Grief Replaces Joy at Buffalo

After the Shooting of the President, the Festivities of the Exposition Suddenly
Ceased—No Lights Were Turned on Except Those Absolutely
Necessary—Even the Midway Booths Were Closed.

     Buffalo, Sept. 7.—The shooting of President McKinley has turned the joy, which has marked the days of his attendance at the Pan-American Exposition into sorrow quite as intense. While fifty thousand respectable and respectful fellow citizens stood outside the Temple of Music, waiting their turn to pass in and shake the hand of the Chief Executive, as well of [sic] one of the greatest statesmen of America, a vile anarchist, Leon Czolgosz, of Polish ancestry, but a native of Detroit, gained entrance and by adopting the ruse of a sore hand concealed the weapon with which he shot our beloved President, while receiving a friendly greeting. Such a dastardly act would have been summarily punished, had the noble man who was shot not stayed the anger of the crowd. Amid pain and suffering he remembered in love the wife, of whose life he is still the light, and gently asked that she be not informed too hastily.
     President McKinley did not fall when shot, as friends caught him as the shot was fired, and he staggered backward. He walked across the platform and without much. [sic] aid stretched himself on the improvised s[tr]etcher, ready to be conveyed to the Emergency Hospital on the Exposition grounds.
     The hospital though small, is up-to-date in all its appointments, and the operation of probing for the bullets was performed without delay by Roswell Mann, the resident physician, assisted by Dr. P. M. Rixey, the regular physician, who always accompanies the President’s party, and Dr. Parke, Buffalo’s most noted surgeon.
     All the while the hospital was surrounded by an immense, anxious crowd, and none was allowed to pass nearer than 100 feet to the main building, so carefully was it guarded by marines and Exposition guards. Going at once to the telegraph office, a crowd was found waiting,—four deep—to send messages about the terrible catastrophe, to the world. After this first effort was made a continual stream of humanity passed from hospital to telegraph office, to press bureau, back to hospital, all in the Midway, in reasonably close proximity. The popular thoroughfare of the Exposition was no longer the noisy, merry place of a few hours since. The music was stilled, hushed voices asked the latest news of the Nation’s Chief, and sorrow reigned supreme. Here and there above a closed booth, the sign “In sympathy with the President,” replaced the one which earlier in the day gaily waved with “Welcome to our President.”
     Shortly after 7 o’clock the President was removed from the hospital to the home of John G. Milburn, president of the Exposition. The procession, strongly guarded by mounted police and others, and followed by the doctors, Private Secretar[y] Cortelyou, Secretary of Agriculture Wilson and a few personal friends, passed through the grounds, crossing the Triumphal Bridge, near the spot where Mr. McKinley had stood a few hours previous to review the troops and joyous throng who greeted him with loud applause. The lane of humanity, waiting for the evening lights that never came, parted as the procession approached, and each man stood with bowed head, and a prayer in his heart for the recovery of the stricken President. Latest reports are that improvement is expected bu[t] danger of peritonitis is feared.
     Wisconsin’s was the first of the State buildings to be closed. The Mexican commissioners recalled the invitations for a reception to be given Friday evening in honor of Senor Jose de Oliveres, St. Louis World’s Fair commissioner to the Pan-American. No lights were turned on, save those absolutely necessary and at an early hour the Exposition was a deserted village.