Into the midst of this circle, on the brink of ruin when they think themselves most secure, _enters Lady Macbeth_. Her mere appearance touches a chord of terror in the soul of the reader, although they whom she addresses view her with very different feelings. The unsuspecting king greets in her his “honored hostess,” and pours out upon her a heart full of gratitude and love. The cruel hypocrite—so firm in the anticipation of guilt, so haughtily superior to all the prejudices of superstition—all _the idle dreams of religion and a Providence_—yet so ignorant of their real nature and destined to be so thoroughly wrecked in the tempest her rash hand is so eager to raise—replies with shameful effrontery and mature wickedness: “all our service, In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business, to contend Against those honors deep and broad, wherewith Your majesty loads our house.” In the concluding part of the scene remark how admirably are drawn the profound hypocrisy of Lady Macbeth and the entire confidence and deeply deceived friendship of the unsuspecting king. “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. _Lady._ Your servants ever Have theirs, _themselves_, and _what is theirs_, in compt To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure, _Still to return your own_. _King._ Give me your hand: Conduct me to mine host; _we love him highly_, And shall _continue our graces towards him_.” Thus it is with man. All around us is deceit. We know not how to distinguish the false from the true. Duncan must have had more than human sagacity to suspect wile in the chivalric soldier who had just risked his life in his defence, or in the “fair and noble hostess” who received him beneath her roof with such apparent love, gratitude and veneration. * * * * * [Illustration: J. J. Jenkins., A. L. Dick. _The Lady Alice_, Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.] THE LADY ALICE. BY PARK BENJAMIN. In the early morning hour, When the dew was on the flower, From her fragrant couch arose Lady Alice, bright and fair! Free around her as the air, Spotless as the mountain snows, Garments in the night-time worn, Floated in the light of morn.