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.
In Montreal, Canada, the provincial synod of the Anglican Church held a
memorial service in Christ Church cathedral in honor of the memory of
President McKinley. The Duke of York, who was in the city at the time,
attended the service, and gave every evidence of that grief which he had
at other times expressed. It had been the intention of the city
authorities of Montreal to give a series of fetes in honor of the Duke
and the Duchess, as has been the custom in most of the cities which they
have visited in the course of their tour about the world, forming the
better acquaintance of the subjects of the English King. But these plans
were abandoned, although a large sum of money had already been expended.
Neither the Duke nor his wife wished to proceed with the festivities.
London was a city of sorrow. The recent death of the Queen had called
forth expressions of sorrow from President McKinley and the people of
the United States which had touched a very tender chord in the nature of
the Englishmen. And they were grieved beyond expression at the disaster
that had befallen the Republic. They devoted the day to a special
service in Westminster Abbey, a rare performance indeed. Portraits of
President McKinley were displayed in all the shop windows, and were
freely sold on the streets. All the papers of the British capital
printed expressions of sorrow and of appreciation of the good qualities
of the man who had passed away, and all expressed the hope that the
nation would be comforted in its grief. One of the most touching
features of their publications was the tone of sympathy for Mrs.
McKinley. There was a pathos about these words which keenly recalled the
late bereavement of the nation of Victoria.
[Illustration:
PRESIDENT LINCOLN AND HIS CABINET.]
Funeral services were held in far-away Manila. All the government
offices were closed, and the buildings were draped in black. There was a
peculiar sadness in the crowds that passed up and down the streets. Most
business houses were closed for half the day, some for the entire day.
Among the expressions of sorrow sent from Manila was one from Emilio
Aguinaldo. He declared President McKinley a noble enemy, and a valued
friend, and for the good of all the people under the flag of the
Republic he could not but look on the death of such a man, particularly
in such a manner, as an unparalleled calamity. He gave utterance to the
most vigorous condemnation of the dastardly act which cost the President
his life.
And so, from the rising to the setting of the sun, “there was sorrow in
the cities.” It was not in the big cities alone. Wherever communities
had been gathered, there was sorrow, and the effort to express the grief
that was universal throughout the nation. Churches were filled with
communicants and friends. Men and women who had not been in the habit of
attending divine services made this the occasion when they paid their
tribute of respect to the memory of a great man fallen. Pastors and
orators employed their best talents in extolling the virtues of the
dead, and holding out hope to the living.
And not even in the cities—large or small—was the grief monopolized.
There was not a farm house, perhaps, in the land where grief was absent.
In those hours when the service was being conducted over the bier of the
martyred President in Canton, there was a bowing of heads throughout
every part of the land. The beneficent results of the public labors of
this man had reached to the farthest home, and the fame of his loyal
manhood had penetrated all hearts. He was loved and honored and mourned.
And the nation paused at the brink of his grave, in body or in spirit,
whether they stood in the city he had called his home, and whether they
held to their places at any other point in the broad land.
The sorrow of the cities bathed all the land in tears.
Of all the tributes paid to the memory of the dead President, none
approached in majesty and impressiveness that utter abandonment of all
occupation for the moments when the burial was actually taking place.
For five minutes, from 2:30 to 2:35, there was absolute rest throughout
the nation. That was the time when the body of the murdered President
was being lifted to its last final repose.
And from the Atlantic to the Pacific, not a wheel turned for those five
minutes.
For the space of five minutes every train in the country was stopped,
and held motionless. Engineers, firemen, conductors and crews paused for
that period in their occupation, turned devoutly to the little town
where the last sad rites were being performed, and sent their thoughts
out to the hovering spirit of the man who had fallen.
Labor in shop, in store, on farm, in mill—everywhere—had ceased.
That stopping of America, that pause of the United States, that wait of
every citizen while the body of one dead was lowered to the tomb, is a
mightier miracle than that which marked the last victory of Judea’s
leader.
Five minutes taken out of life! Five minutes snatched from activity,
lost to productive effort, subtracted from material struggle! It is an
amazing thing in the most energetic, the most thrifty nation on the face
of the earth.
And yet that five minutes, stricken from the total money value of the
day, brought in return a sense of tenderness, of fraternity with all the
other millions waiting, bowed and reverent, which nothing else could
have produced. That five minutes was the best investment that busy lives
could make. It brought them nearer to the ideal life that had been
ended. It helped to impress upon them the value of his splendid example.
It gave them a better confidence in the citizenship of America. It
enacted anew the law of love, and blessed with its swift ministrations
the purer patriotism for which this man of the people, this believer in
God had stood as a representative.
Silence and tears for the noble victim of malignant hate; new resolves
for the upholding of law and the extension of real liberty; unbounded
faith in the stability of our republican institutions; an impressive
warning to the foes of order—such was the day’s meaning to every loyal
American citizen.
Eighty millions of people gathered about six feet by two of hallowed
earth! That is the spectacle bought at a price so matchless.