Great people of yore, kings and queens, buffoons and grave ambassadors, played their stately farce for centuries in Holyrood.

Wars have been plotted, dancing has lasted deep into the night,--murder has been done in its chambers.
There Prince Charlie held his phantom levees, and in a very gallant manner represented a fallen dynasty for some hours.

Now, all these things of clay are mingled with the dust, the king's crown itself is shown for sixpence to the vulgar; but the stone palace has outlived these charges.

For fifty weeks together, it is no more than a show for tourists and a museum of old furniture; but on the fifty-first, behold the palace reawakened and mimicking its past.

The Lord Commissioner, a kind of stage sovereign, sits among stage courtiers; a coach and six and clattering escort come and go before the gate; at night, the windows are lighted up, and its near neighbours, the workmen, may dance in their own houses to the palace music.