Chapter III

The advocate’s opinion was in favor of Marguerite once more approaching the monarch; further application to Richelieu he deemed useless—not so the maiden. She resolved to make another appeal to the cardinal—it might be as was affirmed, that he had intended to hear her suit, and been summoned unexpectedly to the Tuileries; and if so, would it not be an exhibition of contempt to the minister, to fly to the king, before she could possibly know whether her prayer would be refused or granted at the _Palais Cardinal_? Thus reasoned Marguerite De Pontis, and we think not unwisely. The zealous advocate looked only at conclusions; he judged unfavorably of the minister’s clemency, and his hopes instantly pointed to another quarter.

Behold her once more on the way to the cardinal’s palace, in the _Rue St. Honoré_! It was the earliest hour at which his eminence gave audience, yet were the ante-chambers of the minister filling rapidly. Ascending the grand staircase, herself, “the observed of many observers,” yet shrinking from the gaze her beauty attracted, the door above was opened by an usher, and she entered a chamber, the first of a long suite which terminated with the cardinal’s reception-room and closet of audience.

The modes of approaching the minister were various, according to the rank and mission of the visiter. Strangers of humble quality, and others who, either through timidity or other cause, judged that they would not be permitted the _entrée_ of the reception-room, or who dare not venture so far, loitered in the more distant saloons till the illustrious man, issuing forth to pay respects to majesty, gave opportunity for a moment’s audience or parley, or presentation of petition. The individuals of the privileged class who rejoiced in free access to the reception-chamber, watched narrowly each opening of the closet-door, that they might catch the eye of the prelate on his entry; whilst deeper anxiety was visible in the countenances of those who had requested audience through the agency of the gentleman-usher stationed at the door. The private interviews terminated, Monseigneur stepped forth, and tarried awhile in the reception-room, bestowing a bow on one, a nod to another, and making a third happy—and the envied of the chamber—by six or more significant words.

As all the executive power centred in Richelieu, it could not happen otherwise, but that suppliants and petitioners were numerous, and from all parts of the kingdom, and that among the number should be many of the fair sex. The _politesse_ of the court permitted not such guests to be kept waiting exposed to the observation of the frequenters of the levee. The ladies were ushered into the secretary’s apartment, and that functionary having taken note of their object or petition, carried the same to Monseigneur to receive his commands thereon. If, as too often happened with one whose shoulders bore the burthen of the state, and who was appealed to at the same time by an envoy from Turkey claiming alliance, and by some poor widow or orphan from the Pyrenees with a tale of wrong—there was any delay in granting an interview, or giving a decision on the merits of the case, the fair suppliant was delegated to a waiting-room to attend the minister’s leisure.

Here sat, for many tedious hours on the former occasion, our heroine Marguerite—and as she now stated her name and object to the usher whose duty it was to conduct her to the secretary, she vainly endeavored to decipher a chance of better fortune in the impassive countenance of the official, as though it were possible his face would reflect a ray or emanation of the master’s will.

The waiting-room was again her sad lot—the cardinal was busily engaged with a German plenipotentiary—but the audience, as the secretary assured her, with a smile, could not last forever. It was but to ask for delay in the prosecution of the penal suit in the _Cour Royale_, that her father might prepare his defence, and prove the innocence of his intentions. It was not even necessary that she should see his eminence—one word to the _procureur_ would oblige him to this act of justice—he was the servant of the king, and must obey the commands of the kingly authority in the person of Monseigneur.

So spoke the maiden hesitatingly, but with precision and clearness, yet the secretary—it was De Lionne, not the most heartless man of that age—could only do, as secretaries are wont on such occasions, smile, bow, and, as marking his sense of the justness of her claims to attention, conduct her himself to the door of the drear chamber.

Marguerite at length began to despair, and regret she had not taken the advice of Giraud. The sensation of utter weariness, of which De Pontis so often complained to his daughter in the narrow prison-abode, was now experienced by herself. Solitude was only broken by the occasional sound of footsteps—delusive hope!—they paused not at her door.

The shout of merry voices was heard from the court-yard in the interior of the palace. The gay, richly dressed pages of his eminence, whose turn of duty had terminated or not arrived, were amusing themselves in the youthful sports practised in the household of princes. Personal rencontres and duelling were such frequent occurrences, that proficiency in the use of the rapier was an indispensable accomplishment. Marguerite, venturing to the window, became sensibly amused and interested by the adroitness of a youth, who, challenging all his compeers successively with the foil, remained victor. Cap and mantle thrown aside, his attitude of defence displayed to advantage a tall symmetrical form—the long curling hair falling on the shoulders bespoke a very youthful age, but the compressed lip, and stern, fiery eye bent on the adversary, belonged to manhood.

Without an equal, he retired from the arena to become a spectator of the skill of companions more equally matched. Marguerite continued at the window, till of a sudden, being aware that she was herself the object of the youth’s regard, she withdrew in confusion.

