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Then the organ's first notes trembled into the hush, began the solemn and ancient pageantry with which the Roman Catholic Church sends its kings, its great men, its princes of the clergy from this world. The East Side's Al Smith lay below the sanctuary, in a shrouded casket on a catafalque flanked by six tall, flickering candles. The altar before it was bright with the purple garb of bishops and the monsignori.
Outside, New York's great central artery, Fifth Avenue, lay empty and silent, cleared of all traffic. The crowds stood bareheaded and motionless; there was hardly a sound as the funeral procession started on its long way to the place beside his wife, under a simple headstone in a Queens cemetery. He would not be forgotten; to millions of Americans, as long as they lived, the jingling strains of The Sidewalks of New York would bring back the memory of The Happy Warrior of the Fabulous '20s.