The Germ (British Library Copy, third issue)

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Document Title: The Germ (British Library Copy, third issue)

Author: Aylott and Jones (publisher)

Editor: William Michael Rossetti

Date of publication: 1850 March 31

Publisher: Aylott & Jones

Printer: G.F. Tupper

Edition: 1

Volume: 1

Issue: 3

The full Rossetti Archive record for this transcribed document is available.

page: [i]

Editorial Note (page ornament): An ornamental border frames all the text except the printer's name (G.F. Tupper), which lies just beneath it.

No. 3 ( Price One Shilling)

March, 1850

With an Etching by F. Madox Brown

Art and Poetry:

Being Thoughts towards Nature

Conducted principally by Artists.

When whoso merely hath a little thought
Will plainly think the thought which is in him,—
Not imaging another's bright or dim,
Not mangling with new words what others taught;
When whoso speaks, from having either sought
Or only found,—will speak, not just to skim
A shallow surface with words made and trim,
But in that very speech the matter brought:
Be not too keen to cry—“So this is all!—
10A thing I might myself have thought as well,
But would not say it, for it was not worth!”
Ask: “Is this truth?” For is it still to tell
That, be the theme a point or the whole earth,
Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?

London:

DICKINSON & Co., 114, NEW BOND STREET,

and

AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW.

G. F. Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane. Lombard Street.

page: [ii]

Note: Authors' names handwritten in

CONTENTS.

Cordelia— W. M. Rossetti . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
Macbeth . . . Coventry Patmore. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Repining.— Ellen Alleyn Christina Rossetti . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
Sweet Death— Ellen Alleyn D ^o . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Subject in Art, No. II . . . J.L. Tupper. . . . . . . . . . . . 118
Carillon.— Dante G. Rossetti. . . . . . . . . . . . 126
Emblems.— Thomas Woolner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
Sonnet.— W. B. Scott . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
From the Cliffs.— Dante G. Rossetti . . . . . . . . 129
Fancies at Leisure.— W. M. Rossetti . . . . . . . . 129
Papers of “The M. S. Society,” Nos. I. II. & III . Tuppers . . 131
Review, Sir Reginald Mohun.— W.M. Rossetti . . . . . 137

The Subscribers to this Work are respectfully informed

that the future Numbers will appear on the last day of the

Month for which they are dated. Also, that a supplementary,

or large-sized Etching will occasionally be given (as with the

present Number.)

page: [iii]

Note: blank page

page: [iv]

Note: Etching by Ford Madox Brown. Cordelia, (at right) lead away by France, points back toward Goneril and Regan (at left). Monogram in lower left corner. Image printed in landscape across pages iv and v.

page: [v]

Note: Etching continued.

page: 97

Sig. G

Cordelia.

“The jewels of our father, with washed eyes
Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are
And, like a sister, am most loth to tell
Your faults, as they are named. Use well our father:
To your professed bosoms I commit him.
But yet, alas!—stood I within his grace,
I would prefer him to a better place.
So farewell to you both.”

Cordelia, unabashed and strong,
Her voice's quite scarcely less
Than yester-eve, enduring wrong
And curses of her father's tongue,
Departs, a righteous-souled princess;
Bidding her sisters cherish him.

They turn on her and fix their eyes,
But cease not passing inward;—one
Sneering with lips still curled to lies,
10Sinuous of body, serpent-wise;
Her footfall creeps, and her looks shun
The very thing on which they dwell.

The other, proud, with heavy cheeks
And massive forehead, where remains
A mark of frowning. If she seeks
With smiles to tame her eyes, or speaks,
Her mouth grows wanton: she disdains
The ground with haughty, measured steps.

The silent years had grown between
20Father and daughter. Always she
Had waited on his will, and been
Foremost in doing it,—unseen
Often: she wished him not to see,
But served him for his sake alone.

He saw her constant love; and, tho'
Occasion surely was not scant,
Perhaps had never sought to know
How she could give it wording. So
His love, not stumbling at a want,
30Among the three preferred her first.

page: 98

Her's is the soul not stubborn, yet
Asserting self. The heart was rich;
But, questioned, she had rather let
Men judge her conscious of a debt
Than freely giving: thus, her speech
Is love according to her bond.

In France the queen Cordelia had
Her hours well satisfied with love:
She loved her king, too, and was glad:
40And yet, at times, a something sad,
May be, was with her, thinking of
The manner of his life at home.

But this does not usurp her mind.
It is but sorrow guessed from far
Thro' twilight dimly. She must find
Her duty elsewhere: not resigned—
Because she knows them what they are,
Yet scarcely ruffled from her peace.

Cordelia—a name well revered;
50Synonymous with truth and tried
Affection; which but needs be heard
To raise one selfsame thought endeared
To men and women far and wide;
A name our mothers taught to us.

