On September 4, 1901, President McKinley’s train entered
the outskirts of Buffalo. It was filled with a cross section of
the respectable elements in turn of the century America—the
President, senators, military personnel, ex-Rough Riders, industrialists,
physicians—all weary from touring with the chief executive.
At one of the suburban stations, an Artillery Captain named Leonard
Wisser waited to touch off a twenty-one cannon, presidential salute
as the train passed by. Unfortunately, he commanded a green gun
crew. As the train neared the station, it slowed down in deference
to the waving crowd, but at that moment all on board heard a tremendous
explosion which blew all of the windows to pieces. The gun crew
had placed the cannons too close to the cars. Immediately after
the blast, however, a shout was heard from the people at the station,
“Anarchists! Anarchists! They’ve wrecked the Train!”,
and responding automatically, the crowd was transformed into a
mob, surrounding a “dark, swarthy” man who stood near
the tracks. Fears were allayed and the mob dispersed when a well-dressed
gentleman informed the throng that the whole ordeal had been caused
not by “dynamite,” but by an overzealous cannon crew.
Several days later, McKinley would, in fact, be killed by an anarchist.
But the incident presents us with a dense network of contradictions
and anxieties in U.S. popular culture at the turn of the century.
A sudden, unexplained shock is automatically registered by the
crowd as the machinations of “anarchy,” represented
by the mysterious figure of the “anarchist.” The latter
is immediately understood by the crowd as an ethnic other, lingering
amongst them yet separate from them, wielding the characteristic
weapon of the saboteur—dynamite. As significantly, the crowd
ironically turns into an anarchistic mass in order to arrest its
fears, only to be averted from its task by the voice of respectability
and wealth. This same pattern would be repeated following the
assassination of McKinley by Leon Czolgosz a few days later, but
on a national scale.
What the media coverage surrounding both the assassination and
this small incident reveal is the focus of this essay. Within
a context of imperialist war, the second wave of European immigration,
and the long dreaded class conflicts attending the closing of
the frontier in 1890, the signifiers “anarchist” and
“anarchy” functioned to embody a wide range of anxieties
in public discourse. As Amy Kaplan has noted, “Anarchy is
conjured by imperial culture as a haunting specter that must be
subdued and controlled, and at the same time, it is a figure of
empire’s undoing” (13). At the time of the McKinley
assassination, furthermore, the figures of “anarchy”
and “anarchist” bore a complex relationship to notions
of the lynch mob and the vigilante, the supposed inverses to anarchy
which the anarchist threatened to unleash. Yet the lynch mob was
a mob nonetheless, dialectically related to the anarchist, and
bore an uncanny, menacing similarity to its opposite in the minds
of the guardians of order. To be sure, the anarchist movement
in the United States has always been quite small. In a tradition
that arguably dates back to the American Revolution, American
anarchism has been marked by individualist and collectivist strains;
all of these strands, however, posited both the state and capitalism
as insidious forms of centralized authority to be replaced (violently
or not) by de-centered, localist networks of mutual aid. At the
time of the McKinley assassination, anarchism was concentrated
in the industrial centers of the Northeast and Midwest, and was
primarily a movement of working-class, European immigrants. Given
the small size of the actual anarchist movement in the U.S., we
might ask why “the anarchist” was such a powerful
figure in the turn of the century imagination. For although the
movement was small, talk of anarchy and anarchists was everywhere.
In a context of imperialism and “trusts,” what fears
does this figure embody? I would like to investigate the relationship
between anarchy, the lynch mob, and the anarchist through the
representations of the assassin Leon Czolgosz. Following a definition
of anarchy set by Tocqueville, who claimed that anarchy is the
latent potential of all democracies, the destabilizing threat
of the popular that can emerge at all moments, I will argue that
the figure of the anarchist was the mob made flesh. For the forces
that formed the nativist, capitalist, hegemonic bloc, defining
the contours of the anarchist was the attempt to read the frightening
and faceless urban crowd, to contain the fear this crowd embodied
by isolating it within a readable, tangible unit–a unit,
moreover, which could be easily disposed of. Furthermore, the
ambivalent prescriptions for dealing with this threat reveal a
culture of discipline at a critical juncture, one which incompletely
realized that old methods would no longer suffice.
