|
A Reminiscence of the Pan-American
Editors Woman’s Journal:
I was speeding Eastward by rail along
the shore of Lake Erie, after a visit among the famous vineyards
of that region—bound for Buffalo and my first visit to the Exposition,
where I had engaged to meet a friend at a certain hour.
It was during the latter part of the
day following the President’s memorable visit, which had been in
all respects so satisfactory. I was improving my first opportunity
to read the speech given by him on that occasion, which proved to
be the text of a conversation between myself and the gentleman occupying
the same seat—a citizen of Buffalo, and an ardent admirer of the
President. Indeed, so compelling was his eulogy that it would have
won the acquiescence of the most indifferent of listeners, which,
in fact, I was. For, from holding a once apathetic attitude toward
Mr. McKinley as a magistrate and a man, I had, in spite of an inability
to endorse all of his policy, come to feel confidence in his sincerity,
goodness of heart, and determination to do his duty at any cost.
As to his personality, I had only to take a look into his kindly
eyes, and feel the cordial grasp of his hand, to be conscious of
an allegiance which had grown into an article of faith by the time
I saw him going up to the Capitol through throngs of enthusiastic
fellow-citizens, to take his second oath of office. Therefore I
was not far behind my companion in expressions of loyalty.
With our minds still full of the subject,
we alighted at the station in Buffalo, and boarded a trolley car—he
bound for his residence and I for the appointed meeting with my
friend at the Exposition. It was then that the staring head-lines
of the “Extras” in the hands of the newsboys and the excited talk
of the passengers acquainted me with the treachery committed upon
the man whose character we had just been discussing. Still ignorant
of the particulars, knowing nothing as to the condition and whereabouts
of the victim, I entered the Exposition at the West Amherst gate,
to find myself confronted by a crowd of people silent, motionless,
with eager, strained faces turned in one direction.
“What is the matter?” I asked of a
bystander. “What are the people doing here?”
“Waiting for bulletins,” was the reply.
Then the whole situation thrust itself
upon me. In the emergency hospital close at hand, undergoing that
dreadful operation, the results of which that stilled throng so
anxiously awaited, lay the stricken ruler of the country.
Sore at heart and half dazed, I walked
on up the broad mall to the point where it takes a rise over the
canal, and, turning back, saw a sight which burnt itself into my
memory with a distinctness which can never be effaced. Below me
was that mass of awe-stricken humanity. Beyond it, back of the square
towers of the gate through which I had just entered, and the more
picturesque roofs and turrets of Alt Nürnberg, was the flush of
a wonderful sunset, beautiful yet sinister, which made a weird background
for so impressive a scene.
In a softly tinted sky the sun, a
great rose-hued ball, seemed to be struggling with an upheaval of
ominous-looking clouds, which thrust themselves aggressively across
its flaming disk as if trying to swallow it, or at least hide its
splendor from mortal eyes. To my excited imagination, the scene
seemed to typify that which was taking place within the hospital—the
struggle of a great soul in the grasp of a fate which was drawing
its sinister shadows around it, trying to eclipse if not extinguish
it altogether. “How would the struggle end?” I asked myself, as
I turned shudderingly away.
How sad has been the answer!
A C
H.
Cambridge, Mass.
|
