my chamber, where I found my husband fast asleep. I clapped my candlestick down upon the table, without the power of putting it out; and I threw myself on my bed, without daring to stay even to take off my clothes."* This most interesting passage appears to us to involve the consideration of the principles upon which the examination of such a work of art as 'Macbeth' can alone be attempted. To analyse the conduct of the plot, to exhibit the obvious and the latent features of the characters, to point out the proprieties and the splendours of the poetical language,― these are duties which, however agreeable they may be to ourselves, are scarcely demanded by the nature of the subject; and they have been so often attempted, that there is manifest danger of being trite and wearisome if we should enter into this wide field. We shall, therefore, apply ourselves as strictly as possible to an inquiry into the nature of that poetical Art by which the horrors of this great tragedy are confined within the limits of pleasurable emotion. If the drama of 'Macbeth' were to produce the same effect upon the mind of an imaginative reader as that described by Mrs. Siddons, it would not be the great work of art which it really is. If our poet had resolved, using the words of his own Othello, to "abandon all remorse, On horror's head horrors accumulate," the midnight terrors, such as Mrs. Siddons has described, would have indeed been a tribute to power,—but not to the power which has produced 'Macbeth.' The paroxysm of fear, the panic-struck fancy, the prostrated senses, so beautifully described by this impassioned actress, were the result of the intensity with which she had fixed her mind upon that part of the play which she was herself to act. In the endeavour to get the words into her head, her own fine genius was naturally kindled to behold a complete vision of the wonderful scene. Again, and again, were the words repeated, on that night which she could never forget,—in the silence of that night when all about her were sleeping. And then she heard the owl shriek, amidst * Memoranda by Mrs. Siddons, inserted in her 'Life' by Mr. Campbell. | the hurried steps in the fatal chamber,—and she saw the bloody hands of the assassin,— and, personifying the murderess, she rushed to dip her own hands in the gore of Duncan. It is perfectly evident that this intensity of conception has carried the horrors far beyond the limits of pleasurable emotion, and has produced all the terrors of a real murder. No reader of the play, and no spectator, can regard this play as Mrs. Siddons regarded it. On that night she, probably for the first time, had a strong though imperfect vision of the character of Lady Macbeth, such as she afterwards delineated it; and in that case, what to all of us must, under any circumstances, be a work of art, however glorious, was to her almost a reality. It was the isolation of the scene, demanded by her own attempt to conceive the character of Lady Macbeth, which made it so terrible to Mrs. Siddons. We have to regard it as a part of a great whole, which combines and harmonises with all around it; for which we are adequately prepared by what has gone before; and which, even if we look at it as a picture which represents only that one portion of the action, has still its own repose, its own harmony of colouring, its own chiaroscuro,-is to be seen under a natural light. There was a preternatural light upon it when Mrs. Siddons saw it as she has described. The assassination scene of the second act is dimly shadowed out in the first lines of the drama, when those mysterious beings,— "So wither'd, and so wild in their attire; That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on 't," have resolved to go 66 Upon the heath: There to meet with Macbeth." We know there is to be evil. One of the critics of the last age has observed, “The Witches here seem to be introduced for no other purpose than to tell us they are to meet again." If the Witches had not been introduced in the first scene,—if we had not known that they were about "to meet with Macbeth," the narrative of Macbeth's prowess in the second scene, and the resolution of Duncan to create him Thane of Cawdor, would have been comparatively pointless. The ten lines of the first Witchscene give the key-note of the tragedy. They take us out of the course of ordinary life; they tell us there is to be a "supernatural soliciting;" they show us that we are entering into the empire of the unreal, and that the circle of the magician is to be drawn about us. When the Witches "meet again," their agency becomes more clear. There they are, again muttering of their uncouth spells, in language which sounds neither of earth nor heaven. Fortunate are those who have never seen the stage-witches of Macbeth, hag-like forms, with beards and brooms, singing D'Avenant's travestie of Shakspere's lyrics, to music, fine and solemn indeed, but which is utterly inadequate to express the Shaksperean idea, as it does not follow the Shaksperean words. Fortunate are they; for, without the stage recollections, they may picture to themselves beings whose "character consists in the imaginative disconnected from the good; the shadowy obscure and fearfully anomalous of physical nature, the lawless of human nature,-elemental avengers without sex or kin."* The stage-witches of 'Macbeth' are not much elevated above the Witch of Edmonton of Rowley and Dekker-" the plain traditional old-woman witch of our ancestors; poor, deformed, and ignorant; the terror of villages, herself amenable to a justice." Charles Lamb (from whom we quote these words) has, with his accustomed discrimination, also shown the essential differences between the witches of Shakspere and the witches of Middleton: "These (Middleton's) are creatures to whom man or woman plotting some dire mischief might Those originate deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses to men. From the moment that their eyes first meet with Macbeth, he is spell-bound. That meeting sways his destiny. He can never break the fascination. These witches hurt the body; those have power over the soul."+ But the witches of the stage 'Macbeth' are Middleton's witches, resort for occasional consultation. * Coleridge's' Literary Remains,' vol. ii. p. 238. Specimens of English Dramatic Poets,' vol. i. p. 187. proper temperament for generating or receiving superstitious impressions," we connect with these poetical situations the lofty bearing of the "imperfect speakers," and the loftier words of the "prophetic greeting:" "All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Glamis ! All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Cawdor! All hail, Macbeth that shalt be king hereafter." It is the romance of this situation which throws its charm over the subsequent horrors of the realization of the prophecy, and keeps the whole drama within the limits which separate tragedy from the 'Newgate Calendar.' If some Tate had laid his hand up upon 'Macbeth,' as upon Lear' (for D'Avenant, who did manufacture it into something which to the time of Quin was played as Shakspere's, had yet a smack of the poet in him)—if some matter-of-fact word-monger had thought it good service to "the rising generation" to get rid of the Witches, and had given the usurper and his wife only their ambition to stimulate their actions, he + Coleridge. would have produced a George Barnwell instead of a Macbeth. It is upon the different reception of the supernatural influence, proceeding out of the different constitution of their minds, by which we must appreciate the striking differences in the characters of Macbeth, Banquo, and Lady Macbeth. These are the three who are the sole recipients of the prophecy of the Witches; and this consideration, as it appears to us, must determine all that has been said upon the question whether Macbeth was or was not a brave man. There can be no doubt of his bravery when he was' acting under the force of his own will. In the contest with "the merci less Macdonwald" he was "valour's minion." In that with "Norway himself" he was "Bellona's bridegroom." But when he encountered the Witches, and his will was laid prostrate under a belief in destiny, there was a new principle introduced into his mind. His self-possession and his self-re liance were gone :— "Why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature?" And then comes the refuge of every man of unfirm mind upon whom temptation is laid : "If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me, Without my stir." If he had opposed the chance, he would have been safe; but his will was prostrate before the chance, and he perished. It is perfectly clear that the faint battle had been fought between his principle and his "black and deep desires" when he saw something to "o'er-leap" even beyond the life of Duncan,-"the prince of Cumberland." In the conflict of his mind it is evident that he communicates to his wife the promises of those who "have more in them than mortal knowledge," not only that she might not lose the "dues of rejoicing," but that he might have some power to rely upon stronger "Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear than his own will. He was not deceived Things that do sound so fair?" But he yet depended upon his reason. With marvellous art Shakspere at this moment throws on the straw which is to break the camel's back : "The thane of Cawdor lives, In a few minutes he knows he is Cawdor : "Glamis, and thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind." But Banquo receives the partial consummation of the prophecy with an unsubdued mind: "Oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray us In deepest consequence." The will of Banquo refuses to be mixed up with the prophecy. The will of Macbeth becomes the accomplice of the "instruments of darkness," and is subdued to their purposes: there. It is clear that Lady Macbeth had no reliance upon the prophecy working out itself. She had no belief that chance would make him king without his stir ::-"Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promised." It was not thou mayst be, or thou wilt be, but thou shalt be. The only fear she had was of his nature. She would "catch the nearest way." She instantly saw that way. The prophecy was to her nothing but as it regarded the effect to be produced upon him who would not play false, and yet would wrongly win. All that is coming is clear before her, through the force of her will:— "The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements." Upon the arrival of Macbeth, the breathless rapidity with which she subjects him to her resolve is one of the most appalling things in the whole drama. Her tremendous will is the real destiny which subjugates his indecision. Not a word of question or expla nation! She salutes him as Glamis and light; the servants are moving to rest; Cawdor, and “Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter." This is the sole allusion to the weird sisters. "We will speak further," seals his fate. Macbeth is alone. He sees "the air-drawn dagger" which leads him to Duncan; he is still under the influence of some power stronger than his will; he is beset with false creations; his imagination is excited; he moves to bloodshed amidst a crowd of poetical images, with which his mind dallies, as it were, in its agony. Half frantic he has done the deed. His passion must now have vent. It rushes like a torrent over the calmness which his wife opposes to it. His terrors embody themselves in gushing descriptions of those fearful voices that rang in the murderer's ears. Reproaches and taunts have now no power over him : "I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; It is impossible, we apprehend, for the poet Here then, up to this point, we have the supernatural influence determining the progress of the action with a precipitation which in itself appears almost supernatural; and yet it is in itself strictly consonant to nature. It works in and through human passions and feelings. It works through unbelief as well as through belief. It pervades the entire action, whether in its repose or in its tumult. When " "the heavens' breath smells wooingly" in Macbeth's castle, we feel that it is as treacherous to the "gentle senses" of Duncan as the blandishments of his hostess; and that this calm is but the prelude to that "unruly" night which is to follow, with its "lamentings" and its 66 strange screams of death." But this is a part of the poetry of the action, which keeps the horror within the bounds prescribed by a high art. The beautiful adaptation of the characters to the action constitutes a higher essential of the poetry. The last scene of the first act, where Macbeth marshals before him the secondary consequences of the meditated crime, and the secondary arguments against its commission, -all the while forgetting that the real question is that of the one step from innocence into guilt,—and where all these prudential considerations are at once overwhelmed by a guilty energy which despises as well as renounces them,-that scene is indeed more terrible to us than the assassination scene; for it shows us how men fall through their own weakness and the bad strength of others. But in all this we see the deep philosophy of the poet,-his profound knowledge of the springs of human action, derived perhaps from his experience of every-day crime and folly, but lifted into the highest poetry by his marvellous imagination. We know that after this the scene of the murder must come. All the pre- it is to him alone that the spectral appearparatory incidents are poetical. The moon ances of that "solemn supper" are visible. is down; Banquo and Fieance walk by torch- | Are they not then the forms only of his "The sleeping, and the dead, Are but as pictures." In her view "A little water clears us of this deed." We believe that, if it had not been for the necessities of a theatrical representation, Shakspere would never have allowed it to have been supposed that a visible ghost was presented in the banquet-scene. It is to him who saw the dagger, and heard the voices cry "sleep no more," and who exclaimed "Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand?" imagination? The partner of his guilt, who looked upon the great crime only as a business of necessity,-who would have committed it herself but for one touch of feeling, confessed only to herself, "Had he not resembled My father as he slept I had done 't,"— who had before disclaimed even the tenderest feelings of a mother if they had stood between her and her purpose,-she sees no spectre, because her obdurate will cannot co-exist with the imagination which produces the terror and remorse of her husband. It is scarcely the "towering bravery of her mind," in the right sense of the word: it is something lower than courage; it is the absence of impressibility: the tenacious adherence to one dominant passion constitutes her force of character. As Macbeth recedes from his original nature under the influence of his fears and his superstitions, he becomes, of necessity, a lower creature. It is the natural course of guilt. The "brave Macbeth" changes to a counterfeiter of passions, a hypocrite,— "Oh, yet I do repent me of my fury, He descends not only to the hire of murderers, but to the slander of his friend to stimulate their revenge. But his temperament is still that of which poets are made. In his murderous purposes he is still imaginative : "Ere the bat hath flown His cloister'd flight; ere, to black Hecate's The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums, There shall be done a deed of dreadful note." It is this condition of Macbeth's mind which, we must again repeat, limits and mitigates the horror of the tragedy. After the tumult of the banquet-scene the imagination of Macbeth again overbears (as it did after the murder) the force of the will in Lady Macbeth. It appears to us that her taunts and reproaches are only ventured upon by her when his excitement is beginning. After *Mrs. Jameson. | it has run its terrific course, and the frighted guests have departed, and the guilty man mutters "it will have blood," then is her intellectual energy utterly helpless before his higher passion. Mrs. Jameson says of this remarkable scene, "A few words of submissive reply to his questions, and an entreaty to seek repose, are all she permits herself to There is a touch of pathos and tenderness in this silence which has always affected me beyond expression." Is it submission? Is it tenderness? Is it not rather the lower energy in subjection to the higher? Her intellect has lost its anchorage; but his imagination is about to receive a new stimulant : utter. "I will to-morrow (And betimes I will) unto the weird sisters: More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst.” "He has by guilt torn himself live-asunder from nature, and is therefore himself in a preternatural state: no wonder, then, that he is inclined to superstition, and faith in the unknown of signs and tokens, and superhuman agencies." Coleridge thus notices the point of action of which we are speaking. But it must not be forgotten that Macbeth was inclined to superstition before the guilt, and that his faith in superhuman agencies went far to produce the guilt. From this moment, however, his guilt is bolder, and his will more obdurate; his supernatural knowledge stands in the place of reflection and caution. He believes in it, and yet he will do something beyond the belief. He is told to "beware Macduff;" but he is also told that none of woman born shall harm Macbeth." How does he reconcile this contrary belief?— "Then live, Macduff: What need I tear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder." And then comes the other prophecy of safety: "Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him." |
