Mrs. William M’Kinley the Woman, the Wife
In breathless suspense, with tender
love a nation waits at a sick man’s door.
Within that darkened chamber the Chief
Magistrate of a great people is facing death.
And as the people ask “Who is gaining
the victory?” they ask “How is Mrs. McKinley?” Will she bear up?
Will she live through the strain and
Before this she has been the one to
[a]sk sympathy. She has alway [sic] been the comforted instead of
Now all that is changed and it is
she, [t]he frail invalid who is valiantly struggling to be brave.
The strain is great and Mrs. McKinley is keeping up by hope, love
and the stimulants imperatively ordered by her physici[a]n.
To her he is not the President. To
her he is not the Chief Magistrate of a great people. To her he
is just the one man in the world who is her all and all. Her heart
is wrung with just such bitter tears as the heart of the lowliest
She is just a woman, confiding, tender,
weak and dependant [sic], and he the man of her heart.
To her the pomp and glory of being
the first lady of the land mean nothing. She is just a woman and
a wife whose heart is breaking.
Nothing could be more touching than
the story of the President’s home life.
Ever since the babe died who left
them childless Mrs. McKinley has been an invalid. Her life has been
bounded by the four walls of her sick room. It was to this life
William McKinley bound himself with a loyalty and devotion tru[e]r
than that of any knight of old.
Nothing could allure him from his
When public life offered him glory
and special honors none could allure him from his sick wife.
It was a matchless devotion and tenderness
more faithful than that of a mother over a sick child, and that
devotion and love more than once seemed almost to draw her back
from the grave. His love and solicitude for the woman who bore his
child has been one of sweet spots in a great man’s life.
Weep with the wife you women who know
what it is to love that gentle loving care, that strong arm that
kept the world’s cruelties from you.
Weep with her you maidens who know
th[e] comforts of a lover’s sympathetic heart beats [sic].
Weep with her you women who have bowed
your heads in grief when infidelity or the monster drink has taken
from you the hand you were wont to caress.
Weep with her you women who have watched
at the bedside of a loved one when grim death hovered about the
Weep with her, for she is just a w[o]m[a]n
holding by the slender thread of hop[e] that life that means everything
To us h[e] is our chief, our President,
our pow[e]r; to her he is just the man she loves. Pray with her.