Like placid faces which you knew
Years since, but not again shall meet;
On a sick bed like wind that blew;
An excellent thing, best likened to
Her own voice, gentle, soft, and sweet;
60Shakspere's Cordelia;—better thus.

page: 99

Sig. G 2

Macbeth.*

The purpose of the following Essay is to demonstrate the exist–

ence of a very important error in the hitherto universally adopted

interpretation of the character of Macbeth. We shall prove that

a design of illegitimately obtaining the crown of Scotland had been

conceived by Macbeth, and that it had been communicated by him to

his wife, prior to his first meeting with the witches, who are commonly

supposed to have suggested that design .

Most persons when they commence the study of the great

Shaksperian dramas, already entertain concerning them a set of

traditional notions, generally originated by the representations, or

misrepresentations, of the theatre, afterwards to become strength–

ened or confirmed by desultory reading and corroborative criticism.

With this class of persons it was our misfortune to rank,

when we first entered upon the study of “Macbeth,” fully be–

lieving that, in the character of the hero, Shakspere intended to

represent a man whose general rectitude of soul is drawn on to ruin

by the temptations of supernatural agents; temptations which have

the effect of eliciting his latent ambition, and of misdirecting that

ambition when it has been thus elicited.

As long as we continued under this idea, the impression produced

upon us by “Macbeth” came far short of that sense of complete

satisfaction which we were accustomed to receive from every other

of the higher works of Shakspere. But, upon deeper study, the

view now proposed suggested itself, and seemed to render every

thing as it should be. We say that this view suggested itself,

because it did not arise directly from any one of the numerous

passages which can be quoted in its support; it originated in a

general feeling of what seemed to be wanting to the completion of

the entire effect; a circumstance which has been stated at length

from the persuasion that it is of itself no mean presumption in

favour of the opinion which it is the aim of this paper to establish.

Let us proceed to examine the validity of a position, which,

Transcribed Footnote (page 99):

* It is proper to state that this article was written, and seen, exactly as it at

present stands, by several literary friends of the writer, a considerable time before

the appearance, in the “Westminster Review,” of a Paper advocating a view of

“Macbeth,” similar to that which is here taken. But although the publication

of the particular view was thus anticipated, nearly all the most forcible argu–

ments for maintaining it were omitted; and the subject, mixed up, as it was, with

lengthy disquisitions upon very minor topics of Shaksperian acting, &c. made

no very general impression at the time.

page: 100

if it deserves any attention at all, may certainly claim an investigation

more than usually minute. We shall commence by giving an

analysis of the first Act, wherein will be considered, successively,

every passage which may appear to bear either way upon the point

in question.

The inferences which we believe to be deducible from the first

scene can be profitably employed only in conjunction with those to

be discovered in the third. Our analysis must, therefore, be entered

upon by an attempt to ascertain the true character of the impres–

sions which it was the desire of Shakspere to convey by the second.

This scene is almost exclusively occupied with the narrations of

the “bleeding Soldier,” and of Rosse. These narrations are con–

structed with the express purpose of vividly setting forth the per–

sonal valour of Duncan's generals, “Macbeth and Banquo.” Let

us consider what is the maximum worth which the words of

Shakspere will, at this period of the play, allow us to attribute to

the moral character of the hero:—a point, let it be observed,

of first-rate importance to the present argument. We find Mac–

beth, in this scene, designated by various epithets, all of which,

either directly or indirectly, arise from feelings of admiration created

by his courageous conduct in the war in which he is supposed

to have been engaged. “Brave” and “Noble Macbeth,” “Bel–

lona's Bridegroom,” “Valiant Cousin,” and “Worthy Gentleman,”

are the general titles by which he is here spoken of; but none of

them afford any positive clue whatever to his moral character.

Nor is any such clue supplied by the scenes in which he is pre–

sently received by the messengers of Duncan, and afterwards

received and lauded by Duncan himself. Macbeth's moral cha–

racter, up to the development of his criminal hopes, remains

strictly negative. Hence it is difficult to fathom the meaning of

those critics, (A. Schlegel at their head), who have over and over

again made the ruin of Macbeth's “so many noble qualities”* the

subject of their comment.

In the third scene we have the meeting of the witches, the

announcement of whose intention to re-assemble upon the heath,

there to meet with Macbeth, forms the certainly most obvious,

though not perhaps, altogether the most important, aim of the short

scene by which the tragedy is opened. An enquiry of much

interest here suggests itself. Did Shakspere intend that in his

tragedy of “Macbeth” the witches should figure as originators of

gratuitous destruction, in direct opposition to the traditional, and

Transcribed Footnote (page 100):

* A. Schlegel's “Lectures on Dramatic Literature.” Vol. II.p. 208.

page: 101

even proverbial, character of the genus? By that character

such personages have been denied the possession of any influence what–

ever over the untainted soul. Has Shakspere in this instance re–

tained, or has he abolished, the chief of those characteristics which

have been universally attributed to the beings in question?

