d learned
controversialists, struck by the necessity of correcting popular errors
endorsed by historians, made and published to the world very remarkable
works. Thus Monsieur de Launoy, nicknamed the "Expeller of Saints," made
cruel war upon the saints surreptitiously smuggled into the Church. Thus
the emulators of the Benedictines, the members (too little recognized)
of the Academie des Inscriptions et Belles-lettres, began on many
obscure historical points a series of monographs, which are admirable
for patience, erudition, and logical consistency. Thus Voltaire, for a
mistaken purpose and with ill-judged passion, frequently cast the
light of his mind on historical prejudices. Diderot undertook in this
direction a book (much too long) on the era of imperial Rome. If it had
not been for the French Revolution, _criticism_ applied to history might
then have prepared the elements of a good and true history of France,
the proofs for which had long been gathered by the Benedictines. Louis
XVI., a just mind, himself translated the English work in which Walpole
endeavored to explain Richard III.,--a work much talked of in the last
century.

Why do personages so celebrated as kings and queens, so important as the
generals of armies, become objects of horror or derision? Half the world
hesitates between the famous song on Marlborough and the history of
England, and it also hesitates between history and popular tradition as
to Charles IX. At all epochs when great struggles take place between the
masses and authority, the populace creates for itself an _ogre-esque_
personage--if it is allowable to coin a word to convey a just idea.
Thus, to take an example in our own time, if it had not been for the
"Memorial of Saint Helena," and the controversies between the Royalists
and the Bonapartists, there was every probability that the character of
Napoleon would have been misunderstood. A few more Abbe de Pradits, a
few more newspaper articles, and from being an emperor, Napoleon would
have turned into an ogre.

How does error propagate itself? The mystery is accomplished under our
very eyes without our perceiving it. No one suspects how much solidity
the art of printing has given both to the envy which pursues greatness,
and to the popular ridicule which fastens a contrary sense on a grand
historical act. Thus, the name of the Prince de Polignac is given
throughout the length and breadth of France to all bad horses that
require whipp