Early one afternoon last week Senator Carter Glass was warmly expounding his bank reform bill on the Senate Floor when Senator Swanson, his Virginia Colleague, nudged him, whispered something. For a moment Senator Glass looked dumfounded. Then in a quavering voice he announced: “Mr. President, I have just been apprised of a fact very, very distressing to the nation generally and to me particularly. Former President Coolidge has just dropped dead. I think the Senate should immediately adjourn.” Numb with shock, the Senate adjourned.
At the White House President Hoover was lunching with Secretary of State Stimson. Chief Usher Irwin Hood (“Ike”) Hoover tiptoed into the dining room. Into the President’s ear he whispered the news: “Mr. Coolidge has just died of heart failure.” After a stunned moment, the President pushed back his chair, laid down his napkin, strode to his office. There he hastily dispatched a special message to Congress, issued a proclamation for 30 days of public mourning. Within five minutes, down to half-staff came the White House flag. Down came the flags of Washington, of the nation.
The House, after it had heard the news by word of mouth, continued in session an hour to receive the President’s message. It read: “It is my painful duty to inform you of the death today of Calvin Coolidge. . . . There is no occasion for me to recount his eminent services. . . . His entire lifetime has been one of single devotion to our country. . . .” Then the House, too, adjourned.
At Plymouth, Vt. Miss Aurora Pierce, longtime Coolidge housekeeper, heard a tap on the homestead window. Allen Brown, a neighbor, was outside. She raised the sash to hear him say: “Calvin’s dead, Aurora.” She sat down in the room in which the 30th President of the U. S. had taken the oath from his father at 2:47 a. m., Aug. 3, 1923, and let her tears run in silent grief.
In New York President-elect Roosevelt got word by telephone from a press association in the study of his home. He was “inexpressibly shocked” at the death of the man who had defeated him for the Vice-Presidency in 1920.
On the New York Stock Exchange, hundreds of brokers got the news simultaneously from their office tickers. They stared blankly, incredulously at each other. Trading slacked off uncertainly with fallingprices. The day closed with a brief little rally—a farewell salute to the man whose name has been given to the greatest bull market in history.
Frank Billings Kellogg, his Secretary of State, heard about it at Des Moines on his way to California. Andrew William Mellon, his Secretary of the Treasury, found it hard to believe the news as the S. S. Majestic carried him back to his Ambassadorial post at London. Dwight Filley Davis, his Secretary of War, was at Tallahassee. John Garibaldi Sargent, his Attorney General, was recovering from influenza at his Ludlow, Vt. home. Frank Stearns, his closest personal friend, the man who picked him for President long before the Boston police strike, was so overcome with grief in Boston that he could say nothing for hours.
At “The Beeches,” his Northampton home. Calvin Coolidge had gotten up that morning as usual at 7 a. m. At the breakfast table he grumbled over the lack of news in the papers. At 8 130 he was at his office (Coolidge & Hemenway) on Main Street, reading his mail, attending to minor personal business. What he thought was another attack of indigestion—he had been doctoring himself for it with soda for three weeks (see n. 30)—made him feel uncomfortable. So about 10 o’clock he said to Harry Ross, his Secretary: “Well, I guess we’ll go up to the house.
As they entered, Mrs. Coolidge was just going out shopping. Said her husband: “Don’t you want the car?” “No,” she replied, “it’s such a nice day I’d rather walk.” She left. Mr. Coolidge sat talking with Secretary Ross—about the Plymouth place, last year’s partridge shooting, hay fever. He strolled to the kitchen to get a drink of water. He put a stray book neatly back into the case. He evened up pens on the desk. He idly fingered a jigsaw puzzle with his name on it. He went “down cellar,” watched the furnace man shovel coal. About noon he disappeared upstairs, presumably to shave, as so many New Englanders do about midday.
Returning a few minutes later, Mrs. Coolidge went upstairs to summon him for luncheon. In his dressing room she found him lying on the floor on his back in his shirtsleeves. To him Death had come 15 minutes before, swiftly, easily, without pain. For “cause” the official death certificate said: “coronary thrombosis”-
That night the body of Calvin Coolidge lay on its own bed in its own room. Outside the window a half moon played tricks with night mists rising from the Mount Tom Meadows. Beyond the mist and the moonlight a people mourned the loss of its greatest private citizen, its only ex-President. . . . Smith College girls, just back from holidays, went to the Calvin Theatre as usual, saw Under-Cover Man on the screen. Northampton’s Mayor Bliss announced that the city’s merchants would draw their shades but keep their doors open during the funeral. Said he: “I’m not going to ask them to close because I don’t think Calvin Coolidge would want that. He knew what they’ve been through. Every nickel counts with them. He wouldn’t want them to lose a sale.”
Next night a plain bronze casket stood before the fireplace of “The Beeches” living room. On it was engraved: “Calvin Coolidge—1872-1933.” Above it hung an oil painting of the onetime Presidential yacht Mayflower, one of Calvin Coolidge’s few genuine diversions in office. Harry Ross stood close by. The only sound in the stillness of the house was the pitter-patter of Tiny Tim’s claws as the Coolidge chow came & went on the hardwood floors. Far away through the same night with many a long whistle there roared a 13-car special bearing the great of Washington to Northampton.