There was not much to interest within the chamber. A map of France, and several battle-pieces, sadly out of perspective, helped to while away the time. Looking closely over Limousin, endeavoring to find the barren waste denominated De Pontis—without hearing footstep, or other notice of a stranger’s approach, an arm encircled her waist, and the dark eye of the page was close to her own.

“Is there nothing”—said the intruder—“more amusing to a lady in the _Palais-Cardinal_ than poring over a mouldy map? Well! if such be the taste of Mademoiselle, may I not be her preceptor? I am accounted an excellent mathematician!”

Marguerite had been surprised so suddenly as to be for the moment bereft of speech. Springing from his grasp, her eyes flashing indignation, she flew to the door.

The page perceiving the intention, had barely time to place his hand on the latch, and the foiled maiden dreading close contact with the insolent intruder, retreated a few paces, threatening an appeal to the Cardinal Richelieu.

“Mademoiselle has more power over me than his eminence,” said the page, half smiling.

“Then prove it by allowing me to quit the apartment without suffering further insolence,” exclaimed the damsel firmly.

“It is a hard command—and insolence is a harsh term,” said the youth, thoughtfully, “but I deserve it! Believe me, Mademoiselle, when I say how much I was deceived in the quality of her whom I approached so foolishly—we are apt to abuse the license of—”

“License!” exclaimed Marguerite, still trembling with vexation and anger, “meet behavior for a cardinal’s palace—but make way, sir, and you shall hear no further of it.”

The page, who evidently by his manner as well as declaration, had committed the very grave error of acting towards a lady of quality, with a freedom which the gay youth of Paris affected in their chance meeting with females of humbler rank, had, since his first address, appeared deeply struck with the beauty and grace of Marguerite. Even sense of the offence seemed lost and absorbed in his admiration.

Leaving her free to depart, he again expressed sorrow for the rudeness—and in a tone, and with language, courteous yet grave and sustained, more than could have been expected from one of his years, and of the thoughtless class to which he belonged—reminded her that he was one of the pages of the Cardinal De Richelieu; that if her visit to the palace had reference to any of the household, he would go immediately in quest of the party, or if she sought higher audience, his services were at command, though they would not, perhaps, avail much.

The frankness of this declaration rather won upon the maiden, and tended much to subdue her anger. Might she not be carrying indignation too far against one who expressed such contrition for his offence? Thoughts of her father, of the _Conciergerie_, of Giraud and the implacable _procureur général_, rushed through the mind. Perhaps the youth was thrown in her path even providentially? Ruin hung suspended by a slight thread over the family, and could only be averted by extraordinary and unusual aid.

It was with these feelings, that she declared herself Marguerite De Pontis, waiting audience of the cardinal—if he could pleasure her so far as to ascertain what chance there remained of seeing the prelate that day, she would accept his services as atonement for his rudeness.

“De Pontis!” exclaimed the youth, with an abstracted air.

“The same,” exclaimed the maiden, rather impatiently, seeing that he made no effort to depart, “have I imposed a task too heavy?”

“De Pontis!—he is in the _Conciergerie du Palais_,” said the page.

“Alas! I know it too well,” cried the maiden, “but why remind me of it? I fear that I have been wrong myself, in putting trust in a stranger.”

“No! no! Mademoiselle,” said the page, “not in putting trust in me, though perhaps I am too humble to be of service. You appear impatient because I do not fly, like knight of old, on fair lady’s service—but truly, I have been weighing between duty and inclination, and duty, after a hard battle, has been vanquished. I know the cardinal will hold himself invisible to Mademoiselle till the decree of sequestration is obtained. There! it is out now!—and I have earned my passport to the Bastille!”

“I trust not,” replied Marguerite, mournfully, “it is enough our family is obnoxious to misery in their own persons, without bringing it on others.”

These words seemed lost on the page—he paced the chamber like one irresolute of action—his dark eye flashing brightly, and then sunk in gloom. Suddenly approaching the lady with a vehemence and hastiness which startled her, he exclaimed abruptly, though in a low tone—

“Chance, and the employment which falls to my lot, have made me acquainted with the proceedings against Monsieur De Pontis, even more than is suspected by the cardinal. I owe you atonement, and you must confess that I risk life, or liberty, or both, in making the reparation I offer—but I deem no task too heavy or too perilous, which will assist the hopes of Mademoiselle De Pontis.”

There was a warmth in this declaration, an earnestness of gaze and speech which caused Marguerite’s eyes to seek the ground.

“I cannot accept services bestowed at such risk,” said the maiden faltering.

“Then my safety has interest in your eyes—or do I flatter myself too much?” asked the page.

The roses blushed deeply in the cheek of Marguerite—there was a flutter at the heart—a confusion which took away the power of reply. With much to offend delicacy, could she take offence at an offer which bore the impress of sincerity? Could she sacrifice the proffered aid to her parent? Might he not be in possession of the information so coveted by Monsieur Giraud, information so much more valuable since she had learned the intention of the cardinal to avoid granting an audience? But was she justified in receiving intelligence conveyed at such peril by the rash youth?

