CHAPTER XI
SECOND ADMINISTRATION OF WILLIAM
MCKINLEY
March 4, 1901, to September 14, 1901
THE second inauguration of President McKinley was a wretched day, and sleet and snow beat upon him as he took the oath of office. On the way to the Capitol, Senator Mark Hanna rode by the President’s side. Theodore Roosevelt took the oath as Vice President in the Senate Chamber and made a brief address. Mrs. Roosevelt and the children were present, as was Mrs. McKinley, who was escorted and cared for by General Corbin. In the parade from the Capitol to the White House there was for the first time representation from an American dependency. This was a battalion of dark-skinned Porto Rican soldiers in Uncle Sam’s uniform.
The President’s mother had passed away in December of the first year of his term, and the absence of her proud, happy face was noted with a surge of sympathy for her son, whose domestic life carried so much of anxiety.
The procession duplicated the previous one in size and variety. The President reviewed this procession, from within a large plate-glass case put up to protect him from the inclement weather.
Callers filled the afternoon, and the ball and fireworks occupied the evening.
The great ballroom of the Pension Building was again a garden of tropical beauty, and was crowded to its utmost capacity. Mrs. McKinley, whose frailty had at first threatened to prevent her attendance at any of the ceremonies, was eager to go, and despite the disagreeable weather attended the ball; but her limited strength made it advisable to omit the Grand March through the ballroom. The President and his wife therefore remained in their box only a short while, much to the disappointment of the eager throng, who had hoped for a closer view of the First Lady and her handsome gown of white satin and jewels. Everything her sisters, sisters-in-law, and nieces and the ladies of the Cabinet could do to make things easy for her was done.
Mrs. McKinley loved to drive, but the President rarely permitted her to drive without him. Her delight in knitting never waned. It is said that her nimble fingers knitted nearly four thousand pieces of dainty bits of wool and silk—socks, mitts, bags, ties—all of which were made for charity or for friends. Never was a request for a gift of her own handiwork refused for fairs and bazaars.
Mrs. McKinley loved her friends. She was the personification of gentleness and sweetness unless some criticism of her beloved “Major” came to her ears. Then she lacked neither force nor spirit in her defense of him.
Both she and the President loved music, singing particularly, and the unusual musical entertainments which they held were frequent and delightful.
As the first summer of the second term advanced, Mrs. McKinley became so frail that a rolling chair was obtained for her use; she had come to the point where she had to be carried bodily up and down in the elevator. Owing to her critical condition, a trip to the Pacific Coast had to be curtailed. She was, however, able to be brought to Canton, where she recovered sufficiently to go to Buffalo with her husband, he having accepted an invitation to attend the Pan-American Exposition there. “President’s Day,” which was to feature his address, was set for September 5th. He spoke, and received one long, delightful ovation, the assembled crowds exerting themselves to shower upon him their enthusiastic appreciation. The glamour of the war victory was still upon him.
On the afternoon of the sixth, after the party’s return from their visit to Niagara Falls, the President sent Mrs. McKinley to the home of Mr. John G. Milburn, president of the Exposition, their host, to rest from the fatigue of the morning, while he went to the Temple of Music on the Exposition Grounds, where he was to hold a public reception. About four o’clock, one of the individuals of a great throng that was passing approached with his hand wrapped in a handkerchief. Mr. McKinley smiled in his usual friendly fashion, extending his hand to the stranger. Instantly, two loud reports of a pistol sounded sharp and clear above the buzz of voices. After an instant of complete stunned silence, during which the President looked pained and bewildered, he straightened up, threw his head back, and staggered into the arms of his secretary, George B. Cortelyou. He was led to a chair, where he bowed his head in his hands.
The crowds burst forth into cries and curses as the realization was borne in upon them that the President had been shot. He remained calm, and begged them not to be alarmed, assuring those around him he was not badly hurt. He opened his waistcoat and drew forth his hand daubed with blood.
The scene that followed was frightful. Several men threw the assassin, a Polish anarchist, a follower of the teachings of Emma Goldman, to the ground, snatched away his pistol, and would have taken justice in their own hands and executed him but for the feeble words of command from the stricken President, “Let no one harm him.” He was locked up under heavy guard.
The President was at once taken on a stretcher to the Emergency Hospital in the grounds, and the best surgeons were summoned. The examination disclosed the fact that the two shots fired at close range had both found their mark: one struck him on the breastbone, and glancing, had penetrated the stomach; the other had entered the abdomen.
