“After a residence of nearly twelve months in the United States, General La Fayette has at last returned to Europe. Hitherto we have, somehow, abstained from saying a single word on the extraordinary spectacles by which his visit has been throughout distinguished. We have, like all mankind, been struck mute, as it were, by each successive gushing out of the spontaneous and unpurchased homage of ten millions of free people. We have stood by, in almost stupid wonder, while so many more than classic triumphs, so much higher than classic feelings, were performing and bursting around us, hardly knowing, indeed, whether we had to deal with the honest excitement of a real and gallant people, or were cheated by the solemn phantasies of a race of Bedlamites. It was not, in fact, till after the blinding pageant had passed away that we could bring ourselves to talk soberly either of its fitness or its reality. At last, however, the question does rush upon our minds: Why have all these things been? How is it that for twelve long months we have heard of nothing but processions, feastings, and jubilees, among a people pre-eminent among all men for thrift, jealousy, and stubbornness? What can this or any man have done, to turn upon himself the rejoicing lustre of so many millions of eyes, to call down blessings from so incalculable a host of uplifted hands, and to feel the honors and gratitude of a mighty people wafted to his bosom as by the voice of a single man? What is it, in fact, that has swayed the hearts of these stout republicans throughout the twenty-four communities, that has hurried, all along that vast line, every woman from her distaff, and every infant from its cradle, to shout, on the steps of a total stranger to their blood, and has now melted so many jarring interests into one general prayer of regret, thankfulness, and safety? This is not anything like a venal sycophancy to dignity or riches or descent; it is not the conventual homage of one great authority to another, nor can it be placed even among the reasonable but frigid trophies of a mere general merit. It is too stupendous, too immediate, too much akin to the burning ardor of children to a parent. It is a portion of the unbounded gratitude of a gallant people to the _founder of their freedom_. It is no mere temporary return of any present benefit, but a part of the perpetual worship owing to an author of their political existence. It is the homage of America to the Nestor of the Revolution. Her early warriors are now no more. Her Franklins and Washingtons have long since sunk, one after another, amid the tears of their people, into an illustrious tomb. One commander alone remains who fought at Flat-Bush, at Brandywine, and at Yorktown. What wonder, then, that the honors, and almost the merits, of the extinguished mighty should seem to concentrate around their sole surviving fellow? Generation after generation has sundered him from