Milburn Home, Where President M’Kinley Died,
Is an Object of Interest These Days
“Look to the left and you will now
see the Milburn home, made historic as the death place of President
McKinley. As we pass the home, going northward, you will see the
windows of a room facing toward the Exposition. It was in this room
that the martyred President died”
Spoken through a megaphone and resounding
through the neighborhood, this speech broke the Sabbath stillness
in the vicinity of John G. Milburn’s home, at No. 1168 Delaware
Avenue, yesterday. It has been heard in the neighborhood of Ferry
Street and Delaware Avenue so often that it has ceased to arouse
comment from the residents. It comes from the guide in the tally-ho
coaches which are filled with strangers in the city anxious to see
the “points of interest.”
That Mr. Milburn’s home is destined
to be a “point of interest” for some time to come is indicated by
the way in which public interest still clings to his residence.
Not only the guides on coaches shout out the place, but crowds of
people stroll up Delaware Avenue and linger in front of the house.
Enterprising people have taken advantage of the interest in the
place, and several stands are still in operation, where pictures
of the Milburn home are on sale.
That John G. Milburn is a man of
benevolent spirit is attested by the calm way in which he submits
to the public scrutiny. Though a man of much worldly responsibility,
though the man upon whom the chief executive business of the Exposition
falls, and though still a lawyer of large practice, he is also a
man of patience.
“It is remarkable,” he said, sitting
before the log fire of his library yesterday afternoon and looking
out on Delaware Avenue, “it is remarkable the way public attention
still clings to this house. It only shows how the people loved the
TAKES IT KINDLY.
Such was the way in which Mr. Milburn
spoke. He did not seem to regard the interest in his home as arising
from idle curiosity. He was not sorry, since his own private home
had been selected by destiny to speak so silently and yet so eloquently
of a sad chapter in American history, that thousands of people should
come reverentially to look at it.
And yet while Mr. Milburn sat in his
library he could see through the windows scores of people standing
mutely with their faces turned toward his front door. Some of the
sightseers even were walking up and down in front of the house to
see it at various angles, and some were forgetful enough to point
at the windows of the room in which President McKinley breathed
On Sundays the crowds are perhaps
larger than on week days and so a policeman stands on the front
sidewalk. Thus it becomes the mission of the policeman to answer
many questions. The questioners want to know if it is the front
room on the second floor or the rear room on the second floor, if
it is the room above the library or the room above the sitting room,
if the room has been changed any since its occupancy by its illustrious
guest or if the furniture has been removed. One old farmer, evidently
much affected by the scene, approached the policeman and said he
had heard that the Milburn home had been purchased by the Government
and supposing this to be true pleaded for admittance. When told
that he had been misinformed the stranger turned away seemingly
much disappointed at being denied a cherished hope.
NO DELICACY MANIFESTED.
If it were not that the windows of
the house are kept closed the comment of the strangers outside frequently
would be audible to the members of the Mulburn [sic] family.
But even then the loud speeches pronounced through megaphones from
the tops of the coaches break into the house and the guide continues
his remarks begun above: “That is the room up there where one of
the curtains is drawn. The President was brought here direct from
the Emergency Hospital on the Exposition grounds. It was on the
same day the President was shot, September 6th. President McKinley
died in that room shortly after 2 o’clock on the morning of September
The coach passes down the street and,
except for the murmur of pedestrians, silence reigns until the approach
of another such vehicle.