When Duncan the Meek reigned King of Scotland, there lived a great
thane, or lord, called Macbeth. This Macbeth was a near kinsman to the
king, and in great esteem at court for his valor and conduct in the
wars; an example of which he had lately given, in defeating a rebel
army, assisted by the troops of Norway, in terrible numbers.
The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, returning victorious
from this great battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, where
they were stopped by the strange appearance of three figures, like
women, except that they had beards, and their withered skins and wild
attire made them look not like any earthly creatures. Macbeth first
addressed them, when they, seemingly offended, laid each one her choppy
finger upon her skinny lips, in token of silence: and the first of
them saluted Macbeth with the title of “Thane of Glamis.” The general
was not a little startled to find himself known by such creatures,
but how much more, when the second of them followed up that salute by
giving him the title of “Thane of Cawdor,” to which honor he had no
pretensions! and again the third bid him, “All hail! _king that shalt
be hereafter!_” Such prophetic greeting might well amaze him, who
knew that while the king’s sons lived he could not hope to succeed to
the throne. Then turning to Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of
riddling terms, to be _lesser than Macbeth and greater! not so happy,
but much happier!_ and prophesied that though he should never reign,
yet his sons after him should be kings in Scotland. They then turned
into air, and vanished: by which the generals knew them to be the weird
sisters, or witches.
While they stood pondering upon the strangeness of this adventure,
there arrived certain messengers from the king, who were empowered by
him to confer upon Macbeth the dignity of Thane of Cawdor. An event
so miraculously corresponding with the prediction of the witches
astonished Macbeth, and he stood rapt in amazement, unable to make
reply to the messengers; and in that point of time swelling hopes
arose in his mind, that the prediction of the third witch might in
like manner have its accomplishment, and that he should one day reign
in Scotland. Turning to Banquo, he said, “Do you not hope that your
children shall be kings, when what the witches promised to me has so
wonderfully come to pass?” “That hope,” answered the general, “might
enkindle you to aim at the throne: but oftentimes these ministers of
darkness tell us truths in little things, to betray us into deeds of
greatest consequence.” But the wicked suggestions of the witches had
sunk too deep into the mind of Macbeth, to allow him to attend to the
warnings of the good Banquo. From that time he bent all his thoughts
how to compass the crown of Scotland.
Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the strange prediction
of the weird sisters, and its partial accomplishment. She was a bad,
ambitious woman, and so as her husband and herself could arrive at
greatness, she cared not much by what means. She spurred on the
reluctant purposes of Macbeth, who felt compunction at the thoughts of
blood, and did not cease to represent the murder of the king as a step
absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of the flattering prophecy.
It happened at this time that the king, who, out of his royal
condescension, would oftentimes visit his principal nobility on
gracious terms, came to Macbeth’s house, attended by his two sons,
Malcolm and Donalbain, and a numerous train of thanes and attendants,
the more to honor Macbeth for the triumphal success of his wars. The
castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and the air about it was
sweet and wholesome, which appeared by the nests which the martlet,
or swallow, had built under all the jutting friezes and buttresses of
the building, wherever it found a place of advantage: for where those
birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed to be delicate. The
king entered, well pleased with the place, and not less so with the
attentions and respect of his honored hostess, lady Macbeth, who had
the art of covering treacherous purposes with smiles; and could look
like the innocent flower, while she was indeed the serpent under it.
The king, being tired with his journey, went early to bed, and in his
state-room two grooms of his chamber (as was the custom) slept beside
him. He had been unusually pleased with his reception, and had made
presents, before he retired, to his principal officers; and among the
rest, had sent a rich diamond to Lady Macbeth, greeting her by the name
of his most kind hostess.
Now was the middle of the night, when over half the world nature seems
dead, and wicked dreams abuse men’s minds asleep, and none but the wolf
and the murderer is abroad. This was the time when Lady Macbeth waked
to plot the murder of the king. She would not have undertaken a deed so
abhorrent to her sex, but that she feared her husband’s nature, that it
was too full of the milk of human kindness, to do a contrived murder.
