Part 2

An excellent means of thus presenting to us the characters of history, as they are in their original cast, and as they progress or change in the course of events, may be found in the drama. The living beings in all their “intensity of life,” are before us; with the circumstances of life about them—whether actual circumstances or not is of little importance, if they are such as might have been expected. The scenes of a whole life pass rapidly, yet distinctly and freshly before us, as imagination loves, and as we should review the eventful life of one whom we had well known.

The tragedy before us moves towards its conclusion with a fearful rapidity, which we vainly wish to detain; and is invested with a stern and awful solemnity, disturbed only by thrilling scenes of horror.

Macbeth, the kinsman of king Duncan, and general of his army, returning from a victorious battle, is met by three witches, two of whom hail him with titles of nobility, which are almost instantly confirmed, and the third with that of future king. Led by this and his own ambition, he, at the suggestion of his wife, murders at midnight the king whom he had entertained, and charges the deed upon his guards. He is crowned, and to maintain his crown, is led into a series of butcheries, which ends in his own death by the hand of Macduff, aided by the English, who had been invited over by the sons of the murdered Duncan.

It might seem, at first view, that Macbeth is only one among the slaves of a vulgar ambition, which implies a mind already hardened, and which, attracted by some splendid object, sets itself, from purely selfish ends, to the attainment of it, and after some visitings of remorse, becomes thoroughly obdurate. The elements of such a character are gross and palpable; the representations obvious; and it is, we think, under this impression that this play has been pronounced to contain “no nice discriminations of character.”[1] But if we consider that Macbeth is in a great degree the subject of influence, acted upon rather than acting, and in some respects more sinned against than sinning; and how, at last, it is the sarcasm of his wife, and the fear of disappointing her whom he loves, full as much as his own ambition, which prevails on him to do the murder, the character becomes more complicated, and we are constrained to find the good and bad in it more evenly balanced, than we at first thought they could be. The truth about Macbeth seems to be, that with the peculiar openness of a hero, and with all his grandeur of intellect, together with nice discrimination of all that may become a man, he is wanting in that _energy of reflection_, which imparts integrity or moral entireness to the mind. In this respect, his conduct is well contrasted with that of Banquo, upon the reception of the infernal prediction. The want of this trait accounts also for the fact, that he is never self-possessed in his wickedness, and never acts properly upon a selfish plan. For this reason, when we mark the many pure and bright qualities, which might form the elements of a most noble character, and of whose value the ingenuous owner seems hardly conscious, we are tempted to exclaim in another sense,

“O Fortunatus! sua si bona noverit!”

And when we see these tarnished and obscured by means of deceit which he does not comprehend, or if he does, has not sufficient energy to dispel, though we cannot greatly respect, we can still admire and pity him. We cannot view him with the same feelings as we do Richard III, wholly remorseless, and self-possessed in wickedness absolutely unredeemed; nor as we do that cool, contriving villain, Iago. On account of his openness of mind also, his character will be best understood, not by formal analysis, but by following him through the various circumstances in which he is placed, and observing their effects on a mind too genial not to receive them, and withal too transparent to hide them.

Let us take him then as he is first presented to us. He is a hero. This character also remains with him throughout. It is heroism which urges him to deeds of high daring, which prompts his mind to its lofty conceptions of greatness, which struggles long and hard with his conscience, but at last plunges him in guilt, propelling him deeper and deeper into it, and called out in its utmost grandeur and intensity in braving the cowardice of remorse. But with the hero’s bravery and lion strength, there is united also the “milk of human kindness,” and the tenderest pity; for who, other than he who copied from his own breast, would have conceived of it thus, even when it opposed directly his designs.

And _pity_, like a _naked newborn babe_, Striding the blast, or heav’ns cherubim, hors’d Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.

But above all, as a hero he “is not without ambition.” Yet he is also “without the illness should attend it.” Naturally noble and ingenuous, his ambition up to this time had been rather than any thing else, an aimless, generous aspiring after that which should fill his own capacity, and sought no other reward for manly deeds than the doing them. It was consistent also with a state of high and pure moral feeling, as is not that which has always an end in view, and is always planning and plotting for it. Accordingly, we find it combined in him with great purity and ingenuousness of heart. “What he would highly, that would he holily.” Still it was dangerous, and, no guide to itself, was liable to take shape and direction from any conjunction of circumstances. Until now, however, he had gone with it securely and uprightly. He seems to have been kept in the path of duty and honor by the generous impulses of his nature, and perhaps more, with his peculiar openness, by the favorable influence of his kinsman the “good king Duncan,” whom he heartily loves and admires.

