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Take Monk's case. He commands the republican army. Charles II., having
been informed of his honesty, writes to him. Monk, who combines virtue
with tact, dissimulates at first, then suddenly at the head of his
troops dissolves the rebel parliament, and re-establishes the king on
the throne. Monk is created Duke of Albemarle, has the honour of having
saved society, becomes very rich, sheds a glory over his own time, is
created Knight of the Garter, and has the prospect of being buried in
Westminster Abbey. Such glory is the reward of British fidelity!
Lord Clancharlie could never rise to a sense of duty thus carried out.
He had the infatuation and obstinacy of an exile. He contented himself
with hollow phrases. He was tongue-tied by pride. The words conscience
and dignity are but words, after all. One must penetrate to the depths.
These depths Lord Clancharlie had not reached. His "eye was single," and
before committing an act he wished to observe it so closely as to be
able to judge it by more senses than one. Hence arose absurd disgust to
the facts examined. No man can be a statesman who gives way to such
overstrained delicacy. Excess of conscientiousness degenerates into
infirmity. Scruple is one-handed when a sceptre is to be seized, and a
eunuch when fortune is to be wedded. Distrust scruples; they drag you
too far. Unreasonable fidelity is like a ladder leading into a
cavern--one step down, another, then another, and there you are in the
dark. The clever reascend; fools remain in it. Conscience must not be
allowed to practise such austerity. If it be, it will fall until, from
transition to transition, it at length reaches the deep gloom of
political prudery. Then one is lost. Thus it was with Lord Clancharlie.
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