Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66, No 409, November 1849
"Let us see if you understand that, M. le Parisien," said the antiquary. "Up to the two last words we shall agree; but what think you of the Ars. Inf.?"
"It appears to me," I replied, "that the popular chronicle perfectly explains the whole epitaph —Ars. Inf. means ars inferna; that is to say, – 'Here reposes Jean Capello, citizen of Venice, whose body was sent to the grave, and his soul to heaven, by infernal artifices.'"
"A translation worthy of a romance writer," said the antiquary. "You believe then in the devil, in compact with evil spirits, in absurd legends invented by ignorance and superstition amidst the evening gossip of our peasants? You believe that, in 1718, a parish priest of Guérande flew away into the air, after having redeemed the soul of this Jean Capello. You are very credulous, M. le Parisien. This Venetian, who came here but to die, was simply poisoned by the priest, who took to flight; the town doctor, having opened the body, found traces of the poison. That is why they engraved upon the tomb these syllables: Ars. Inf., which signify arsenici infusio, an infusion of arsenic. I will offer you another interpretation – Jean Capello was perhaps a salt-maker, killed by some accident in our salt-works, and as in 1718 labourers of that class were very miserable, they engraved upon this stone, to express the humility of his station, Ars. Inf., that is to say, inferior craft."
"Upon my word!" I exclaimed, "that explanation is perfectly absurd. I keep to the popular version: Jean le Trouveur was sent to heaven by the stratagems of the demon himself. Let sceptics laugh at my superstition, I shall not quarrel with them for their incredulity."
We see little else worthy of extract or comment in the mass of books before us. M. Méry, whose extraordinary notions of English men and things we exhibited in a former article, has given forth a rhapsodical history, entitled Le Transporté, beginning with the Infernal Machine, and ending with Surcouf the Pirate, full of conspiracies, dungeons, desperate sea-fights, and tropical scenery, where English line-of-battle ships are braved by French corvettes, and where the transitions are so numerous, and the variety so great, that we may almost say everything is to be found in its pages, except probability. Mr Dumas the younger, who follows at respectful distance in his father's footsteps, and publishes a volume or two per month, has not yet, so far as we have been able to discover, produced anything that attains mediocrity. M. Sue has dished up, since last we have adverted to him, two or three more capital sins, his illustrations of which are chiefly remarkable for an appearance of great effort, suggestive of the pitiable plight of an author who, having pledged himself to public and publishers for the production of a series of novels on given subjects, is compelled to work out his task, however unwilling his mood. This is certainly the most fatal species of book-making – a selling by the cubic foot of a man's soul and imagination. Evil as it is, the system is largely acted upon in France at the present day. Home politics having lost much of the absorbing interest they possessed twelve months ago, the Paris newspapers are resorting to their old stratagems to maintain and increase their circulation. Prominent amongst these is the holding out of great attractions in the way of literary feuilletons. Accordingly, they contract with popular writers for a name and a date, which are forthwith printed in large capitals at the head of their leading columns. Thus, one journal promises its readers six volumes by M. Dumas, to be published in its feuilleton, to commence on a day named, and to be entitled Les Femmes. The odds are heavy, that Alexander himself has not the least idea what the said six volumes are to be about; but he relies on his fertility, and then so vague and comprehensive a title gives large latitude. Moreover, he has time before him, although he has promised in the interval to supply the same newspaper with a single volume, to be called Un Homme Fort, and to conclude the long procession of Fantômes, a thousand and one in number, which now for some time past has been gliding before the astonished eyes of the readers of the Constitutionnel. Other journals follow the same plan with other authors, and in France no writer now thinks of publishing a work of fiction elsewhere than at the foot of a newspaper. To this feuilleton system, pushed to an extreme, and entailing the necessity of introducing into each day's fragment an amount of incident mystery or pungent matter, sufficient to carry the reader over twenty-four hours, and make him anxious for the morrow's return, is chiefly to be attributed the very great change for the worse that of late has been observable in the class of French literature at present under consideration. Its actual condition is certainly anything but vigorous and flourishing, and until a manifest improvement takes place, we are hardly likely again to pass it in review.
Dies Boreales
No. V
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS
Camp at Cladich
Scene —The Pavilion. Time —After breakfast
North – Talboys – Seward – Buller
NORTH.
