There is one part of the career of young Lafayette that has never been brought into clear light, and that part was decisive in the destinies of America. It was his letters home. From the time of his commission as an officer in the American army he was constantly writing to French ministers, asking them to use their influence to send aid to America.

He had the favor of the court, and the heart of the popular and almost adored Queen. He felt that his letters must bring to America a fleet. He poured his heart into them.

The surrender of Burgoyne brought about a treaty between France and the United States. It was one of alliance and amity. France recognized the United States among the powers of the world, and received Dr. Benjamin Franklin as minister plenipotentiary to the court.

For this great movement the letters of Lafayette had helped to prepare the way.

His heart rejoiced when he found that this point of vantage had been gained.

He was the first to receive the news of the treaty.

He went with the tidings to Washington. It revealed to the strong leader the future.

Washington was a man of silence, but his heart was touched; a sense of gratitude to Heaven seemed to inspire him.

“Let public thanksgivings of gratitude ascend to Heaven,” he said. “Assemble the brigades, and let us return thanks to God.”

The brigades were assembled. The cannon boomed! Songs of joy arose and prayers were said.

Then a great shout went up that thrilled the young heart of Lafayette.

“Vive le roi!—Long live the King of France!”

That thanksgiving set the bells of New England to ringing, and was a means of recruiting the army everywhere.

Lafayette heard the news with a full heart, and he himself only knew how much he had done silently to renew the contest for liberty.

Congress began to see his value. They honored him, and that gave him the influence to say:

“I came here for the cause. I must return to France for the cause.”

He said of this crisis, and we use his own words here:

“From the moment I first heard the name of America, I began to love her; from the moment I understood that she was struggling for her liberties, I burned to shed my best blood in her cause, and the days I shall devote to the service of America, whatever and wherever it may be, will constitute the happiest of my life. I never so ardently desired as I do now to deserve the generous sentiments with which these States and their representatives have honored me.”

He obtained from Congress permission to return to France in the interest of the cause of liberty.

It was 1778. He had arrived on the American shores a mere boy and a stranger. Now that he returned to France, the hearts of all Americans followed him. He was twenty-two years of age. He was carrying a secret with him that he was beginning to reveal and that the world was beginning to see.

In serving the cause of the States he felt that he was promoting the cause of the liberty of mankind. France might one day feel its reaction, burst her old bonds, and become a giant republic.

France arose to meet him on his return. Havre threw out her banners to welcome his ship. He was acclaimed, feasted, and lauded everywhere, until he longed to fly to some retreat from all of this adoration of a simple young general.

The Queen, Marie Antoinette, admired him, and became his patron. She received him and delighted to hear from him about America and the character of Washington. Lafayette delighted the Queen with his story of Washington.

After these interviews, in which Lafayette saw that he had secured her favor for the American cause, the Queen had an interview with Dr. Franklin.

“Do you know,” said the Queen to Franklin, “that Lafayette has really made me fall in love with your General Washington. What a man he must be, and what a friend he has in the Marquis!”

The court opened its doors to meet him. The King welcomed him. All Paris acclaimed him. The people of France were all eager to hear of him.

What an opportunity! Lafayette seized upon it. He was not moved by the flattery of France. Every heart-beat was full of his purposes to secure aid for America.

This he did.

“I will send a fleet to America,” said the King.

The young King was popular then, and this decision won for him the heart of liberty-enkindled France.

Lafayette’s heart turned home to the heroic mountaineers.

“If it can be done,” he said to the military department, “let there be sent to America the soldiers of Auvergne, they of the banners of ‘Auvergne sans tache.’”

Two hundred young noblemen offered their services to Lafayette.

He left France for America. Banquet-halls vied with each other in farewells.

But the night glitter of the palaces were as nothing to the words of the young King: “You can not better serve your King than by serving the cause of America!”

He left France in tears, to be welcomed by shouts of joy in America.

He brought back the news to Washington that henceforth the cause of America and France were one, and that he hoped soon to welcome here the grenadiers of Auvergne—“Auvergne sans tache!”—the bugles of Auvergne!