She knew him to be ambitious, but withal to be scrupulous, and not yet
prepared for that height of crime which commonly in the end accompanies
inordinate ambition. She had won him to consent to the murder, but she
doubted his resolution: and she feared that the natural tenderness
of his disposition (more humane than her own) would come between and
defeat the purpose. So with her own hands armed with a dagger, she
approached the king’s bed; having taken care to ply the grooms of his
chamber so with wine, that they slept intoxicated, and careless of
their charge. There lay Duncan, in a sound sleep after the fatigues of
his journey, and as she viewed him earnestly, there was something in
his face, as he slept, which resembled her own father; and she had not
the courage to proceed.
She returned to confer with her husband. His resolution had begun to
stagger. He considered that there were strong reasons against the deed.
In the first place, he was not only a subject, but a near kinsman to
the king; and he had been his host and entertainer that day, whose
duty by the laws of hospitality it was to shut the door against his
murderers, not bear the knife himself. Then he considered how just
and merciful a king this Duncan had been, how clear of offense to his
subjects, how loving to his nobility, and in particular to him; that
such kings are the peculiar care of Heaven, and their subjects doubly
bound to revenge their deaths. Besides, by the favors of the king,
Macbeth stood high in the opinion of all sorts of men, and how would
those honors be stained by the reputation of so foul a murder!
In these conflicts of the mind Lady Macbeth found her husband,
inclining to the better part, and resolving to proceed no further. But
she being a woman not easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to
pour in at his ears words which infused a portion of her own spirit
into his mind, assigning reason upon reason why he should not shrink
from what he had undertaken; how easy the deed was; how soon it would
be over; and how the action of one short night would give to all their
nights and days to come sovereign sway and royalty! Then she threw
contempt on his change of purpose, and accused him of fickleness and
cowardice; and declared that she had given suck, and knew how tender
it was to love the babe that milked her, but she would while it was
smiling in her face, have plucked it from her breast, and dashed its
brains out, if she had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn to perform
that murder. Then she added, how practicable it was to lay the guilt
of the deed upon the drunken, sleepy grooms. And with the valor of her
tongue she so chastised his sluggish resolutions, that he once more
summoned up courage to the bloody business.
So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in the dark to
the room where Duncan lay; and as he went, he thought he saw another
dagger in the air, with the handle toward him, and on the blade and at
the point of it drops of blood. But when he tried to grasp at it, it
was nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from his own hot and
oppressed brain and the business he had in hand. Getting rid of this
fear, he entered the king’s room, whom he despatched with one stroke of
his dagger. Just as he had done the murder, one of the grooms who slept
in the chamber, laughed in his sleep, and the other cried, “Murder,”
which woke them both: but they said a short prayer; one of them
said, “God bless us!” and the other answered, “Amen,” and addressed
themselves to sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening to them, tried
to say “Amen” when the fellow said “God bless us!” but, though he had
most need of a blessing, the word stuck in his throat, and he could not
pronounce it. Again he thought he heard a voice which cried, “Sleep no
more: Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes
life.” Still it cried, “Sleep no more,” to all the house. “Glamis hath
murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall
sleep no more.”
With such horrible imaginations, Macbeth returned to his listening
wife, who began to think he had failed of his purpose, and that the
deed was somehow frustrated. He came in so distracted a state, that
she reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash his
hands of the blood which stained them, while she took his dagger, with
purpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms with blood, to make it seem
their guilt.
Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder, which could
not be concealed; and though Macbeth and his lady made great show of
grief, and the proofs against the grooms (the dagger being produced
against them and their faces smeared with blood) were sufficiently
strong, yet the entire suspicion fell upon Macbeth, whose inducements
to such a deed were so much more forcible than poor silly grooms could
be supposed to have, and Duncan’s two sons fled. Malcolm, the eldest,
sought for refuge in the English court; and the youngest, Donalbain,
made his escape to Ireland.
The king’s sons, who should have succeeded him, having thus vacated the
throne, Macbeth as next heir was crowned king, and thus the prediction
of the weird sisters was literally accomplished.
Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could not forget the
prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be king,
yet not his children, but the children of Banquo, should be kings
after him. The thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands
with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the posterity of
Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within them, that they determined
to put to death both Banquo and his son, to make void the predictions
of the weird sisters, which in their own case had been so remarkably
brought to pass. For this purpose they made a great supper, to which
they invited all the chief thanes; and among the rest, with marks of
particular respect, Banquo and his son Fleance were invited. The way by
which Banquo was to pass to the palace at night, was beset by murderers
appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo; but in the scuffle Fleance
escaped. From that Fleance descended a race of monarchs who afterwards
filled the Scottish throne, ending with James the Sixth of Scotland and
the First of England, under whom the two crowns of England and Scotland
were united.