But now the trial is to come; to come too with circumstances, and at a time exactly adapted to overcome _him_. In the midst of an intoxicating self-complacency at his victory, a state of mind peculiarly genial for the reception of any suggestions favoring his promotion, he is met by three supernatural beings, (to him at least they were such,) in whom, from childhood, he had had an unwavering faith. That faith is confirmed by the almost instant fulfillment of two of their predictions. The third is unavoidably suggested to his mind as a necessary consequence. A strong conviction, amounting to a belief of destiny, that it must be fulfilled, seems from that time to have taken hold of his mind. And how is it to be done. His mind shrinks with ingenuous horror from the only way: he must _murder_ the king. He strives to escape from the idea. His mind cannot, with all its ambition, and all its heroism, look clearly through the deed to its end. It cannot _see_ in the wrong direction. It is untaught and unskilled in the ways of cunning wickedness. He is not sufficient master of himself to climb over the horror which rises before him. Nor yet has he _energy_ enough to get away from it. That strong conviction of the necessity of the deed, full as much, at least, as the desirableness of its end, still enchains him. He might indeed have reflected that it lay with him to do it or not, but he does not, and perhaps it was hardly to be expected that _he should_. His ambition, which had been the habit of his life, and which he had hitherto trusted in as his good guide, has received a direction which he cannot change, towards a point from which he cannot divert it. He is as it were _spell-bound_. Still he cannot consent; he even decides not to do it. His newly-won honor, gratitude, reputation which was most dear to him, admiration for Duncan, and pity for him as his intended victim, all forbid. Here his wife comes in, and by some of the finest rhetoric of sophistry, sarcasm, and rebuke for his want of heroism, induces him to “bend himself up to the terrible feat.” The part of the play about this crisis is peculiarly fine. There is the dagger scene, in which conscience is seen exerting its full sway over a mind which owns it not. In the night scene, especially, the author seems to have exerted himself to bring in every thing that could add to the horror of the scene. Though we are not introduced to the murder, yet we are made so fully to participate in the horrors of the murderer, that the effect is greater than if it had been so. All indeed that is presented to the senses, is the most ordinary. The scene is rendered _hideous_ by the knocking at the door, and the ill-timed jollity of the unconscious porter, more, perhaps, than by any thing else. Of Macbeth little more need be said, nor are we inclined to pursue the subject farther. Yet amidst all the dark and “strange deeds,” in which his heroism and the destiny of guilt involve him, and amidst all his desperation, he still exhibits longings for his former state of innocence and peace. For the murdered Duncan his feelings are none other than those of respectful compassion. In the very midst also of his deeds of guilt, and amidst his struggles with remorse, he reveals to his wife his anguish with the utmost tenderness of reposing affection. These things throw a softening over a character which would otherwise be purely abhorrent to our feelings. The idea of fate still clings to him, and the belief that by the murder of Duncan, he had more closely associated himself with those hellish beings who had led him on, adds yet another shade to the darkness of his mind. In an agony of desperation he consults them to learn, “by the worst means the worst.” From that hour, we feel that his doom is fixed; knowing that though

They “keep the words of promise to his ear,” They’ll “break it to his hope.”

Thus it proves. Macbeth seeing one promise after another in which he had trusted, failing him, at last throws himself upon his own courage, which, as an acquired habit of the field at least, had never left him. With sword in hand he dies.

Lady Macbeth, who by her amazing, and fearful energy of intellect, could suppress remorse as long as there was any object to be accomplished, when at length her mind is left objectless, feels it in its most terrible power. When upon such a mind remorse fastens its fangs, that mind turns upon its devourer with an energy strong as its own power to grasp, and enduring as its hold. Nothing sooner than death can end the struggle.

And now that we are at the end of this fearful and gloomy history, we may just review the scene. Duncan, the meek and guileless father-king, shedding around him a cheerful, genial light! Macbeth, growing up in that light, and promising to reflect it back on its giver, and to add to its splendor! But that light is put out in darkness: a more fearful darkness comes over the _guilty man_, spreading to all about him, and gathering gloom, as we are hurried rapidly and certainly to the consummation. At length, when virtue reappears, though it be in the form of an avenger, the darkness begins to move away; and light, though mild and chastened, just gilds the scene as it closes.

G.

THE CASCADE.

‘It leapt and danced along all joyously, Till winter winds swept o’er it.——’

I saw, as I stood by a mountain’s side On a lovely summer day, When the light winds in the vale had died, And all was fresh and gay— A cascade beautiful and clear All gaily laughing in the sun, As it dashed upon its bed of stone, Sprinkling the wild flowers near.

And I thought how sweet it were to dwell Beside that dashing stream, Watching the white foam where it fell, And vanished like a dream: To list as its murmurs flew along In all their thrilling harmony, And mingled in sweet symphony, With the wood-bird’s gushing song.

· · · · ·

The autumn winds swept through that wood, With a sad and mournful sound; Decay was in its solitude, And dead leaves spread the ground:— And I sighed, and cast a sorrowing look, As I passed that spot again; For Winter had thrown his icy chain Across that gushing brook.