Czolgosz:
The Hostile Face of Anonymity
Leon Czolgosz shot William McKinley in Buffalo on September 6,
1901. McKinley had been receiving a long line of people inside
the city’s Temple of Music, shaking hands with anyone from
the public who wished to meet the President face to face. Czolgosz
waited in line, greeted McKinley, and then shot him several times.
The President did not die immediately; after suffering from the
wounds for a week, he finally passed away on September 14th. In
the meantime, the public scrambled for details on the assassin.
His ethnicity and his politics were immediately established with
newspaper headlines emphasizing his politics in particular. On
the day after the shooting, The Cleveland Plain Dealer
featured the headline, “Crime Done by Cleveland Red.”
On September 8th, the New York Times announced on its
front page an article entitled “Assassin Known as a Rabid
Anarchist,” while the Dealer from the same day
placed in bold letters a quote from Czolgosz linking him to the
most well-known anarchist in the American press: “’Emma
Goldman Set Me on Fire!’” blared the headline. Both
papers also noted his Polish ancestry.
But despite the release of these and other biographical details,
Czolgosz had an intedeterminate identity in the papers, even after
his capture. To state it another way, the newspapers suggested
that he was both no one and everyone simultaneously. The New
York Times featured an article in which the reality of the
assassin’s origins were debated:
Although he asserted that he was a Pole, there was considerable
doubt expressed on the subject. The name was in many quarters
taken to be more like Hungarian than Polish…On the East
Side it was generally declared that the name Czolgosz was not
Polish….It was pointed out that the name was probably of
Russian origin, in which it would be pronounced “Sholgush.”
(“Czolgosz’s Name”)
Holding his identity as indeterminate allowed for the indictment
of all sources of East European immigration. The assassin’s
liminality, in other words, allowed a metonymic relationship to
be established between him and a broad class of immigrants; it
enabled a reading of the individual as “mass.”
But it was not only on the plane of cultural representation that
Czolgosz was held to be indeterminate. The “actual”
Czolgosz behaved in a way that threw static across any attempts
to read him. In his youth, he had participated in a labor strike
which resulted in his blacklisting. After this blacklisting, he
assumed false names in order to obtain employment, most commonly
the name Fred C. Nieman (Johns 36). He soon felt comfortable in
his anonymity and continued to use the name even after the problem
had passed. Indeed, he used the name so often that when Emma Goldman
saw his photo in the paper she stated, “Why, that’s
Nieman!” (Goldman 296). Additionally, Czolgosz gave his
name as “John Doe” when he checked into the hotel
the day before the assassination. The clerk asked him the next
morning why he refused to give his name, and Czolgosz replied
that he was a Polish Jew and feared discrimination (Johns 13).
The assassin-to-be was actually Catholic. This blurring of identity
found its way into the papers. An article from the Times titled
“Czolgosz or Nieman?” debates his name while another
reproduces a letter he wrote under the signature “Nieman,”
effectively performing his dissimulation for the reader (“Assassin”).
In Serial Killers, Seltzer argues that the serial killer
becomes the “mass in person,” writing that the killer
enacts the complete fusion with the mass at the expense of the
individual. Democracy, for the mass in person, perfects itself
in the dead leveling by which all individual distinctions vanish
(19). For in Seltzer’s notion of the subject, the violence
of experiencing oneself as nothing more than a “type”
is at the heart of the violence of the psycho killer. His pathology
is bound up with the fact that he “traumatically experiences
himself as nothing more than a social construction” (108).
The serial killer is a person who overidentifies with machine
culture on all levels, including its tendency to reduce people
to categories without interiors, and thus he carries out what
he sees as the “orders” of this machine culture by
“voiding the interiors in himself and in others” (109).
The link between anonymity and “machine culture” is
almost undeniable in the case of Czolgosz (his case forms an especially
dramatic example if we remember that he began using pseudonyms
as a factory worker). Living under false names, he effectively
lives under no name, blending into and ultimately embodying the
mass by shrouding his identity. “Blending in” is an
act of identification with the mechanical processes which efface
all the qualities that make him human: through it he literalizes
his rationalization. The larger culture, in turn, reads its own
fear of rationalization through his public representation. We
find compelling support for this reading of the public’s
fear of Czolgosz in the consistent media references to him as
“silent,” “mechanical,” “emotion-less,”
“without expression,” all traits of the machine itself.