Peter brought the message that announced this great news to the war office.

The Governor’s face lighted when the boy appeared at the door.

“What is it now?” he asked. “You always bring joy to my heart!”

“France in alliance,” said the Governor. “May France herself live to become a republic. And the Queen has espoused our cause!”

Peter went from the office with heart full of joy. Good news from the seat of war made his heart as light as a bird—it made him whittle and whistle.

Out in the cold, watching nights, Peter’s heart turned to the wood-chopper, who had seemed to love the King more than him. He felt that the old man must be lonely in his cabin, with only the blue jays and the squirrels, and the like to cheer him. Peter could seem to hear him chop, chop, chopping wood.

He met him once in the way, and the old man talked of the King—“my king.”

“He is only a man,” said Peter, in defense of the cause.

“Only a man?” said the wood-chopper. “His arms are like the lion and unicorn—and they have taken down the King’s arms in Philadelphia and overturned his statue in New York. But the lion and the unicorn still stand on the old State-house, Boston. Hurrah for King George III! They may do what they will with me, but my heart will still say: ‘Long live the King!’”

He seemed to think that the King wore a real lion and unicorn on his arms, or to so imagine him.

Poor old man on the by-way of the Lebanon cedars! Peter pitied him, for he felt that he had, after all, a very human heart.

Dennis went again to the camp of Washington to confer with the General in regard to movements of powder, and there he saw Lafayette.

The Frenchman, indeed, did not look like a prophet now, nor like one of the yeomen of the hill-towns of Connecticut.

He was in command of the advance guard of Washington’s army (1780), composed of six battalions of light artillery. These men glittered in the sun. They did not look like Connecticut volunteers. The officers were armed with spontoons and fuses; they wore sabres—French sabres, presented them by Lafayette. Their banners shone. Their horses were proud.

“An’ I fear I have missed my prophet that I calculated him to be,” said Dennis, “and that the cedar folks will all laugh at me. Prophets do not dash about in such finery as this. There he comes, sure, on a spanking horse. I wonder if he would speak to me now.”

The young Frenchman came dashing by in his regalia.

Dennis lifted his hat.

Lafayette halted.

“I came from the cedars—Brother Jonathan’s man, that I am. You remember Ovan-saan-tarche.”

“Yes, yes, my hearty friend,” said the Frenchman, bowing.

“How is his Excellency?”

“Sound in head and heart, and firm in his heels, which he never turns to his country’s enemies.”

“Have you a wife, my friend?” bowing.

“No, no, but I’ve a sweetheart in old Ireland.”

“Happy man!” bowing.

“But I go my way alone now.”

“Lucky dog!” said the Marquis, with provincial rudeness, bowing and bowing.

“And there is one question which I wish to ask you. I have been telling the home people that you are a prophet, and not much like an old prophet do you look now—pardon me, your Honor. You once told me that you carried a secret in your heart that was to free America. Do you carry that secret now?”

“Yes, yes, my friend, from the cedars. The French fleet came; that was a part of my secret. But I am carrying a greater one. You will soon hear the bugles of Auvergne. When you hear the bugles of Auvergne, then you will believe that my soul is true to America. Dennis, let me take your hand.”

He took the Irishman’s hand, bowing.

“There is true blood in that hand,” bowing.

“There is true blood in yours,” said Dennis, “and the secret of the skies is in your soul.”

“And there are two crowns in that secret and the heart of France. And one of the crowns is a woman’s—a glorious woman’s. Oh, Dennis, you should see our Queen! She admires Washington, she loves America!”

Dennis dropped down on his knees.

The glittering Frenchman rode away, bowing to the prostrate man.

“An’ I do believe he is a prophet, after all,” said Dennis.

It would be great news that he would have to take back to Lebanon now. How that French prophet bowed and bowed to him.

His heart rejoiced to bear good news to the Governor.

Peter, as we have said, delighted in bringing the Governor good news. One day he was sent to Boston for letters which were expected to arrive from England. One was given him for the Governor which was marked “Important.” He hurried back to the war office with it, running his spirited horse much of the way.

