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. What? SEWARD. Eh? NORTH. Macduff, moved by Rosse's words, asks him, you know, Talboys, "how does my wife?" And then ensues the affecting account of her murder, which you need not recite. Now, I ask, when was the murder of Lady Macduff perpetrated? Two days--certainly not more--after the murder of Banquo. Macbeth, incensed by the flight of Fleance, goes, the morning after the murder of Banquo, to the Weirds, to know by "the worst means, the worst." You know what they showed him--and that, as they vanished, he exclaimed-- "Where are they? Gone?--Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!-- Come in, without there! _Enter_ LENOX. _Len._ What's your grace's will? _Macb._ Saw you the weird sisters? _Len._ No, my lord. _Macb._ Came they not by you? _Len._ No, indeed, my lord. _Macb._ Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn'd all those that trust them!--I did hear The galloping of horse: Who was't came by? _Len._ 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word, MACDUFF IS FLED TO ENGLAND. _Macb._ Fled to England?