These thoughts chasing each other, produced a state of mind favorable to the ardent wishes of the page. He saw her irresolution, and in the recklessness of the sudden passion he had conceived for the damsel, was resolved to risk fortune, character and liberty in her service. Higher aims and loftier destinies than a page’s state, have been flung away for the favoring smile of woman’s eye! He had the art to avoid all allusion to his passion, and dilating only on the pity felt for the unfortunate veteran, and the distress his imprisonment must have caused the daughter—his own indignation at the artifices used and still in store to deprive the warrior of the well-earned bounty of royalty—he thus removed the obstacles which the maidenly delicacy of Marguerite would have interposed in the acceptation of a stranger’s services—and whose first introduction afforded little promise of gentle feelings and regard for her own sex.

François De Romainville, in devoting himself to the service of Marguerite with such total disregard of the dreaded Richelieu, gave one more proof of a headlong career. He had been twice imprisoned in the _Palais_ for disobedience of the cardinal’s orders, and retained his post only through superior activity and intelligence, qualities of which the potential minister had much need. The indignity he suffered, or believed that he suffered, by the confinement, had created a bitter animosity against his master.

The scandalous injustice exercised towards De Pontis, to which he was privy, tended to paint the tyrant—as he secretly called him—in blacker colors. Could he serve the veteran, he revenged his own wrong on the oppressor—and might win the love of a maiden for whom he had conceived a passion whose intensity resembled what he had never experienced, but oft read of in the pages of romance.

There was much danger in every step—even in the present interview, he ran the risk of being either surprised by his companions from whom he had unperceived stolen away, on beholding a pretty face at the window above; or incurring the suspicion of De Lionne, should he send for or seek Mademoiselle, and find who was in her company. As it was, he had already rendered himself obnoxious to a severe reprimand, by intruding into a chamber to which he had not the privilege of access, unless under command of his eminence, and though this prohibition would probably prevent search in such a quarter by his more prudent compeers, yet the momentary peril of a visit from usher or functionary attached to the secretary’s bureau, was great. The best chance of escape arose from the fact—so distressing to Marguerite—that the cardinal had no intention of seeing the maiden, till the intercession she craved would be of no avail.

With this consolation, and the last resource in store of flight unperceived by the back staircase which had led him so quietly to the chamber, he gradually induced Marguerite to make him a confidant in the affairs of her father.

“It is the Count De Fontrailles,” remarked the page, “for whom the _droit d’aubaine_ is intended, and he lays close siege to it. The count has made himself necessary to his eminence—he has, what is called in the language of the bureau, a talent for affairs. He must have money, is his constant cry—he spends so much—he had often borrowed of the Spaniard, and had an eye to the estate on his death—perhaps he poisoned him—”

“Merciful Heaven! I hope not!” exclaimed the maiden in great terror, shocked at the idea of the crime, and more so at the careless manner in which it was surmised.

“What more likely? He might have had to wait many years otherwise,” replied the page smiling at her fears, “but I beg pardon of Mademoiselle—she must teach me to speak in a way better suited to a lady’s ears. I am the most rude and abrupt of men.”

It was now the maiden’s turn to smile.

“Mademoiselle will find that I have a man’s heart though not his beard,” cried François, with a slight curl of the upper lip; “there are few, calling themselves men, would dare oppose the cardinal as I have done. M. De Pontis and myself are well matched, and I sympathize with his spirit.”

He then proceeded to relate that the cardinal and Fontrailles were much annoyed at the obstinacy of the old soldier; the necessities of the latter were outraged by the _droit_ being jeoparded and withheld from his clutch; the former, displeased at what he called the impertinence of an old _moustache_, in taking such sudden advantage of the king’s good-nature. It had been the occupation of François to carry messages and commands to the creature named Pedro Olivera, a Spaniard by birth, long resident in France, and a tool or subordinate emissary of the courtly Fontrailles.

There was much inquiry about certain papers, as the page affirmed to Marguerite. Pedro had been also a borrower from the deceased Spaniard, and had placed with him, as security for repayment, a statement of claims on his master, Fontrailles, for obscure and perhaps disreputable services. This was missing, also a portion of the books and accounts, and it occasioned, as François happened to know, a domiciliary search in the lodging of Monsieur De Pontis.

“If these papers and documents were in existence—and I suspect by her looks,” said the page, concluding his narrative, “that she knows something about them—they could be brought to bear against Fontrailles and Olivera by a skilful advocate. But let Mademoiselle De Pontis remember, that I have placed my life in her hands—a life of value to the owner if he be permitted to continue in her service.”

The color flew to the face of Marguerite—she looked confused, but not displeased—he took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“But the decree, Monsieur François,” said the damsel timidly, “the advocate fears the _procureur_ will obtain it to-morrow if he is not restrained.”

