If anything could add to the interest which this unparalleled career is calculated to awaken, I should find it in special associations which I have enjoyed. Often, when in Paris halting about as an invalid, I turned from its crowded life to visit the simple tomb of Lafayette in the conventual cemetery of Picpus, watched by white-hooded nuns, within the circle of the old walls, where he lies by the side of his heroic wife, pattern of noblest womanhood. Gazing on this horizontal slab of red freestone, in shape like that of Albert Dürer in the republican graveyard of Nuremberg, bearing an inscription without title of any kind, and then casting my eyes upon the neighboring monuments, where every name has the blazon of prince or noble, I seemed to see before me that youthful, lifelong, and incomparable loyalty to a great cause with perfect consistency to the end, marking him a phenomenon of history, which will be my theme to-night. The interest inspired at the republican tomb was strengthened at Lagrange, the country home of Lafayette, a possession derived from the family of his wife, where he passed the last thirty years of life in patriarchal simplicity, surrounded by children and grandchildren, with happy guests, and where everything still bears witness to him. Nor do I believe that my interest goes far beyond that of the American people, when I think how his name is a household word, dear to all alike, old and young. Even the list of post-offices in the United States shows no less than fifty with his venerated name, and eighteen with the name of Lagrange.