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—­

[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.]

and as not being able to support so high renown.  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 detail.

Which of you knows not of such transformation?  Do you not see with your own eyes the chrysalis fact assume by degrees the wings of fiction?  Half formed by the necessities of the time, a fact is hidden in the ground obscure and incomplete, rough, misshapen, like a block of marble not yet rough-hewn.  The first who unearth it, and take it in hand, would wish it differently shaped, and pass it, already a little rounded, into other hands; others polish it as they pass it along; in a short time it is exhibited transformed into an immortal statue.  We disclaim it; witnesses who have seen and heard pile refutations upon explanations; the learned investigate, pore over books, and write.  No one listens to them any more than to the humble heroes who disown it; the torrent rolls on and bears with it the whole thing under the form which it has pleased it to give to these individual actions.  What was needed for all this work?  A nothing,