We think that he has retained it, and for the following

reasons: Whenever Shakspere has elsewhere embodied supersti–

tions, he has treated them as direct and unalterable facts of human

nature; and this he has done because he was too profound

a philosopher to be capable of regarding genuine superstition as

the product of random spectra of the fancy, having absolute

darkness for the prime condition of their being, instead of

seeing in it rather the zodiacal light of truth, the concomitant

of the uprising, and of the setting of the truth, and a partaker

in its essence. Again, Shakspere has in this very play devoted

a considerable space to the purpose of suggesting the self-same

trait of character now under discussion, and this he appears to

have done with the express intent of guarding against a mistake,

the probability of the occurrence of which he foresaw, but which,

for reasons connected with the construction of the play, he could

not hope otherwise to obviate.

We allude to the introductory portion of the present scene. One

sister, we learn, has just returned from killing swine; another

breathes forth vengeance against a sailor, on account of the un–

charitable act of his wife; but “his bark cannot be lost,” though it

may be “tempest tossed.” The last words are scarcely uttered

before the confabulation is interrupted by the approach of Macbeth,

to whom they have as yet made no direct allusion whatever, through–

out the whole of this opening passage, consisting in all of some five

and twenty lines. Now this were a digression which would be a

complete anomaly, having place, as it is supposed to have, at this

early stage of one of the most consummate of the tragedies of Shak–

spere. We may be sure, therefore, that it is the chief object of

these lines to impress the reader beforehand with an idea that, in

the mind of Macbeth, there already exist sure foundations for that

great superstructure of evil, to the erection of which, the “meta–

physical aid” of the weird sisters is now to be offered. An opinion

which is further supported by the reproaches of Hecate, who,

afterwards, referring to what occurs in this scene, exclaims,

“All you have done
Hath been but for a wayward son,
Spiteful, and wrathful, who, as others do,
Loves for his own end, not for you.”

page: 102

Words which seem to relate to ends loved of Macbeth before the

witches had spurred him on to their acquirement.

The fact that in the old chronicle, from which the plot of the

play is taken, the machinations of the witches are not assumed to

be un-gratuitous, cannot be employed as an argument against our

position. In history the sisters figure in the capacity of prophets

merely. There we have no previous announcement of their inten–

tion “to meet with Macbeth.” But in Shakspere they are invested

with all other of their superstitional attributes, in order that they

may become the evil instruments of holy vengeance upon evil; of

that most terrible of vengeance which punishes sin, after it has ex–

ceeded certain bounds, by deepening it.

Proceeding now with our analysis, upon the entrance of Macbeth

and Banquo, the witches wind up their hurried charm. They are

first perceived by Banquo. To his questions the sisters refuse to

reply; but, at the command of Macbeth, they immediately speak,

and forthwith utter the prophecy which seals the fate of Duncan.

Now, assuming the truth of our view, what would be the natural

behaviour of Macbeth upon coming into sudden contact with beings

who appear to hold intelligence of his most secret thoughts; and

upon hearing those thoughts, as it were, spoken aloud in the presence

of a third party? His behaviour would be precisely that which is

implied by the question of Banquo.

“Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear
Things which do sound so fair?”

If, on the other hand, our view is not true, why, seeing that their

characters are in the abstract so much alike, why does the present

conduct of Macbeth differ from that of Banquo, when the witches

direct their prophecies to him? Why has Shakspere altered the

narrative of Holinshed, without the prospect of gaining any advan–

tage commensurate to the licence taken in making that alteration?

These are the words of the old chronicle: “This (the recontre

with the witches) was reputed at the first but some vain fantastical

illusion by Macbeth and Banquo, insomuch that Banquo would call

Macbeth in jest king of Scotland; and Macbeth again would call

him in jest likewise the father of many kings.” Now it was the

invariable practice of Shakspere to give facts or traditions just as

he found them, whenever the introduction of those facts or tra–

ditions was not totally irreconcileable with the tone of his concep–

tion. How then (should we still receive the notion which we are

now combating) are we to account for his anomalous practice in

this particular case?

page: 103

When the witches are about to vanish, Macbeth attempts to

delay their departure, exclaiming,

“Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more:
By Sinol's death, I know I am thane of Glamis;
But how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor lives,
A prosperous gentleman; and, to be king
Stands not within the prospect of belief,
No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from whence
You owe this strange intelligence ? ”

“To be king stands not within the prospect of belief, no more than

to be Cawdor .” No! it naturally stands much less within the

prospect of belief. Here the mind of Macbeth, having long been

accustomed to the nurture of its “royal hope,” conceives that it is

uttering a very suitable hyperbole of comparison. Had that mind

been hitherto an honest mind the word “Cawdor” would have

occupied the place of “king,” “king” that of “Cawdor.” Observe

too the general character of this speech: Although the coincidence

of the principal prophecy with his own thoughts has so strong an

effect upon Macbeth as to induce him to, at once, pronounce the

words of the sisters, “intelligence;” he nevertheless affects to treat

that prophecy as completely secondary to the other in the strength

of its claims upon his consideration. This is a piece of over-cautious

hypocrisy which is fully in keeping with the tenor of his conduct

throughout the rest of the tragedy.