But while some journalists left his precise origins deliberately
unclear, most all gave Czolgosz a fixed identity by ascribing
to him some form of non-“native” status. Czolgosz’s
East European origins were foregrounded in most of his representations,
and within a context where the face of “anarchy” in
general was unequivocally not American. Most members of the anarchist
movement were in fact foreign-born; one account of the Philadelphia
anarchists notes that out of a membership numbering between 400
to 500, only forty were native-born Americans (Avrich 131). But
the association of anarchy with European immigration had long
been established. As part of the screening process at Ellis Island,
newly-arrived immigrants were checked for anarchist affiliations.
An immigrant would be questioned to “see that he is not
an anarchist, bigamist, pauper, criminal, or otherwise unfit”
(Polenberg 10). Following the Haymarket Riot in 1886, the New
York Sun called for a halting of European immigration because
“such foreign savages, with their dynamite bombs and anarchic
purposes, are as much a part of…this country as the Apaches
of the plains are” (Slotkin 91). These associations came
out with a vengeance after the McKinley assassination. The depiction
of prominent anarchist Johann Most in The Boston Globe
is particularly vicious:
Herr Johann Most, the anarchist, whining like a yellow cur, was
led by two big policemen before Magistrate Olmstead in Center-st
court today. His fat, greasy face was soaked with tears. He was
disheveled, unkempt, dirty –a cringing object as he cowered
before the magistrate’s bench. (“They’ll Hang
Me”)
“Herr” announces his foreign origin immediately,
and, from there, “dirty” and “greasy”
flow quite smoothly. If, as Kaplan has asserted, American culture
at the turn of the century embodied imperial power in the heroic
bodies of virile American men (20), then the spectacle of “Herr”
Most’s cowardice in this passage also puts forth the anarchist
as the antithesis of American manhood, just as anarchy was understood
to be the antithesis of empire. Czolgosz is not typically portrayed
as a quivering coward as is Most, yet it is not uncommon to see
him referred to simply as “the Pole,” seen for example
in the headline “Police Think the Pole Alone Was Responsible”
(ironically, Czolgosz was actually born in the United States).
In this climate, nativist sentiments were heightened once again.
On September 16th, Senator Chauncey Depew called for the cutting
back of immigration in response to the shooting, stating, “We
must begin at the fountain-head and stop the reservoirs of European
anarchy pouring into our country” (“From Europe”).
But if Czolgosz was part of a “pouring reservoir”
of immigrants, careful attention was taken to show him as an isolated
unit as well, a sort of “lone gunman.” Surprisingly,
the newspapers allowed other anarchists to distance themselves
from the assassin. Most anarchists were quoted by the press as
saying that they found the capitalist state detestable, yet felt
that shooting the President was a futile and horrible act. One
Cleveland anarchist was quoted as saying, “Anarchy means
the absence of all and any form of government, but it does not
mean the abolishment of that government by harsh measures”
(“Police Think”). Alexander Berkman, who had been
convicted of shooting steel operator Henry Frick, stated that
the assassination of a President was an ineffective act of propaganda
within a democracy, as a President is an elected official whom
the people see as an embodiment of their will (Goldman 323). Another
anarchist protested, “He was never seen at our meetings
in Cleveland and is unknown to us as a co-worker or even a co-thinker”
(“Police Think”). Lucy Parsons, a famous anarchist
who had been convicted in the Haymarket riots, was devoted a full-length
article in which she denounced Czolgosz as a “lunatic”
(“Czolgosz a Lunatic”). By all accounts, Czolgosz
was, in fact, an outsider within the anarchist movement. The New
York anarchists had even suspected him of being a spy (Goldman
309).
The papers could have depicted him as an organic part of an organized
political movement, or even an integral figure in the Polish American
community, but their choice of an atomized representation suggests
other desires. As both an immigrant other and an isolated individual
mired in no community, Czolgosz presented the picture of the ultimate
alien. On one level, his extraction from any community preempted
the threat that working class, immigrant readers might interpolate
themselves through his actions. Extracting him from the mob also
made easy the containment (and extermination) of his person and
his threat. But, on another level—in his profile as killer—this
aspect of his representation has a broader historical backdrop,
as Karen Halttunen’s work Murder Most Foul illuminates.
