he age was there to exert his powers to drug with irreflection the
auditors; such a medicine I yearned for, so I entered. The theatre was
tolerably well filled. Shakspeare, whose popularity was established by the
approval of four centuries, had not lost his influence even at this dread
period; but was still "Ut magus," the wizard to rule our hearts and govern
our imaginations. I came in during the interval between the third and
fourth act. I looked round on the audience; the females were mostly of the
lower classes, but the men were of all ranks, come hither to forget awhile
the protracted scenes of wretchedness, which awaited them at their
miserable homes. The curtain drew up, and the stage presented the scene of
the witches' cave. The wildness and supernatural machinery of Macbeth, was
a pledge that it could contain little directly connected with our present
circumstances. Great pains had been taken in the scenery to give the
semblance of reality to the impossible. The extreme darkness of the stage,
whose only light was received from the fire under the cauldron, joined to a
kind of mist that floated about it, rendered the unearthly shapes of the
witches obscure and shadowy. It was not three decrepid old hags that bent
over their pot throwing in the grim ingredients of the magic charm, but
forms frightful, unreal, and fanciful. The entrance of Hecate, and the wild
music that followed, took us out of this world. The cavern shape the stage
assumed, the beetling rocks, the glare of the fire, the misty shades that
crossed the scene at times, the music in harmony with all witch-like
fancies, permitted the imagination to revel, without fear of contradiction,
or reproof from reason or the heart. The entrance of Macbeth did not
destroy the illusion, for he was actuated by the same feelings that
inspired us, and while the work of magic proceeded we sympathized in his
wonder and his daring, and gave ourselves up with our whole souls to the
influence of scenic delusion. I felt the beneficial result of such
excitement, in a renewal of those pleasing flights of fancy to which I had
long been a stranger. The effect of this scene of incantation communicated
a portion of its power to that which followed. We forgot that Malcolm and
Macduff were mere human beings, acted upon by such simple passions as
warmed our own breasts. By slow degrees however we were drawn to the real
interest of the scene. A shudder like the swift passing of an elect