No sooner have the witches vanished than Banquo begins to

doubt whether there had been “such things there as they did speak

about.” This is the natural incredulity of a free mind so circum–

stanced. On the other hand, Macbeth, whose manner, since the

first announcement of the sisters, has been that of a man in a

reverie, makes no doubt whatsoever of the reality of their appearance,

nor does he reply to the expressed scepticism of Banquo, but

abruptly exclaims, “your children shall be kings.” To this Banquo

answers, “you shall be king.” “And thane of Cawdor too: went

it not so?” continues Macbeth. Now, what, in either case, is the

condition of mind which can have given rise to this part of the

dialogue? It is, we imagine, sufficiently evident that the playful

words of Banquo were suggested to Shakspere by the narration of

Holinshed; but how are we to account for those of Macbeth, other–

wise than by supposing that the question of the crown is now

settled in his mind by the coincidence of the principal prediction,

with the shapings of his own thoughts, and that he is at this

moment occupied with the wholly unanticipated revelations, touch–

ing the thaneship of Cawdor, and the future possession of the throne

by the offspring of Banquo?

page: 104

Now comes the fulfilment of the first prophecy. Mark the

words of these men, upon receiving the announcement of Rosse:

“ Banquo. What! can the devil speak truth?

Macbeth. The thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me
In borrowed robes?”

Mark how that reception is in either case precisely the reverse of

that given to the prophecy itself. Here Banquo starts. But what

is here done for Banquo, by the coincidence of the prophecy with

the truth, has been already done for Macbeth, by the coincidence of

his thought with the prophecy. Accordingly, Macbeth is calm

enough to play the hypocrite, when he must otherwise have experi–

enced surprise far greater than that of Banquo, because he is much

more nearly concerned in the source of it. So far indeed from being

overcome with astonishment, Macbeth still continues to dwell upon

the prophecy, by which his peace of mind is afterwards constantly

disturbed,

“Do you not hope your children shall be kings,
When those that gave the thane of Cawdor to me
Promised no less to them?”

Banquo's reply to this question has been one of the chief sources

of the interpretation, the error of which we are now endeavouring to

expose. He says,

“That, trusted home,
Might yet enkindle you unto the crown,
Besides the thane of Cawdor. But, 'tis strange;
And often times, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win us with honest trifles, to betray us
In deepest consequence.”

Now, these words have usually been considered to afford the clue to

the entire nature and extent of the supernatural influence brought

into play upon the present tragedy; whereas, in truth, all that they

express is a natural suspicion, called up in the mind of Banquo, by

Macbeth's remarkable deportment, that such is the character of the

influence which is at this moment being exerted upon the soul of the

man to whom he therefore thinks proper to hint the warning they

contain.

The soliloquy which immediately follows the above passage is

particularly worthy of comment:

“This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill; cannot be good:—if ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,

page: 105
Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor:
If good, 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? Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man, that function
Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is,
But what is not.”

The early portion of this passage assuredly indicates that Macbeth

regards the communications of the witches merely in the light of an

invitation to the carrying out of a design pre-existent in his own

mind. He thinks that the spontaneous fulfilment of the chief

prophecy is in no way probable; the consummation of the lesser

prophecy being held by him, but as an “earnest of success” to his

own efforts in consummating the greater. From the latter portion

of this soliloquy we learn the real extent to which “metaphysical

aid” is implicated in bringing about the crime of Duncan's murder.

It serves to assure Macbeth that that is the “nearest way” to the

attainment of his wishes;—a way to the suggestion of which he now,

for the first time, “ yields,” because the chances of its failure have

been infinitely lessened by the “earnest of success” which he has

just received.

After the above soliloquy Macbeth breaks the long pause, implied

in Banquo's words, “Look how our partner's rapt,” by exclaiming,

“If chance will have me king, why chance may crown me,
Without my stir.”

Which is a very logical conclusion; but one at which he would long

ago have arrived, had “soliciting” meant “suggestion,” as most

people suppose it to have done; or at least, under those circum–

stances, he would have been satisfied with that conclusion, instead

of immediately afterwards changing it, as we see that he has done,

when he adds,

“Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day !”

With that the third scene closes; the parties engaged in it proceed–

ing forthwith to the palace of Duncan at Fores.

