Temporal Power | Page 3

as possible to those whose duty it would be to arrange them for the Royal pleasure. His work done, he walked quickly, yet with a certain humble stealthiness,--thus admitting his consciousness of that greater presence than his own,-- down a broad garden walk beyond the terrace towards a private entrance to the palace, and there disappeared.
The King was left alone,--or apparently so, for to speak truly, he was never alone. An equerry, a page-in-waiting,--or what was still more commonplace as well as ominous, a detective,--lurked about him, ever near, ever ready to spring on any unknown intruder, or to answer his slightest call.
But to the limited extent of the solitude allowed to kings, this man was alone,--alone for a brief space to consider, as he had informed his secretary, certain documents awaiting his particular and private perusal.
The marble pavilion in which he sat had been built by his father, the late King, for his own pleasure, when pleasure was more possible than it is now. Its slender Ionic columns, its sculptured friezes, its painted ceilings, all expressed a gaiety, grace and beauty gone from the world, perchance for ever. Open on three sides to the living picture of the ocean, crimson and white roses clambered about it, and tall plume-like mimosa shook fragrance from its golden blossoms down every breath of wind. The costly table on which this particular Majesty of a nation occasionally wrote his letters, would, if sold, have kept a little town in food for a year,--the rich furs at his feet would have bought bread for hundreds of starving families,--and every delicious rose that nodded its dainty head towards him with the breeze would have given an hour's joy to a sick child. Socialists say this kind of thing with wildly eloquent fervour, and blame all kings in passionate rhodomontade for the tables, the furs and the roses,--but they forget-- it is not the sad and weary kings who care for these or any luxuries,-- they would be far happier without them. It is the People who insist on having kings that should be blamed,--not the monarchs themselves. A king is merely the people's Prisoner of State,--they chain him to a throne,--they make him clothe himself in sundry fantastic forms of attire and exhibit his person thus decked out, for their pleasure,-- they calculate, often with greed and grudging, how much it will cost to feed him and keep him in proper state on the national premises, that they may use him at their will,--but they seldom or never seem to remember the fact that there is a Man behind the King!
It is not easy to govern nowadays, since there is no real autocracy, and no strong soul likely to create one. But the original idea of sovereignty was grand and wise;--the strongest man and bravest, raised aloft on shields and bucklers with warrior cries of approval from the people who voluntarily chose him as their leader in battle,--their utmost Head of affairs. Progress has demolished this ideal, with many others equally fine and inspiring; and now all kings are so, by right of descent merely. Whether they be infirm or palsied, weak or wise, sane or crazed, still are they as of old elected; only no more as the Strongest, but simply as the Sign-posts of a traditional bygone authority. This King however, here written of, was not deficient in either mental or physical attributes. His outward look and bearing betokened him as far more fit to be lifted in triumph on the shoulders of his battle-heroes, a real and visible Man, than to play a more or less cautiously inactive part in the modern dumb-show of Royalty. Well- built and muscular, with a compact head regally poised on broad shoulders, and finely formed features which indicated in their firm modelling strong characteristics of pride, indomitable resolution and courage, he had an air of rare and reposeful dignity which made him much more impressive as a personality than many of his fellow- sovereigns. His expression was neither foolish nor sensual,--his clear dark grey eyes were sane and steady in their regard and had no tricks of shiftiness. As an ordinary man of the people his appearance would have been distinctive,--as a King, it was remarkable.
He had of course been called handsome in his childhood,--what heir to a Throne ever lived that was not beautiful, to his nurse at least?--and in his early youth he had been grossly flattered for his cleverness as well as his good looks. Every small attempt at witticism,--every poor joke he could invent, adapt or repeat, was laughed at approvingly in a chorus of admiration by smirking human creatures, male and female, who bowed and bobbed up and down before the lad like strange dolphins disporting themselves on dry land. Whereat