I have sometimes thought that a symptom of the decay of true kinghood in
modern times is the love of monarchs for solitude.
In the early days
when monarchy was a real power to answer a real want, the king had no
need to hide himself. He was the strongest, the most knowing, the most
cunning. He moved among men their acknowledged chief. He guided and
controlled them. He never lost his dignity by daily use. He could steal
a horse like Diomede, he could mend his own breeches like Dagobert, and
never tarnish the lustre of the crown by it. But in later times the
throne has become an anachronism. The wearer of a crown has done nothing
to gain it but give himself the trouble to be born. He has no claim to
the reverence or respect of men. Yet he insists upon it, and receives
some show of it. His life is mainly passed in keeping up this battle for
a lost dignity and worship. He is given up to shams and ceremonies.
To a life like this there is something embarrassing in the movement and
activity of a great city. The king cannot join in it without a loss of
prestige. Being outside of it, he is vexed and humiliated by it. The
empty forms become nauseous in the midst of this honest and wholesome
reality of out-of-doors.
Hence the necessity of these quiet retreats in the forests, in the
water-guarded islands, in the cloud-girdled mountains.
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