I begin to be doubtful of this day. On your visits to us, Talboys, you have been most unfortunate in weather. This is more like August than June.
TALBOYS.
The very word, my dear sir. It is indeed most august weather.
NORTH.
Five weeks to-day since we pitched our Camp – and we have had the Beautiful of the Year in all its varieties; but the spiteful Season seems to owe you some old grudge, Talboys – and to make it a point still to assail your arrival with "thunder, lightning, and with rain."
TALBOYS.
"I tax not you, ye Elements! with unkindness." I feel assured they mean nothing personal to me – and though this sort of work may not be very favourable to Angling, 'tis quite a day for tidying our Tackle – and making up our Books. But don't you think, sir, that the Tent would look nothing the worse with some artificial light in this obscuration of the natural?
NORTH.
Put on the gas. Pretty invention, the Gutta Percha tube, isn't it? The Electric Telegraph is nothing to it. Tent illuminated in a moment, at a pig's whisper.
TALBOYS.
Were I to wish, sir, for anything to happen now to the weather at all, it would be just ever so little toning down of that one constituent of the orchestral harmony of the Storm which men call – howling. The Thunder is perfect – but that one Wind Instrument is slightly out of tune – he is most anxious to do his best – his motive is unimpeachable; but he has no idea how much more impressive – how much more popular – would be a somewhat subdued style. There again – that's positive discord – does he mean to disconcert the Concert – or does he forget that he is not a Solo?
BULLER.
That must be a deluge of – hail.
TALBOYS.
So much the better. Hitherto we have had but rain. "Mysterious horrors! Hail!"
"'Twas a rough night.
My young remembrance cannot parallel
A fellow to it."
NORTH.
Suppose we resume yesterday's conversation?
TALBOYS.
By all manner of means. Let's sit close – and speak loud – else all will be dumb show. The whole world's one waterfall.
NORTH.
Take up Knight on Taste. Look at the dog-ear.
TALBOYS.
"The most perfect instance of this kind is the Tragedy of Macbeth, in which the character of an ungrateful traitor, murderer, usurper, and tyrant, is made in the highest degree interesting by the sublime flashes of generosity, magnanimity, courage, and tenderness, which continually burst forth in the manly but ineffective struggle of every exalted quality that can dignify and adorn the human mind, first against the allurements of ambition, and afterwards against the pangs of remorse and horrors of despair. Though his wife has been the cause of all his crimes and sufferings, neither the agony of his distress, nor the fury of his rage, ever draw from him an angry word, or upbraiding expression towards her; but even when, at her instigation, he is about to add the murder of his friend and late colleague to that of his sovereign, kinsman, and benefactor, he is chiefly anxious that she should not share the guilt of his blood: – 'Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck! till thou applaud the deed.' How much more real grandeur and exaltation of character is displayed in one such simple expression from the heart, than in all the laboured pomp of rhetorical amplification."
NORTH.
What think you of that, Talboys?
TALBOYS.
Why, like much of the cant of criticism, it sounds at once queer and commonplace. I seem to have heard it before many thousand times, and yet never to have heard it at all till this moment.
NORTH.
Seward?
SEWARD.
Full of audacious assertions, that can be forgiven but in the belief that Payne Knight had never read the tragedy, even with the most ordinary attention.
NORTH.
Buller?
BULLER.
Cursed nonsense. Beg pardon, sir – sink cursed – mere nonsense – out and out nonsense – nonsense by itself nonsense.
NORTH.
How so?
BULLER.
A foolish libel on Shakspeare. Was he the man to make the character of an ungrateful traitor, murderer, usurper, and tyrant, interesting by sublime flashes of generosity, magnanimity, courage, and tenderness, and – do I repeat the words correctly? – of every exalted quality that can dignify and adorn the human mind.
NORTH.
Buller – keep up that face – you are positively beautiful —
BULLER.
No quizzing – I am ugly – but I have a good figure – look at that leg, sir!
NORTH.
I prefer the other.
TALBOYS.
There have been Poets among us who fain would – if they could – have so violated nature; but their fabrications have been felt to be falsehoods – and no quackery may resuscitate drowned lies.
NORTH.
