We who are drawn together by a common
ideal, cannot permit the anniversary of Leon F. Czolgosz’s death
to pass in silence. Silence would shame the great cause, the first
seeds of which were sown in the red blood of its advocates and martyrs.
The movement against government means more than any reform movement
of the past. It is not a struggle against one form of tyranny, but
a struggle against tyranny in every form. Rebellion is thought in
action. Thought that does not produce action, is like a tree that
bears blossoms but no fruit.
In Czolgosz the rebel, we see incarnated
the vital forces of our movement, viz., hatred of oppression and
the courage to do. Men cannot hate oppression unless they possess
sympathy and intelligence in a high degree. These qualities were
not lacking in him, who was born in a so-called free republic.
Czolgosz saw that the State is merely
a band of thieves, knaves, and murderers; that the State was founded
upon violence and existed by violence. He saw the parasites connected
with it living in riotous waste and splendor off of the products
of slaves. He saw the political pimps of the money barons busy enacting
new schemes and methods to rob the workers. Doubtless he had been
taught in childhood that the starry banner floating over the housetops
of his native city was the emblem of liberty and purity; perhaps
the boyish heart thrilled with pride to think that he was an American
born, and therefore free.
Yet it did not take him long to unlearn
the lies of his youth. Experience and observation are a great aid
to the mental development of sensitive minds. Before the roses of
youth had faded on the brow of Czolgosz, he struck the State one
blow. The head of a great republic reaped as he had sown; and cries
of rage and cowardice echoed from blood-stained thrones and back
again. Those who are so willing to shed the blood of the helpless
thru [sic] their hired murderers; whose sleep is unbroken when the
streets of their cities are stained with their bloody work—how they
howl when a free, self-poised man dares all the horrors at their
command, and hurls one of their number to the earth bathed in his
own blood, for the first time in his worthless existence and then
dies with a smile upon his face.
All hail the memory of Leon Czolgosz,
sublime in his boyish candor and simplicity, magnificent in his
high moral courage and iron will. With pride we lift our heads to
greet the rebel who on the threshold of death uttered these sublime
words: “I am not sorry I killed the president. I did it for the
working people—the good working people.”
To that class who murder by wholesale,
and always unite to torture liberty’s martyrs, we say:
“Go revel once more, ye cowardly knaves,
With the wantons your lusts have
Be drunken again on the blood of slaves,
That are slain in your marts of
But know you this, the spirit that
spoke at Buffalo is not dead. That spirit kindled new fires now
smoldering in human minds. Government is doomed. On the far hills
of our mental vision gleam the lights of the social revolution.
We do not weep for its dead; we only learn a lesson from their fortitude,
that drive more nails in the coffin of authority.
Liberty’s martyrs are crowned with
flowers of hope. Tyrants with despair, they are dead for all time.
But our dead speak the language of the living, and are resurrected
in each generation, to live innew [sic] beauty and strength.
Caplinger Mills, Mo.