Saturday was a grey leaden day. Early the Coolidge casket was moved from “The Beeches” to the flower-banked chancel of the red brick Edwards Congregational Church on Main Street. A soldier stood guard at each end. The upper half of the lid was turned back and for an hour people in fur coats and rags filed by to gaze down at the thin, chalk-white little face within. Press photographers were allowed to take pictures to show the country. Then the church doors were closed to the public while thousands choked the streets in front.
It began to drizzle coldly as mourners with special tickets moved into the church. Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, with her son James, was given a forward seat. So feeble was James Lucey, the 80-year-old Northampton cobbler whose advice Calvin Coolidge credited with getting him to the White House, that he had to be helped to his place. Police fought a good ten minutes to wedge a way through the outside jam for President & Mrs. Hoover to reach the church door. Vice President Curtis was paired off with French Ambassador Claudel (a rare diplomatic gesture) and Chief Justice Hughes with Associate Justice Stone. Secretaries Stimson, Adams and Chapin were in a pew together. Rudolph Forster. longtime executive clerk at the White House, sat with Everett Sanders, Coolidge secretary and George B. Christian Jr., Harding secretary. Twenty-five Senators and 25 Representatives made up the Congressional delegation. Governors Wilson of Vermont, Winant of New Hampshire and Green of Rhode Island had one pew while Governor Ely and staff filled another. Mrs. Dwight Whitney Morrow and Bernard Mannes Baruch were present.
Last to enter was Mrs. Coolidge, accompanied by her son John and his wife.
With head up and face wanly serene she moved straight and swift to the second row pew.
The New York Times’s Russell Owen, one of the best descriptive reporters in the business, kept his eye glued respectfully on President Hoover, the man who had served Calvin Coolidge five years as Secretary of Commerce and then, without his wholehearted help, succeeded him in the White House. What he saw:
“The organ whispered soft throbbing notes which merely touched the silence of the church. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers. Dim light from the bulbs overhead played over the coffin. After that first glance the President did not look at it, but gazed down, his eyes closed. His whole figure seemed to droop a little in the emotional intensity of that meeting. How long he stood he probably did not know, but it seemed as if he were lost in his thoughts and possibly his prayers. People looked at him curiously, with sympathy and the shy consciousness which is evident in those contemplating another’s unhappiness. These emotions were reflected in their glances and the quick shifting of their bodies as the moments dragged.
“And then the President relaxed and sat down, turning his head for a moment to his wife. Not until well through the service did he again look toward the coffin, his eyes being apparently directed below it, and his head slightly bowed. Once Mrs. Hoover whispered to him, and he moved. Then he again resumed his slightly bowed position. Indeed, his head drooped so low as the moments passed that he did not need to move at the prayer.”
Robed in black, Rev. Albert Penner, 31, mounted the pulpit to conduct a service as simple as the dead man. There was no eulogy, for the widow had said: “Everyone knows what Mr. Coolidge has done and who he was.” A quartet sang “Lead, Kindly Light.” . . . The Minister pronounced the benediction. “The Lord bless you and keep you . . . give you peace both now and forevermore.” President Hoover lifted his head. In 22 minutes the service was over.
Afterwards President Hoover and Chief Justice Hughes called briefly at “The Beeches.” John Coolidge went to the door with them as they left to take their train directly back to Washington. Now it was raining hard.
At Plymouth, 100 mi. north, Sexton Azro Johnson had a new grave ready in the Hillside Cemetery where lie six generations of Coolidges. Twenty motorcars made the trip through a wet, cheerless afternoon. Their tires droned a dirge on the rutty mud. From the last road the coffin was carried up the knoll to Plymouth Notch’s stony “God’s Acre.” Mourners followed in single file. Across the road in respectful silence villagers who had known Calvin Coolidge since his birth in yonder farmhouse watched their stark outline against the grey tapestry of winter clouds. The rain changed to hail. Someone held an umbrella over Mrs. Coolidge. Down from Salt Ash Mountain whooped a blast of icy wind, flapping the brown canvas canopy over the grave, wrenching the floral wreaths. Bareheaded in the storm. Mr. Penner pronounced the committal. The wind snatched at his strongly-spoken words, whirled them away. . . . “Earth to Earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The winches creaked. Down into the earth went all that remained of Calvin Coolidge to sleep between his father and his son. His widow turned away as the gravediggers started to shovel in brown, rain-soaked dirt. For the first time tears overflowed her brave grey eyes.
That night snow fell blotting out all trace of the new grave.
In 1928 at Bennington, Vt., Calvin Coolidge read the following poem, his own: Vermont is a State I love. I could not look Upon the peaks Of Ascutney, Killington, Mansfield and Equinox Without being moved In a way that no other scene Could move me!
It was there That I first saw The light of day; Here I received my bride, Here my dead lie, Pillowed on the loving breast Of our everlasting hills.
*Clogging of one of the heart arteries.
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