Shakspeare nowhere insists on the virtues of Macbeth – he leaves their measure indeterminate. That the villain may have had some good points we are all willing to believe – few people are without them; – nor have I any quarrel with those who believe he had high qualities, and is corrupted by ambition. But what high qualities had he shown before Shakspeare sets him personally before us to judge for ourselves? Valour – courage – intrepidity – call it what you will – Martial Virtue —
"For brave Macbeth, (well he deserves that name,)
Disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel,
Which smoked with bloody execution
Like valour's minion,
Carved out his passage till he faced the slave;
And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,
Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,
And fixed his head upon our battlements."
The "bleeding Serjeant" pursues his panegyric till he grows faint – and is led off speechless; others take it up – and we are thus – and in other ways – prepared to look on Macbeth as a paragon of bravery, loyalty, and patriotism.
TALBOYS.
So had seemed Cawdor.
NORTH.
Good. Shakspeare sets Macbeth before us under the most imposing circumstances of a warlike age; but of his inner character as yet he has told us nothing – we are to find that out for ourselves during the Drama. If there be sublime flashes of generosity, magnanimity, and every exalted virtue, we have eyes to see, unless indeed blinded by the lightning – and if the sublime flashes be frequent, and the struggle of every exalted quality that can adorn the human mind, though ineffectual, yet strong – why, then, we must not only pity and forgive, but admire and love the "traitor, murderer, usurper, and tyrant," with all the poetical and philosophical fervour of that amiable enthusiast, Mr Payne Knight.
BULLER.
Somehow or other I cannot help having an affection for Macbeth.
NORTH.
You had better leave the Tent, sir.
BULLER.
No. I won't.
NORTH
Give us then, my dear Buller, your Theory of the Thane's character.
BULLER.
"Theory, God bless you, I have none to give, sir." Warlike valour, as you said, is marked first and last – at the opening, and at the end. Surely a good and great quality, at least for poetical purposes. High general reputation won and held. The opinion of the wounded soldier was that of the whole army; and when he himself says, "I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people, which would be worn now in their newest gloss, not thrown aside so soon," I accept that he then truly describes his position in men's minds.
NORTH.
All true. But we soon gain, too, this insight into his constitution, that the pillar upon which he has built up life is Reputation, and not Respect of Law – not Self-Respect; that the point which Shakspeare above all others intends in him, is that his is a spirit not self-stayed – leaning upon outward stays – and therefore —
BULLER.
Liable to all —
NORTH.
Don't take the words out of my mouth, sir; or rather, don't put them into my mouth, sir.
BULLER.
Touchy to-day.
NORTH.
The strongest expression of this character is his throwing himself upon the illicit divinings of futurity, upon counsellors known for infernal; and you see what subjugating sway the Three Spirits take at once over him. On the contrary, the Thaness is self-stayed; and this difference grounds the poetical opposition of the two personages. In Macbeth, I suppose a certain splendour of character – magnificence of action high – a certain impure generosity – mixed up of some kindliness and sympathy, and of the pleasure from self-elation and self-expansion in a victorious career, and of that ambition which feeds on public esteem.
BULLER.
Ay – just so, sir.
NORTH.
Now mark, Buller – this is a character which, if the path of duty and the path of personal ambition were laid out by the Sisters to be one and the same path, might walk through life in sunlight and honour, and invest the tomb with proud and revered trophies. To show such a spirit wrecked and hurled into infamy – the ill-woven sails rent into shreds by the whirlwind – is a lesson worthy the Play and the Poet – and such a lesson as I think Shakspeare likely to have designed – or, without preaching about lessons, such an ethical revelation as I think likely to have caught hold upon Shakspeare's intelligence. It would seem to me a dramatically-poetical subject. The mightiest of temptations occurs to a mind, full of powers, endowed with available moral elements, but without set virtue – without principles – "and down goes all before it." If the essential delineation of Macbeth be this conflict of Moral elements – of good and evil – of light and darkness – I see a very poetical conception; if merely a hardened and bloody hypocrite from the beginning, I see none. But I need not say to you, gentlemen, that all this is as far as may be from the exaggerated panegyric on his character by Payne Knight.
TALBOYS.
Macbeth is a brave man – so is Banquo – so are we Four, brave men – they in their way and day – we in ours – they as Celts and Soldiers – we as Saxons and Civilians – and we had all need to be so – for hark! in the midst of ours, "Thunder and Lightning, and enter Three Witches."
BULLER.
I cannot say that I understand distinctly their first Confabulation.
