we bade him good-by as he went to assume the great responsibilities to which the nation had called him. His last words as he left us were:

"Nothing could give me greater pleasure than this farewell greetingthis evidence of your friendship and sympathy, your good will, and I am sure the prayers of all the people with whom I have lived so long and whose confidence and esteem are dearer to me than any other earthly honors.

""To all of us the future is as a sealed book, but if I can, by official act or administration or utterance, in any degree add to the prosperity and unity of our beloved country, and the advancement and well-being of our splendid citizenship, I will devote the best and most unselfish efforts of my life to that end. With this thought uppermost in my mind, I reluctantly take leave of my friends and neighbors, cherishing in my heart the sweetest memories and thoughts of my old home-my home now-and I trust my home hereafter so long as I shall live.'

"We hoped, with him, that when his work was done, freed from the burdens of his great office, crowned with the affections of a happy people, he might be permitted to close his earthly life in the home he loved. He has indeed returned to us, but how? Borne to the strains of 'Nearer, My God, to Thee,' and placed where he first began life's struggle, that the people might look and weep over so sad a home-coming.

"But it was a triumphal march. How vast the procession. The nation rose, stood with uncovered head. The people of the land are chief mourners. The nations of the earth weep with them. But, oh, what a victory! I do not ask you in the heat of public address, but in the calm moments of mature reflection, what other man ever had such high honors bestowed upon him and by so many people? What pageant has equaled this that we look upon to-night?

"We gave him to the nation but a little more than four years ago. He went out with the light of the morning upon his brow, but with his task set, and the purpose to complete it. We take him back a mighty conqueror.

"The churchyard where his children rest,

The quiet spot that suits him best;
There shall his grave be made,

And there his bones be laid.

And there his countrymen shall come,

With memory proud, with pity dumb,

And strangers far and near,

For many and many a year,

For many and many an age,

While history on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll

Of that paternal soul.'"

Venerable Bishop I. W. Joyce of Minneapolis then led in brief prayer. He had been conducting the East Ohio Methodist Episcopal conference at New Philadelphia when the President died. The conference adjourned, and Bishop Joyce and his cabinet have been ever since at the disposal of the friends of the President. He especially remembered President Roosevelt in his petition this afternoon.

The choir then sang "Nearer, My God, to Thee," at first softly, and then rising into the passionate declaration, "Still all my song shall be." It was as if the whole nation were being brought closer to the great white throne by the sacrifice of their President's life.

Rev. Father Edward J. Vattmann of Chicago pronounced the benedic tion. He is chaplain of the United States Army at Fort Sheridan.

It was after 3 o'clock when the silent and anxious throngs outside the church saw the solemn pageant reappear through the church doors. A more impressive sight than the cortege of the President from the church to the cemetery has seldom been witnessed in this country. Nominally it was a private funeral. Actually it was a national demonstration. More than 12,000 marching men were in line. About 6,000 were the citizen soldiery of Ohio. The others were old soldiers and members of civic and fraternal organizations from all quarters of the state.

The head of the cortege arrived at Westlawn Cemetery at 3:30 o'clock. The roadway from the gate to the receiving vault was carpeted with flowers. Geraniums, carnations, sweet peas and roses had been strewn in great profusion. The old soldiers who had marched the weary march to honor their old comrade a last time could not forego the chance to take away a fragrant souvenir of his earthly end. One by one they stooped to gather a flower, and when they had passed the roadway it was almost bare.

The funeral car reached the cemetery gates at 4 o'clock. From the hilltop the President's salute of twenty-one guns, fired at intervals of one minute, announced its coming. The military guards came to a "present" with a snap as the funeral car approached for the last scene in the life and death of William McKinley-a scene beautiful and impressive as his life had been.

After the arrival of the casket there was a moment's pause as Colonel Bingham looked to see that all was in readiness. He then looked toward Bishop Joyce, who read the burial service of the Methodist church, slowly but in a voice that could be heard distinctly by all who were grouped about the vault. Instantly from the eight buglers rang out the notes of the soldier's last call, "taps."

With bared heads the President and members of the cabinet, who were followed by the officers of the army and navy, stood on each side of the walk, the lines reaching just to the edge of the roadway. Within a minute after the formation of the lines, the funeral car came up to the walk. The casket was gently lifted from the hearse, and borne to the floor of the vault, where it was rested upon the catafalque.

The last of the procession passed the bier at 5:45 o'clock, and then orders were given by Captain Riddle that the cemetery be cleared. This was quickly done, and the President was left in the care of his guard of honor. The first sentry to be posted in a tour of guard duty before the doorway was Private Otto White of Company C, Fourteenth Infantry, whose home is in Genoa, Ohio.

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.

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