She was entirely calm, and her attendants, keeping vigil from the darkened hall, felt the grip of her mighty, unspoken sorrow, as she sought in the night for a touch of that vanished hand, for a glimpse of a day that was dead.
CHAPTER XLI.
McKINLEY LAID AT REST.
The mortal remains of President McKinley are at rest. For six days and through hundreds of miles a sorrowing nation has followed his bier. Now the last look has been taken, the last farewells have been said. The last salute to a dead President has echoed above his head.
His body was laid for the moment in the little cemetery of Canton, guarded by soldiers of the flag he loved so well, until it shall be placed beside the mother and other dear ones who departed before him. There the people who loved and honored him will raise a monument to his name and make of his grave a shrine.
But his highest monument must ever remain in the hearts of his countrymen. A mourning people raises its head from the dust and goes forward encouraged and guided by the life he lived.
Gray and somber dawned the morning of the entombment. There was a chill in the air indicating that nature was in full harmony with the multitudes who were here to see. It was just twenty years to the day since the death of James A. Garfield, the second martyred President, and many remembered that fact and were still further depressed.
Before the sun had been able to pierce its way through the clouds, infantry, cavalry and artillery were moving in the direction of the McKinley home. Long before 9 o’clock five thousand members of the Ohio National Guard were in position, some assisting in guarding the streets, others ready to take part in the funeral procession. Regulars were there in great numbers. Sailors and marines were out. Civic bodies were formed.
Entrance to the church was by card. Although the public knew this, all hoped against hope that by some chance they could force their way into the edifice. Hours before the doors were opened long lines were formed by the holders of cards, and back of them were thousands who were willing to stand in the chill air on a single chance that enough room might be spared for them to squeeze in.
The same eight stalwart soldiers and marines who had carried the coffin when it had been previously moved, shouldered it and bore it down the steps, down the path through the yard, with its beautiful lawn and flowerbeds gay with the blossoms of the late summer, out to the waiting hearse. The casket was draped in the flag that William McKinley had fought to maintain as that of an undivided country. About the coffin flowers were massed in such quantities as to fill the hearse.
A signal was given and the forward move began. Thayer’s military band led the way behind the police guard. As the hearse moved the familiar strains of “Nearer, My God, to Thee” were sounded. The music was soft and sweet, barely loud enough to be heard a block away.