He delivered the letter to the Governor, in the war office.

“Wait!” said the Governor, as he was about to go.

The Governor read the letter, and then walked around and around in the little room.

“It is from my son John,” said he. “He has been arrested in London, and is in prison.” The Governor continued to walk in the room.

John Trumbull had gone abroad in 1780, to study painting under the great master, Benjamin West. The British Secretary for American Affairs had assured him that he would be protected as an artist if he did not interfere in political affairs.

Colonel Trumbull once thus related the story of his arrest in a vivid way:

“A thunderbolt falling at my feet would not have been more astounding; for, conscious of having done nothing politically wrong, I had become as confident of safety in London as I should have been in Lebanon. For a few moments I was perfectly disconcerted, and must have looked very like a guilty man. I saw, in all its force, the folly and the audacity of having placed myself at ease in the lion’s den; but by degrees I recovered my self-possession, and conversed with Mr. Bond, who waited for the return of Mr. Tyler until past one o’clock. He then asked for my papers, put them carefully under cover, which he sealed, and desired me also to seal; having done this, he conducted me to a lock-up house, the Brown Bear in Drury Lane, opposite to the (then) police office. Here I was locked into a room, in which was a bed, and a strong, well-armed officer, for the companion of my night’s meditations or rest. The windows, as well as the door, were strongly secured by iron bars and bolts, and seeing no possible means of making my retreat, I yielded to my fate, threw myself upon the bed, and endeavored to rest.

“At eleven o’clock the next morning I was guarded across the street, through a crowd of curious idlers, to the office, and placed in the presence of the three police magistrates—Sir Sampson Wright, Mr. Addington, and another. The examination began, and was at first conducted in a style so offensive to my feelings that it soon roused me from my momentary weakness, and I suddenly exclaimed: ‘You appear to have been much more habituated to the society of highwaymen and pickpockets than to that of gentlemen. I will put an end to all this insolent folly by telling you frankly who and what I am. I am an American—my name is Trumbull; I am a son of him whom you call the rebel Governor of Connecticut; I have served in the rebel American army; I have had the honor of being an aide-de-camp to him whom you call the rebel General Washington.’”

He had said too much; he slept that night “in a bed with a highwayman.”

“This is not your accustomed good news, my boy,” said the Governor.

“Another ship with letters is soon expected in the fort,” said Peter. “That may bring good news.”

“Peter, I love the bearer of good news. Go back to Boston, and if you bring me news to comfort me, it is well; if not, you will have done your duty. Ride with the wind!” These were common words of hurry.

Peter rode with the wind. In a few days he returned on a foaming horse to the war office.

The Governor met him.

“He is released!” said the boy.

The Governor stood with beaming face.

Presently an old man came hobbling up to the door. It was the wood-chopper.

He looked up to Peter helplessly and yet with a glow of pride and gratitude.

“Boy,” he said, “I turned you out, but you came back in my hour of danger. Is there any news from the King?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“What may it be?”

“He is going to spare John Trumbull’s life and set him free.”

The old man staggered.

“Hurrah for King George!” he said. “My king! my king!”

He sunk down on the grass. “My king! my king!”

That the reader may have the exact truth of this bit of fact-fiction, let me give you the anecdote from history, that so finely reveals the better side of the character of the half-insane old King.

Benjamin West, on hearing of the arrest of his pupil, went directly to the King in Buckingham Palace, and asked for the young American painter’s release.

“I am sorry for the young man,” said his Majesty George III, “but he is in the hands of the law, and must abide the result; I can not interpose. Do you know whether his parents are living?”

“I think I have heard him say,” replied Mr. West, “that he has very lately received news of the death of his mother; I believe his father is living.”

“I pity him from my soul!” exclaimed the King. “But, West,” said he, after musing for a few moments, “go to Mr. Trumbull immediately, and pledge to him my royal promise, that, in the worst possible event of the law, his life shall be safe!”

“I pity him from my soul!” The poor King had a heart to feel. This is the most beautiful anecdote of King George that we have ever found.