“True! too true!” exclaimed the page.

He considered a few moments, and then told her that the only remedy was to gain audience of Richelieu by stratagem. It was useless her waiting in the chamber, he was aware, nor would the cardinal be met with on his departure from the _Palais_, in the public suite of saloons. He knew the hour of his going abroad, and it would be necessary that Mademoiselle should repair to the palace garden, wait in a particular avenue which he indicated, and lie in ambush for his eminence.

“He will not, he cannot resist your appeal for delay,” exclaimed François, in a passionate tone, “Monseigneur proves his want of courage by flying the field! I wish his eminence had my heart, for Mademoiselle I find irresistible.”

Again pressing the fair hand to his lips, he escaped by the entrance which conducted to the back-stairs, but presently returning, said—

“If François, the _houblieur_, travels the _Rue St. Denis_ this evening, he will not fail to ring his bell for customers to attend!” and so saying, again disappeared.

The _houblieurs_, or dealers in wafers, a sort of cake, were accustomed to ring a hand-bell to give notice of approach in their passage through the streets; and Marguerite could only construe the page’s enigma, that he intended visiting her abode so disguised.

Obeying the directions, she resorted without delay to the palace gardens, and with fear and trembling took up the station pointed out. A few minutes after the hour mentioned, chimed by the clock, two ushers passed the bench where the maiden was seated—she arose instantly, and the cardinal duke was close at hand, almost surrounded by a group of gaily dressed gentlemen.

Her courage forsook her—but it was too late to retreat—she stood conspicuous in the avenue, and the great man’s train, accustomed perhaps to similar rencontres, falling back a few paces, though within hearing, she confronted the lion in his path. A slight, almost imperceptible shade crossed his features, but he stopped, and with princely serenity listened to the faltering pleading.

“And if the wheels of justice of a mighty kingdom are arrested for one week, will it content such a faithful servant of the king?” asked the cardinal.

“I hope it will afford time to prove my father’s innocence, Monseigneur,” replied the maiden.

“Then Mademoiselle’s wishes shall be the law of France,” rejoined the minister. Bowing with dignity to the maiden, he passed onward with his suite, and she was again alone in the avenue.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

THE HAUNTED HEART.

BY MISS MARY L. LAWSON.

’Tis true he ever lingers at her side,
But mark the wandering glances of his eye:
A lover near a fond and plighted bride,
With less of love than sorrow in his sigh!
And well it is for her, that gentle maid,
Who loves too well, too fervently, for fears,
She deems not her devotion is repaid
With deep repinings o’er life’s early years.

For oft another’s image fills his breast,
E’en when he breathes to her love’s tender vow;
While her soft hand within his own is prest,
And timid blushes mantle her young brow,
Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past,
Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears;
In vain from out his soul he strives to cast
One shadowy form—the love of early years.

Ne’er from his heart the vision fades away;
Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone,
The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day,
Bring to his mind the happiness that’s flown;
A tone of song, the warbling of the birds,
The simplest thing that memory endears,
Can still recall the form, the voice, the words
Of her, the best beloved of early years.

He dares not seek the spot where first they met,
Too dangerous for his only hope of rest,
His strong, but fruitless effort to forget
Those scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast;
And yet the quiet beauty of the grove
All plainly to his restless mind appears,
Where, as the sun declined, he lov’d to rove
With her, the first fond dream of early years.

He sees the stream, beside whose brink they strayed,
Engross’d in converse sweet of coming hours,
And watch’d the rippling currents as they played,
In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers:
And the old willow, ’neath whose spreading shade
She own’d her love—again her voice he hears,
He starts—alas! the vision only fades
To leave regretful pangs for early years.

It was his idle vanity that changed
The pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart,
Whose faithful love, not even in thought had ranged,
But worship’d him, from all the world apart;
Now cold and altered is her beaming eye,
And no fond hope his aching bosom cheers
That she will shed one tear or breathe one sigh
For him she lov’d so well in early years.

He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn,
He questions not the justice of his fate,
For long had she his selfish caprice borne,
And wounded pride first taught her how to hate.
Oh! ye who cast away a heart’s deep love,
Remember, ere affection disappears,
That keen reproachful throbs your soul may move
Like his who lives to mourn life’s early years.

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

NO. VII.—MACBETH.

A few more words on Macbeth as a work of art. There is a scene so trifling that, to such as are not prepared to look for meaning in our poet’s lightest word, it might seem almost superfluous. The “noble Macbeth” has returned from the battle where his victorious arm has saved his king and country. His heart is opened by the dangerous influence of prosperity, amid the high-beating joys of which the enemy of mankind has insinuated hopes of a deeper, more audacious, and guilty nature; but as yet they are but as hidden serpents beneath the flowers. The two scenes of the witches have been thrown in—like sublime strains of music from which an opera is to take its character, chilling the mind with vague and startling apprehensions. All this is done with a few strokes from the terrible master-hand.

