A Character of King Charles the Second by George Savile, Marquis of Halifax
A Character of King Charles the Second by George Savile, Marquis of Halifax
A Character differeth from a Picture only in this, every Part of it must be like, but it is not necessary that every Feature should be comprehended in it as in a Picture, only some of the most remarkable.
This Prince at his first entrance into the World had Adversity for his Introducer, which is generally thought to be no ill one, but in his case it proved so, and laid the foundation of most of those Misfortunes or Errors, that were the causes of the great Objections made to him.
The first Effect it had was in relation to his Religion.
The ill-bred familiarity of the Scotch Divines had given him a distaste of that part of the Protestant Religion. He was left then to the little Remnant of the Church of England in the Fauxbourg St. Germain; which made such a kind of figure, as might easily be turn'd in such a manner as to make him lose his veneration for it. In a refined Country where Religion appeared in Pomp and Splendor, the outward appearance of such unfashionable Men was made an Argument against their Religion; and a young Prince not averse to rallery, was the more susceptible of a contempt for it.
The Company he kept, the Men in his Pleasures, and the Arguments of State that he should not appear too much a Protestant, whilst he expected Assistance from a Popish Prince; all these, together with a habit encouraged by an Application to his Pleasures, did so loosen and untie him from his first Impressions, that I take it for granted, after the first Year or two, he was no more a Protestant. If you ask me what he was, my answer must be, that he was of the Religion of a young Prince in his warm Blood, whose Enquiries were more applied to find Arguments against believing, than to lay any settled Foundations for acknowledging Providence, Mysteries, &c. A General Creed, and no very long one, may be presumed to be the utmost Religion of one, whose Age and Inclination could not well spare any Thoughts that did not tend to his Pleasures.
In this kind of Indifference or Unthinkingness, which is too natural in the beginnings of Life to be heavily censured, I will suppose he might pass some considerable part of his Youth. I must presume too that no Occasions were lost, during that Time, to insinuate every thing to bend him towards Popery. Great Art without intermission against Youth and Easiness, which are seldom upon their guard, must have its Effect. A Man is to be admired if he resisteth, and therefore cannot reasonably be blamed if he yieldeth to them. When the critical Minute was, I'll not undertake to determine; but certainly the inward Conviction doth generally precede the outward Declarations: At what distances, dependeth upon Mens several Complexions and Circumstances; no stated Period can be fixed.
It will be said that he had not Religion enough to have Conviction; that is a vulgar Error. Conviction indeed is not a proper word but where a Man is convinced by Reason; but in the common acceptation, it is applied to those who cannot tell why they are so: If Men can be at least as positive in a Mistake as when they are in the right; they may be as clearly convinced when they do not know why, as when they do.
I must presume that no Man of the King's Age, and his Methods of Life, could possibly give a good reason for changing the Religion in which he was born, let it be what it will. But our Passions are much oftener convinced than our Reason. He had but little Reading, and that tending to his Pleasures more than to his Instruction. In the Library of a young Prince, the solemn Folios are not much rumpled, Books of a lighter Digestion have the Dog's Ears.
Some pretend to be very precise in the time of his Reconciling; The Cardinal de Retz, &c. I will not enter into it minutely, but whenever it was, it is observable that the Government of France did not think it adviseable to discover it openly; upon which such obvious Reflections may be made, that I will not mention them.
Such a Secret can never be put into a place which is so closely stopt, that there shall be no Chinks. Whispers went about, particular Men had Intimations: Cromwell had his Advertisements in other things, and this was as well worth his paying for. There was enough said of it to startle a great many, though not universally diffused; So much, that if the Government here, had not crumbled of itself, his Right alone, with that and other clogs upon it, would hardly have thrown it down. I conclude that when he came into England he was as certainly a Roman Catholick, as that he was a Man of Pleasure; both very consistent by visible Experience.
It is impertinent to give Reasons for Mens changing their Religion. None can give them but themselves, as every Man has quite a different way of arguing: A thing which may very well be accounted for. They are differing kinds of Wit, to be quick to find a Fault, and to be capable to find out a Truth: There must be industry in the last; the first requires only a lively heat, that catcheth hold of the weak side of any thing, but to choose the strong one is another Talent. The reason why Men of Wit are often the laziest in their Enquiries is, that their heat carrieth their Thoughts so fast, that they are apt to be tired, and they faint in the drudgery of a continued Application. Have not Men of great Wit in all times permitted their Understandings to give way to their first Impressions? It taketh off from the Diminution when a Man doth not mind a thing; and the King had then other Business: The inferior part of the Man was then in Possession, and the Faculties of the Brain, as to serious and painful Enquiries, were laid asleep at least, tho' not extinguished. Careless Men are most subject to Superstition. Those who do not study Reason enough to make it their Guide, have more Unevenness: As they have Neglects, so they have Starts and Frights; Dreams will serve the turn; Omens and Sicknesses have violent and sudden Effects upon them. Nor is the strength of an Argument so effectual from its intrinsick Force, as by its being well suited to the Temper of the Party.
