In 1660 the whole nation was mad with loyal excitement.  If we had to choose a lot from among all the multitude of those which men have drawn since the beginning of the world, we would select that of Charles the Second on the day of his return.  He was in a situation in which the dictates of ambition coincided with those of benevolence, in which it was easier to be virtuous than to be wicked, to be loved than to be hated, to earn pure and imperishable glory than to become infamous.  For once the road of goodness was a smooth descent.  He had done nothing to merit the affection of his people.  But they had paid him in advance without measure.  Elizabeth, after the destruction of the Armada, or after the abolition of monopolies, had not excited a thousandth part of the enthusiasm with which the young exile was welcomed home.  He was not, like Lewis the Eighteenth, imposed on his subjects by foreign conquerors; nor did he, like Lewis the Eighteenth, come back to a country which had undergone a complete change.  The House of Bourbon was placed in Paris as a trophy of the victory of the European confederation.  The return of the ancient princes was inseparably associated in the public mind with the cession of extensive provinces, with the payment of an immense tribute, with the devastation of flourishing departments, with the occupation of the kingdom by hostile armies, with the emptiness of those niches in which the gods of Athens and Rome had been the objects of a new idolatry, with the nakedness of those walls on which the Transfiguration had shone with light as glorious as that which overhung Mount Tabor.  They came back to a land in which they could recognise nothing.  The seven sleepers of the legend, who closed their eyes when the Pagans were persecuting the Christians, and woke when the Christians were persecuting each other, did not find themselves in a world more completely new to them.  Twenty years had done the work of twenty generations.  Events had come thick.  Men had lived fast.  The old institutions and the old feelings had been torn up by the roots.  There was a new Church founded and endowed by the usurper; a new nobility whose titles were taken from fields of battle, disastrous to the ancient line; a new chivalry whose crosses had been won by exploits which had seemed likely to make the banishment of the emigrants perpetual.  A new code was administered by a new magistracy.  A new body of proprietors held the soil by a new tenure.  The most ancient local distinctions had been effaced.  The most familiar names had become obsolete.  There was no longer a Normandy or a Burgundy, a Brittany and a Guienne.  The France of Lewis the Sixteenth had passed away as completely as one of the Preadamite worlds.  Its fossil remains might now and then excite curiosity.  But it was as impossible to put life into the old institutions as to animate the skeletons which are imbedded in the depths of primeval strata.  It was as absurd to think that France