Halttunen argues that the killer in colonial America was registered
in the language of moral depravity and original sin and that conceiving
the killer in such terms ultimately affirmed the common humanity
between the condemned and the innocent. By the mid-nineteenth
century, however, attorneys had begun to use the insanity defense
to explain the behavior of the killer, enacting a pathologization
of the murderer which relegated him to the status of “mental
alien” (208) with no organic ties to the public.
Thus, in his designation as killer, the groundwork had already
been prepared for understanding Czolgosz as an alien being. But
a more complex network of associations is at work in his case,
for he was not only a killer, but an “ethnic,” anarchist
killer. Halttunen writes that, in nineteenth century courts, a
murderer’s beliefs would be offered as evidence of his insanity
(222), a now familiar aspect of the American murder trial. In
the case of the other Gilded Age presidential assassin, Charles
Guiteau, the entire defense revolved around establishing the killer’s
views and actions as pathological. With Czolgosz, however, the
killer’s beliefs were universally held to be delusional,
yet they were not for a moment considered as evidence of legal
insanity. The report of the mental condition of Czolgosz drafted
by doctors Spitzka and MacDonald stated that he did not suffer
from an
insane delusion or false belief due to disease of the
brain. On the contrary, it was political delusion…founded
on ignorance, faulty education and warped–not diseased–reason
and judgment–the false belief which dominates the politico-social
sect to which he belonged and to which he was a zealot…The
course and conduct of Czolgosz from the beginning down to his
death are entirely in keeping with this [anarchist] creed. (Johns
257)
The report paradoxically concluded, “He is the product of
anarchy; sane and responsible” (Johns 256).
When beliefs were political, the doctors implied, the delusion
was not innate; political insanity was the result of an otherwise
ordinary worker’s interpolation by a foul and pernicious
ideology. Czolgosz’s depravity was not based on original
sin, but on a poorly chosen political philosophy which guided
the entire course of his actions. And revealed in the concluding
phrase “he is the product of anarchy” was a reversal
of the usual deployment of the insanity defense, for in this case
the defendant’s delusional beliefs are cited as the reason
for his guilt; his status as mental alien, in other words, is
the very thing that justifies his execution (unlike Guiteau, the
proceedings against Czolgosz were rather hasty and uneventful,
and he was executed without much fanfare). Furthermore, in stating
that the interpolation of the anarchist was made fertile by “ignorance,”
the doctors’ report carried the terrible implication that
any working class individual held the potential of being an anarchist
killer, particularly the immigrant worker with his presumed mental
weakness.
In his profile as an immigrant, a worker, a loner, a political
radical, and a killer, Czolgosz was an “alien” within
the terms of the dominant culture; yet if he was alien, he was
alien in a way indicative of his class. Through each of these
identities, his representation brought together the various turn
of the century images that constituted the overall portrait of
the urban masses as a whole. All of his profiles, in other words,
were simultaneously stock characters within the cultural narrative
of the Gilded Age slum. The dirty foreigner, the scheming radical,
the urban criminal, the rootless stranger in the faceless crowd
– Czolgosz combined all of these characters into one figure,
the mass in person, a villain whose act displayed the dreaded
and ultimate potential of an entire class.
The Despotism of the
Popular:
Managing the Disposal of the Mass in Person
“Anarchy” has been a loaded signifier in the bourgeois
imagination since the foundational moments of the American republic.
Tocqueville held anarchy as a borderline which democracy was not
to cross, as well as a tendency latent within all democratic societies.
Arthur Redding writes:
As Tocqueville’s fears suggest (not to mention the famous
fears of
conservative founding fathers Alexander Hamilton, John Adams,
and
others), anarchy haunts democracy as a kind of limit or spectral
potentiality. Anarchical figurations of either a fringe (and terroristic)
minority or a boobish majority—the fear of “mobocracy”—stand
in for all that has been as unruly and destabilizing, for the
despotism of the popular… “Anarchy” summons
an unleashed and potentially uncontrollable epidemic of violence…and
defines the threshold beyond which democracy lives in fear of
passing, a threshold that capitalist democracies nonetheless tend
incessantly to produce. (74)
The assassination of McKinley unleashed the threat of anarchy
in both its figurations—that of “the terroristic minority”
and the “boobish majority”—because Czolgosz’s
act created an epidemic of vigilante violence against anarchists
which authorities were scarcely able to restrain. The anarchy
of the “terroristic minority” released the anarchy
of the “boobish majority,” and the police and ruling
class were forced to confront the situation of anarchy fighting
anarchy. If the marginalized anarchist is intimately bound up
with “mob rule,” what does one do with the fact that
the very mob rule which civil society exists to contain is unleashed
upon the anarchist in an “uncontrollable epidemic of violence?”
