BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC. NO. VIII.—MACBETH. If man in all ranks is liable to be thus betrayed by appearances, the king is peculiarly exposed to this danger. Nearly all the beautiful forms around him are but the disguises of treachery and selfishness. He is at once master, dupe and victim. All the wisdom and philosophy he can learn from the experience of others, or from his own, are feeble protection against the profound and subtle duplicity which pervades the air he breathes and every moment of his contact with his fellow creatures. A king is as much confined within a certain circle of information and action as the salamander girt with fire. I have heard of the most extraordinary events of public notoriety being concealed from royal knowledge in a manner almost passing credit. In the following passage see how kings are duped: * * * * * ACT I.—Scene IV. _King._ Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet returned? _Malcolm._ My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one who saw him die: who did report, That very frankly he confess’d his treasons; Implored your highness’ pardon; and set forth A deep repentance: nothing in his life Became him, like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d As ’twere a careless trifle. _King._ _There’s no art,_ _To find the mind’s construction in the face_: He was a gentleman on _whom I built_ _An absolute trust. O worthiest cousin!!_ [_Enter Macbeth, etc._ I do not know whether we may safely at all times ascribe the remarkable reflection of facts upon each other in the works of Shakspeare to the deliberate intention of the poet, or whether we may suppose them in some degree accidental. I am inclined to think, however, that it belongs to the high order of genius with which he was invested to exercise a power which, in its sphere, and with reverence be it spoken, is not without something of _omnipresence_. Here the king has just rid himself of one traitor of the blackest dye, whose guilt is placed beyond doubt, as it is almost beyond parallel, by his open and nearly successful treason in the late battle, and by his own confession. The betrayed sovereign then, just barely escaped from the ruinous treachery of one villain—yet one in whom he had built “an absolute trust”—after all the experience which we may suppose him to have acquired, for he is an old man, turns to another gentleman in whom also he builds “an absolute trust,” and, with a wise and just reflection scarcely ceased sounding from his lips—(a reflection to which every passing century will bear more and more ample testimony, There’s _no art_ To _find the mind’s construction_ in _the face_,)