NORTH.
That's a pity. A sensible man like you should understand everything. But what if Shakspeare himself did not distinctly understand it? There may have been original errata in the report, as extended by himself from notes taken in short-hand on the spot – light bad – noise worse – voices of Weird Sisters worst – matter obscure – manner uncouth – why really, Buller, all things considered, Shakspeare has shown himself a very pretty Penny-a-liner.
BULLER.
I cry you mercy, sir.
SEWARD.
Where are the Witches on their first appearance, at the very opening of the wonderful Tragedy?
NORTH.
An open Place, with thunder and lightning.
SEWARD.
I know that – the words are written down.
NORTH.
Somewhere or other – anywhere – nowhere.
BULLER.
In Fife or Forfar? Or some one or other of your outlandish, or inlandish, Lowland or Highland Counties?
NORTH.
Not knowing, can't say. Probably.
SEWARD
"When the Hurly Burly's done,
When the Battle's lost and won."
What Hurly Burly? What Battle? That in which Macbeth is then engaged? And which is to be brought to issue ere "set of sun" of the day on which "enter Three Witches?"
NORTH.
Let it be so.
SEWARD.
"Upon the heath,
There to meet with Macbeth."
The Witches, then, are to meet with Macbeth on the heath on the Evening of the Battle?
NORTH.
It would seem so.
SEWARD.
They are "posters over sea and land" – and, like whiffs of lightning, can outsail and outride the sound of thunder. But Macbeth and Banquo must have had on their seven-league boots.
NORTH.
They must.
SEWARD.
"A drum, a drum!
Macbeth doth come."
Was he with the advanced guard of the Army?
NORTH.
Not unlikely – attended by his Staff. Generals, on such occasions, usually ride – but perhaps Macbeth and Banquo, being in kilts, preferred walking in their seven-league boots. Thomas Campbell has said, "When the drum of the Scottish Army is heard on the wild heath, and when I fancy it advancing with its bowmen in front, and its spears and banners in the distance, I am always disappointed with Macbeth's entrance at the head of a few kilted actors." The army may have been there – but they did not see the Weirds – nor, I believe, did the Weirds see them. With Macbeth and Banquo alone had they to do: we see no Army at that hour – we hear no drums – we are deaf even to the Great Highland Bagpipe, though He, you may be sure, was not dumb – all "plaided and plumed in their tartan array" the Highland Host ceased to be – like vanished shadows – at the first apparition of "those so withered and so wild in their attire" – not of the earth though on it, and alive somewhere till this day – while generations after generations of mere Fighting Men have been disbanded by dusty Death.
SEWARD.
I wish to know where and when had been the Fighting? The Norwegian – one Sweno, had come down very handsomely at Inchcolm with ten thousand dollars – a sum in those days equal to a million of money in Scotland —
NORTH.
Seward, speak on subjects you understand. What do you know, sir, of the value of money in those days in Scotland?
SEWARD.
But where had been all the Fighting? There would seem to have been two hurley-burleys.
NORTH.
I see your drift, Seward. Time and Place, through the First Scene of the First Act, are past finding out. It has been asked – Was Shakspeare ever in Scotland? Never. There is not one word in this Tragedy leading a Scotsman to think so – many showing he never had that happiness. Let him deal with our localities according to his own sovereign will and pleasure, as a prevailing Poet. But let no man point out his dealings with our localities as proofs of his having such knowledge of them as implies personal acquaintance with them gained by a longer or shorter visit in Scotland. The Fights at the beginning seem to be in Fife. The Soldier, there wounded, delivers his relation at the King's Camp before Forres. He has crawled, in half-an-hour, or an hour – or two hours – say seventy, eighty, or a hundred miles, or more – crossing the ridge of the Grampians. Rather smart. I do not know what you think here of Time; but I think that Space is here pretty well done for. The Time of the Action of Shakspeare's Plays has never yet, so far as I know, been, in any one Play, carefully investigated – never investigated at all; and I now announce to you Three – don't mention it – that I have made discoveries here that will astound the whole world, and demand a New Criticism of the entire Shakspearean Drama.
BULLER.
Let us have one now, I beseech you, sir.
NORTH.
Not now.
BULLER.
No sleep in the Tent till we have it, sir. I do dearly love astounding discoveries – and at this time of day, in astounding discovery in Shakspeare! May it not prove a Mare's Nest!
