Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 002.djvu/713
Society of Dilettanti, and admitted by acclamation into that enlightened body. The evenings which he spent at their meetings, in Young's Tavern, High Street, were often mentioned by him as among the most radiant oases in the desert of his existence. He composed a beautiful ode to the keeper of the tavern where they assemble, of which we cannot at present quote more than the three opening stanzas.
And Ministers to Fortune's hall;
For Indians Oman's claret flow,
In John M'Phails let lawyers crow,
These places seem to me so so,
I love Bill Young's above them all.
Hast thou in Morgan's whim;
I mean Ben Waters, charming Ben,
Simplest and stupidest of men;
I take a tankard now and then,
And smoke a pipe with him.
Between you oft my fancy wavers;
Thou, Bill, excell'st in sheepshead broth;
Thy porter-mugs are crowned with froth;
At Young's I listen, nothing loth,
To my dear Dilettanti shavers.
O scene of merriment and havers,
Of good rum-punch, and puns, and clavers,
And warbling sweet Elysian quavers!—
Who loves not Young's must be a Goth.
(To be continued.)
TIME'S MAGIC LANTHERN.
[This is to be a series of dialogues, in which we propose to introduce remarkable persons of all ages and countries. and countries. As our sketches will "come like shadows, so depart," we have named it Time's Magic Lanthern, and have actually got some part of the exhibition already executed, and ready to push forward as occasion requires. Remarkable persons are of various descriptions, and we do not propose, like Fontenelle, to seek them in the Elysian fields, but to shew them off in as dramatic a style as possible, engaged in their characteristic employments, and actuated by the passions of living men.]
No I.
Machiavel's Death-Bed.
Machiavel. Come hither, good woman, and shift my pillow, for my head throbs painfully, and my thoughts hurry backwards and forwards in such clouds that I can find no rest. There now—thank you. Be kind to a dying man, for your heart still remains such as it came from the gentle hands of Nature, and has never been seared by———
Attendant. The tears come into his eyes. Good Signor, compose yourself, and all will go well.
Mach. No, no! The inevitable moment is drawing near, when my spirit must take wing to another world, where its subtlety will be of no avail. Farewell to the kingdoms of the earth! Farewell to cabinets and to cunning! Machiavel is dying, poor and neglected; but he has bequeathed to mankind a legacy, which is already in the hands of their princes, and for which he prays God to forgive him if there is mischief in it. Mischief!—Can mischief be taught among the seed of the serpent? Alas! it springs indigenous in every bad heart; and if I have written the natural history of the hemlock, it will serve to instruct the physician as well as the poisoner.
Atten. Let me beseech you to remain calm, and not to irritate your mind with these thoughts at present. The best you can do is to sleep.
Mach. If there was such a thing as permanent sleep, you would perhaps be right. Repose, darkness, vacuity, negation of every sort,—and yet something will not allow one to believe it possible.
Atten. Do not tempt Heaven by wishing it.
Mach. May divine mercy guard my couch from bad thoughts, and purify my soul for another state of existence. Hush! do not speak to me—my eyelids are heavy.
Atten. This is well. He falls into a slumber. What a meagre, sharp, and shrivelled countenance. And this is the politician of whom Florence speaks so much. The shadow of his features is reflected upon the wall; and it seems as if his head was already wrapped up for burial. It was not by chance that a raven alighted at the window this morning, or that I dreamt last night of seeing him in church, where he has not been for so long.
(Enter a friend of Machiavel's.)
Atten. Hush! Tread softly; and do not speak but in a whisper.
Friend. How fares it with him now?
Atten. Worse and worse, I fear. A gradual decay. Look at his features. You have come just in time to see him die; and your presence will