Buller, you are a blockhead. There had she, for many hours, been sitting, and walking _about_ with it, now rumpled up in her fist--now crunkled up between her breasts--now locked up in a safe--now spread out like a sampler on that tasty little oak table--and sometimes she might have been heard by the servants--had they had the unusual curiosity to listen at the door--murmuring like a stock-dove--anon hooting like an owl--by-and-by barking like an eagle--then bellowing liker a hart than a hind--almost howling like a wolf--and why not?--now singing a snatch of an old Gaelic air, with a clear, wild, sweet voice, like that of "a human!" "Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promised." "Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, And chastise with the valour of my tongue, All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which Fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal." BULLER. Grand indeed. NORTH. It _is_ grand indeed. But, my dear Buller, was that all she had said to herself, think you? No--no--no. But it was all Shakspeare had time for on the Stage. Oh, sirs! The Time of the Stage is but a simulacrum of true Time. That must be done at one stroke, on the Stage, which in a Life takes ten. The Stage persuades _that_ in one conversation, or soliloquy, which Life may do in twenty--you have not leisure or good-will for the ambages and iterations of the Real. SEWARD. See an artist with a pen in his hand, challenged; and with a few lines he will exhibit a pathetic story. From how many millions has he given you--One? The units which he abstracts, represent sufficiently and satisfactorily the millions of lines and surfaces which he neglects. NORTH. So in Poetry. You take little for much. You need not wonder, then, that on an attendant entering and saying, "The King comes here to-night," she cries, "Thou'rt mad to say it!" Had you happened to tell her so half-an-hour ago, who knows but that she might have received it with a stately smile, that hardly moved a muscle on her high-featured front, and gave a merciful look to her green eyes even when she was communing with Murder! NORTH. What hurry and haste had been on all sides to get into the House of Murder! "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." Ay, where is the Thane of Cawdor? I, for one, not knowing, can't say. The gracious Duncan desires much to see him as well as his gracious Hostess. "Give me your hand: Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, Hostess." Ay--where's the Thane of Cawdor? Why did not Shakspeare show him to us, sitting at supper with the King? TALBOYS.