haps not of the least merit, history
is a romance of which the people are the authors. The human mind, I
believe, cares for the True only in the general character of an epoch.
What it values most of all is the sum total of events and the advance of
civilization, which carries individuals along with it; but, indifferent
to details, it cares less to have them real than noble or, rather, grand
and complete.

Examine closely the origin of certain deeds, of certain heroic
expressions, which are born one knows not how; you will see them leap
out ready-made from hearsay and the murmurs of the crowd, without having
in themselves more than a shadow of truth, and, nevertheless, they will
remain historical forever. As if by way of pleasantry, and to put a joke
upon posterity, the public voice invents sublime utterances to mark,
during their lives and under their very eyes, men who, confused, avow
themselves as best they may, as not deserving of so much glory and as
not being able to support so high renown.

[In our time has not a Russian General denied the fire of Moscow,
which we have made heroic, and which will remain so? Has not a
French General denied that utterance on the field of Waterloo which
will immortalize it? And if I were not withheld by my respect for a
sacred event, I might recall that a priest has felt it to be his
duty to disavow in public a sublime speech which will remain the
noblest that has ever been pronounced on a scaffold: "Son of Saint
Louis, rise to heaven!" When I learned not long ago its real
author, I was overcome by the destruction of my illusion, but before
long I was consoled by a thought that does honor to humanity in my
eyes. I feel that France has consecrated this speech, because she
felt the need of reestablishing herself in her own eyes, of blinding
herself to her awful error, and of believing that then and there an
honest man was found who dared to speak aloud.]

In vain; their disclaimers are not received. Let them cry out, let them
write, let them print, let them sign--they are not listened to. These
utterances are inscribed in bronze; the poor fellows remain historical
and sublime in spite of themselves. And I do not find that all this is
done in the ages of barbarism alone; it is still going on, and it
molds the history of yesterday to the taste of public opinion--a Muse
tyrannical and capricious, which preserves the general purport and
scorns d