No man, not corrupt by long previous backslidings either of thought or deed, would act as Macbeth acts. He grasps at the first idea of murder with the true zest of an assassin. All his struggles are only those of fear. The _first_ time he meets the king, his generous, grateful, and gracious master, he seems already to have arranged the murder in his mind, and his hypocrisy and cruelty do not waver an instant. He discovers the self-possession and plausible villany of a practised criminal, and this too before he sees his wife upon the subject. It almost seems as if they had spoken on this point before. When Duncan heaps him with thanks and rewards, he answers: _Mac._ “The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are, to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing every thing Safe toward your love and honor.” When the King says, as if in dark conformity to the witches’ prediction: “from hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you,” Macbeth, like a hungry leopard trembling with joy at seeing his victim take refuge in his very den, says, with an affectation of grateful submission: _Mac._ “The rest is labor which is not used for you: I’ll be myself the harbinger, and _make joyful_ _The hearing of my_ wife with your approach.” And then _already_, to himself: _Mac._ “The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step On which I must fall _down, or else overleap_; For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires, The eye wink at the hand, _yet let that be_ Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.” His famous soliloquy, “Out, out, brief candle,” is in itself a superb piece of earthly philosophy, but it becomes resplendently significant when regarded as the _creed of infidelity_ which has brought him where he is; for he is an atheist, and _therefore_ he is a _murderer_. “Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And _then is heard no more_: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, _Signifying nothing_.” These are not the thoughts of the gentle, happy-hearted Shakspeare. These are the blasphemous outbreakings of a blood-drenched, disbelieving soul, vainly striving to make head against God’s vengeance by denying his existence. No. Life’s _not_ a walking shadow. It is more than a poor player—than a tale signifying nothing. It signifies much not to be known by the “ignorant present,” as they find, unhappy lost ones, who mistake such wicked blasphemies for truth. The pertinacity with which his selfish soul is wedded to the world is again betrayed in one of his last soliloquies, where, in running a kind of balance in his accounts between the gains and losses of his murderous ambition, he complains: