Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 002.djvu/715
Mach. When he had replied in this manner, I was picqued at the notion that happiness could only be found among persons of humble spirits and shallow understandings; and I turned away from the apostle, to look at those who were passing along the other road.
Friend. Well, and who were they?
Mach. Popes, cardinals, kings, heroes, counsellors, and ambitious persons of every sort. The road shone with gold and purple, and these venerable figures, with long beards, did nothing but discourse of state affairs as they went along. All of them had the appearance of profound sagacity, and carried great wrinkled foreheads to the place of their destination. A company so august had evidently vacated many palaces and cabinets.—There was no individual in the procession who had not left mankind smarting, to make them remember him, and preserve his busts, portraits, and medallions.
Friend. Did you observe any of your contemporaries among them?
Mach. My dear friend, do not press me to mention names in my last moments. I observed no person there, who would have done good elsewhere.
Friend. And what thought you upon witnessing this spectacle, so different from the last?
Mach. I turned again to St Peter, and cried with a loud voice, that surely there would be more satisfaction in conversing with an assemblage of men, so noble, wise, and famous, than with a common herd of mechanics and simpletons.
Friend. Right. There lies the problem.
Mach. The apostle replied, that these men could not endure a state of repose; and having no longer the humble and well-meaning part of their species to practise upon, they would infallibly become the tormentors of each other.
Friend. Did you perceive where their march terminated?
Mach. Yes. Their path, as they advanced, grew more and more rugged, bursting into cracks, from whence issued infernal fire; and the crowd which formerly walked with decorum, and in good order, was now seen hurrying along, arm in arm, with fiends and demons. I heard loud huzzas and outcries, and the whole was soon lost in obscurity.
Friend. You have been reflecting with distaste upon some of the occupations of your past life, and your chagrin has produced this feverish dream.
Mach. No, Jerome, my nature is the same as ever; and unless Heaven mend me, I suspect I shall hardly grow into a little winged boy, with that sweet and sincere countenance which wins the key from St Peter.
Friend. Be of good cheer. You know not how much purgatory may effect for you.
Mach. Ah, my dear Jerome! I feel an inveterate passion for state affairs—Put aside that taper, for it pains my eyes—My pangs are returning—give me your hand once more, and receive my last thanks for your affectionate cares. Farewell—again—Farewell.
Atten. See, see! he is dying.
Friend. It will soon be over; and then a long adieu to poor Machiavel.
REGALIA OF SCOTLAND.
What vanity has rent your shrowd,
And broke your consecrated gloom,
To gratify a gazing crowd?
'Twas not till time had been allowed
To lay the race that owned you low,
And every patriot arm subdued,
They dared your mute remains to show.
That sprang on Caledonia's hills,
And spread its branches far and free,
Shadowing her rocks and mountain rills,
A son of her's beholds and feels
Full sore for all your honours torn,
Whose filial eye but ill conceals,
He deems you raised in pride and scorn.
For prouder and more sacred use,
When, waded for through blood, and worn
In triumph by the mighty Bruce;
The hero's mouldering dust to rouse,
Say, was it your degraded fame?
Both disenshrined inglorious,
Twin witnesses of Scotland's shame.[1]
For there our royal lineage sleep,
But yet unnumbered hearts remain,
Their rigid fate to feel and weep;
- ↑ It is certainly not a little singular, that the ancient Regalia of our nation, and the remains of Bruce, should have been discovered at one and the same time.