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For Richards’ Weekly Gazelle.
A GEORGIA HEARTH.
BY IIENRY R. JACKSON, ESQ.
Mr. Editor:
The XiTtiunal Intelligencer, in a complimentary
notice of your paper, says : “ The literary and
moral tone of Richards’ Gazette are both of a
high order, and wc arc not acquainted with a
weekly Journal, in any part of the country,
which habitually imparts more valuable infor
nnaiion on all those subjects which hallow the
hearth-stone of home.” I wonder if your wor
thy contemporary has a distin'et idea of a Geor
gia hearthstone ? Not unless ho has Seen one,
certainly ; and as he awards to your columns
the honor of imparting information upon such
subjects as hallow it, I have supposed that the
following Ode might not be unacceptable:
TO A GEORGIA HEARTH.
When the hoar-frost whitens o’er the plain,
And there’s ice in the oreek below,
And the fields are stript of the rustling grain,
And gone is the cotton’s snow,
And the Winter’s blast
Is whi.stfing past,
And chilly bright
The night—
Oh! the dearest spot to me on earth
Is a broad-back’d Georgia hearth !
An open hearth, a generous hearth,
Where the flanks go crackling gaily forth—
Oh ! the (Rarest spot to me on earth
Is a Georgia hearth !
('boson nitn.? of the bountiful—
Os the penial ami the bright,
All iron-ribbed must the bosom bo
‘l’hat expands not in thy light!
As the flames arise
Os the sacrifice,
Os the offering free,
On thee—
(>h ! the brightest spot on all the earth
Is a broad-baek'd Oeorgia hearth !
An open hearth, &c.
Then cast the pine-knot on the fire!
How the IJazc iny spirit glads!
And gather round, ye shouting boys—
I love you well, my lads !
Aud let your song
lie loud and long.
And your laughter bo
As free
As the glorious (lame that blazes forth
From our broad-back'd Oeorgia hearth !
Our open hearth, &c.
For a generous fate is our’s, my boys,
By a generous blaze like this ;
And we envy not the city “ blado”
A selfish lot like his !
Let him stew in state
Beside his grate,
Or bake above
His stove!—
lie our's the warmth, and our’s the mirth
Os a broad-back'd Georgia hearth !
An open hearth, &c.
The ly|K> of the hospitality
W hich glows in our fathers’ souls;
As generous, pure, and bright it is, *
As the flame that upward rolls:
Os the joy they feel
Iu their country's weal,
And the glance on her too
Bestow—
I here is fire in both which blazes forth
hike the flame of a Georgia hearth 1
An open hearth, &c.
J lien we'll gladly quaff to the Georgia hearth,
In Georgia's nectar pure ;
Ay 1 bring it forth in a Georgia eup—
Let the gourd run dripping o’or!
Alay our glorious State
Become as great,
And as bright in name
And fame,
And diffuse her light as widely forth
As the blaze of her broad-back’d hearth !
Her open hearth, her generous hearth,
Where the flames go flashing gaily forth —
And diffuse her light o’er a grateful earth,
Bike a Georgia hearth !
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
TO .
HEARING HER SING IN PUBLIC.
A blessing on thy fair young fnco !
Where joy and hope, in mirthful play,
Breathe o’er each opening charm a grace.
Soft as the first bright blush of day.
A blessing on thy innocent heart— •
I’ure as an angel’s spotloss wings,
” here tho warm founts of feeling start,
And hosts of rapt imaginings.
A blessing on thy happy life—
Roving and free, but guileless still—
Whose moveless calm, no wave of strife
Hath rallied with a bode of ill.
A blessing on thy tuneful voice—
Gh ! how the liquid numbers flow!
Thy very spirit Is roused forth
In those wild notes, so rich and low.
Ah ! incarnation of bright youth,
its untaught faith and holy love.
Beside thee, stands the seraph, Truth,
And the good Father smiles above.
