MACBETH.

“There is some soul of goodness in things evil.”—King Henry V.

Macbeth is a historical character. He is one of those who stand on the page of history as personifications of vice, rather than as men who possess any thing in common with ourselves. They distinguished themselves by a career of crime—in general that crime arose from ambition,—their names have become a proverb, and are associated in our minds with a particular form of vice as the entire and bare sum of their character. Yet when thus viewed, what are called examples affect us little more than a lifeless homily. They raise in us no sympathy, and of course no interest. They may indeed excite a hatred of that abstract form of vice, but against that we feel secure, and we make no attempt to derive from them any further benefit. Our abhorrence forbids; for we look upon them not as human beings with their varying hues, but as monsters, almost as monsters born. This horror, thus excited at personified vice, seems to speak well for our hearts, yet it will be found to prevent us from taking discriminating views of such characters, and from deriving any practical wisdom from them. We do not reflect that theywere men like ourselves, that though deeply sunk in vice, they were once as innocent as we may suppose ourselves to be; that it was by objects working upon what is within every one of us, that they became what they were; that the deeper they were involved in the coil of wickedness, the more narrowly does it become us, would we derive true wisdom or true knowledge from them, to search out those places in the heart where its cords were first fastened on them; to find what was first effectually touched to make them what they were. Nor do we reflect that to obtain any practical knowledge of men, it is no way to separate whatever of good there may be in such characters, from the bad, however great it may be; since it is only to be obtained by observing the struggle between the two as they actually stand connected. Nor need we fear to admire too much, that, in the most vicious mind, which is worthy of our admiration; as if we should detest vice the less, for seeing the ruin it makes, or for detecting its insidiousness in undermining the fair qualities which may call forth our praise.

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 pronouncedto 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 thatenergy 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.

Andpity, like anaked newborn babe,Striding the blast, or heav’ns cherubim, hors’dUpon the sightless couriers of the air,Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,That tears shall drown the wind.

Andpity, like anaked 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 overcomehim. 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 mustmurderthe 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 cannotseein 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 heenergyenough 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 thathe 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 werespell-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 renderedhideousby 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.”

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 theguilty 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.

Back to Index Next