ized by conflict, and the victory is often reached only
after a long series of defeats. There are bad triumphs and impious
successes. What is proposed to us is, to put aside the rule of our own
judgments, and to declare that victory is good in itself. The old point
of view, that of the conscience, does not surrender without an energetic
resistance; and that resistance shows itself in the very words of M.
Cousin. His thesis is, that all victory is just. His intention is
therefore to _approve_ victory. Why does he say _absolve_? it is the
term which he employs. Since the matter in question is to absolve
victory, it is placed on trial. It is accused of being, like fortune
and fame, at one time on the side of good and justice, at another on the
side of injustice and evil. Which then is the party accused? Victory.
Who is the advocate? An eloquent professor. Who finally is the accuser?
Do you not see? It is the human conscience; the conscience which
protests in the soul of the orator against the theory of which he is
enamoured, and which forces him to say _absolve_ when he should say
_glorify_. And in fact the choice must be made: either to glorify
victory, by treading under foot that narrow conscience which sometimes
ranks itself with Cato on the side of the vanquished; or to glorify
conscience by impeaching the victories which outrage it.

It is not sufficient, however, to sacrifice the conscience in order to
rescue from embarrassment the philosophy of success. It strikes on other
rocks also. The same causes are by turns victorious and vanquished, and
it is hard to make men understand that, in conflicts in which their
dearest affections are engaged, they must beforehand, and in all cases,
take part with the strongest. It will be in vain for the philosopher to
say that the Swiss of Morgarten were right, for that they beat the
Austrians; but that the heroes of Rotenthurm were greatly in the wrong,
because, crushed without being vanquished, they were obliged to yield to
numbers, and leave at last their country's soil to be trodden by the
stranger;--the children of old Switzerland will find it hard to admit
this doctrine. Even in France, in that nation so accustomed to encircle
its soldiers' brows with laurel, this difficulty has risen up in the way
of M. Cousin. Beranger, when asked for a souvenir of Waterloo,

Replied, with drooping eyelid, tear-bedewed:
Never that name shall sadden verse of mine.[149]

But ph