How does one, in other words, re-establish the threshold of democracy
undone by the public deed of the saboteur?
The national frenzy the assassination generated cannot be understated.
On the day of the assassination, armed lynch mobs clashed with
police outside of the jail where Czolgosz was held. The police
were nearly routed by the mob, and only with military discipline
and the “bashing of heads” with truncheons were they
able to maintain control of the jail (Johns 119-21). Assaults
on the police station continued, with further violence between
police and crowds, until the authorities finally decided to move
Czolgosz to a secret location. But the lynch mobs were not directed
at Czolgosz alone. Newspapers from the month of September 1901,
reported an attempted lynching of an alleged “anarchist”
almost every day. Anyone expressing anarchist sympathies or suggesting
the fallibility of McKinley was subjected to beatings and threats,
even if their remarks were uttered in relatively private conversations.
To take but a few examples: a man in Brooklyn was badly beaten
by a crowd after announcing he was an anarchist during a casual
conversation in a saloon. After his beating, police held him in
jail for twenty-nine days (“Crowd”). Two blacksmiths
in Cleveland were almost lynched after making “disrespectful”
comments about McKinley while conversing with each other on a
streetcar, and when the police arrived, they held the men in jail
on a $5000 bond for the charge of inciting a riot (“Alleged”).
Violence was directed at anti-imperialists as well. In Columbus,
Ohio, the offices of a newspaper were ransacked and its editor
almost killed after he printed “May [the spirit of McKinley]
never be impelled to wage merciless and relentless war upon the
spirits of innocent Filipino patriots” (“Tried to
Mob”). A physician in Auburn, Indiana, was dragged down
a flight of stairs from his own office and nearly lynched by a
crowd of 200; later, police had to guard his home from a threatening
mob. His offense was claiming that McKinley was only suffering
what he had caused others to suffer in the Philippines (“Dragged”).
Emma Goldman summarized the national mood by noting in her autobiography
that “the country was in a panic. Judging by the press,
I was sure that it was the people of the United States and not
Czolgosz that had gone mad” (304).
While many newspaper accounts were entirely uncritical of the
treatment of radicals by both the crowds and the police, there
was a co-existent discourse which betrayed a sense of uneasiness
with the “threat of the popular” evoked by the reactionary
lynch mob. The Boston Globe, for example, treated the
actions of the police favorably when they tore down the effigy
of an alleged anarchist storekeeper that had been erected by a
mob from South Boston. The police chased the men back into their
own neighborhood and attempted to keep the rest “from collecting
in one bunch.” The reporter reflected the fear attending
any mob action: “Sergt. Driscoll said that if they had gotten
together and chosen a leader they would very probably have done
great damage” (“Hanged Him”). Similarly, the
Globe published summaries of the sermons delivered by
noted ministers in the Boston area on the Sunday following the
death of the President, and while all these sermons called for
the stamping out of anarchy (often in nationalistic language),
they also urged calm by asking their flocks not to resort to lynch
law.
Richard Slotkin offers a frame which proves helpful in defining
the contradictory notions of the lynch mob echoed in public discourse
at the time. In Gunfighter Nation, he argues that, following
the Civil War, American industrial society was governed under
the “managerial model” and the “military metaphor.”
The “managerial model” and “military metaphor”
held that society should follow the organizational structure of
the army, with the latter’s discipline, clear hierarchy,
and efficiency. Many Gilded Age captains of industry had first
received their training in “organizing” masses of
people through their experiences as officers in the Civil War,
and after the conflict, they carried these lessons with them into
the sphere of industry. The managerial model they attempted to
put in place did not evoke the spirit of the rugged individual,
but rather a more authoritarian, un-democratic ideology. In the
logic of this model, dissent was registered as insubordination
or mutiny, to be dealt with in an organized, swift, and draconian
fashion. The workers who resisted the implementation of this metaphor
were often conceived as Indian “savages,” against
whom all of the resources of the nation were to be summoned. Throughout
the 1890s, changes in the structure of capitalism would have facilitated
this shift in ideology, as the individually-run, “competitive
capitalism” was increasingly supplanted by the more administered,
corporate structures of monopoly capital. And in 1901, in the
midst of a protracted military campaign against Philippine guerillas,
the language of militarism would have been readily understood.