Towards the conclusion of the fourth scene, Duncan names his

successor in the realm of Scotland. After this Macbeth hastily

departs, to inform his wife of the king's proposed visit to their

castle, at Inverness. The last words of Macbeth are the following,

page: 106

“The prince of Cumberland!—That is a step,
On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap.
For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires!
Let not light see my black and deep desires;
The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be,
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.”

These lines are equally remarkable for a tone of settled assurance

as to the fulfilment of the speaker's royal hope, and for an entire

absence of any expression of reliance upon the power of the witches,

—the hitherto supposed originators of that hope,—in aiding its

consummation. It is particularly noticeable that Macbeth should

make no reference whatever, not even in thought, (that is, in

soliloquy) to any supernatural agency during the long period inter–

vening between the fulfilment of the two prophecies. Is it probable

that this would have been the case had Shakspere intended that

such an agency should be understood to have been the first motive

and mainspring of that deed, which, with all its accompanying

struggles of conscience, he has so minutely pictured to us as having

been, during that period, enacted? But besides this negative argu–

ment, we have a positive one for his non-reliance upon their pro–

mises in the fact that he attempts to outwit them by the murder of

Fleance even after the fulfilment of the second prophecy.

The fifth scene opens with Lady Macbeth's perusal of her hus–

band's narration of his interview with the witches. The order of

our investigation requires the postponement of comment upon the

contents of this letter. We leave it for the present, merely cau–

tioning the reader against taking up any hasty objections to a very

important clause in the enunciation of our view by reminding

him that, contrary to Shakspere's custom in ordinary cases, we are

made acquainted only with a portion of the missive in question.

Let us then proceed to consider the soliloquy which immediately

follows the perusal of this letter:

“I do fear thy nature.
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness,
To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great;
Art not without ambition; but without
The illness should attend it. That thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false
And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis,
That which cries this thou must do if thou have it,
And that which rather thou dost fear to do,
Thou wishest should be undone.”

page: 107

It is vividly apparent that this passage indicates a knowledge of

the character it depicts, which is far too intimate to allow of its

being other than a direct inference from facts connected with pre–

vious communications upon similar topics between the speaker and

the writer: unless, indeed, we assume that in this instance Shak–

spere has notably departed from his usual principles of charac–

terization, in having invested Lady Macbeth with an amount of

philosophical acuteness, and a faculty of deduction, much beyond

those pretended to by any other of the female creations of the same

author.

The above passage is interrupted by the announcement of the

approach of Duncan. Observe Lady Macbeth's behaviour upon

receiving it. She immediately determines upon what is to be done,

and all without (are we to suppose?) in any way consulting, or

being aware of, the wishes or inclinations of her husband! Observe

too, that neither does she appear to regard the witches' prophecies

as anything more than an invitation, and holding forth of “meta–

physical aid” to the carrying out of an independent project. That

this should be the case in both instances vastly strengthens the

argument legitimately deducible from each.

At the conclusion of the passage which called for the last remark,

Macbeth, after a long and eventful period of absence, let it be

recollected, enters to a wife who, we will for a moment suppose,

is completely ignorant of the character of her husband's recent

cogitations. These are the first words which pass between them,

“ Macbeth. My dearest love,
Duncan comes here to-night.

L. Macbeth. And when goes hence?

Macbeth. To-morrow, as he purposes.

L. Macbeth. Oh! never
Shall sun that morrow see!
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men
May read strange matters:—to beguile the time,
Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under it. He that's coming
Must be provided for; and you shall put
This night's great business into my dispatch,
Which shall to all our nights and days to come
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.

Macbeth. We will speak further.”

Are these words those which would naturally arise from the

situation at present, by common consent, attributed to the speakers

page: 108

of them? That is to say a situation in which each speaker is totally

ignorant of the sentiments pre-existent in the mind of the other . Are

the words, “we will speak further,” those which might in nature

form the whole and sole reply made by a man to his wife's com–

pletely unexpected anticipation of his own fearful purposes? If

not, if few or none of these lines, thus interpreted, will satisfy the

reader's feeling for common truth, does not the view which we have

adopted invest them with new light, and improved, or perfected

meaning?

The next scene represents the arrival of Duncan at Inverness, and

contains nothing which bears either way upon the point in question.

Proceeding, therefore, to the seventh and last scene of the first act

we come to what we cannot but consider to be proof positive of the

opinion under examination. We shall transcribe at length the

portion of this scene containing that proof; having first reminded

the reader that a few hours at most can have elapsed between the

arrival of Macbeth, and the period at which the words, now to be

quoted, are uttered.

“ Lady Macbeth. Was the hope drunk,
Wherein you dressed yourself? Hath it slept since,
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely? From this time,
Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard
To be the same in thine own act and valour,
As thou art in desire? Would'st thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting, I dare not, wait upon, I would,
Like the poor cat in the adage?

