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green uniform, the white revers concealing the star of the
Legion of Honor, his great coat hiding his epaulets, the cor-
ner of red ribbon peeping from beneath his vest, his leather
trousers, the white horse with the saddle-cloth of purple
velvet bearing on the corners crowned N’s and eagles, Hes-
sian boots over silk stockings, silver spurs, the sword of
Marengo,—that whole figure of the last of the Caesars is
present to all imaginations, saluted with acclamations by
some, severely regarded by others.
That figure stood for a long time wholly in the light;
this arose from a certain legendary dimness evolved by the
majority of heroes, and which always veils the truth for a
longer or shorter time; but to-day history and daylight have
arrived.
That light called history is pitiless; it possesses this pecu-
liar and divine quality, that, pure light as it is, and precisely
because it is wholly light, it often casts a shadow in places
where people had hitherto beheld rays; from the same man
it constructs two different phantoms, and the one attacks
the other and executes justice on it, and the shadows of
the despot contend with the brilliancy of the leader. Hence
arises a truer measure in the definitive judgments of na-
tions. Babylon violated lessens Alexander, Rome enchained
lessens Caesar, Jerusalem murdered lessens Titus, tyranny
follows the tyrant. It is a misfortune for a man to leave be-
hind him the night which bears his form.