Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66, No 409, November 1849

BULLER.

Was that the Gong – or but thunder?

NORTH.

The Gong.

TALBOYS.

I smell sea-trout.

Scene III

Scene —Deeside. Time —after Dinner

NORTH – BULLER – SEWARD – TALBOYS

NORTH.

One hour more – and no more – to Shakspeare.

BULLER.

May we crack nuts?

NORTH.

By all means. And here they are for you to crack.

BULLER.

Now for some of your astounding Discoveries.

NORTH.

If you gather the Movement, scene by scene, of the Action of this Drama, you see a few weeks, or it may be months. There must be time to hear that Malcolm and his brother have reached England and Ireland – time for the King of England to interest himself in behalf of Malcolm, and muster his array. More than this seems unrequired. But the zenith of tyranny to which Macbeth has arrived, and particularly the manner of describing the desolation of Scotland by the speakers in England, conveys to you the notion of a long, long dismal reign. Of old it always used to do so with me; so that when I came to visit the question of the Time, I felt myself as if baffled and puzzled, not finding the time I had looked for, demonstrable. Samuel Johnson has had the same impression, but has not scrutinised the data. He goes probably by the old Chronicler for the actual time, and this, one would think, must have floated before Shakspeare's own mind.

TALBOYS.

Nobody can read the Scenes in England without seeing long-protracted time.

"Malcolm. Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.

Macduff. Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men,
Bestride our down-fallen birthdom: Each new morn,
New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds
As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out
Like syllable of dolour."

NORTH.

Ay, Talboys, that is true Shakspeare. No Poet – before or since – has in so few words presented such a picture. No poet, before or since, has used such words. He writes like a man inspired.

TALBOYS.

And in the same dialogue Malcolm says —

"I think our country sinks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds."

NORTH.

Go on, my dear Talboys. Your memory is a treasury of all the highest Poetry of Shakspeare. Go on.

TALBOYS.

And hear Rosse, on his joining Malcolm and Macduff in this scene, the latest arrival from Scotland: —

"Macduff. Stands Scotland where it did?

Rosse. Alas, poor country!
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot
Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs and groans, and shrieks that rent the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying, or ere they sicken."

NORTH.

Words known to all the world, yet coming on the ear of each individual listener with force unweaken'd by familiarity, power increased by repetition, as it will be over all Scottish breasts in secula seculorum.

TALBOYS.

By Heavens! he smiles! There is a sarcastic smile on that incomprehensible face of yours, sir – of which no man in this Tent, I am sure, may divine the reason.

NORTH.

I was not aware of it. Now, my dear Talboys, let us here endeavour to ascertain Shakspeare's Time. Here we have long time with a vengeance —and here we have short time; for this is the Picture of the State of Poor Scotland before the Murder of Macduff's Wife and Children.

BULLER.