NORTH.
The Tragedy of Macbeth is a prodigious Tragedy, because in it the Chariot of Nemesis visibly rides in the lurid thunder-sky. Because in it the ill motions of a human soul, which Theologians account for by referring them all to suggestions of Beelzebub, are expounded in visible, mysterious, tangible, terrible shape and symbolisation by the Witches. It is great by the character and person, workings and sufferings, of Lady Macbeth – by the immense poetical power in doing the Witches – mingling for once in the world the Homely-Grotesque and the Sublime – extinguishing the Vulgar in the Sublime – by the bond, whatsoever it be, between Macbeth and his wife – by making us tolerate her and him —
BULLER.
Didn't I say that in my own way, sir? And didn't you reprove me for saying it, and order me out of the Tent?
NORTH.
And what of the Witches?
BULLER.
Had you not stopt me. I say now, sir, that nobody understands Shakspeare's Hecate. Who is She? Each of the Three Weirds is = one Witch + one of the Three Fates – therefore the union of two incompatible natures – more than in a Centaur. Oh! Sir! what a hand that was which bound the two into one – inseverably! There they are for ever as the Centaurs are. But the gross Witch prevails; which Shakspeare needed for securing belief, and he has it, full. Hecate, sir, comes in to balance the disproportion – she lifts into Mythology – and strengthens the mythological tincture. So does the "Pit of Acheron." That is classical. To the best of my remembrance, no mention of any such Pit in the Old or New Statistical Account of Scotland.
NORTH.
And, in the Incantation Scene, those Apparitions! Mysterious, ominous, picturesque – and self-willed. They are commanded by the Witches, but under a limitation. Their oracular power is their own. They are of unknown orders – as if for the occasion created in Hell.
North.
Talboys, are you asleep – or are you at Chess with your eyes shut?
TALBOYS.
At Chess with my eyes shut. I shall send off my move to my friend Stirling by first post. But my ears were open – and I ask – when did Macbeth first design the murder of Duncan? Does not everybody think – in the moment after the Witches have first accosted and left him? Does not – it may be asked – the whole moral significancy of the Witches disappear, unless the invasion of hell into Macbeth's bosom is first made by their presence and voices?
NORTH.
No. The whole moral significancy of the Witches only then appears, when we are assured that they address themselves only to those who already have been tampering with their conscience. "Good sir! why do you start, and seem to fear things that do sound so fair?" That question put to Macbeth by Banquo turns our eyes to his face – and we see Guilt. There was no start at "Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor," – but at the word "King" well might he start; for – eh?
TALBOYS.
We must look up the Scene.
NORTH.
No need for that. You have it by heart – recite it.
TALBOYS.
"Macbeth. So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Banquo. How far is't call'd to Forres? – What are these,
So wither'd, and so wild in their attire;
That look not like the inhabitants of the earth,
And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught
That man may question? You seem to understand me,
By each at once her choppy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips: – You should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That you are so.
Macbeth. Speak, if you can; – What are you?
1st Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
2d Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!
3d Witch. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.
Banquo. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair? – I' the name of truth,
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner
You greet with present grace, and great prediction
Of noble having, and of royal hope,
That he seems rapt withal; to me you speak not:
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow, and which will not;
Speak then to me, who neither beg, nor fear
Your favours nor your hate.
1st Witch. Hail!
2d Witch. Hail!
3d Witch. Hail!
1st Witch. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
2d Witch. Not so happy, yet much happier.
3d Witch. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none:
So, all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!
1st Witch. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!
Macbeth. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more:
By Sinel'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? or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
With such prophetic greeting? – Speak, I charge you.
[Witches vanish.
Banquo. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,
And these are of them: – Whither are they vanish'd?
Macbeth. Into the air, and what seem'd corporal, melted
As breath into the wind. 'Would they had staid!
Banquo. Were such things here, as we do speak about?
Or have we eaten of the insane root,
That takes the reason prisoner.
Macbeth. Your children shall be kings.
Banquo. You shall be king.
Macbeth. And thane of Cawdor too; went it not so?
Banquo. To the self-same tune, and words."
NORTH.
Charles Kemble himself could not have given it more impressively.
BULLER.
You make him blush, sir.
NORTH.
Attend to that "start" of Macbeth, Talboys.