The last tone of thy latest song,
Hath gently died on Echo’s breast,
And from thee speed th’ unthinking throng,
To seek their pleasures, or their rost.
But still 1 linger to behold
Once more thine eyes, so soft, yet wild —
Thy sweet smile and thy locks of gold,
Thou beautiful and sinless child.
And I will breathe this night a prayer—
A prayer “of earnest heart”—for thee,
That thy young soul, so bright and fair,
May ever bright and spotless be.
Then fare thee well, and if we meet,
My lovely girl, no more in Time—
The hours pass by with hurrjing feet,
That bear us to the spirit-clime.
And 1 shall know tby thrilling tone,
Even amid the choir divine,
Ami love thy spirit—for my own
Will then be free from guilt as thine.
P. H. FI.
Charleston, April, 1849.
If 1 [till
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
THE
SORROW OF THE ROSE.
BV MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL.
“ A white rose, delicate,
On a tall bougli and straight,
Early comer—April comer,
A ever waiting for the Summer.”
Miss Barret.
“ Say not, thou who art bereaved, * There is
no sorrow like unto mine.’ ” —Flavel..
The Rose was certainly the most queen
ly flower in all that spacious garden.
Some say queenly, when the word they
should use is haughty;. but our Rose had
nothing of haughtiness in the serenely
proud air with which she received the
homage of the dew, the sunshine, and the
evening wind. These were her most loy
al subjects; the gay humming-bird was
certainly very inconstant in his allegiance,
for often he would be found fluttering
about the Campanula and the pale Lilies,
when he should have been bending over
her.
The Rose nodded carelessly, when the
neighboring Tulip whispered this, for she
knew the Tulip was p. sad gossip, and
more than one suspected she was black at
the heart, from envy of her royal friend.
Little did the Rose care at the desertion
of the bright-winged bird. Did not the
dew pay a fond tribute to her beauty every
evening, and when the morning sun crept
with red rays to her very heart, the pearly
drops were changed to brilliants, that glit
tered and flashed amid the pure petals she
unfolded to its kiss.
“ Our Queen’s tiara is renewed every
morning,” whispered the amiable Mignion
ette. Mignionette found something to love
and to admire in every one, down to the
poor Bird Weed, that crept humbly near
her.
“A thousand pities that more Mignion
etle had not been scattered through the
garden,” said the Marigold—a nice, stout,
motherly friend of Mignionette's, who was
always nursing the fragile Sensitive plant,
over whom she declared Monk's Hood
held a baleful influence.
Marigold often told her quiet friend
Sage, that she believed the Sensitive Plant
would be strong and healthy enough, if
once removed from the shadow of that
cold, dark neighbor.
So much for the gossip of the garden,
which now and then went on pretty brisk
ly, much to the annoyance of the Lupine,
who liked to be quiet, and who bore a ha
tred to Narcissus bn that very account.—
Narcissus was always boasting about him
self, and repealing the fine things he had
heard said in his praise.
The Nettle was once so bitter as to say
he believed Narcissus imagined half of
what he was so constantly repeating.
Still, as we have said, all this gossip af
fected the Rose very little. True, she was
grieved that any one should be pained by
it; and she knew that, being one of the
most conspicuous flowers, she often had
her share of ill-natured remark. Calm in
difference was the best shield after all.—
She knew the purity of her petals was
quite unimpeachable, and, let them say
what they would, could not thus he soiled
So she smiled serenely above the discord,
and grew every day more beautiful and
well-beloved.
Ay, and happier, for close to the soft
moss that enveloped her stem, she nursed
two bright young buds, that bade fair to
be in their turn beautiful and pure.
How caressingly she bent over them!—
It was really delightful to see her watch
and note the faintest shadow of a change,
that crept over their young lives. Soon
their white petals would burst through
their emefald clasping, and then they would
unfold so quickly, to be her friends, her
companions. One developed more rapidly
than the other; it was kissed oftener by
the morning sunbeams; and all know there
is much of life in those fresh, fraternal
kisses. The rough moss and delicate em
erald leaves, gave way before them. Yes,
it was true, the bud was unfolding; there
were the waxen petals peeping forth; one
could almost see the delicate blush that
deepened upon them at the praises of the
surrounding blossoms.
All agreed it was the most beautiful hud
of the season.
And the Rose—oh ! she had quite for
gotten hersell in her love and admiration
of the fiagile nursling that clung so fond
ly to her stem ! She was never weary of
bending down to shade it from the noon
tide heat, and she shared with it the eve
ning tribute of dew. Its younger sister
was not forgotten—hut her quieter loveli
ness was naught, when compared with the
peerless favorite ! The Rose forgot that
her own beauty was waning—that she no
longer possessed the grace of youth, and
was slowly withering in her prime.
She lived again ; she would live on, in
this, her beautiful bud.
We had forgotten to tell you, that a tri
bute was required at stated seasons, by
the owner of the garden. It was cared
for, and nurtured by her kindness, and the
only return she required was, that the
flowers should thrive, and should be wil
ling, at her wish, to yield up some from
among their number to her peculiar con
trol. No one knew what afterwards be
came of them, as the blossoms never re
turned. They had questioned many things,
but no certain reply had ever been given
them, though the zephyrs and the moon
light both assured them that it was an hon
or to be so chosen ; and a tradition existed
among them that those who left their num
ber were far happier than when in their
midst. Yet, after all, they shrunk from
the change : it was so uncertain, they said,
and in the garden there were many com
panions ami friends—much to make them
j happy, even if they were sometimes expos
ed to mildew, and the attacks of intrusive
insects.
Now and then you would find a blossom
not only willing, but indeed eager, to be
chosen. Some because they were weary
of the inactive life they led, or because
they knew a worm was gnawing at their
root, that would destroy them, if they were
not speedily rescued. But’ others there
were, perfect still in their young freshness,
and fearing neither worm nor blight, who
bowed in quiet peace to the summons, be
cause they were grateful for the kindness
that had so long nurtured them, and were
ready to yield their first fragrance, ay, and
even their lives, if required, as a small re
turn for such benevolent guardianship.
A gentle hand hovered over the Rose ;
a quick, wild pang, that curdled her very
life, and she saw her beautiful b id was no
longer near her—that pang was in token
of their seperation.
Never was there such wild sorrow. The
Rose rocked to and fro, in deepest grief.—
A low wailing fell heavily upon the air,
unheard by any save those friends who
strove in vain to comfort her. One by
one, her petals drooped heavily; a cold
dampness settled upon every leaf. In vain
came the dew, with soft and healing min
istry; the light kiss of the sunshine brought
no life ; the whisper of the evening wind
failed to rouse her from the fearful stupor.
The remaining bud blossomed to rare
loveliness unheeded. It was paler than
the last one, as if in sorrow at its depar
ture ; but there was a hue of more exqui
site purity about it, that atoned for the
absence of that crimson flush, which had
rendered the other so proudly fair. But
the Rose could not see its beauty—blinded
by the tears she had shed for her first dar
ling.
The wailing of the Rose was unheard—
nay, seemingly unheard. There was a soft
tranquil evening, when the whole garden
was bathed in the smile of the calm moon
light. The flowers all loved the moon
light; it came to them so peacefully
Now and then, a leaf or a sprig fluttered
tremulously, but all else was hushed in a
perfect rest.
Still the Rose wailed on.
The moonlight but reminded her of the
many hours she had watched the lost one
by its mild light. The grief she cherished
had a strange effect: all that had ever been
beautiful in life before, now grew dark, in
proportion to its former brightness. Some
mournful reminiscence clung to the fairest
scene, the softest perfume. So she closed
her heart to all healing influences, and
“refused to be comforted.”
A softer whisper than that of the night
wind startled her. It was a voice .he had
never heard before—one so thrillingly low
and sweet, that she hushed her morning to
listen.
“What! murmuring still!” said thivoice.
“Wrapt even until now in selfish, inholy
repining! thou once standing sereiely in
a pure content! Rose, Rose, thy purity
waneth with every lament; thy teas have
become as a mildew and a canker to thine
’ own breast, and to those who have ever
looked up to thee for shelter! See, their
dropping has paled the Lily at thy feet,
and the heavy-lidded Violets sorrow with
and for thee. Look around—rouse thee,
selfish one, and mark those who have been
like thee bereaved. The Eglantine still
sends forth a grateful perfume, though its
richest sprigs have been removed. The
Harebell bent patiently, as its fairest blos
soms were taken; and the blue Hyacinth
yields not to despair, though its last clus
ter of pale blossoms was bound with the
bud which thou mournest. It was not
thine only one! But I pity thee, child of
my fairest summer hours, and I am per
mitted to bring before thee two scenes, that
thou mayest draw from them consolation
and hope. Mark them well, and hush the
voice of wailing that drew me hither.”
So the voice died silently, and the Rose
hnwed in very tlumHiaiion t’i kqurit, for
she saw that she had not suffered atone. —
Then a deep sleep came wafted on the
breath of the poppy, that floated abort her,
and the garden faded from view.
There were many lights flashing tlrough
the brilliant rooms upon which she boked.
Soft music, such as she had never dreamed
of, stole out to meet her. Laughter, mu
sical, silver laughter, mingled with the
strain, and bright eyes flashed, and red lips
smiled, in the crowd gathered near the
mistress of the mansion. Oh! how very
beautiful was that stately woman, with a
cloud of white drapery floating about her,
and her dark hair banded in rich braids,
unornamented but by a single rote —nay,
a half-opened bud. The Rose saw, with
a thrill of delight, that her dading had
been thus preferred; and then he scene
faded.
A damp, chill wind, seemed to destroy
her with its breath. A hoarse murmur
ran through the dark heavens, that scowl
ed angrily over the garden: but her hud
was returned to her.and oh! with its love
liness increased teifold; and in that joy,
all else was forjotten. Then the wild
wind severed then again ; they were lorn
rudely asunder, and the bud was lying at
her feet, crushes to the ground, withering,
dying, unhonoied and uncared-for. The
dark earth stains had destroyed its beauty
—and so it perished.
“ Which wouldst thou have chosen ?”
whispered the voice once more.
And the Rose replied humbly to the
Flower Spirit—for now she knew with
whom she held converse—’and said :
“I am content. Thou art wiser than I.”
And there was much to comfort the
Rose, now that the voice of affection was
heeded. The beautiful bud still remain
ing—the dew, the sunlight, and the soft
wind that came to her as of old—and,
above all, she remembered that through her
sorrow she had first known the voice of
the gentle Spirit, who watched above them
all, and wonld not “ grieve or afflict them
willingly.”
BEAUTY.
No woman can he handsome by the force
of feature aloie, any more than she can he
witty only by the help of speech. Nor is
she capable of being beautiful who is not
incapable of being false. It is, methinks a
low and degrading idea of that sex, which
was created to ref.ne the joys and soften
the cares of humanity, by the most agreea
ble participation, to consider them merely
as objects of sight. She who takes no care
to add to the natural graces of her person
any excelling qualities, may be allowed
still to amuse as a picture, hut not to tri
umph as a beauty. Adam, in relating to
the angel the impressions he felt upon see
ing Eve, at her first creation, does not rep
resent her as a Grecian Venus, by her
shape or features, but by the lustre of her
mind, which shone in them and gave them
the power of charming.— Steele.
-/lids lae&ifflair.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
RELIGIOUS INFLUENCE OF SCI
ENTIFIC STUDIES.
Amongst all Christian, and most heathen
nations, this life is regarded as a kind of
embryonic state, in which the soul is de
veloped, disciplined, and prepared for a
higher and more perfect stale of existence.
What form we shall assume, cannot be as
certained ; and where we shall live, can
not be discovered : but, since “all the best
hopes and encouragements which are grant
ed to our nature must be consistent with
truth,” we feel assured that our legitimate
employment, in a future state, will be the
contemplation of the wisdom, power and
goodness of the Creator, as displayed in all
His works. And what is best calculated
to prepare the soul for such glorious occu
pations! Is it the arcnmillalion nf 1
the love of which enkindles every wicked
passion-fevers the nearest and dearest
ties—shuts the doors of heaven, and opens
wide the gates*of hell. Is it the gratifica
tion of ambition I which raises man to a
giddy eminence on earth, that he may af
terward sink to a more infernal depth in
perdition! Surely, these cannot be the
true occupations of a being created after
the image of God. It is true, man must la
bor to live; but, ought he to live chiefly
that he might accumulate money I Does
any one live to enjoy the luxury of sleep !
Do we not, on the contrary, sleep, only
that we may live! This reasoning ap
pears almost foolish and unnecessary, so
readily does the mind assent to the conclu
sion ; and yet the great and primary object
of most men is to amass a fortune, and
many do not blush to own it. Fortunate
ly. however, there is quite a large class in
.to o.'vllGpf! world, who. regarding: the la
bor requisite for sustaining life as a neces
sary evil inflicted on our race, yej rise in
their hopes and aspirations above these
vain things, and follow, to some extent,
those immortal impulses which “ raise
mortals to the skies.” They often gaze in
rapture on the gorgeous pictures and mag
nificent creations of the I’oet; their souls
are moved with sympathy and love, as he
describes the agony and sutfering of au in
nocent and lovely maiden, cruelly and i
basely wronged—or, with instinctive hor
ror and dislike, as he portrays the demon’s
dark, inhuman thoughts, and darker deeds.
They follow, with unfeigned delight, the
Historian, as he traces out the history of
nations and ot States; and mark, with just!
and noble pride, the advancement of ourj
race. They behold the finest specimens of j
Architecture, Painting and Sculpture, with
a degree of pleasure, which might almost
be termed ecstacy; and a visit to Italy and
Greece is considered as the very consum-,
mation of earthly happiness. By such \
emotions, frequently excited, their souls
are elevated above that utilitarian atmos- ;
phere, which opposes the upward temlen-!
cies of the spirit, and extinguishes the lit- j
tie flame of heavenly fire which flickers in
the bosom of fallen man.
But there are other objects, the contem
plation of which is calculated to raise the
soul still higher and higher, and stampstill
more deeply upon it the image of its Crea
tor. “Os the Deity, infinite as he is, and
dwelling in infinity, we finite beings can
form no conception. What little, there
fore, we can know of him, we know near
ly altogether from his works; consequent
ly, he who has the most studied his works,
will be the best qualified—nay, will be
alone qualified to form an adequate con
ception of him. Thus, to measure, to
weigh, to estimate, to deduce, may be con
sidered as the noblest privileges enjoyed
by man ; for only by these operations is
he enabled to follow the footsteps of his
Maker, and to trace his great designs. In
structed by these, he sees and appreciates
the wisdom and the power, the justice and
the benevolence, that reign throughout
creation : he no. longer gazes on the sky
with stupid wonder, nor dreads the thun
derbolt as manifesting the wrath of a
vengeful Deity.”
“The minister and interpreter of na
ture,” he ceases to be the subject of vain
superstitions, and is transformed into a
true and sincere worshipper of the great
“First Cause,” whose glorious attributes
are always present to his mind, in the har
mony and order which pervade the uni
verse. He contemplates objects which are
as far more perfect than the works of man,
as the infinite God is exalted above the fin
ite mind. And, to understand the divine
plans—to learn perfectly the laws which
produce those innumerable and varied phe
nomena, which constantly surround him,
necessarily calls into play the highest fac
ulties of the mind. It is true, that Imagi-
nation and Fancy are never thereby exci
ted, because they had no part in the work
| of creation; neither can they be ranked
among the noblest faculties, since they ate
not attributes of the divine mind, and are
necessarily inconsistent with our ideas of
perfection. But reason, judgment, com
parison and observation, are taxed to the
very utmost, to penetrate that veil which
the complexity and multiplicity of phe
nomena have cast around the machinery of
nature. All these phenomena are inti
mately associated and mutually dependent
on each other: hence, to understand any
of them, requires a certain amount of know
ledge concerning the whole ; and how en
larged and comprehensive must that intel
lect be, which, like Newton's, Laplace's,
or Cuvier’s, can appreciate the varied rela
tions and dependencies of the various por
tions of the physical universe. The mind,
therefore, which follows most rlnaoly ihp
operations of the divine mind, and which
passes through the same exercises of
thought as it did in the work of creation,
must, necessarily, approximate most nearly
the Creator in its very nature: notonly so,
but these very studies here lead it pn di
rectly to the contemplation of the divine
character itself, which revelation informs
us is to be the eternal employment of the
soul hereafter. This thought is so clear
ly and happily expressed by adistinguished
philosopher of the present day, that I can
not refrain from introducing it here. Hav
ing historically surveyed most of the in
ductive sciences, and being deeply im
pressed with the strong tendency they pos
sess of directing the mind from the created
to the Creator, he doses his review of
Physiology with the following beautiful
thoughts:—“ The real philosopher, who
knows that all the kinds of truth are inti
mately connected, and that all the best
hojies and encouragements which are grant
ed to our nature must be consistent with
truth, will be satisfied and confirmed, rath
er than surprised and disturbed, thus to
find the natural sciences leading him to
the borders of a higher region. To him, it
will appear natural and reasonable, that,
after journeying so long among the beauti
ful and orderly laws, by which the uni
verse is governed, we find ourselves at last
approaching to a source of order and law,
and intellectual beauty; that, after ventu
ring into the region of life, and feeling, and
will, we are led to believe the fountain of
life and will not to be itself unintelligent
and dead, but to be a living mind—a power
which aims as well as acts. To us, this
doctrine appears like the natural cadence
of the tones to which we have so long been
listening; and, without such a final strain,
our ears .would have been left craving and
unsatisfied. We have been lingering long
amid the harmonies of law and symmetry,
constancy and development; and these
notes, though their music was sweet and i
deep, must too often have sounded to the I
ear of our moral nature as vague and un
meaning melodies, floating in the air around !
us, but conveying no definite thought, !
moulded into no intelligible announcement, i
But one passage, which we have again
and again caught by snatches, though
sometimes interrupted and lost, at last
swells in our cars full, clear and decided;
and the religious “Hymn in honor of the
Creator,” to which Galen so gladly lent
his voice, and in which the best Physiolo
gists of succeeding times have ever joined,
is swelled into richer and deeper harmony
by the greatest Philosophers of these later
days, and will roll on, hereafter, the ‘per
petual song of the temple of Science.’ ”
Srtaim*.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
HISTORY OF ENGLAND.*
BY HON B. F. P<7rtEß.
The History of the English People is the
History of the ancestry of the American
People, and very much of the rise and pro
gress of American Liberty. It is a Histo
ry, also, of much crime, national and indi
vidual, and also of much that is glorious in
the records of civilization. The period of
history, chosen by Macaulay for a subject,
is one full of wonderful actions; and the
remarkable felicity of his diction, and the
novelty in his mode of treating the subject,
have made this work one of intense inter
est to the public. By taking up rather the
history, private and public, of individuals,
than of the na ion, as such, and giving a
detailed account of the manners and cus
toms of men, and of the various opinions
which regulated and controlled the legisla
* The History of England, from the accession
of James the Second, by T. B. Macaulay. Vol.
1. Harper & Brothers. 1849.
five action, lie has furnished a mass of in
formation, which had long lain buried in
diaries, biographies, and private manu
scripts, and which has given anew im
pulse to the study of History.
The work begins with the accession of
James the Second, though it is preceded by
lan introduction, which graphically traces
an outline of public affairs, from the con
quest of the Romans to the death of Charles
the Second. In this, we have a brilliant
view, in perspective, of the state of parties,
Whig and Tory—the rise of the Church—
the opposition between the various sects—
the commercial, artistical, and domestic
progress of the people—and the gradual
rise of the power of the nation with the
gradual depression of religious prejudices
and of political intolerance.
Os all the transactions recorded of ty
rants, it is questionable if any can be found,
as a whole, mew* man muse qts
played in the life of James the Second;
and yet, amidst the dark and terrible enor
mities of his reign, there is to be seen the
spirit of reformation silently advancing, at
a moment when least expected, to over
throw the power of a race of monarchs,
long beloved, and to drive them and their
families from their hereditary thrones for
ever.
We think we know the state of public
feeling in this country, when weassert that
the sympathies of the masses have always
been with the race of Stuarts. There is,
in the history of that race, and of their
country, a romantic interest which has
never yet gathered around the rough, sul
len Hanoverians Besides this, isolated
facts in the tyrannies of the last of them,
have been kept concealed from the great
majority of people, while every incident of
their misfortunes has been of a kind to
awaken the most dormant feelings of the
heart, and to excite compassion. The re
pulsion of Charles tho J 'imt from a throne
recognized as legitimate—his cruel and un
lawful death—the sordid and despotic
character of his successor, Cromwell—the
vile attempts of this bad-hearted hypocrite
to assassinate the children of the unfortu
nate Charles—their wanderings and trials,
while outcasts from their country; and,
last, the unfeeling and base conduct of the
Government and of James, towards the un
fortunate Monmouth; ail contributed to
impress the public mind with favorable
sentiments towards the Stuart family, with
the exception of James, and with feelings
of detestation towards their oppressors.
In the character of Charles the Second,
there seems to have been much for com
mendation. It cannot be denied that he
possessed a heart of very great benevo
lence ; and if any one cause, more than
any other, can be assigned why, with so
much love on the part of the English pco
pie towards him, the state of that nation
was so iinprosperous, it may be said to be
his want of business habits. Historians
trace the calamities which befel his suc
cessor to his own profligacy, and the indul
gence of unworthy favorites. We venture
the assertion that, if Charles had provided
for the security of private property more
effectually, the cry of favoritism and of
concubinage would never have been raised
against him. But his want of attention to
the ordinary and best work of a Govern
ment, the providing for the great body of
the people, by bringing taxation to the low
est point, by encouraging permanence, by
promoting manufactures, and extending
commerce, was the great fault of his reign,
and, perhaps, one of his worst sins as a
King. To attribute the disaster? which be
fel his family to the causes usually as
signed, would raise the presumption that,
of all Kings, he was the only one guilty ;
and yet, where is a monarch, from Solo
mon down, who has failed to keep concu
bines, and support favorites 1
But, on any supposition, it would have
betn too much to expect of Charles, under
the circumstances of the restoration, a dif
ferent state of things than what existed.
When he was recalled, the whole nation
shifted from the extreme of democracy, of
the vilest kind, to the extreme of show, and
ol loyalty to Kings. The deceitful cant of
Cromwell, while he himself was indulging
in the trappings and parade of royalty to a
most absurd extent, and with singular vio
lation of the principles upon which he ba
sed his protectorship, hail made the nation
as plain as shaven crowns and neutral col
ors could make them. This was the pride
of round-headism. But, when Charles re
turned, the pride of Cavaliers took its place;
and, with the exception of a few, who
withdrew, murmuring to their conventi
cles, the whole people became excited to
enthusiasm with the tinsel of coronations,
and processions, and pleasure-parties, un
til extravagance became the ruling spirit,
which swallowed up all thought of the fu-
