the peace that passes understanding, which no claw nor fang of Anarchy,
neither any other weapon of devilish cunning, can take from the
News was flashed around the world that
the President was dead, and men wept as they read the black-bordered
To this extent had the claw and fang of
But was MIGHT RIGHT?
Ask of a Republic, and eighty million strong
will come back the shout, “Not by the Eternal God!”
The funeral train bearing the body of a
Nation’s Chief made its way to Washington, shrouded in black, while
bells tolled and women and children strewed the track with flowers.
The President was dead, but the Government
at Washington yet lived, and had turned out in the bitterness of
sorrow to do respect to its beloved dead.
But a few months before
he had taken the oath of office in the presence of cheering thousands.
The thousands had again gathered, but there
went up no cheers; and the handkerchiefs, that 
had before waved in billows of white were now held to wet eyes,
while the Stars and Stripes, at half mast, hung in silent folds
toward the ground.
From afar came the faint notes of the bugle,
and then “Nearer my God to Thee!” pulsated on the still air, as
borne by soldiers and marines the body of the martyred President
of America was brought to the seat of America’s Government.
As the body was borne up the wide steps,
voices somewhere near sang softly:
“Lead, Kindly Light,
Amid th’ encircling gloom—
Lead Thou me on
So long Thy power has blessed me,
Sure it still will lead me on
O’er moor and fen,
O’er crag and torrent,
’Till the night is gone.”
It had been the prayer of
the President that the people of his Nation should follow the Kindly
Silence reigned in Chicago!
In Chicago, hot bed of saloons and brothels,
hiding place for anarchy.
In Chicago, headquarters for blasphemers.
By tolling bells at Westminster, and booming
guns at Gibralter [sic], was the news told that across an
ocean a body was being lowered into an open grave, while in the
Homeland quiet reigned. 
This was why silence held Chicago.
But a moment before a million people had
been rushing to and fro and choking from wall to wall such streets
as the funeral procession moved on.
As the masses struggled, a horseman appeared
and uncovering his head shouted, “Hats off!”
This was the signal.
The muffled drums hushed.
Bells ceased tolling.
Every whistle, every wheel, every train
and every telephone, every car and every cable was quiet.
Every steamer bound for port or turned
seaward stood like a painted boat on a painted sea.
No breeze stirred the folds of the flags
drooping at half mast, and men stood with bare heads bowed while
In a quiet burying spot far away a bit
of earth was being thrown into an open grave, as from a Book a voice
read: “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”
For five minutes Chicago stayed quiet—quiet
like the grave in which a Nation’s President was being covered.
Then happened something yet stranger for
Chicago than this unheard of silence.
Over the heads of the vast multitude came
strains of music, far and faint at first as it floated on the hush.
Then the thousands caught up the tune—men,
women and children—singing, siging [sic], singing! 
Chicago was singing:
“E’en though it be a cross
That raiseth me.”
Chicago, except those nestlings
of the Inferno who had crept to their holes.
When Sodom sings Nearer my God to Thee,
may it not come to pass, as has been written, “Every knee shall
bow and every tongue confess HIS name, the PRINCE OF PEACE, the
PROPHET OF LOVE!”
A time when anti-Christ shall be driven
to the Hole, if hole there can be found to hide him.
For though from out the bourn of time and place
The tide may bear me far,
I hope to meet my Pilot, face to face
When I have passed the bar.
United States of America,