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. Béranger, when asked for a souvenir of Waterloo,


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


But philosophy would be worth little if it had not at its disposal more
extensive resources than those of a song-writer. M. Cousin therefore
looked the difficulty in the face. Victory is always good. But how shall
young Frenchmen be made to hear this with regard to that signal defeat
of the armies of France? Listen: "It is not populations which appear on
battle-fields, but ideas and causes. So at Leipzig and at Waterloo two
causes came to the encounter, the cause of paternal monarchy and that of
military democracy. Which of them carried the day, Gentlemen? Neither
the one nor the other. Who was the conqueror and who the conquered at
Waterloo? Gentlemen, there were none conquered. (_Applause._) No, I
protest that there were none: the only conquerors were European
civilization and the map. (_Unanimous and prolonged applause._)"[150]

To make the youth of Paris applaud at the remembrance of Waterloo is
perhaps one of the most brilliant triumphs of eloquence which the annals