Since a remorseless criticism has shorn so
many heroes of their laurels, our faith in the maxim of the great
Florentine wavers, and the suspicion is created that the popular fancy
which personifies under one figure every social revolution is an
illusion. It springs from that tendency to hero worship, ineradicable in
the heart of the race, which leads every nation to have an ideal, the
imagined author of its prosperity, the father of his country, and the
focus of its legends. As has been hinted, history is not friendly to
their renown, and dissipates them altogether into phantoms of the brain,
or sadly dims the lustre of their fame. Arthur, bright star of chivalry,
dwindles into a Welsh subaltern; the Cid Campeador, defender of the
faith, sells his sword as often to Moslem as to Christian, and _sells_
it ever; while Siegfried and Feridun vanish into nothings.
As elsewhere the world over, so in America many tribes had to tell of
such a personage, some such august character, who taught them what they
knew, the tillage of the soil, the properties of plants, the art of
picture writing, the secrets of magic; who founded their institutions
and established their religions, who governed them long with glory
abroad and peace at home; and finally, did not die, but like Frederick
Barbarossa, Charlemagne, King Arthur, and all great heroes, vanished
mysteriously, and still lives somewhere, ready at the right moment to
return to his beloved people and lead them to victory and happiness.
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