Macbeth. Prithee, peace:
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more is none.

Lady Macbeth. What beast was't then
That made you break this enterprise to me ?
When you durst do it, then you were a man,
And to be more than what you were you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both .
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:

page: 109

I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have plucked my nipple from its boneless gums,
And dashed the brains out, had I so sworn
As you have done to this.”

With respect to the above lines, let us observe that, the words,

“nor time nor place did then adhere,” render it evident that they

hold reference to something which passed before Duncan had sig–

nified his intention of visiting the castle of Macbeth. Consequently

the words of Lady Macbeth can have no reference to the previous

communication of any definite intention, on the part of her husband,

to murder the king; because, not long before, she professes herself

aware that Macbeth's nature is “too full of the milk of human kind–

ness to catch the nearest way;” indeed, she has every reason to

suppose that she herself has been the means of breaking that enter–

prize to him, though, in truth, the crime had already, as we have

seen, suggested itself to his thought, “whose murder was as yet

fantastical.”

Again the whole tenor of this passage shows that it refers to ver–

bal communication between them. But no such communication can

have taken place since Macbeth's rencontre with the witches ; for,

besides that he is, immediately after that recontre, conducted to the

presence of the king, who there signifies an intention of proceeding

directly to Macbeth's castle, such a communication would have ren–

dered the contents of the letter to Lady Macbeth completely super–

fluous. What then are we to conclude concerning these problematical

lines? First begging the reader to bear in mind the tone of sophistry

which has been observed by Schlegel to pervade, and which is

indeed manifest throughout the persuasions of Lady Macbeth, we

answer, that she wilfully confounds her husband's,—probably vague

and unplanned—“enterprise” of obtaining the crown, with that

“nearest way” to which she now urges him; but, at the same time,

she obscurely individualizes the separate purposes in the words,

“and to be more than what you were, you would be so much

more the man.”

It is a fact which is highly interesting in itself, and one which

strongly impeaches the candour of the majority of Shakspere's

commentators, that the impenetrable obscurity which must have

pervaded the whole of this passage should never have been made

the subject of remark. As far as we can remember, not a word has

been said upon the matter in any one of the many superfluously

explanatory editions of our dramatist's productions. Censures have

been repeatedly lavished upon minor cases of obscurity, none upon

this. In the former case the fault has been felt to be Shakspere's,

page: 110

for it has usually existed in the expression; but in the latter the

language is unexceptional, and the avowal of obscurity might

imply the possibility of misapprehension or stupidity upon the part

of the avower.

Probably the only considerable obstacle likely to act against the

general adoption of those views will be the doubt, whether so

important a feature of this consummate tragedy can have been left

by Shakspere so obscurely expressed as to be capable of remaining

totally unperceived during upwards of two centuries, within which

period the genius of a Coleridge and of a Schlegel has been applied

to its interpretation. Should this objection be brought forward, we

reply, in the first place, that the objector is ‘begging’ his question

in assuming that the feature under examination has remained

totally unperceived. Coleridge by way of comment upon these

words of Banquo,

“Good sir, why do you stand, and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair?”

writes thus: “The general idea is all that can be required of a

poet—not a scholastic logical consistency in all the parts, so as to

meet metaphysical objectors. * * * * * * * * How strictly true

to nature it is, that Banquo, and not Macbeth himself, directs our

notice to the effects produced in Macbeth's mind, rendered temptible

by previous dalliance with ambitious thoughts .” Here Coleridge denies

the necessity of “logical consistency, so as to meet metaphysical

objectors,” although he has, throughout his criticisms upon Shaks–

pere, endeavored, and nearly always with success, to prove the

existence of that consistency; and so strongly has he felt the want of

it here, that he has, in order to satisfy himself, assumed that “pre–

vious dalliance with ambitious thoughts,” whose existence it has

been our object to prove.

But, putting Coleridge's imperfect perception of the truth out of the

question, surely nothing can be easier than to believe that for the

belief in which we have so many precedents. How many beauties,

lost upon Dryden, were perceived by Johnson; How many, hidden

to Johnson and his cotemporaries, have been brought to light by

Schlegel and by Coleridge.

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Repining.

She sat alway thro' the long day
Spinning the weary thread away;
And ever said in undertone:
“Come, that I be no more alone.”

From early dawn to set of sun
Working, her task was still undone;
And the long thread seemed to increase
Even while she spun and did not cease.
She heard the gentle turtle-dove
10Tell to its mate a tale of love;
She saw the glancing swallows fly,
Ever a social company;
She knew each bird upon its nest
Had cheering songs to bring it rest;
None lived alone save only she;—
The wheel went round more wearily;
She wept and said in undertone:
“Come, that I be no more alone.”

