knew that Burr, here, was his superior.  So he made his will, settled his affairs, and offered up his precious life; not to his country, not to a great cause, not for great ideas and interests, but to avoid the stigma of society,—­a martyr to a feudal conventionality.  Such a man ought not to have fought; he should have been above a wicked social law.  But why expect perfection?  Who has not infirmities, defects, and weaknesses?  How few are beyond their age in its ideas; how few can resist the pressure of social despotism!  Hamilton erred by our highest standard, but not when judged by the circumstances that surrounded him.  The greatest living American died really by an assassin’s hand, since the murderer was animated with revenge and hatred.  The greatest of our statesmen passed away in a miserable duel; yet ever to be venerated for his services and respected for his general character, for his integrity, patriotism, every gentlemanly quality,—­brave, generous, frank, dignified, sincere, and affectionate in his domestic relations.

His death, on the 11th of July, 1804, at the early age of forty-seven,—­the age when Bacon was made Lord Chancellor, the age when most public men are just beginning to achieve fame,—­was justly and universally regarded as a murder; not by the hand of a fanatic or lunatic, but by the deliberately malicious hand of the Vice-President of the United States, and a most accomplished man.  It was a cold, intended, and atrocious murder, which the pulpit and the press equally denounced in most unmeasured terms of reprobation, and with mingled grief and wrath.  It created so profound an impression on the public mind that duelling as a custom could no longer stand so severe a rebuke, and it practically passed away,—­at least at the North.

And public indignation pursued the murderer, though occupying the second highest political office in the country.  He paid no insignificant penalty for his crime.  He never anticipated such a retribution.  He was obliged to flee; he became an exile and a wanderer in foreign lands,—­poor, isolated, shunned.  He was doomed to eternal ignominy; he never recovered even political power and influence; he did not receive even adequate patronage as a lawyer.  He never again reigned in society, though he never lost his fascination as a talker.  He was a ruined man, in spite of services and talents and social advantages; and no whitewashing can ever change the verdict of good men in this country.  Aaron Burr fell,—­like Lucifer, like a star from heaven,—­and never can rise again in the esteem of his countrymen; no time can wipe away his disgrace.  His is a blasted name, like that of Benedict Arnold.  And here let me say, that great men, although they do not commit crimes, cannot escape the penalty of even defects and vices that some consider venial.  No position however lofty, no services however great, no talents however brilliant, will enable a man to secure lasting popularity and influence when respect for his moral