The genteel part of the Catholick Religion might tempt a Prince that had more of the fine Gentleman than his governing Capacity required: and the exercise of Indulgence to Sinners being more frequent in it, than of inflicting Penance, might be some recommendation. Mistresses of that Faith are stronger Specificks in this case, than any that are in Physick.
The Roman Catholicks complained of his Breach of Promise to them very early.[1] There were broad peepings out, Glimpses so often repeated, that to discerning Eyes it was flaring: In the very first Year there were such Suspicions as produced melancholy shakings of the Head, which were very significant. His unwillingness to marry a Protestant was remarkable, though both the Catholick and the Christian Crown would have adopted her. Very early in his Youth, when any German Princess was proposed, he put off the discourse with Rallery. A thousand little Circumstances were a kind of accumulative Evidence, which in these Cases may be admitted.
Men that were earnest Protestants were under the sharpness of his Displeasure, expressed by Rallery, as well as by other ways. Men near him have made Discoveries from sudden breakings out in Discourse, &c. which shewed there was a Root. It was not the least skilful part of his concealing himself, to make the World think he leaned towards an Indifference in Religion.
He had Sicknesses before his Death, in which he did not trouble any Protestant Divines; those who saw him upon his Death-bed, saw a great deal.
As to his writing those Papers,[2] he might do it. Though neither his Temper nor Education made him very fit to be an Author, yet in this case, (a known Topick, so very often repeated) he might write it all himself, and yet not one word of it his own. That Church's Argument doth so agree with Men unwilling to take pains, the Temptation of putting an End to all the trouble of enquiring is so great, that it must be very strong reason that can resist: The King had only his meer natural Faculties, without any Acquisitions to improve them; so that it is no wonder, if an Argument which gave such Ease and Relief to his Mind, made such an Impression, that with thinking often of it, (as Men are apt to do of every thing they like) he might, by the Effect chiefly of his Memory, put together a few Lines with his own Hand, without any help at the time; in which there was nothing extraordinary, but that one so little inclined to write at all, should prevail with himself to do it with the Solemnity of a Casuist.
I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella. Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark. But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved. Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies. When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel. While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest. The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella. He ordered my father to punish me. I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth. That night, the love in my heart finally died. On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven. Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney. By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.
Camille Lewis was the forgotten daughter, the unloved wife, the woman discarded like yesterday's news. Betrayed by her husband, cast aside by her own family, and left for dead by the sister who stole everything, she vanished without a trace. But the weak, naive Camille died the night her car was forced off that bridge. A year later, she returns as Camille Kane, richer, colder, and more powerful than anyone could have imagined. Armed with wealth, intelligence, and a hunger for vengeance, she is no longer the woman they once trampled on. She is the storm that will tear their world apart. Her ex-husband begs for forgiveness. Her sister's perfect life crumbles. Her parents regret the daughter they cast aside. But Camille didn't come back for apologies, she came back to watch them burn. But as her enemies fall at her feet, one question remains: when the revenge is over, what's left? A mysterious trillionaire Alexander Pierce steps into her path, offering something she thought she lost forever, a future. But can a woman built on ashes learn to love again? She rose from the fire to destroy those who betrayed her. Now, she must decide if she'll rule alone... or let someone melt the ice in her heart.
The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack." Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard. The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn. "Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress.
After the divorce, she became the dream woman everyone longed for. James Ferguson saved Zelda Liamson and always did whatever she asked, making sure she had everything she could ever want. Zelda thought it was true love. After five years of marriage, she realized she was nothing more than his favourite pet, while he was her whole world. Then, the woman James truly loved came back, and Zelda demanded a divorce. James mocked her, saying, " You can't survive without me. What will you do without the Ferguson's name? " But Zelda did run away and never looked back, receiving marriage proposals every day. James lost his mind and returned, begging Zelda, "Please, come back to me. Give me another chance." His eyes were full of love and desperation.
Five years into marriage, Hannah caught Vincent slipping into a hotel with his first love-the woman he never forgot. The sight told her everything-he'd married her only for her resemblance to his true love. Hurt, she conned him into signing the divorce papers and, a month later, said, "Vincent, I'm done. May you two stay chained together." Red-eyed, he hugged her. "You came after me first." Her firm soon rocketed toward an IPO. At the launch, Vincent watched her clasp another man's hand. In the fitting room, he cornered her, tears burning in his eyes. "Is he really that perfect? Hannah, I'm sorry... marry me again."
Katherine endured mistreatment for three years as Julian's wife, sacrificing everything for love. But when his sister drugged her and sent her to a client's bed, Katherine finally snapped. She left behind divorce papers, walking away from the toxic marriage. Years later, Katherine returned as a radiant star with the world at her feet. When Julian saw her again, he couldn't ignore the uncanny resemblance between her new love and himself. He had been nothing but a stand-in for someone else. Desperate to make sense of the past, Julian pressed Katherine, asking, "Did I mean nothing to you?"
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