Mary Baldwin College - Bluestocking Yearbook (Staunton, VA)

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The Augusta Seminary A inval. 5 until ;it last slic can stand im more, and tinds rest f(ir a while in nnconseionsiiest;. It is lucbeth now who takes the lead. He ueedH no 5uiding hand upon the downward road. Conseienee no lontrer sheds lior dim lii ht in the twili«;]it of his soul. Henceforth He sliall spurn f ' ati , scorn ileatli, And bear his liopes ' bove wisdom, love and fear. Slie can go no further. Her marvelous self-possession never fails her before her husband, but when alone tliiek-ooming fancies throw tlieir shadows over her, and she realizes that he has reached a point in his career when her sympatliy and sustaining hand can do no more for him. From tliis time he must work out liis fate, even to tlie crack of doom, ' alone ; and it is with a fearful sick- ening at lieart and hopeless despair, after the baiKpiet scene, that she answers his questions, How goes the night V with the words, Almost at odds with morning, which is which. Her whole after life is one long ex])iation for her crime. Amid the sleep of nature her conscience cannot sleep, and the will, wdiicli, when waking, no human power could bend, asleep, refuses to obey her. In the dim moonlight of memory she reviews each moment of that awful night and tries in vain to wash the blood off her little hand. Duncan is in his grave : After life ' s fitful fever, he sleeps well ; but she, who to gain her peace, sent Duncan to peace, can find no peace. Hers is a mind diseased, The memory of a rooted sorrow, and she dies ; all the sunny dreams of her youth buried forever in the darkness and horror of her death. Margaret Laxe.

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4 The Augusta Seminary Annual. betli draws l ack, fearful of the future wlien the deed is done, and to his wife ' s questions, answers only : I dare do all may become a man. She scorns to wear a heart so white, and taunts hini with his cowardice — Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire? Letting I dare not wait upon I would ? From this time sucli will she account his love, and he who dares do all else dares not hear tlie word ' ' coward fall from his wife ' s lips. How still and sweet the breezes blow around Macbeth ' s castle, when Duncan enters it to come forth no more I The martlets coo pleasantly beneatli the eaves and speak only of peace and happi- ness to the innocent hearts of Duncan and Banquo. But how soon, alas ! the black shades of night fall upon it, foreshadowing darkly the gloom even now descending on the souls of Macbeth and his wife. She has sworn to do tliis and she will not draw back. No airy daggers mock at her, and she arranges, with un- faltering skill, all the details of the plot. For a while she has succeeded in suspending her woman ' s nature, and she thinks of nothing but how to accomplish the deed. Yet, try as she will, she cannot stifle the memories of the Past as they come thronging back to her : Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done it. Did the sight of the venerable old king, sleeping in peace his last earthly sleep, remind her of her white-haired father, whom she Md loved so well in the old, glad days of her girlhood ? We can imagine that she turned away witli a sob, her res(jlution not weak- ened, but her heart softened and touched. At last, Macbeth ' s courage is screwed to the sticking place, and the deed of dreadful note is done. Then comes the reaction. Be- fore the accomplishment of her design she had paid no heed to the terrors of the night, but now every sound frightens her, and she hears voices calling through the darkness — Sleep, sleep no more ; Macbeth doth murder sleep —

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The Augusta Seminary Annual. Pictures in the Life of Lady Macbeth. I. THE shep])erd has ceased shouting on the mountain tops ; the fisherman witli wet nets is plodding homeward ; the moor is desolate and lifeless save for a strange-looking pair, walking silently hut hastily over the rougli ground. The peasant woman, from her cottage, must have noted the incongruity of the two, for, shading her eyes from the setting sun, she watched them out of sight and called to her husband, smoking within the door, The Thane ' s little lady and her faithful Kenneth ; where are they going ' ' . The two upon tiie moor are as silent as Nature around them until the man, a big fellow with a broad, good-natured face, says in an awed voice : Are you not afraid, my lady? No; why? Tlie child lifts her face so that the light sliines clearly on her steady blue eyes, and lips strangely firm in a childish face. Are you sure she is there? he asks again. Old Roderick saw her as he came past the big cliffs. He ran home, trembling and white. They come upon the crags and high, ragged cliffs, skirting the edges of one of Scotland ' s lochs, whose waters gleam through the crevices in the piles of rock roughened with moss and lichens. Before advancing towards the shore of the bay the man stops beneath the shadow of a hitrh rock and draws a long; breath. The child takes his hand, and something in the touch of her cool, stead} ' fingers seems to reassure him, for he steps quickly out with her to the edge of the bay. There she is, on yonder rock, says the child in a low, quiet voice. She does not notice the weirdness of the scene, or if she does, it fails to impress her. She stands hand in hand with the broad-shouldered Scotchman as quietly as if she were in her own little room at the big castle.