The vault gates closed with a hollow clang as the soldiers took up the weary round of sentry duty in the lonely cemetery. Two miles away, in the cottage so lately the home of a President, a heart-broken widow wrestled with her grief.
And the funeral of William McKinley was over.
CHAPTER XLII.
NATION OBSERVES BURIAL DAY.
When King David lay dead, at the threshold of Judah’s mighty era, the Bible tells us “There was sorrow in the cities.”
That, better than any other language that could be employed, describes the state of affairs in the United States of America when the body of the dead President lay in state in the town which had been his home on the day of his burial. Every city in the land chose its own methods of expressing the grief that was felt, but all united, at the selfsame hour, to express in the several ways the grief that was felt for the nation’s bereavement.
In Canton, of course, the expression of sorrow was profound. Nothing else occupied the attention or the time of any one within the gates of the city but that one great, overpowering subject.
In Washington all the many public offices of the government were closed, and the army of employes gave the day to sorrowing for the dead. There were services in nearly all of the churches. Theaters were closed. No places of amusement admitted frequenters. The storm-drenched draperies of woe that had been spread so lavishly on the day the remains of the President arrived from Buffalo, gave a drearier aspect to the silent and sorrowing city. There was little travel. Street cars nearly vacant hummed unchecked through the streets. Galleries and points usually sought by visitors were left quite abandoned. Even the great Washington Monument had fewer visitors than on any day since President Garfield lay in state in the White House.
In Chicago there were services in the Auditorium, presided over by some of the foremost citizens, and addressed by orators of note throughout the nation. A multitude of social organizations joined in a monster parade. It was a general holiday, and workmen laid down the tools of their craft, and postponed activity and wage-earning till the body of the dead should be at rest. Naval veterans from the war with Spain formed a compact phalanx and marched for the last time in honor of him who had been their chief.
In New Orleans a general holiday also was decreed, and schools were closed; shops were deserted; the activity of the city was still. It has been described as nearly approaching those distressful days when the fear of the plague had laid a silencing hand on the industries of the town. There was no fear in the present case. But the pall of a sorrow was great enough to palsy all movement. President McKinley had endeared himself to the people of the South as no other President had done since the civil war. His trip across the continent last May was of the greatest benefit to his fame and popularity in the South. It was realized that here was a man who was President of the whole United States, and that he held those in that section of the country as close to his heart and his hope as the people of any other section.
In San Francisco a service was held in the City Hall, addressed by a number of the prominent citizens. It was here that Mrs. McKinley was taken ill when the Presidential party was on its journey across the country; and it was here that President McKinley gave that great evidence of his devotion to his wife. It disarranged the plans of the people who had the trip in charge, and of the managers of the fair at which he was to have appeared. But above and beyond all desire for profit was their recognition of the generous and noble qualities of the man. And they paid their heartfelt tribute to the departed.