_March 1st, 1836._ H.

STORY AND SENTIMENT, OR, CONVERSATIONS WITH A MAN OF TASTE AND IMAGINATION. No. 2.

A WORD WITH THE READER.

‘Ho! how he prates of himself—listen!’

_Dryden’s Bride._

READER,—

If I was so fortunate as to please thee with my former offering—how shall I, as I resume my labors of this month, so weave from the store-house of my fancy such another vision, as shall make thee extend the hand of amity, and give me a second approving smile. To scribble for another, when you know not his taste—to attempt to bring out such a ‘conceit,’ as shall catch his kindness, and hurry him along with you into good humor, has ever, since the earliest essays in story writing, been accounted a delicate business. And why? because what pleases you, fair lady, pleases not my fellow student; and what pleases you, fellow student, pleases not somebody else; so a man finds himself like the bundle of oats betwixt—no, no! (Apollo forgive me!) I mean like the ass betwixt two bundles, &c. Washington Irving (Heaven bless him! and pardon _me_ for whipping his name into my thoughtless lucubrations) has somewhere—finding himself in a similar predicament—made this remark; ‘if the reader find, here and there, something to please him, let him rest assured that it was written expressly for intelligent readers like himself; but should he find any thing to dislike, let him tolerate it, as one of those articles which the author has been obliged to write for readers of a less refined taste.’ Allow me to say the same.

You should know, I think, by this time, that I am devoted to thy interest, as completely so, as ever belted knight on plain of Palestine, to his ‘ladye love,’—that my feelings and sympathies go out to thee, as a bee to its bower, a bird to its forest-nest, or any other of the bright creatures of God to the home of their affections—(by the by, you may smile at this. Stop! I know you’re not my ‘ladye love,’ nor am I a bee, or a bird, or any such nonsense; but, by my ‘saying of this simile,’ as sweet Sir Philip hath it, I meant only to apprise thee of my extreme devotion. You understand?),—that I would do any thing, to witch from thee, the heart-ache, even to the disquiet of the pleasant comfortableness of one of my soft, selfish, afternoon reveries,—that I would spend the last drop of my—no! not my blood exactly, for much as I love you, I love myself better; but I mean, I would spend the last drop of my—_ink_, to please you; and that you know is much better—for the ink of a literary man, _id est_ a poetical one, is worth more than his blood and body together.

But, though I have such a love for you, it would be sad, if, like the Paddy’s saddle-bags, it should all be found on one side; for I can no more prosper—and, if I must confess it, can no more love you without some remuneration, than a lover could kiss the turf on which his mistress had stepped, or make sonnets to her eye-brows, when she frowned on him. She is the sun of his existence, the centre, the cynosure of his passions, hopes, and dreams—to which, through the darkness that the world flings about him, he may send his longing eye, and his heart’s holiest aspirations. _You_ are the sun of _my_ being—the centre—cynosure—_et cetera, et cetera_; and it is equally impossible that I can make verses and stories for you, when every time I look up, I see that horrible scowl on your face—Pray, put it off.

But I’ll not believe you hate me—and when you receive this fresh number, and open upon this page for the _morceau_ I have for you, I know ye’ll give me a pleasant smile, and, with the honest Scotchman, say, ‘Deil! but I winna gie ither than thanks to a daft callan like ye.’

But—to business.

* * * * *

Talking with my friend one day on the subject of dueling, he gave me the following story.

THE DUEL.[2]

‘Men should wear softer hearts, And tremble at these licens’d butcheries, Even as other murders.’

_Bryant._

If there is one damning custom among the sons of men, ’tis dueling. Call it not murder—willful killing is murder; but this cool, calculating, exulting killing—killing not in madness, not in despair, when the heart tossed on a surge of passion, strikes, and repents next moment; but the coolly looking at the spot where the heart lies; the putting the dagger there calculatingly; and then, instead of pressing it home fiercely, thrusting it into the warm flesh, inch by inch, till the hot blood spurts over the fingers, and clots on the garments—this, what is this? Oh! call it not murder—murder is a thing of earth—earthly passions do it. But this—go to the pit where the damned shriek, and howl—select the most fiendish scheme of the prince of fiends—then, and then only, shall you have a parallel.

It was once my lot, to be a secondary actor, in a case of ‘honorable butchery;’ and one so black in itself, so heart-rending in consequences, that it is graven into my brain as with a stamp of fire. God of Heaven! when I think of it, even at this distance of time—when I see my friend stiff, ghastly, and stretched on the wet sands—when I hear the groans, which I heard there—when I see innocence, beauty, confiding affection, hanging over the yet warm corse, and pouring forth tears, as if crushed from the bottom of a heart loaded with the agony of ages—and then see the same creature, the inmate of a mad-house, and hear the moans and ravings for the dead object—and, with the peculiar characteristic of such insanity, accusing the loved one of coldness, ingratitude, unfaithfulness, and the like,—I say again, ages could not wipe out the recollection.

