fell, one by one, from the mouth of Monk, -- those words
rare and precious as the dew in the desert.

"You spoke to me," said Monk, "of Charles II.; but pray,
monsieur, of what consequence to me is that phantom of a
king? I have grown old in a war and in a policy which are
nowadays so closely linked together, that every man of the
sword must fight in virtue of his rights or his ambition
with a personal interest, and not blindly behind an officer,
as in ordinary wars. For myself, I perhaps desire nothing,
but I fear much. In the war of to-day rests the liberty of
England, and, perhaps, that of every Englishman. How can you
expect that I, free in the position I have made for myself,
should go willingly and hold out my hands to the shackles of
a stranger? That is all Charles is to me. He has fought
battles here which he has lost, he is therefore a bad
captain; he has succeeded in no negotiation, he is therefore
a bad diplomatist; he has paraded his wants and his miseries
in all the courts of Europe, he has therefore a weak and
pusillanimous heart. Nothing noble, nothing great, nothing
strong has hitherto emanated from that genius which aspires
to govern one of the greatest kingdoms of the earth. I know
this Charles, then, under none but bad aspects, and you
would wish me, a man of good sense, to go and make myself
gratuitously the slave of a creature who is inferior to me
in military capacity, in politics, and in dignity! No,
monsieur. When some great and noble action shall have taught
me to value Charles, I shall perhaps recognize his rights to
a throne from which we have cast the father because he
wanted the virtues which his son has hitherto lacked, but,