A certain noble and his wife slew their king while he was their guest, and usurped the crown. In order to conceal their crime and keep themselves on the throne, the new king slew other persons, and even murdered the wife and children of a noble who had fled to England and espoused the cause of the rightful heir to the throne, the son of the murdered king. The usurper was finally overthrown and killed in battle by the knight whose family he had slain. Such are the bare items of the story of "Macbeth." When these facts were fashioned into a play, the interest was transferred from the events to the characters of the principal individuals concerned. Their ambitious motives, their resolution or hesitation to perform the murder, and the effects of this crime upon them were not only portrayed by Shakespeare, but to Lady Macbeth is given a different type of conscience from that of her husband. While at first, or before Macbeth committed his first crime, he hesitated long, his conscience afterward became "seared as with a hot iron." Although he hesitated greatly over the murder of Duncan, he later pursued his purpose without faltering for a moment. The conscience of Lady Macbeth, on the contrary, is awakened by crime. These two types of conscience are often found in life, but have never been so truly represented as in Shakespeare's interpretation of them. Possibly no other art except dramatic art could have portrayed this experience and interpreted such deep differences between human beings. Now note the peculiarities of the monologue. A man must part from a woman he loves. He has been rejected, or for other reasons it is necessary for him to speak the parting word; they may meet as friends, but never again can they meet as lovers. There are not enough events here to make a story, and the mere statement of them awakens little interest. But Browning writes a monologue upon this slender theme which is so short that it can be printed here entire. THE LOST MISTRESS All's over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves! And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully: You know the red turns gray. To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign: For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Tho' I keep with heart's endeavor,-- Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Tho' it stay in my soul for ever!-- Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer!