Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

fERMS,S2 PER ANNUM IN ADVANCE. ‘ SECOND YEAR, NO. 7, .WHOLE NO. 57. b wrani Mai mm&L,—mswm to unmm, mmu mb mmm. mb to mmmi mmmmwL 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-