In reply to their announcement that an immediate operation was necessary, he calmly replied, “Gentlemen, do what in your judgment you think best.”
After a half-hour operation the surgeons were unable to locate the bullets. Preparations were made to take the mortally wounded man to the Milburn home.
When it was long past the hour for the President to return, Mrs. McKinley had grown anxious and nervous, for she feared some accident had befallen him. While every effort had been made to keep her in ignorance of the shooting, she had to be informed as the President was being carried to the house. To everyone’s amazement, she took the news quietly. Since her husband seemed uncomfortable at her absence from his bedside, she was brought in.
Five days after the shooting, the physicians gave the impression that he was out of danger and would probably recover. But all of the sixth day he failed so perceptibly that Mrs. McKinley was led to his room to take her farewell of the husband who for so many years had given her the most constant, solicitous care. She kept calm and tearless until she reached her own room, when her control gave way to grief, heartrending, intense, and so absorbing that none could console her. He grew weaker and repeated in his last period of consciousness words from “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” then, a little later, “Good-bye, all, good-bye. It is God’s way; His will be done.” The periods of consciousness lapsed, and at two fifteen on September 14th he passed away in a peaceful sleep.
The body of President McKinley was brought to Washington and placed in the East Room of the White House, while a guard of honour maintained a vigil until it was carried to the Capitol for the state funeral, after which the funeral cortège started for Canton, where interment took place on September 19, 1901.
The grief of the nation was universal, and from coast to coast, every possible expression of love and honour and grief was given.
From out of the depths of the national sorrow came a resolve to pursue a different course with this wretched murderer who felt proud of his deed. It was determined that his punishment should be swift and sure and that his act should be made hideous in the eyes of the world, and robbed of the limelight and publicity that had gratified the perverted vanity of his predecessors in presidential murder. His name was to perish from the record of men. He was a Polish anarchist who had no grievance whatsoever against the nation of our President save that aroused by the destructive doctrines that he had imbibed. He was promptly tried, condemned to death, and executed in the state prison at Auburn, on October 29, 1901, within a few weeks after the commission of his crime.
From the hand of Mark Hanna, McKinley’s closest personal friend, political adviser, and campaign manager, came a remarkable tribute to the character of the martyred President which sums up his public and private life in a graphic and colourful picture and presents him as only one so intimately associated with him could. Copied from the Washington Post, it reads:
“The one absorbing purpose in William McKinley’s political career was to keep closely in touch with the people, so that he might promote their material and moral welfare.
“He seemed to study and watch current events as a barometer, gauging the growth of public sentiment keenly and particularly watching the development of the new industries and new resources. He accentuated the American idea in everything he undertook.
“There was something sublime in the way in which he viewed his defeat in the tariff reform cyclone of 1892. I often discussed the situation with him—and then we talked of the ‘McKinley bill.’ I remember how his eyes sparkled when it was suggested that his bill was the sole cause of the Republican defeat, and how he deliberated a statement to me with an air of prophecy:
“‘That may have been so, but the bill was passed so short a time prior to election that it was easy for our opponents to make charges and there was no time for us to combat them; but wait and see, Mark—wait and see. The principles and policies of that bill will yet win a greater victory for our party than we have ever had before. This misunderstanding will yet contribute to overwhelming Republican success.’
“The general conditions were such, however, that the party’s reverse could not be attributed entirely to the McKinley bill. There were other factors in the landslide of 1892.
“During the early part of the campaign of 1896, the charge was made that McKinley voted for the free coinage of silver. And with his usual candour he admitted that in the earlier stages of the agitation of the money question it was to him then a proposition he had not fully investigated; he did not pretend to be a doctor of finance and had followed the popular trend of that time. After fuller discussion and practical demonstration of facts; after observing the changing conditions of the country and weighing the question in its various relations to the fundamental laws of practical finance and the true policy best for the country, his conclusions were voiced in the St. Louis platform of 1896.
“The last discussion that I had with him upon the money question before he was nominated was a few days before I left for St. Louis, at my office in Cleveland.
“He turned to my desk, sat down, and wrote in lead pencil an article which he handed me when finished, saying:
“‘There, Mark, are my ideas of what our platform should be on the money question.’
“I carried the paper in my pocket to St. Louis some days before the convention, and that declaration of William McKinley contained in substance what was afterward drafted into the plank in the platform on that question. I mention this because in subsequent discussion a great deal has been said about the construction of that plank in the St. Louis platform on the tariff and money question.