A part of the effect produced by the commencement of this immense tragedy is owing to the contrast of the two mighty antagonist principles of human life—earthly good, on the one side, smiling in the sunshine, and allowing all who trust it to a full and fatal confidence, and, on the other, _evil_ which an omnipotent and inscrutable Deity has placed in a mysterious juxtaposition, like a huge Maelstrom, and from which arises the necessity of ceaseless watchfulness and the energetic exercise of the moral faculties. We have all that, to an earthly mind, is noble, great, exciting and beautiful. Military glory is the idol which mankind has the most blindly worshiped. It has no good effect on the moral nature, but, on the contrary, has a tendency to inflate the soul with vain confidence and to give the man that most paltry and foolish of all weaknesses—a pompous idea of his own greatness. Military glory, then, at its height, appears to us at the outset of Macbeth. The brave, patriotic warrior has crushed the rebel and hurled back the invader from his country’s shore. The acclamations of the multitude hail the victor as he returns. He is for the moment invested with the moral glory of a Washington or a Cincinnatus. Not only does the nation he has saved regard him with delight and affection, but the king himself has no words to express his gratitude, and heaps him at once with thanks, honors and promises.

What a noble picture! The storm of war broken and passed away, leaving the political sky clearer than before—the good and venerable old king, whose great age does not permit him to share the dangers and glory of the actual combat, protected by the generous and brave hand of a faithful subject! The people’s apprehensions subside—the soldier returning to his field, the father embracing once more his wife and children—the hills and plains about to wave again with a plentiful harvest—the king left in safety and peace to form new benevolent plans for the security and happiness of his affectionate people—and Macbeth himself—at the pinnacle of a subject’s happiness—accompanied to his beautiful castle by his royal and grateful master—promoted in rank—improved in fortune—the favorite of his king—the savior of his country—what could Providence bestow more to make the world an Eden?

At this moment (Oh Earth! how true a shadowing forth it is of thy delusive and fatal snares!) the audience hear the tones of another world—the finger of another destiny, as unlike that which has charmed the minds of the multitudes whom we may suppose to have welcomed the conquering Macbeth, as was the hand which traced the _writing on the wall_ at the feast of Belshazzar. At this moment, hovering in the air, the shadow gathers, and the destructive, the corrupting principle, inherent in human things—and which man was sent on earth to watch for and to cope with—falls across the path of the hero; dark and obvious enough to have betrayed to him his danger, had he been a pure and a pious man, but, through its withered and hideous disguise, appealing to his weakness—to his worst passions—with a fascinating power and a bewildering and intoxicating promise.

The colossal dimensions of this tragedy are one of its awful features. In it, Inverness is the world, the witches are sin, and Macbeth is the proud, aspiring representative of weak mortality, when unsupported by religion. The scene to which I have alluded above, and to which I call the reader’s attention, comes in amidst massive interests with such a minuteness of finish, and playfulness and sweetness of fancy, that one is struck with it as with some of those accidents accompanying great events in real life, and from their very insignificance contrasting with a tremendous power—a bird warbling—a violet blowing—or a limpid brook singing on its happy journey where a great battle is about to be fought; or an infant unconsciously smiling on the bosom of a dying father.

Macbeth has seen the weird sisters, has listened to their prophecy, has found one of their predictions verified. He _is_ Thane of Cawdor! He has caught the dazzling dream of royalty with an eager and a determined hand. He has begun to weave in his ambitious brain the web of his vast designs. He has not only conceived—he has _yielded_ to the dire suggestion whose horrid image unfixed his hair and made his “seated heart knock at his ribs,” against the use of nature. He has invoked the stars to hide their fires, that “light” may not see his “black and deep desires.” He has met his sinful and earthly wife, and in the interchange of a few portentous words, understood even before spoken, (for there is a freemasonry of guilt as well as of innocence and honor) he has resolved upon deep hypocrisy, prompt action, and the most tremendous guilt. That very night is to become memorable in the history of their lives and of the world, by a deed of eternal wo. The sun, now rolling calmly and brightly to his golden rest, is never to behold again the forth-going of the silver-haired old monarch, who, with his happy and triumphant suite, approaches the sweet castle of Inverness; and the raven has been, (by the deep conjuration of the blackest of human hearts,) supposed _hoarse_ with ominous croakings at the sight of the happy and confiding king entering beneath those battlements.

With what consummate skill these innumerable ideas are presented to our imagination, and then (and here is the passage) what a transition from the gloomy and horrid depths of the corrupt human heart, to the perfume, radiance, tranquility, picturesqueness, and ever-soothing routine of external nature.

SCENE VI. _Before the castle._

_Hautboys, servants of Macbeth attending. Enter Duncan, Malcolm,
Donalbain, Banquo, Lenox, Macduff, Rosse, Angus, and
attendants._

_Duncan._ This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
_Banquo._ This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
By his lov’d mansionry, that the heaven’s breath
Smells wooingly here: no jutty frieze,
Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle;
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d,
The air is delicate.

