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     Perhaps of all the marks of reverence and regret which signalized the observance of the day the most impressive was the general cessation of activity of every kind at the hour fixed for laying the dead statesman’s remains in the vault at West Lawn Cemetery. At that hour the street cars and elevated trains stopped wherever they happened to be, the wheels of vessels on the rivers and lakes ceased to revolve, and even the telegraph ceased to send its messages over a million and a quarter miles of wire for the space of five minutes, while the bared heads and hushed voices of the people in the streets bore tribute to their respect and sorrow. “’Twas as the general pulse of life stood still and nature made a pause.” At times in the past conveyances and armies have paused for such a purpose, but this occasion appears to have been the first on which the telegraph itself ceased to flash its messages from point to point. Taken altogether, the observances on Thursday were absolutely without parallel in history.