The procession was headed by a number of beautiful young women habited in black with black hats and sable plumes, handsomely mounted on horseback. The Chief Justice of the United States, the Justices of the Supreme Court, and members of the Cabinet, preceded the companies of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, and again, beside the grave of this modest woman, were repeated words of honor and applause, than which no words in any language could be nobler or better deserved. These words--from the citizens of her own town, from the senator of her state, from the President of the United States--were for her: not alone as the mother of the adored Washington, but for the true woman "of clear, prompt and decided mind," the woman of courage and integrity, the "Christian woman, devout and worshipful," to whom the "greatest hero that ever adorned the annals of history" ascribed all that had made him great and good. And very noble was the tribute of Virginia's honored son at the ceremonies attendant upon the unveiling of the monument reared in her honor by the women of America. Said Senator Daniel: "She nursed a hero at her breast. At her knee she trained to the love and fear of God and to the kingly virtues, honor, truth and valor, the lion of the tribe that gave to America liberty and independence. This her title to renown. It is enough. Eternal dignity and heavenly grace dwell upon the brow of this blessed mother; nor burnished gold, nor sculptured stone, nor rhythmic praise could add one jot or tittle to her chaste glory. Tributes to the lofty genius, which is the rare gift of nature, and to the brilliant deeds, which are the rare fruits of fitting opportunity, fulfil a noble function; but they often excite extravagant emulations that can never be satisfied, and individualize models which few by possibility may copy. This tribute is not to them. It is to one who possessed only the homely virtues of her sex; but what is there in human life that can be more admirable or bring it in closer proximity to the divine? She was simply a private citizen. No sovereign's crown rested on her brow. She did not lead an army, like Joan of Arc, nor slay a tyrant, like Charlotte Corday. She was not versed in letters or in arts. She was not an Angel of Mercy, like Florence Nightingale, nor the consort of a hero, like the wife of Napoleon. She did not shine amidst the throngs which bow to the charms of wit, beauty, and hospitality; but in any assembly of the beautiful, the brilliant, the powerful, or the brave of her sex, no form could awaken a holier sentiment of reverence than she, and that sentiment is all the deeper because she was the unassuming wife and mother whose kingdom was her family, whose world was her home. In the shadow and in the silence from day to day and year to year she followed the guiding star of that truth which tells us that 'to do that which before us lies in daily life is the prime wisdom.'