_Enter Lady Macbeth._
_Duncan._ See, see! our honor’d hostess!
The love that follows us, sometime is our trouble,
Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you,
How you shall bid God yield us for your pains,
And thank us for your trouble.
_Lady._ All our service,
In every point twice done, and then done double,
Were poor and single business, to contend,
Against those honors, deep and broad, wherewith
Your majesty loads our house: for those of old,
And the late dignities heap’d up to them,
We rest your hermits.
_Dun._ Where’s the Thane of Cawdor?
We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purpose
To be his purveyor: _but he rides well_;
And his _great love_, sharp as his spur, hath holp him
To his home before us: _fair and noble hostess_,
We are your guest to night.
_Lady._ Your servants ever
Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt,
To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,
Still to return your own.
_Dun._ Give me your hand:
Conduct me to mine host; _we love him highly_,
And shall continue our graces towards him.
By your leave, hostess.

When I read the sleep-walking scene of Lady Macbeth, I think that the most perfect piece of writing ever seen in profane literature. When I fall upon the above, it appears to me that is the most delicate and exquisite in the whole range of our author’s works. Is it possible that the same tremendous hand which painted the royal tigress, at length cowed by the aspect of another world, has drawn, with a pencil of air, this lovely and inexpressibly soft scene, where the perfume of a balmy atmosphere is fresh and soothing on your forehead, and in your nostril, and where the eye as well as the smell and ear (for I can hear the breeze murmur among the green branches, and the screams of joy uttered by those temple-haunting birds as they chase each other down the air,) is filled with delight. What a warm and living picture it is, with the fewest possible words! An old castle pleasantly situated—its massive turrets look down over a peaceful, rural scene, the pure-scented air recommending itself sweetly and nimbly to our gentle senses! Who that has spent six or eight hours of the early morning at a sedentary occupation, in a room, till the senses were wearied and the limbs ached with sitting—and the lungs played languishingly and the blood moved sluggishly—and the pulse beat feebly with exhaustion—who has not, on going forth, felt this soothing sensation, as some pleasant landscape spread its tranquil and soft-colored beauties before his eye, some picturesque building broke the sameness of the picture by its bold outlines in the foreground, the ever happy birds darting about the house eaves—and the life-breathing, cool, odorous air filling his veins with sweet impulses, stirring all that is agreeable in his heart, cooling the fever of the heated brain, and sending off, with its benign blessing, a world of sad feelings or melancholy forebodings.

In three lines we have this effect; and further, who expresses this pleasing, living thought—_Duncan!_ the doomed victim of the assassin’s dagger. Yes, he feels the sweetness of nature, and he feels it for _the last time_. Look around thee, old man; those swells of verdant ground, those murmuring and soft waving trees, those shadows thickening and blackening as the eye pierces into the wood, this blue and bending sky with a few sleeping, fleecy clouds, thou shalt never see them more. Nature, always so tender and exquisite, has new and unutterable charms when we are never to behold it again.

Then _Banquo_ acknowledges the softening influence of the scene.

_Banquo._ This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath
Smells wooingly here: no jutty frieze,
Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle:
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d,
The air is delicate.

Here is a picture which the reader sees as if by mere accident, and the imagination follows out each hint and goes from one salient point to another till the life-like scene rises before it. The luxuriancy and blandness of summer, the beautiful martlets filling the air as we have watched them with boyish delight a thousand times, with their noisy joy. They never appear so pretty as when coming in and out of their nests under the eaves of a house or barn, and still more in the buttresses and angles of an old castle. “Their loved mansionry” gives an additional impression of the beauty their “pendent beds and procreant cradles” add to the rough old castle which itself is brought finely out from the canvass by the light reflecting from each jutty frieze, buttress and coigne of vantage.

Banquo continues the remark with a thought expressive of an observing, nature-loving mind returning, with new pleasure, to the repose of peace and the thoughts and the occupations which there have room to unfold themselves, after the bloody tumult of brutal war.

I do not know, but I suppose it must be a truth in natural history, that the birds spoken of generally build their nests where the air is purest. See, also, the superior charm which the little observation possesses, from the lips of this noble soldier, dropped in a peaceful, sunshiny moment, skilfully thrown in after the furious storms of war, and before the yet more frightful tempest of guilt which is speedily to fall like a thunderbolt upon this group of human beings, apparently so far removed from danger, and about to commence a new era of contentment.

Remark here the people collected in a circle beneath the dark frowning battlements of the war-like castle now bathed in summer light, and in the natural ease and gentle satisfaction of their hearts discussing such beautiful trifles as, however graceful and soothing, the busy warriors of those rude times had but small time to occupy themselves with. Who are they? what are their fates? Alas they are but too striking types of their fellow creatures who in the midst of life are in death. Duncan’s hours are numbered. Beneath the walls of the castle which his aged eyes survey with such admiration—whose strong turrets and picturesque buttresses are now painted with the golden light of a calm summer afternoon—which he expects to enter to a banquet, and from which he intends to go forth in the morning with renewed hope and happiness—beneath those dire walls in a few hours is to take place a scene, the farthest possible removed from his suspicions, and he is to be called, like Hamlet, without any reckoning, into the presence of his God. Thus under the crushing and unpausing hand of Destiny the good and the bad go down alike in a world through which _he_ will pass most easily who builds his hopes elsewhere.

