Washington, Aug. 7—President Harding’s funeral train, freighted with the sorrow of the nation, reached Washington at 10:22 o’clock tonight.
The train backed into the station so that the funeral car with its flag-draped casket rolled in first, to stop where the little group headed by President Coolidge waited.
Although the train was nine hours late, thousands jammed the station concourse, waiting for hours, packed against the iron fence that shuts off the train platform, to be first to give their silent tribute to the dead chieftain.
The lights in the funeral car cast a brilliant glow in the big train shed. Secretary Christian and Dr. Sawyer were on the back platform and were the first to alight. There was no noise in the station but the throbbing of the air pump and distant engine.
Mrs. Harding stepped off the car leaning on Secretary Christian’s arm and with Dr. Sawyer on her other the Bank in the concourse began playing “Nearer, My God to Thee.”
Mrs. Harding walked erect but slowly along the station platform. While her hand was on Secretary Christian’s arm, she apparently needed no support.
Members of the party who came all the way say Mrs. Harding had stood the trip well.
As the solemn strains of the comforting old hymn filled the station, the casket was tenderly lifted down through the special door cut in the side of the car. It was placed on a rolling platform.
A single wreath that had been waiting at the station was laid on the great flag spread over the casket.
The military guard which had alighted behind Mrs. Harding resumed its place about the casket. The uniformed men raised their burden and began moving slowly toward the double rank of non-commissioned officers who formed a corridor to the President’s room.
Meanwhile Mrs. Harding had entered an automobile and had been whisked away through a side street to the White House. Her appearance and the reports of those who had made the trip with her from San Francisco set at rest widespread rumors that she had suffered a physical collapse. It was said she had borne up bravely from the first and had shown no signs of breaking down under the strain.
Secretaries Hoover, Wallace and Work and Attorney General Daugherty and General Pershing walked slowly behind the casket as it was carried down the living corridor.
Speaker Gillette also walked with the party that alighted from the funeral train. The double rank of soldiers forming the aisle came to “present arms” as the casket was carried by, their bayonets flashing in the bright light.
The slow majestic strains of the old hymn filled the big building with soft music as the casket was carried through to the President’s room.
Mrs. Harding reached the White House at 10:45, just as her husband’s body was being taken into the President’s room at the station. She walked into the house unaided.
Inside the executive mansion which she had left six weeks ago as the first lady of the land, the widow was greeted only by old friends and members of the family. A plan to have Mrs. Coolidge and the ladies of the cabinet present to greet her was cancelled at her own request.
The little group that were to console her while her dead husband lay in the east room consisted of Mrs. George T. Harding Jr., wife of the President’s brother; Dr. Heber Votaw, the President’s brother-in-law, and Mrs. Votaw; Clifford Kling, Mrs. Harding’s brother, and Mrs. Kling; Governor Crissinger of the reserve board, and Mrs. Crissinger; and Sir Scobey of the mint and Mrs. Scobey.
As Mrs. Harding stepped into the White House, a shooting star dropped out of the heavens, shedding a brief but mellow light upon the scene. A crowd of a few score who had been admitted to the grounds stood at a considerable distance until Mrs. Harding had disappeared behind the portals.
President Coolidge gave his formal greeting to his dead chief as the casket reached the head of the aisle of soldiers before the President’s room. He stood, hat in hand, as it passed, then turned to follow with bent head.
The flag-draped burden that carried with it tonight the sorrowing heart of a nation, then was moved through the long room to the plaza beyond and lifted to the black draped cassion. It was strapped in place as the troopers of the escort set with sabered raised high in “present.” A moment later, at a low command, the troops turned slowly away to lead the march to the White House.
Six bay horses with two khaki clad riders drew the caisson. The escort moved off across the plaza in platoon formation, then halted while the motor cars took on their passengers. President Coolidge and Speaker Gillett were in the first car.
It was a few minutes before 11 o’clock when the sad procession began moving toward the capitol grounds where it would swing into Pennsylvania avenue. The hidden flooded lights that usually bathe the capitol with a white glow had been extinguished and the great dome stood against a moonless sky as if in mourning, a thing of mysterious beauty, lifting above the great pile it surmounts.
Behind President Coolidge wrote Chief Justice Taft and Secretary Hughes in a second car, then Secretaries Weeks and Denby riding together. The newspaper men of President Harding’s party walked beside President Coolidge’s car, and the secret service men flanked it on the other side. A picked guard of honor from the headquarters company of the District of Columbia walked beside the caisson.
Down the winding roadway under the trees the escort moved, turning into Pennsylvania avenue around the Peace monument and swinging up the street at a slow walk.
An utter hush filled the broad street, lined again despite the late hour, with thousands of persons who had waiting long to pay their humble meed of acclaim to the dead. The following troop of the cavalry swung down, then the rolling, rumbling guns that brought up the rear.
Up the broad way the cortege rolled and no sound except the clatter of the horses’ hoofs and the rumble of the gun wheels marked its passage. Far ahead the utter stillness held among the thousands. The cry of a fretful child, cradled in its mother’s arms, sounded oddly loud.
The street was dim in the subdued glow of its tall lamps; the buildings dark, almost deserted, with few lighted windows. A black sky studded with a few stars that looked dim and far away, spread above. Flags on the high buildings were invisible in their dejected, half-mast droop in the all but windless air. It seemed long after the rattle of hoofs a block or two away became audible before the escort came abreast.
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From the front page of the Durham Morning Herald, Aug. 8, 1923
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