At supper the queen, whose manners were in the highest degree affable
and royal, played the hostess with a gracefulness and attention which
conciliated every one present, and Macbeth discoursed freely with his
thanes and nobles, saying, that all that was honorable in the country
was under his roof, if he had but his good friend Banquo present, whom
yet he hoped he should rather have to chide for neglect, than to lament
for any mischance. Just at these words the ghost of Banquo, whom he
had caused to be murdered, entered the room, and placed himself on the
chair which Macbeth was about to occupy. Though Macbeth was a bold
man, at this horrible sight his cheeks turned white with fear and he
stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon the ghost. His queen and
all the nobles, who saw nothing, but perceived him gazing (as they
thought) upon an empty chair, took it for a fit of distraction; and
she reproached him, whispering that it was but the same fancy which
had made him see the dagger in the air when he was about to kill
Duncan. But Macbeth continued to see the ghost, and gave no heed to
all they could say, while he addressed it with distracted words, yet
so significant, that his queen fearing the dreadful secret would be
disclosed, in great haste dismissed the guests, excusing the infirmity
of Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled with.
To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His queen and he had
their sleeps afflicted with terrible dreams, and the blood of Banquo
troubled them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom they now looked
upon as father to a line of kings, who should keep their posterity out
of the throne. With these miserable thoughts they found no peace, and
Macbeth determined once more to seek out the weird sisters, and know
from them the worst.
He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they, who knew by
foresight of his coming, were engaged in preparing their dreadful
charms, by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to them
futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the
eye of a newt, and tongue of a dog, the leg of a lizard, and the wing
of the night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the maw
of the ravenous salt-sea shark, the mummy of a witch, the root of the
poisonous hemlock (this to have effect must be digged in the dark),
the gall of a goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of the yew tree
that roots itself in graves, and the finger of a dead child: all these
were set on to boil in a great kettle, or cauldron, which, as fast as
it grew too hot, was cooled with a baboon’s blood: to these they poured
in the blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they threw into the
flame the grease that had sweaten from a murderer’s gibbet. By these
charms they bound the infernal spirits to answer their questions.
It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would have his doubts resolved
by them, or by their masters, the spirits. He, nothing daunted by
their dreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered, “Where are
they? let me see them.” And they called the spirits, which were three.
And the first arose in the likeness of an armed head, and he called
Macbeth by name, and bid him beware of the thane of Fife; for which
caution Macbeth thanked him: for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy of
Macduff, the thane of Fife. And the second spirit arose in the likeness
of a bloody child, and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him have
no fear, but laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of woman born
should have power to hurt him: and he advised him to be bloody, bold,
and resolute. “Then live, Macduff!” cried the king; “what need I fear
of thee? but yet I will make assurance doubly sure. Thou shalt not
live; that I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, and sleep in spite of
thunder.” That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form of
a child crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called Macbeth by name,
and comforted him against conspiracies, saying, that he should never
be vanquished, until the wood of Birnam to Dunsinane-Hill should come
against him. “Sweet bodements! good?” cried Macbeth; “who can unfix
the forest, and move it from its earth-bound roots? I see I shall live
the usual period of man’s life, and not be cut off by a violent death.
But my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your art can tell
so much, if Banquo’s issue shall ever reign in this kingdom?” Here the
cauldron sunk into the ground, and a noise of music was heard, and
eight shadows, like kings, passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who
bore a glass which showed the figures of many more, and Banquo, all
bloody, smiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to them; by which Macbeth
knew that these were the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after
him in Scotland; and the witches, with a sound of soft music, and with
dancing, making a show of duty and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And
from this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all bloody, and dreadful.
The first thing he heard when he got out of the witches’ cave, was,
that Macduff, thane of Fife, had fled to England, to join the army
which was forming against him under Malcolm, the eldest son of the
late king, with intent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right
heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon the castle of
Macduff, and put his wife and children, whom the thane had left behind,
to the sword, and extended the slaughter to all who claimed the least
relationship to Macduff.
These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his chief nobility
from him. Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm and Macduff, who
were now approaching with a powerful army which they had raised in
England; and the rest secretly wished success to their arms, though for
fear of Macbeth they could take no active part. His recruits went on
slowly. Everybody hated the tyrant, nobody loved or honored him, but
all suspected him, and he began to envy the condition of Duncan, whom
he had murdered, who slept soundly in his grave, against whom treason
had done its worst: neither steel nor poison, domestic malice nor
foreign levies, could hurt him any longer.
