At Baltimore a cavalcade of citizens escorted him, and cannon roared a welcome.  At the Pennsylvania line Governor Mifflin, with soldiers and citizens, gathered to greet him.  At Chester he mounted a horse, and in the midst of a troop of cavalry rode into Philadelphia, beneath triumphal arches, for a day of public rejoicing and festivity.  At Trenton, instead of snow and darkness, and a sudden onslaught upon surprised Hessians, there was mellow sunshine, an arch of triumph, and young girls walking before him, strewing flowers in his path, and singing songs of praise and gratitude.  When he reached Elizabethtown Point, the committees of Congress met him, and he there went on board a barge manned by thirteen pilots in white uniform, and was rowed to the city of New York.  A long procession of barges swept after him with music and song, while the ships in the harbor, covered with flags, fired salutes in his honor.  When he reached the landing he declined to enter a carriage, but walked to his house, accompanied by Governor Clinton.  He was dressed in the familiar buff and blue, and, as the people caught sight of the stately figure and the beloved colors, hats went off and the crowd bowed as he went by, bending like the ripened grain when the summer wind passes over it, and breaking forth into loud and repeated cheers.

From Mount Vernon to New York it had been one long triumphal march.  There was no imperial government to lend its power and military pageantry.  There were no armies, with trophies to dazzle the eyes of the beholders; nor were there wealth and luxury to give pomp and splendor to the occasion.  It was the simple outpouring of popular feeling, untaught and true, but full of reverence and gratitude to a great man.  It was the noble instinct of hero-worship, always keen in humanity when the real hero comes to awaken it to life.  Such an experience, rightly apprehended, would have impressed any man, and it affected Washington profoundly.  He was deeply moved and touched, but he was neither excited nor elated.  He took it all with soberness, almost with sadness, and when he was alone wrote in his diary:—­

“The display of boats which attended and joined us on this occasion, some with vocal and some with instrumental music on board; the decorations of the ships, the roar of cannon and the loud acclamations of the people, which rent the skies as I passed along the wharves, filled my mind with sensations as painful (considering the reverse of this scene, which may be the case after all my labors to do good) as they were pleasing.”

In the very moment of the highest personal glory, the only thought is of the work which he has to do.  There is neither elation nor cynicism, neither indifference nor self-deception, but only deep feeling and a firm, clear look into the future of work and conflict which lay silent and unknown beyond the triumphal arches and the loud acclaim of the people.