His parliamentary career was interrupted by an episode which belongs to the poetry of history. On the unanimous invitation of the Congress of the United States, he again visited the land whose Independence he helped to secure. This was in 1824. Forty years had passed since he was last here. But throughout this long period of a life transcendent in activity and privations, as well as in fame, he had ever turned with fondness to the scene of his early consecration, and proudly avowed himself American in heart and American in principle. His early compeers were all numbered with the dead, and he remained sole survivor among the generals of Washington. But the people had multiplied, and the country had grown in wealth and power. All rose to meet his coming, and he was welcomed everywhere as the Nation’s guest. To the inquiry, on his landing at New York, how he would be addressed, he replied, “As an American General,”—thus discarding again the title of his birth. From beginning to end, men and women, young and old, official bodies, towns, cities, States, Congress, all vied in testimonies of devotion and gratitude, while the children of the schools, boys and maidens, swelled the incomparable holiday, which, stretching from North to South, and covering the whole country, absorbed for the time every difference, and made all feel as children of one household. The strong and universal sentiment found expression in familiar words, repeated everywhere:—
“We bow not the neck,
We bend not the knee,
But our hearts, Lafayette,
We surrender to thee.”
It belongs to the glory of Lafayette that he inspired this sentiment, and it belongs to the glory of our country to have felt it. As there was never such a guest, so was there never such a host. They were alike without parallel. But amidst this grandest hospitality, binding him by new ties, he kept the loyalty of his heart: he did not forget the African slave.[119]
The visit was full of memorable incidents, sometimes most touching, among which I select a scene little known. At one of those receptions occurring wherever the national guest appeared, a veteran of the Revolution, in his original Continental uniform, with the addition of a small blanket, or rather piece of blanket, upon the shoulders, and with his ancient musket, that had seen service on many fields, came forward. Drawing himself up in the stiff manner of the old-fashioned drill, he made a military salute, which Lafayette returned with affection, tears starting to his eyes,—for he remembered well that uniform, and saw that an old soldier, more venerable than himself in years, stood before him. “Do you know me?” said the soldier,—for the manner of the General persuaded him that he was personally remembered, although nearly fifty years had passed since their service together. “Indeed, I cannot remember you,” the General replied frankly. “Do you remember the frosts and snows of Valley Forge?” “I can never forget them,” said Lafayette. The veteran then related, that, one freezing night, as the General went his rounds, he came upon a sentry thinly clad, with shoes of raw cowhide and without stockings, about to perish with cold; that he took the musket of the sentry, saying to him, “Go to my hut; you will find stockings there, and a blanket, which, after warming yourself, you will bring here; meanwhile give me your musket, and I will keep guard.” “I obeyed,” the veteran continued, “and returning to my post refreshed, you cut the blanket in two, retaining one half and giving me the other. Here, General, is that half, and I am the sentry whose life you saved.” Saint Martin dividing his cloak is a kindred story of the Church, portrayed by the genius of Vandyck.[120] Lafayette, at the date of his charity, was younger even than the Saint, and the act was not less saintly. But this is only an instance of the gratitude he met. By such tribute, in accord with the universal popular heart, was the triumph of our benefactor carried beyond that of any Roman ascending the Capitol with the spoils of war.
And this might have been the crown even of his exalted life. But at home in France there was yet further need of him. In the madness of tyranny, Charles the Tenth undertook by arbitrary ordinance to trample on popular rights, and to subvert the Charter under which he held his throne. The people were aroused. The streets of Paris were filled with barricades. France was heaving as in other days. Then turned all eyes to the patriarch of Lagrange, who, already hero of two revolutions, commanded confidence alike by his principles and his bravery. Summoned from his country home, he repaired to Paris, imparting instant character to the movement. With a few devoted friends about him,—one of whom is a dear and honored friend of my own, Dr. Howe, of Boston,—this venerable citizen, seventy-three years of age, exposed to all the perils of the conflict hotly raging in the streets between the people and the troops, was conducted on foot across barricades to the Hôtel de Ville, and once more placed at the head of the National Guard. “Liberty shall triumph,” said the veteran, “or we will all perish together.”[121] Charles the Tenth ceased to reign, and the Revolution of 1830 was accomplished. The fortunes of France were now in the hands of Lafayette. He was again what Madame de Staël had called him at an earlier day, master of events. It rested with him to choose. He might have made a Republic, of which he would have been acknowledged head. But, cautious of Public Order, which with him was next to Liberty, mindful of that moderation which he had always cultivated, and unwilling, if Liberty were safe, to provoke a civil contest, drenching France again in fraternal blood, he proposed “a popular throne surrounded by republican institutions,” and the Duke of Orléans, under the name of Louis Philippe, became king. Clearly his own preference was for a Republic on the American model, but he yielded this cherished idea, satisfied that at last Liberty had prevailed, while peace was assured to his blood-stained country. If the republican throne fell short of his just expectations, it was because, against high injunction, he had put trust in princes.