“This absolute declaration was given me by Maj. McKinley as embracing his ideas, and while the language may have been changed somewhat, the meaning of the article he wrote weeks before the convention was absolutely followed in the platform of 1896.
“As to the quality of his courage—I never knew a man more fearless. In the dark days of the Ohio gerrymander, when, as author of the McKinley bill, he lost his seat in Congress, he was cheerful, in a defeat that had cut a Democratic majority of 2,000 down to 300. He had fought an uphill fight, and, although defeated, was elated over the confidence which his home people expressed in the principles which he represented. The defeat had no depressing effect on his mind and energies, but spurred him to greater effort. And in every serious emergency that confronted him he was prepared for the event—always calm and courageous. Even amid the onslaughts of campaign abuse, he never uttered in my presence one retaliatory word, but always referred to the enemy as ‘our opponents,’ while I must confess I used stronger adjectives at times.
“There was nothing that he enjoyed more than a social time with friends at dinner. He always entered into the spirit of the occasion and contributed his full share of merriment. And once aroused he showed a side of his character that few were acquainted with. He enjoyed jokes to the full measure, and was a pleasant tease. When he once had a joke on me he rung all the changes; and no one enjoyed a joke on himself more thoroughly than he did.
“In 1897, when I was a tenderfoot, recently arrived in Washington, he asked me to give up a dinner engagement with some gentlemen to fill up the table as an emergency man at a dinner to be given at the White House that night. I declined, saying I had a better thing—not knowing that an invitation from the White House was equivalent to a social command. This joke on me was a delight to him.
“When he was a guest at my house for several days, or a member of a house party, his flow of genial spirits began at the breakfast table and continued uninterrupted all day. He seemed to feel as if he were on a vacation, and had the joyous spirit of a big boy home from school, always looking after the comfort of others, with never, apparently, a thought for himself. An ideal home body was William McKinley, and the American fireside was a shrine of worship with him.
“At one of our house parties we had a flashlight photograph taken of the dinner guests. He was particularly fond of this dinner picture because it contained a splendid likeness of Mrs. McKinley.
“When McKinley laughed, he laughed heartily all over, and was a perfect boy in his enjoyment. In all the social visits to my home it was an inspiration to me to see the way he could throw off the cares of the day. It always made me feel twenty years younger to spend a social evening with him, and I cannot begin to measure the depth and value of this friendship, to me, entirely aside from his public career.
“He was never much inclined, I believe, to take an active part in athletics, though his simple, normal habits of life kept him always in excellent condition physically and mentally. He proved the enduring sturdiness of his frame by his hard service in the Civil War and by the tremendous amount of labour which he afterward put into the study and presentation of public questions. He was, of course, interested in the notable athletic contests that the college boys held, but it was as late as 1894 that he and I witnessed together our first game of football—a Princeton-Yale game at New York.
“It was a drizzling, cold day, but he watched every movement of the game from the clubhouse with as keen an interest as he gave to a debate in Congress.
“When some mysterious movement in a ‘pile up’ was made, he would turn and ask me about it, but I had to shake my head and confess it was my first game and that it was all Greek to me.
“He told me how he felt like the country boy who went to a college football game for the first time, to see the ‘real thing.’ When asked how he liked it, the country boy naïvely replied:
“‘They didn’t have no game; they got into a scrap and kept fightin’ all the time when they ought to have been playin ball.’
“At this football game there was little to foreshadow what was written on the political horizon two years later, but I do recall that he seemed to be especially popular with the sturdy young collegians, one of whom remarked to his companion as they passed by us:
“‘Who is that distinguished-looking man—the one that looks like Napoleon?’
“The late President was particularly fond of a good play, and when he would come to stay with me at Cleveland overnight, he would always inquire:
“‘Is there anything good at your opera house to-night, Mark?’
“We enjoyed many pleasant evenings together. He delighted in meeting the prominent actors and was very fond of Joseph Jefferson. Many an hour have they chatted together, and Jefferson never failed to call and see him when in Washington. Sol Smith Russell was another friend. The drama of high standard was to him a relief from worriments of the day and thoroughly enjoyed as a relaxation. He delighted to discuss with these play folks their art, and how actors, like men in public life, had to cater to public wishes, and how much their influence meant in producing plays of healthful purpose and moral teaching. Mrs. McKinley was also very fond of the theatre; he always delighted to indulge her, and they spent many happy evenings together witnessing the best plays that were on the boards.