Banquo too is a good man. You even perceive, in those few words, that he has a delicacy of nature which has perhaps preserved him pure from contaminating influences and illusive temptations. He too is marked, without demerit of his own, to go down beneath the wheels of the dreadful impending event.

He too, in a few brief days, is doomed to be cut off—thrust headlong into eternity, while guilt remains unhurt and triumphs in the successful execution of all its plans.

For Macduff—the pious—lion-hearted—affectionate Macduff, is prepared a fate, if possible, yet more awful. His castle—the scene of many a happy hour, many a fond and merry family sport, is about to be surprised. His wife, his babes “savagely slaughtered,”

“wife, children, servants,”

all that could be found, fiercely drawn down into the general ruin which the sinful heart of one man spreads around him. How truly is mortality painted in these events! How plainly we see what stuff life is made of! and how sternly are we taught the folly of supposing the end of man to be “here, on this bank and shoal of time.”

Malcolm, Donalbain, Rosse, and Angus, driven from their country by terror of the bloody tyrant—(now the beloved and trusted of all)—and lastly Lenox, whom we find at a later period in attendance on Macbeth, and the witness of his bursts of guilty and ferocious desperation, but at length joined with the advancing enemy.

Into the midst of this circle, on the brink of ruin when they think themselves most secure, _enters Lady Macbeth_. Her mere appearance touches a chord of terror in the soul of the reader, although they whom she addresses view her with very different feelings. The unsuspecting king greets in her his “honored hostess,” and pours out upon her a heart full of gratitude and love. The cruel hypocrite—so firm in the anticipation of guilt, so haughtily superior to all the prejudices of superstition—all _the idle dreams of religion and a Providence_—yet so ignorant of their real nature and destined to be so thoroughly wrecked in the tempest her rash hand is so eager to raise—replies with shameful effrontery and mature wickedness:

“all our service,
In every point twice done, and then done double,
Were poor and single business, to contend
Against those honors deep and broad, wherewith
Your majesty loads our house.”

In the concluding part of the scene remark how admirably are drawn the profound hypocrisy of Lady Macbeth and the entire confidence and deeply deceived friendship of the unsuspecting king.

“Where’s the Thane of Cawdor!
We coursed him at the heels and had a purpose
To be his purveyor: but he rides well;
And his _great love_, sharp as his spur, hath holp him
To his home before us: _fair and noble hostess_,
We are your guest to night.
_Lady._ Your servants ever
Have theirs, _themselves_, and _what is theirs_, in compt
To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,
_Still to return your own_.
_King._ Give me your hand:
Conduct me to mine host; _we love him highly_,
And shall _continue our graces towards him_.”

Thus it is with man. All around us is deceit. We know not how to distinguish the false from the true. Duncan must have had more than human sagacity to suspect wile in the chivalric soldier who had just risked his life in his defence, or in the “fair and noble hostess” who received him beneath her roof with such apparent love, gratitude and veneration.

* * * * *

THE LADY ALICE.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

In the early morning hour,
When the dew was on the flower,
From her fragrant couch arose
Lady Alice, bright and fair!
Free around her as the air,
Spotless as the mountain snows,
Garments in the night-time worn,
Floated in the light of morn.

Music, soft as angels hear,
O’er the quiet waters came,
And the voice, that met her ear,
Warbled one beloved name.
By her lattice, hushed she stood
In a leaning attitude.
Nothing lovelier to behold
Ever greeted mortal eyes—
Saintly pictures, famed of old,
Gems of genius, set in gold,
Matchless forms in shape and size!

Nearer now the strain is heard—
Starts she, like a frightened bird;
’Tis for her the song is sung,
And for her, across the sea,
Waves the signal merrily,
From her lover’s pinnace flung!
’Tis the hour, the promised hour,
She should leave her maiden bower.

. . . . . . . .

She has donned her rich attire,
She has left her father’s palace—
Has love so quenched her spirit’s fire?
Is this the haughty Lady Alice?
She, whose looks of high disdain
Banished nobles from her train?
See, adown the marble stairs,
To the wave, the lady steal;
Nothing now for pride she cares—
Love has taught her heart to feel.

Idly rocks the slender mast
O’er the silver billows now,
But anon the foam will cast
Jewels from the speeding prow;
Soon, from vain pursuit afar,
Softly will that pinnace glide,
And the evening’s golden star
Smile upon a happy bride.

* * * * *

THE SUNSET STORM.

BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.