While these things were acting, the queen who had been the sole partner
in his wickedness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek a momentary
repose from those terrible dreams which afflicted them both nightly,
died, it is supposed by her own hands, unable to bear the remorse of
guilt and public hate; by which event he was left alone, without a
soul to love or care for him, or a friend to whom he could confide his
wicked purposes.
He grew careless of life, and wished for death; but the near approach
of Malcolm’s army roused in him what remained of his ancient courage,
and he determined to die (as he expressed it) “with armor on his
back.” Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches had filled him
with false confidence, and he remembered the sayings of the spirits,
that none of woman born was to hurt him, and that he was never to be
vanquished till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane, which he thought
could never be. So he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable
strength was such as defied a siege: here he sullenly awaited the
approach of Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a messenger to
him, pale and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which
he had seen: for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the
hill, he looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking the wood began
to move! “Liar and slave,” cried Macbeth; “if thou speakest false,
thou shalt hang alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If
thy tale be true, I care not if thou dost as much by me;” for Macbeth
now began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the equivocal speeches
of the spirits. He was not to fear till Birnam wood should come to
Dunsinane: and now a wood did move! “However,” said he, “if this which
he avouches be true, let us arm and out. There is no flying hence,
nor staying here. I begin to be weary of the sun, and wish my life
at an end.” With these desperate speeches he sallied forth upon the
besiegers, who had now come up to the castle.
The strange appearance, which had given the messenger an idea of a
wood moving, is easily solved. When the besieging army marched through
the wood of Birnam, Malcolm, like a skillful general, instructed
his soldiers to hew down every one a bough and bear it before him,
by way of concealing the true numbers of his host. This marching of
the soldiers with boughs had at a distance the appearance which had
frightened the messenger. Thus were the words of the spirit brought to
pass, in a sense different from that in which Macbeth had understood
them, and one great hold of his confidence was gone.
And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which Macbeth, though
feebly supported by those who called themselves his friends, but in
reality hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Malcolm and
Macduff, yet fought with the extreme of rage and valor, cutting to
pieces all who were opposed to him, till he came to where Macduff was
fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the caution of the spirit who
had counseled him to avoid Macduff above all men, he would have turned,
but Macduff, who had been seeking him through the whole fight, opposed
his turning, and a fierce contest ensued; Macduff giving him many foul
reproaches for the murder of his wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul
was charged enough with blood of that family already, would still have
declined the combat; but Macduff still urged him to it, calling him
tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and villain.
Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit, how none of woman born
should hurt him; and smiling confidently he said to Macduff: “Thou
losest thy labor, Macduff. As easily thou mayest impress the air with
thy sword as make me vulnerable. I bear a charmed life, which must not
yield to one of woman born.” “Despair thy charm,” said Macduff, “and
let that lying spirit whom thou hast served, tell thee, that Macduff
was never born of woman, never as the ordinary manner of men is to be
born, but was untimely taken from his mother.” “Accursed be the tongue
which tells me so,” said the trembling Macbeth, who felt his last hold
of confidence give way; “and let never man in future believe the lying
equivocations of witches and juggling spirits, who deceive us in words
which have double senses, and while they keep their promise literally,
disappoint our hopes with a different meaning. I will not fight with
thee.”
“Then live!” said the scornful Macduff; “we will have a show of thee,
as men show monsters, and a painted board, on which shall be written,
‘Here men may see the tyrant!’” “Never,” said Macbeth, whose courage
returned with despair; “I will not live to kiss the ground before young
Malcolm’s feet, and to be baited with the curses of the rabble. Though
Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane, and thou opposed to me who wast never
born of woman, yet I will try the last.” With these frantic words he
threw himself upon Macduff, who after a severe struggle in the end
overcame him, and cutting off his head, made a present of it to the
young and lawful king, Malcolm; who took upon him the government which
by the machinations of the usurper he had so long been deprived of, and
ascended the throne of Duncan the Meek, amid the acclamation of the
nobles and the people.
* * * * *
The imagination magnifies small objects, so as to fill the mind
with a fantastic estimate; and with haughty insolence contracts the
great to its own dwarfish measure, as for instance, in speaking of
God.—_Pascal._