You are aware, that in the southern states, especially in the extreme south, men are guided more by their passions than at the north,—that there, dueling is little cared for,—that courageous is he who has shot his man,—that those only are cowards, who pale at blood, human blood, blood shed by their own hands. In no part of the south is this custom more prevalent, than at Natchez, on the Mississippi. New Orleans will not compare with it, or would not in the year 1816, the period of my story, and when I was a resident of that place. New Orleans, bad as it is, possessing greater means of indulgence, with its wealth to support theatres, gambling-houses, cock-pits, horse-races, and other such amusements—with its motley assemblage of inhabitants, Spanish, French, English, and Americans amalgamated,—with all these, it is not so bad as Natchez; and for this reason—that there are those, and in great numbers there, belonging to the northern and better regulated states, from whom, an imperceptible indeed, yet nevertheless great influence is sent into that community, and the people with more wickedness perhaps, have more conscience than any other of the extreme southern cities.

Natchez, it will be remembered, is on the eastern side of the Mississippi, and on one of the bends of that magnificent river, withdrawn a little from its banks, and sloping handsomely down to its flowing waters. Above and below the immediate town, are many eligible and pleasant sites for country seats, should that part of the country ever possess wealth and taste enough, to think of building them. But at the period of my story, there was nothing of the kind. Dark pine groves, and impenetrable thicks of beech and sycamore, with their lofty branches intertwined in many a wild convolution, made a high and thick canopy for the wearied traveler; while the beautiful flowers of the region, among which was the splendid magnolia, gave the forest, the freshness and fragrance of a lady’s flower garden. From morn till night, the woods were alive with music, and over all, was that sweet harmonist of nature, the American mocking-bird, with its rising and falling, ever-varying modulations—now screaming like the startled vulture of the cliffs—and now sinking away with a witching alternation of soft, plaintive, heart-moving minstrelsy, sufficient, it would seem, to charm rocks and forest trees,—He who built Thebes, would have thrown away his instrument in despair, could he have heard but one note of this wild-wood melodist.

I said there were no country seats there. I mistake. There was one bright spot, about twelve miles above Natchez, which, though it had small pretensions to the surpassing beauty of some of the fine superstructures on these northern rivers; nevertheless, for that day and place, it was, certainly, an elegant and hospitable mansion. That it was hospitable, many a man, yet living, can testify—for many were the travelers, visiting in that region, who spent days there, and enjoyed the rich hospitality and urbane attentions of its warm-souled, accomplished proprietor. This man, Charles Glenning, was certainly as gentlemanly a person as I ever knew. He was educated at the north—had spent his early days there—but for the sake of business, to which he betook him on leaving College, he went to the south, carrying with him as bright a bud of feminine loveliness, as ever God suffered to bloom in this uncongenial, ugly world. I cannot paint her—there’s no telling how beautiful she was. It wasn’t beauty of feature; neither was it beauty of mind—and yet, it was beauty of a high and ardent cast, which made you feel you were in the presence of a spirit, the moment you came near her. Forehead white as death—yet, neither intellectual nor otherwise,—soft blue eyes, that made you think they were little pieces cut out of the bluest summer sky,—complexion like ivory,—lips like the finest evening tints, in the back ground of one of Claude Lorraine’s landscapes,—and a figure as faultless as ever was hewn from the Pentelican marble, or set a painter a dreaming over his easel.—Imagine these, and you may get a glimpse of the laughing, bright-eyed Isabel Glenning.

Her love for her husband was as strange as her beauty. O! the treasure—the full, proud treasures of such a heart as that! Dive into mines—bring up jewels—fill your dwelling—win sceptres—ride the world like Cæsar or Alexander—and then offer me the pure, deep, devoted, heart’s affection of such a spiritual creature as she was, and I would spurn them all as the dirty commerce of dirtier minds. She lived only for him—she dreamed only for him—he was all. Place her in a palace, in an Esquimaux hut; in a fairyland, in a desert; no matter where—only with him—him she had chosen to live and die with, and her cup was full.

The circumstances which led me to their acquaintance were peculiar, and such as entwined me into their best feelings. They had been married about four summers; and the fruits of their union, was a little, crowing, curly headed boy, sweet as his mother’s beauty. I was hunting on the side of the Mississippi, one warm afternoon, when I observed something floating at a distance, which by means of my dog, was brought to land; and, to my surprise, were presented the lifeless, yet still warm features of this same little fellow. It seemed that playing near the river, he had fallen in, and was near about breathing his last. Taking him in my arms, I hurried home, and just in time to save him. From that hour, they loved me as a brother.