“He never tired of seeing Jefferson in ‘Rip Van Winkle’ and ‘The Cricket on the Hearth,’ which were undoubtedly his favourite plays.
“‘Mark, you meet as many distinguished men as owner of an opera house as you do as Senator,’ he would jokingly remark after a chat with an actor. He always seemed to have a keen scent for talent in any profession and was quick to recognize genius. The psychological study the actor made in portraying human nature before the footlights was to him fascinating. The personality of these men on the stage he believed had a potent influence on the public mind. He never tired of high-class dramas; he was especially fond of Shakespeare’s plays, and always attended thoroughly ‘read up.’ He would often chide me for not being more thoroughly posted on the original Shakespearean text, but I was more concerned in the play as staged.
“How well I remember how he enjoyed witnessing the play entitled ‘The Politician’ during his second campaign for Governor of Ohio. We sat together in a box. Roland Reed, who played the ‘Politician,’ and who is now dead, directed his remarks straight at us, and McKinley enjoyed his hits immensely. The actor brought in impromptu points and so generously improvised the speaking part that it seemed as if the actors and audience were having an ‘aside’ all to themselves at our expense.
“A man of more generous impulses than William McKinley never lived. When cases were presented to him for relief that were beyond his ability to meet, he would apply to me or some of his friends for assistance in aiding worthy persons, and his friends were always glad to respond to these appeals. He was liberal without stint. It gave him actual pain to see anyone suffering or in distress, and on such occasions showed his great faith in friendship, never hesitating to go to any bounds in an appeal for others. Whatever he had in his pocket, whether it was 10 cents or $10, he was always ready to give it to relieve distress. If the applicant only required 50 cents and the Major had $10 in his pocket, the applicant would get the $10. He did not know such a thing as taking change from charity.
“Though he had no especial training in music, no person was more partial to it than William McKinley. And his tastes were as catholic as a child’s. Anything, from a hurdy-gurdy to a grand opera, pleased him. He would keep his hands or feet beating time whenever there was music about him. I recall many Sunday evening home concerts. Everyone was singing, and he would call for ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee,’ and ‘Lead, Kindly Light.’ The radiance of his face when he sang those old favourite hymns, as if his whole soul was in it, is to me a sacred memory picture of William McKinley.
“He would urge me to try to sing, and insisted I had a sweet tenor voice, but the pleasant charm of the happy occasions was never marred by my vocal efforts.
“I knew I could not sing, but I listened; the echoes of those happy hours will linger with me as long as I live. The little singing parties in our parlour after dinner were always his delight.
“I got the closest revelations of William McKinley’s character, I think, in our quiet hours of smoking and chatting, when all the rest had retired. Far past midnight we have sat many times talking over those matters which friends always discuss—and the closer I came to the man the more lovable his character appeared. Every time we met there was revealed the gentle, growing greatness of a man who knew men, respected them, and loved them. Never was it the personal interests of William McKinley that he discussed, but those of friends, or his party, and above all, of the people. His clear-cut conscientiousness was pronounced. In these heart-to-heart talks—friend to friend—in the calm serenity of the night’s quiet hours, we felt the ties of our life’s friendship growing stronger as we simply sat and puffed and looked in each other’s faces. These home smoke chats are the treasured memories of a man who loved mankind much more than he did himself, and who had consecrated his career to the people. He always was interested in business and industrial affairs, and understood them as few men did in their relation to the home comforts and happiness of the American people. It was in these quiet hours together that the splendid devotion of the man to high and noble ideals showed clearest. I think that a reminiscent glance at our smoke-chat meetings night after night, wherever we chanced to be, reveals to me most freely the great qualities in the man which the world had so profoundly honoured. I can see that kindly, quizzical look in his deep blue eyes under his bushy eyebrows, when he broke the silence after meditating:
“‘Mark, this seems to be right and fair and just. I think so, don’t you?’ His ‘don’t you?’ or, ‘did you?’ always had a tone that invited candid confidence, and this is a peculiarity that brings back to my memory some incidents of our acquaintanceship in early years and seemed to foreshadow his future.
“Looking back over the long years of association with William McKinley, nothing seems to stand out more prominently than the hearty and sunny way in which he always enjoyed the friendly hours of recreation. These pleasant episodes of a purely personal nature are emphasized more and more as I think of him, and it is these that I most cherish in the memory of the man. His greatness as a statesman was but the reflection of his greatness as a man.
“William McKinley was faultless in his friendships.”
Mrs. McKinley survived her husband several years. She died at her Canton, Ohio, home in 1907.