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 i' the adage?

MACBETH.

Pr'ythee peace:

I dare do all that may become a man;

Who dares do more is none.

LADY MACВЕТН.

What beast was it then,

That made you break this enterprize to me?
Where you durst do it, there 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 :

I would, while it were smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dashed the brains out, had I so sworn, as you

LADY MACBETH.

We fail.*

But screw your courage to the sticking-place,

And we'll not fail.

Again, in the murdering scene, the obdurate inflexibility of purpose with which she drives on Macbeth to the execution of their project, and her masculine indifference to blood and death, would inspire unmitigated disgust and horror, but for the involuntary consciousness that it is produced rather by the exertion of a strong power over herself, than by absolute depravity of disposition and ferocity of temper. This impression

* In her impersonation of the part of Lady Macbeth, Mrs. Siddons adopted successively three different intonations in giving the words we fail. At first as a quick contemptuous interrogation, -"we fail?" Afterwards with the note of admiration—we fail! and an accent of indignant astonishment, laying the principal emphasis on the word we-we fail! Lastly, she fixed on what I am convinced is the true reading-we fail. with the simple period, modulating her voice to a deep, low, resolute tone, which settled the issue at once-as though she had said, "if we fail, why then we fail, and all is over." This is consistent with the dark fatalism of the character, and the sense of the line following-and the effect was sublime, almost awful.

of her character is brought home at once to our very hearts with the most profound knowledge of the springs of nature within us, the most subtle mastery over their various operations, and a feeling of dramatic effect not less wonderful. The very passages in which Lady Macbeth displays the most savage and relentless determination, are so worded as to fill the mind with the idea of sex, and place the woman before us in all her dearest attributes, at once softening and refining the horror and rendering it more intense. Thus when she reproaches her husband for his weakness

From this time

Such I account thy love!

Again,

Come to my woman's breasts,

And take my milk for gall, ye murdering ministers,

That no compunctious visitings of nature

I have given suck, and know how tender 'tis

To love the babe that milks

me,

&c.

And lastly, in the moment of extremest horror

comes that unexpected touch of feeling, so startling, yet so wonderfully true to nature

Had he not resembled my father as he slept,

I had done it!

Thus in one of Weber's or Beethoven's grand symphonies, some unexpected soft minor chord or passage will steal on the ear, heard amid the magnificent crash of harmony, making the blood pause, and filling the eye with unbidden tears.

It is particularly observable, that in Lady Macbeth's concentrated, strong nerved ambition, the ruling passion of her mind, there is yet a touch of womanhood: she is ambitious less for herself than for her husband. It is fair to think this, because we have no reason to draw any other inference either from her words or actions. In her famous soliloquy, after reading her husband's letter, she does not once refer to herself. It is of him she thinks: she wishes to see her husband on the throne, and to place the sceptre within his grasp. The strength of her affections adds strength to her ambition. Although in the old story of Boethius we are told that the wife of Macbeth

"burned with unquenchable desire to bear the name of queen," yet in the aspect under which Shakspeare has represented the character to us, the selfish part of this ambition is kept out of sight. We must remark also, that in Lady Macbeth's reflections on her husband's character, and on that milkiness of nature, which she fears " may impede him from the golden round," there is no indication of female scorn: there is exceeding pride, but no egotism in the sentiment or the expression;-no want of wifely and womanly respect and love for him, but on the contrary, a sort of unconsciousness of her own mental superiority, which she betrays rather than asserts, as interesting in itself as it is most admirably conceived and delineated.

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be

What thou art promised :-Yet do I fear thy nature;

It is too full o' the milk of human kindness,

To catch the nearest way. Thou would'st be great;

Art not without ambition;
The illness that attends it.
That would'st thou holily;

but without

What thou would'st highly, would'st not play false,