Men carried it home with them to their firesides and to their churches, to their offices and their workshops.

Every preacher took the life which had closed as the noblest of texts, and every orator made it the theme of his loftiest eloquence.

For more than a year the newspapers teemed with eulogy and elegy, and both prose and poetry were severely taxed to pay tribute to the memory of the great one who had gone.

The prose was often stilted and the verse was generally bad, but yet through it all, from the polished sentences of the funeral oration to the humble effusions of the obscurest poet's corner, there ran a strong and genuine feeling, which the highest art could not refine nor the clumsiest expression degrade.
From that time to this, the stream of praise has flowed on, ever deepening and strengthening, both at home and abroad.

Washington alone in history seems to have risen so high in the estimation of men that criticism has shrunk away abashed, and has only been heard whispering in corners or growling hoarsely in the now famous house in Cheyne Row.
There is a world of meaning in all this, could we but rightly interpret it.