Pulitzer_ A Life in Politics, Print, and Power - James McGrath Morris [263]
The boisterous merriment continued until the group saw the casket being carried into the church and heard the ponderous notes of the organ. “Something like an electric shock swept the ranks of the former employees,” said Jordan. “Every pair of shoulders straightened, every smile disappeared. The line formed as if by magic. Reverently, two by two, with bent heads and lowered eyes, and hearts full of memories, the editors who had helped Joseph Pulitzer to build his World followed their dead chief into the crowded church.”
A choir of forty-five men sang “Abide with Me” as Pulitzer’s coffin made its way past pews filled with politicians, judges, newspapermen, and his old guard. Among them were John Norris, his longtime business manager, now with the Times; former reporters and editors such as James Creelman, Caleb Van Hamm, and Bradford Merrill; and members of Pulitzer’s personal staff such as George Ledlie, Arthur Billings, Norman Thwaites, and Friedrich Mann.
The flag-draped coffin was covered with a blanket of lilies of the valley and orchids. It was brought to a rest in front of the altar amid more than 100 floral pieces including a wreath of roses from the republic of Colombia bearing a card engraved “To Her Friend.” Reverend Ernest Stires read from chapter 15 of the First Epistle to the Corinthians. As he began, elevator motors, ventilators, and presses were shut down, and telegraph machines and telephones were disconnected at the World and Post-Dispatch buildings. For five minutes, with all the lights extinguished, Pulitzer’s staff on duty that day stood at silent attention.
“For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain: he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them,” Stires read on, following the traditional Episcopal burial service and eschewing a eulogy. As a second hymn was sung, Stires brought two wreaths down from the altar and placed them on the flower-draped coffin. After a moment of silent prayer, the chorus burst into song again. “Hark! hark, my soul! Angelic songs are swelling,” the men sang as the coffin was brought out from the church.
A special train took Pulitzer’s body and his family—except for Constance and Edith, who had not yet arrived—as well as a select group of editors, members of his personal staff, and a few friends to Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. At the grave, Stires gave the final invocation before an improvised pulpit of canvas. As they all stood before the grave, the booming of guns from a naval fleet coincidentally visiting New York could be heard in the distance.
With the approach of dusk, Joseph’s body was lowered into a grave next to that of his beloved daughter Lucille Irma. Inside the casket, Pulitzer’s right arm lay across his chest and in his hand he clasped a copy of the World.
In the days following his burial, his astonished family read Joseph’s will. He left the World and the Post-Dispatch in the hands of four trustees who, in time, would turn control over to his sons. Twenty-seven-year-old Joe would have to wait until he was thirty and fifteen-year-old Herbert would have to wait until he was twenty-one to assume a seat on the board. In an unintended error, Joseph failed to give thirty-two-year-old Ralph a seat in his last revision of the will. Acting on the advice of Joseph’s lawyer, one of the trustees resigned and gave his place to Ralph.
But what dumbfounded the brothers was their father’s division of the stock. Herbert, the youngest, who had done hardly more than visit one of the newspapers, was given 60 percent of the stock. Ralph, who had practically been running the World, was given 20 percent; and Joseph, the most talented of the three, received only 10 percent. The remaining 10 percent of the shares were to be used to produce an income to be divided among editors and managers.
When it came to power,