With its authoritarian and nationalistic manner of conceiving
dissent, the military metaphor necessarily contained contradictory
notions of vigilante justice. Slotkin summarizes the notion of
discipline attending this ideology in a sentence: “To defend
itself against savage anarchy [of the urban mob], society must
organize itself as if it were an embattled army of Indian-fighting
cavalry” (91-92). In short, military discipline is needed
to fight the mob, not disorganized lynchers.
At the height of the national frenzy surrounding the McKinley
assassination, we see a clear instance of the military metaphor
at work in a curious article from the Cleveland Plain Dealer
on September 12. Entitled “Wipe Out Anarchy and Lynch
Law,” the piece chronicles a demonstration by a predominantly
African American group of Civil War veterans, assembled for the
purpose of simultaneously denouncing anarchism and lynching. While
the attendees have strong views against anarchism, stating that
laws must be enacted “if every anarchist is to bite the
dust” (1), the primary purpose of the gathering is to denounce
lynching. This act is associated, in the article, with the disenfranchisement
of Southern blacks, and hence threatens to nullify the accomplishments
of the war. The piece resurrects the antagonisms of the war years
in order to articulate the lyncher as an unrepentant traitor.
A white veteran is quoted as saying, “You who have fought
for the preservation of the union are not to be disfranchised
by those who fought against it” (7). The vigilante is here
presented as an outsider against whose law the entire war was
fought in order to destroy. The same veteran states that in order
to combat lynching “the nation must be aroused and the honor
of law and true Americanism held up for the benefit of all men
in our grand commonwealth” (7). The piece generally evokes
a feeling of nostalgia for the progressive impulses of the days
of the conflict, a nostalgia for the time when the section was
unanimous in its military struggle against the lynch law of the
confederacy. While it makes no explicit reference to the lynching
of anarchists, given the prevalence of attempted lynchings of
anarchists in the news at the time, readers could not have avoided
the association.
In its glowingly favorable reception of the proceedings, the piece
not only supported Reconstruction-era sentiments in the North
but it also effectively presented its readership with a model
for dealing with the anarchist threat. It provided the spectacle
of a disciplined army, firm in its anti-anarchist beliefs, but
even firmer in its belief that the rule of law symbolized by troops
in uniform was the path toward progress. It was the military metaphor
in full-force, a call for the public to handle the menace of anarchism
like soldiers. The “threshold of democracy” was not
to be surpassed by any form of popular impulse, it tells us, for
that threshold is firmly guarded by organized force.
For one moment in 1901, the long-ballyhooed, fictional construct
of the anarchist and anarchism passed from metaphor into reality,
snatching away the chief executive in an act undeniably real.
But in the anxious press accounts of both Czolgosz the anarchist
and the mobs combing the streets brutalizing anyone who bore his
resemblance, one referent is conspicuously absent – the
Philippines. The U.S. armed forces were in the process of suppressing
a tenacious guerilla insurgency on the opposite side of the globe,
and the effort was suddenly without a commander-in-chief. This
effort, as has been widely documented, was in itself bound up
with all manner of anxieties about the future of a republican
United States following the close of the frontier. As I have shown,
the press made passing mention of an anti-imperialist thrown down
the stairs by an angry crowd, but a substantive dialogue as to
the fate of the imperial project abroad was nowhere to be seen.
And a criticism of that imperial project in the face of Czolgosz’s
act was yet more unthinkable still. Perhaps this silence reveals
much more about the turn of the century fear of anarchy than the
explicit reference to anarchists and anarchism; then, as now,
after a tragic act of violence, the nation in mourning avoided
opening a debate over its place in the world that might have enabled
it to look its fear directly in the face, thereby becoming less
afraid.
Works Cited
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Slotkin, Richard. Gunfighter Nation: The Myth of the Frontier
in Twentieth Century America. New York: Harper Perennial,
1992.
“’They’ll Hang Me,’ Cries Most.’”
Boston Globe 14 Sept. 1901: 5.
“Tried to Mob Editor Jones.” Cleveland Plain Dealer
15 Sept. 1901: 4.
“Wipe Out Anarchy and Lynch Law.” Cleveland Plain
Dealer 12 Sept. 1901: 1+.