A few days later, the Bastile, at once fortress and prison, where for four hundred years the lawless will of arbitrary power had buried its victims in a living tomb, was levelled to the ground by the people of Paris, and with it fell the ancient monarchy. Elated by success, the people looked for a leader, and found him in the author of the Declaration of the Rights of Man. Amidst heartfelt applause Lafayette was placed at the head of the embodied militia of the metropolis, which, under his auspices, was organized as the National Guard. Thus in a brief time two achievements were his,—first, the introduction of a Declaration of the Rights of Man, which he was foremost to present, and, secondly, the organization of the National Guard, which was the beginning of a citizen soldiery. Each was an event; the two together make an epoch.
Thus far champion of Liberty, it was now his part to maintain order; and never was this work more conscientiously pursued. The colors of Paris were blue and red, but his spirit of conciliation was shown by adding to them white, which was the ancient color of France, out of these three forming that famous tricolor, which he then proudly proclaimed was destined “to make the tour of the world.” Strong in the popularity he had won, he shrank from none of the responsibilities of his perilous post, braving alike the multitude and the assassin,—unharmed himself, treading calmly the burning ploughshares of civil strife,—throwing over all the shield of his protection, and by chivalrous intervention at Versailles saving King and Queen from an infuriated mob,—but always telling the King, that, if his Majesty separated the royal cause from that of the people, he should remain with the people: of all which there are details written in blood.
Though engrossed by his post as Commander of the National Guard, Lafayette did not neglect those other duties as representative of the people. In the Assembly he boldly proclaimed the right of resistance to tyranny, saying, with sententious point, “Where Slavery prevails, the most sacred of duties is insurrection.”[94] He called for trial by jury,—liberty of worship,—the rights of colored people in the colonies,—the suppression of all privileges,—the abolition of the nobility itself. To one who asked, how, after the abolition of titles, they would replace the words “ennobled for having saved the State on a particular day,” he answered, “Simply by declaring that on the day named the person in question saved the State.” The proposition prevailed, and from that time this sincere and upright citizen laid down his own time-honored title, borne by his family for successive generations, and was known only as Lafayette. And otherwise he gave testimony by example,—accepting the honorary command of the National Guard formed by colored citizens of San Domingo, although he refused this distinction from other guards out of Paris, and entertaining colored men in the uniform of the National Guard at his dinner-table, where Clarkson, the English Abolitionist, met them in 1789.[95]
Beyond question, he was now the most exalted citizen of France,—centre of all eyes, all hopes, and all fears,—holding in his hand the destinies of King and people. Rarely has such elevation been achieved; never was such elevation so honestly won, and never was it surrounded by responsibilities so appalling. Nothing of office, honor, or power was beyond his reach, while peril of all kinds lay in wait for him or sat openly in his path. But he was indifferent alike to temptation and to danger. Emoluments in whatsoever form he rejected, saying that he attached no more importance to the rejection than to the acceptance. Field-Marshal, Grand-Constable, Lieutenant-General of the Kingdom, Dictator even,—such were titles which he put aside. Had his been a vulgar ambition, he might have clutched at supreme power, and played the part of Cromwell or Napoleon. But, true to the example of Washington, and, above all, true to himself and those just sentiments which belonged to his nature, he thought only of the good of all. Calmly looking down upon the formless chaos, where ancient landmarks were heaving in confused mass, he sought to assuage the wide-spread tumult, and to establish that divine tranquillity, which, like the repose of Nature, is found only in harmony with law, to the end that Human Rights, always sacred, should have new force from the prevailing order. And this done, it was his precious desire to withdraw into the retirement of his home.
The Constitution, with its Declaration of the Rights of Man, was at length proclaimed. Amidst unprecedented pomp, in a vast field, the Campus Martius of France, surrounded by delegates from all parts of the country, and under the gaze of the anxious people gathered in uncounted multitudes, the King, sitting upon his throne, took the oath to support it. Lafayette, as Major-General of the Federation, did the same,—while National Guard and people, by voice and outstretched hand, united in the oath. How faithfully he kept this oath, true to the Constitution in all respects, upholding each department in its powers, subduing violence, watching the public peace, and for the sake of these hazarding his good name with the people whose idol he was,—all this belongs to the history of France. Assured that the Revolution had accomplished its work, he caused an amnesty to be proclaimed, and then deliberately laid down his vast military power. Amidst the gratulations of his countrymen and votes of honor, he withdrew to the bosom of his family at the home of his childhood. Unhappily, this was for a period very brief.
