without offering any remedial or softening consideration, was not characteristic of the sweet, gentle and sunshiny imagination of the poet. His whole works, taken together, do not leave any such shadow on the imagination. He is no misanthrope—no infidel. He points with his wand to human nature as she is, unguided, unsustained, unprotected by the Supreme Power. He draws the blood-stained yet heart-crushed queen, not to appal us with a danger to which we are subject, but to point out one which we can avoid. The scene is very short, and I will give it, that the reader may the more readily understand me. Act V. Scene I. _Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a Waiting Gentlewoman._ _Doct._ I have two nights watch’d with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walk’d? _Gent._ Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. _Doct._ A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? _Gent._ That, sir, which I will not report after her. _Doct._ You may, to me; and ’tis most meet you should. _Gent._ Neither to you, nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. _Enter_ Lady Macbeth, _with a Taper_. Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. _Doct._ How came she by that light? _Gent._ Why, it stood by her; she has light by her continually; ’tis her command. _Doct._ You see, her eyes are open. _Gent._ Ay, but their sense is shut. _Doct._ What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands. _Gent._ It is an accustom’d action with her, to seem thus washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. _Lady._ Yet here’s a spot. _Doct._ Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. _Lady._ Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One; two; why, then ’tis time to do ’t; Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afraid? what need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?—Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? _Doct._ Do you mark that? _Lady._ The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these hands ne’er be clean?—No more o’ that, my lord, no more o’ that: you mar all with this starting. _Doct._ Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.