Day followed day, and still she sighed
20For love, and was not satisfied;
Until one night, when the moonlight
Turned all the trees to silver white,
She heard, what ne'er she heard before,
A steady hand undo the door.
The nightingale since set of sun
Her throbbing music had not done,
And she had listened silently;
But now the wind had changed, and she
Heard the sweet song no more, but heard
30Beside her bed a whispered word:
“Damsel, rise up; be not afraid;
For I am come at last,” it said.

She trembled, tho' the voice was mild;
She trembled like a frightened child;—
Till she looked up, and then she saw
The unknown speaker without awe.
He seemed a fair young man, his eyes
Beaming with serious charities;

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His cheek was white, but hardly pale;
40And a dim glory like a veil
Hovered about his head, and shone
Thro' the whole room till night was gone.

So her fear fled; and then she said,
Leaning upon her quiet bed:
“Now thou art come, I prithee stay,
That I may see thee in the day,
And learn to know thy voice, and hear
It evermore calling me near.”

He answered: “Rise, and follow me.”
50But she looked upwards wonderingly:
“And whither would'st thou go, friend ? stay
Until the dawning of the day.”
But he said: “The wind ceaseth, Maid;
Of chill nor damp be thou afraid.”

She bound her hair up from the floor,
And passed in silence from the door.

So they went forth together, he
Helping her forward tenderly.
The hedges bowed beneath his hand;
60Forth from the streams came the dry land
As they passed over; evermore
The pallid moonbeams shone before;
And the wind hushed, and nothing stirred;
Not even a solitary bird,
Scared by their footsteps, fluttered by
Where aspen-trees stood steadily.

As they went on, at length a sound
Came trembling on the air around;
The undistinguishable hum
70Of life, voices that go and come
Of busy men, and the child's sweet
High laugh, and noise of trampling feet.

Then he said: “Wilt thou go and see ?”
And she made answer joyfully;
“The noise of life, of human life,
Of dear communion without strife,
Of converse held 'twixt friend and friend;
Is it not here our path shall end ?”
He led her on a little way
80Until they reached a hillock: “Stay.”

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Sig. H

It was a village in a plain.
High mountains screened it from the rain
And stormy wind; and nigh at hand
A bubbling streamlet flowed, o'er sand
Pebbly and fine, and sent life up
Green succous stalk and flower-cup.

Gradually, day's harbinger,
A chilly wind began to stir.
It seemed a gentle powerless breeze
90That scarcely rustled thro' the trees;
And yet it touched the mountain's head
And the paths man might never tread.
But hearken: in the quiet weather
Do all the streams flow down together?—
No, 'tis a sound more terrible
Than tho' a thousand rivers fell.
The everlasting ice and snow
Were loosened then, but not to flow;—
With a loud crash like solid thunder
100The avalanche came, burying under
The village; turning life and breath
And rest and joy and plans to death.

“Oh! let us fly, for pity fly;
Let us go hence, friend, thou and I.
There must be many regions yet
Where these things make not desolate.”
He looked upon her seriously;
Then said: “ Arise and follow me.”
The path that lay before them was
110Nigh covered over with long grass;
And many slimy things and slow
Trailed on between the roots below.
The moon looked dimmer than before;
And shadowy cloudlets floating o'er
Its face sometimes quite hid its light,
And filled the skies with deeper night.

At last, as they went on, the noise
Was heard of the sea's mighty voice;
And soon the ocean could be seen
120In its long restlessness serene.

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Upon its breast a vessel rode
That drowsily appeared to nod
As the great billows rose and fell,
And swelled to sink, and sank to swell.

Meanwhile the strong wind had come forth
From the chill regions of the North,
The mighty wind invisible.
And the low waves began to swell;
And the sky darkened overhead;
130And the moon once looked forth, then fled
Behind dark clouds; while here and there
The lightning shone out in the air;
And the approaching thunder rolled
With angry pealings manifold.
How many vows were made, and prayers
That in safe times were cold and scarce.
Still all availed not; and at length
The waves arose in all their strength,
And fought against the ship, and filled
140The ship. Then were the clouds unsealed,
And the rain hurried forth, and beat
On every side and over it.

Some clung together, and some kept
A long stern silence, and some wept.
Many half-crazed looked on in wonder
As the strong timbers rent asunder;
Friends forgot friends, foes fled to foes;—
And still the water rose and rose.

“Ah woe is me! Whom I have seen
150Are now as tho' they had not been.
In the earth there is room for birth,
And there are graves enough in earth;
Why should the cold sea, tempest-torn,
Bury those whom it hath not borne?”

He answered not, and they went on.
The glory of the heavens was gone;
The moon gleamed not nor any star;
Cold winds were rustling near and far,
And from the trees the dry leaves fell
160With a sad sound unspeakable.

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Sig. H 2

The air was cold; till from the South
A gust blew hot, like sudden drouth,
Into their faces; and a light
Glowing and red, shone thro' the night.

A mighty city full of flame
And death and sounds without a name.
Amid the black and blinding smoke,
The people, as one man, awoke.
Oh! happy they who yesterday
170On the long journey went away;
Whose pallid lips, smiling and chill,
While the flames scorch them smile on still;
Who murmur not; who tremble not
When the bier crackles fiery hot;
Who, dying, said in love's increase:
“Lord, let thy servant part in peace.”

Those in the town could see and hear
A shaded river flowing near;
The broad deep bed could hardly hold
180Its plenteous waters calm and cold.
Was flame-wrapped all the city wall,
The city gates were flame-wrapped all.

What was man's strength, what puissance then?
Women were mighty as strong men.
Some knelt in prayer, believing still,
Resigned unto a righteous will,
Bowing beneath the chastening rod,
Lost to the world, but found of God.
Some prayed for friend, for child, for wife;
190Some prayed for faith; some prayed for life;
While some, proud even in death, hope gone,
Steadfast and still, stood looking on.

“Death—death—oh! let us fly from death;
Where'er we go it followeth;
All these are dead; and we alone
Remain to weep for what is gone.
What is this thing? thus hurriedly
To pass into eternity;
To leave the earth so full of mirth;
200To lose the profit of our birth;
To die and be no more; to cease,
Having numbness that is not peace.

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Let us go hence; and, even if thus
Death everywhere must go with us,
Let us not see the change, but see
Those who have been or still shall be.”

He sighed and they went on together;
Beneath their feet did the grass wither;
Across the heaven high overhead
210Dark misty clouds floated and fled;
And in their bosom was the thunder,
And angry lightnings flashed out under,
Forked and red and menacing;
Far off the wind was muttering;
It seemed to tell, not understood,
Strange secrets to the listening wood.

Upon its wings it bore the scent
Of blood of a great armament:
Then saw they how on either side
220Fields were down-trodden far and wide.
That morning at the break of day
Two nations had gone forth to slay.

As a man soweth so he reaps.
The field was full of bleeding heaps;
Ghastly corpses of men and horses
That met death at a thousand sources;
Cold limbs and putrifying flesh;
Long love-locks clotted to a mesh
That stifled; stiffened mouths beneath
230Staring eyes that had looked on death.

But these were dead: these felt no more
The anguish of the wounds they bore.
Behold, they shall not sigh again,
Nor justly fear, nor hope in vain.
What if none wept above them?—is
The sleeper less at rest for this?
Is not the young child's slumber sweet
When no man watcheth over it?
These had deep calm; but all around
240There was a deadly smothered sound,
The choking cry of agony
From wounded men who could not die;

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Who watched the black wing of the raven
Rise like a cloud 'twixt them and heaven,
And in the distance flying fast
Beheld the eagle come at last.

She knelt down in her agony:
“O Lord, it is enough,” said she:
“My heart's prayer putteth me to shame;
250“Let me return to whence I came.
“Thou for who love's sake didst reprove,
“Forgive me for the sake of love.”

Sweet Death.

The sweetest blossoms die.
And so it was that, going day by day
Unto the church to praise and pray,
And crossing the green church-yard thoughtfully,
I saw how on the graves the flowers
Shed their fresh leaves in showers;
And how their perfume rose up to the sky
Before it passed away.

The youngest blossoms die.
10They die, and fall, and nourish the rich earth
From which they lately had their birth.
Sweet life: but sweeter death that passeth by,
And is as tho' it had not been.
All colors turn to green:
The bright hues vanish, and the odours fly;
The grass hath lasting worth.

And youth and beauty die.
So be it, O my God, thou God of truth.
Better than beauty and than youth
20Are saints and angels, a glad company:
And Thou, O lord, our Rest and Ease,
Art better far than these.
Why should we shrink from our full harvest? why
Prefer to glean with Ruth?

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The Subject in Art.

No. II.

Resuming a consideration of the subject-matter suitable in painting

and sculpture, it is necessary to repeat those premises, and to re-es–

tablish those principles which were advanced or elicited in the first

number of this essay.

It was premised then that works of Fine Art affect the beholder

in the same ratio as the natural prototypes of those works would

affect him; and not in proportion to the difficulties overcome in the

artificial representation of those prototypes. Not contending, mean–

while, that the picture painted by the hand of the artist, and then

by the hand of nature on the eye of the beholder, is, in amount, the

same as the picture painted there by nature alone; but disregarding,

as irrelevant to this investigation, all concomitants of fine art wherein

they involve an ulterior impression as to the relative merits of the

work by the amount of its success, and, for a like reason, disregard–

ing all emotions and impressions which are not the immediate and

proximate result of an excitor influence of, or pertaining to, the

things artificial, as a bona fide equivalent of the things natural.