The emigrant nobles, with two brothers of the King, were gathering forces on the Rhenish frontier of France. Austria and Prussia had joined in coalition for the same hostile purpose. France was menaced; but its new government hurled three armies to meet the invaders. The army of the centre was placed under the command of Lafayette. At the mention of his name in the Assembly there was an outburst of applause, and when he appeared at its bar, the President, addressing him, said, “France will oppose to her enemies the Constitution and Lafayette.” Little was then foreseen how soon thereafter both were to fall.
A new influence was showing itself. Danton and Robespierre were active. Clubs were organized, whose daily meetings lashed the people to lawless frenzy. Extreme counsels prevailed. Violence and outrage ensued. The Jacobins, whose very name has become a synonym for counsellors of sedition, were beginning to be dominant. The Revolution was losing its original character. The generous Lafayette, who had been its representative and its glory, in whom its true grandeur and humanity were all personified, revolted at its excesses. From camp he addressed the National Assembly, denouncing the Jacobins as substituting license for liberty,—and then, supporting his letter, gallantly appeared at the bar of the Assembly and repeated his denunciation. But the Reign of Terror was lowering, destined to fill France with darkness, and to send a shudder through the world. After bloody conflict at the gates of the palace, the King and his family were driven to seek protection in the bosom of the Assembly. The scaffold was not yet entirely ready. But the Constitution was overturned, and with it Lafayette. Doubly faithful, first to the oath he had taken, and then to his own supreme integrity, he denounced the audacious crime. He was then at the head of his army; but Jacobin hate had marked him as victim. Shrinking from the horrors of civil contest, where success is purchased only by the blood of fellow-citizens, he resolved—sad alternative!—to withdraw from his post, and, passing into neutral territory, seek the United States, there from a distance to watch the storm which was desolating his own unhappy country.
As his eminence was without precedent, so also was his fall. Power, fortune, family, country, all were suddenly changed for a dungeon, where, amidst cruel privations, for more than five years, he wore away life. But not in vain; for who can listen to the story of his captivity without confessing new admiration for that sublime fidelity to principle which illumined his dungeon?
With heart rent by anguish and darkened by the gathering clouds, Lafayette, accompanied by a few friends, left his army at Sedan. Traversing the frontier, in the hope of reaching Holland, he fell into the hands of the Royal Coalition; and then commenced the catalogue of indignities and hardships under which his soul seemed rather to rise than to bend. His application for a passport was answered by the jeer that his passport would be for the scaffold, while a mob of furious royalists sought to anticipate the executioner. The King of Prussia, hoping to profit from his increasing debility, suggested that his situation would be improved in return for information against France. The patriot was aroused at this attempt on his character. “The King of Prussia is very impertinent,” he replied, while composing himself to the continued rigors which beset him. First immured at Wesel on the Rhine, he was next transported in a cart, by a long journey, to the far-famed Magdeburg, whose secrets have been disclosed by Baron Trenck, where for a year he was plunged in a damp subterranean dungeon, closed by four successive doors, all fastened by iron bolts, padlocks, and chains, when, on the separate peace between Prussia and the French Republic, he was handed over to Austrian jailers, by whom he was transferred to Olmütz, an outlying fortress, then little known, but now memorable in history, on the eastern border of Austria, further east than the old castle which witnessed the imprisonment of Richard Cœur-de-Lion and the generous devotion of Blondel. Here his captivity was complete. Alone in his cell, with no object in sight except the four walls,—shut out from all communication with the world,—shut out even from all knowledge of his family, who on their part could know nothing of him,—never addressed by name,—mentioned in the bulletins of the prison only by his number,—and, to cut off all possible escape by self-destruction, deprived of knife and fork: such was now his lot. If not a slave compelled to work without wages, he was even a more wretched captive.