TALBOYS.
He might well start on being told of a sudden, by such seers, that he was hereafter to be King of Scotland.
NORTH.
There was more in the start than that, my lad, else Shakspeare would not have so directed our eyes to it. I say again – it was the start – of a murderer.
TALBOYS.
And what if I say it was not? But I have the candour to confess, that I am not familiar with the starts of murderers – so may possibly be mistaken.
NORTH.
Omit what intervenes – and give us the Soliloquy, Talboys. But before you do so, let me merely remind you that Macbeth's mind, from the little he says in the interim, is manifestly ruminating on something bad, ere he breaks out into Soliloquy.
TALBOYS.
"Two truths are told,
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme – I thank you, gentlemen. —
This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill – cannot be good: – If ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
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 is yet but fantastical
Shakes so my single state of man, that function
Is smothered in surmise; and nothing is,
But what is not."
NORTH.
Now, my dear Talboys, you will agree with me in thinking that this first great and pregnant, although brief soliloquy, stands for germ, type, and law of the whole Play, and of its criticism – and for clue to the labyrinth of the Thane's character. "Out of this wood do not desire to go." Out of it I do not expect soon to go. I regard William as a fair Poet and a reasonable Philosopher; but as a supereminent Play-wright. The First Soliloquy must speak the nature of Macbeth, else the Craftsman has no skill in his trade. A Soliloquy reveals. That is its function. Therein is the soul heard and seen discoursing with itself – within itself; and if you carry your eye through – up to the First Appearance of Lady Macbeth – this Soliloquy is distinctly the highest point of the Tragedy – the tragic acme – or dome – or pinnacle – therefore of power indefinite, infinite. On this rock I stand, a Colossus ready to be thrown down by – an Earthquake.
BULLER.
Pushed off by – a shove.
NORTH.
Not by a thousand Buller-power. Can you believe, Buller, that the word of the Third Witch, "that shalt be King Hereafter," sows the murder in Macbeth's heart, and that it springs up, flowers, and fruits with such fearful rapidity.
BULLER.
Why – Yes and No.
NORTH.
Attend, Talboys, to the words "supernatural soliciting." What "supernatural soliciting" to evil is there here? Not a syllable had the Weird Sisters breathed about Murder. But now there is much soliloquising – and Cawdor contemplates himself objectively– seen busy upon an elderly gentleman called Duncan – after a fashion that so frightens him subjectively– that Banquo cannot help whispering to Rosse and Angus —
"See how our partner's rapt!"
TALBOYS.
"My thought whose murder's yet fantastical." I agree with you, sir, in suspecting he must have thought of the murder.
NORTH.
It is from no leaning towards the Weird Sisters – whom I never set eyes on but once, and then without interchanging a word, leapt momentarily out of this world into that pitch-pot of a pond in Glenco – it is, I say, from no leaning towards the Weird Sisters that I take this view of Macbeth's character. No "sublime flashes of generosity, magnanimity, tenderness, and every exalted quality that can dignify and adorn the human mind," do I ever suffer to pass by without approbation, when coruscating from the character of any well-disposed man, real or imaginary, however unaccountable at other times his conduct may appear to be; but Shakspeare, who knew Macbeth better than any of us, has here assured us that he was in heart a murderer – for how long he does not specify – before he had ever seen a birse on any of the Weird Sisters' beards. But let's be canny. Talboys – pray, what is the meaning of the word "soliciting," "preternatural soliciting," in this Soliloquy?
TALBOYS.
Soliciting, sir, is, in my interpreting, "an appealing, intimate visitation."
NORTH.
Right. The appeal is general – as that challenge of a trumpet —Fairy Queen, book III., canto xii., stanza 1 —
"Signe of nigh battail or got victorye" —
which, all indeterminate, is notwithstanding a challenge– operates, and is felt as such.
TALBOYS.
So a thundering knock at your door – which may be a friend or an enemy. It comes as a summoning. It is more than internal urging and inciting of me by my own thoughts – for mark, sir, the rigour of the word "supernatural," which throws the soliciting off his own soul upon the Weirds. The word is really undetermined to pleasure or pain – the essential thought being that there is a searching or penetrating provocative – a stirring up of that which lay dead and still. Next is the debate whether this intrusive, and pungent, and stimulant assault of a presence and an oracle be good or ill?