The summer sun has sunk to rest
Below the green-clad hills,
And through the skies, careering fast,
The storm-cloud rides upon the blast,
And now the rain distills!
The flash we see, the peal we hear,
With winds blent in their wild career,
Till pains the ear.
It is the voice of the Storm King
Riding upon the Lightning’s wing,
Leading his bannered hosts across the darkened sky,
And drenching with his floods the sterile lands and dry.

The wild beasts to their covers fly,
The night birds flee from heaven,
The dense black clouds that veil the sky,
Darkening the vast expanse on high,
By streaming fires are riven.
Again the tempest’s thunder tone,
The sounds from forests overthrown,
Like trumpets blown
Deep in the bosom of the storm,
Proclaim His presence, in its form,
Who doth the sceptre of the concave hold,
Who freed the winds, and the vast clouds unrolled.

The storms no more the skies invest,
The winds are heard no more;
Low in the chambers of the west,
Whence they arose, they’ve sunk to rest;
The sunset storm is o’er.
The clouds that were so wildly driven
Across the darkened brow of heaven
Are gone, and Even
Comes in her mild and sober guise,
Her perfumed air, her trembling skies,
And Luna, with her star-gemmed, glorious crown,
From her high throne in heaven, upon the world looks down.

* * * * *

WASTE PAPER;

OR “TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR.”

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

“Good bye, Vivian, don’t fall in love till you see Miss Walton. God bless you, my dear boy!” And Vivian Russell shook his kind uncle warmly by the hand and sprung into the stage coach, which was waiting for him at the gate. “All right!” said the guard—the bluff coachman smacked his whip, and away they sped along the road to London.

They will not fly so fast, but that you and I, sweet reader, can overtake them when we list, though the swift steeds of Fancy must be harnessed for the purpose. To please you, then, we will follow them anon. In the mean time, sit you down by my side on this sunny bank, opposite the gate, where Vivian’s uncle still stands and gazes after the fast receding vehicle, and I will tell you all I know about him. You had time to see, ere he took his seat in the coach, that he was a tall, nobly formed youth, possessing, in an eminent degree, what the French call, “_Un air distingué_.” You could not but notice the thin silky intellectual looking curls, which waved on his classical head, (don’t laugh at the word “intellectual!”) Think a moment! Is there not expression even in hair? Does not thick, bushy, _stubby_ hair, especially if it curl, give you an idea of dullness, sensuality and want of refinement? If it doesn’t, my precious reader, take my word for it, you don’t see with your “mind’s eye,” or at any rate, with _my_ mind’s eye. Did you observe _his_ eyes? They are black, brilliant and expressive, full of that great rarity, in this whig and tory world, soul. His complexion is glowing and slightly brown by exposure. There is a dimple in his chin, his nose is just like that of the Apollo Belvidere, and his forehead, how shall I describe its beauty? broad, white, spiritual, beaming with thought, I cannot do it justice. There is the least perceptible curl on his beautiful lip; but you cannot see it when he smiles; for his smile is tenderness itself. In his manly bearing too, there is, perhaps, a dash of aristocratic haughtiness, at first, but it soon wears away upon acquaintance. The difficulty is to _become_ acquainted with him; I defy a dull or a vulgar person to do it.

The cheerful, healthy looking old gentleman, who is just turning from the gate towards that white house among the trees, is, as I told you, his uncle. Vivian’s parents died during his childhood, and left him to this uncle’s care. He has just returned from abroad, come of age,—taken possession of his paternal estates,—left the old gentleman to look after it, in his absence, and gone for the first time to pass a month or two amid the gaieties of the metropolis. And now let us after him with what speed we may.

See! there is my friend, Fancy; just in time! descending in her opal chariot, drawn by a score of peacocks, which fly or creep, as the wayward goddess wills. Her rainbow scarf flutters in the air, her wild blue eyes sparkle with excitement, as she beckons us towards her. Give me your hand, sweet reader! so, one bound, and we are safe by her side; and now we too are on our road to London, and our vehicle glances like a meteor through the air. Since then we are so comfortably _en route_, let me just explain my motive for having been, as some will think, unnecessarily minute in my description of our hero. It was because I wished my young lady readers,—for whom this story is especially intended, to be interested in him, and I thought the surest way of making them so, was to let them trace, in his person as well as mind, a remarkable resemblance to some favored acquaintance of their own. Have I succeeded? Mary, Caroline, Julia, Isabel! Is he not the “perfect _image_” of—you know who? There—don’t blush, dear! I won’t tell. “_Revenons à nos moutons._” Hey day! what have we here? A traveling chariot broken down in the road! Our friend Vivian bearing a lady in his arms towards the neighboring inn, which the stage coach has already reached! An old gentleman, probably her father, staring and hurrying after them as fast as the gout will let him, and the servants, postilions &c., busy in untackling the horses and righting the injured vehicle. We won’t stop to inquire the cause of the accident. Fancy will tell us that at her leisure. Let us enter the inn.