question certainly is ingenious, and there is much to be said on both sides, for the matter merely rests upon conjecture. That the first is the ghost of Banquo is certain. Not only does it appear when Macbeth expresses a wish that Banquo were present, but also the expression "twenty mortal murders on their crowns," corresponds with the "twenty trenched gashes on his head, the least a death to nature."

Moreover, had this been the ghost of Duncan, Macbeth could not have said, "Thou canst not say, I did it," which he does say evidently to Banquo.

Now, as for the second. There certainly are strong points in favour of this being the ghost of Duncan. The manner of Macbeth towards it is totally different, exhibiting far greater horror than in the first instance. The description, too, seems to be that of an old man:

Besides all this, I think it highly probable that the banquet reminded him of that night when he entertained the unwary king in this same hall; and surely, if the ghost of Banquo, whom he did not murder personally, appears to him, how much rather that of Duncan, whom he slew with his own hand. Add to this, there is nothing which tells us that Lady Macbeth did not see this last ghost. The probability is that she did. In the first instance she chides Macbeth for his folly; in the second she dismisses the guests abruptly, I think as much to hide her feelings as those of the king; for we must observe, that she never from this hour derides his superstition, and from this she sickens. Had the second ghost been Banquo, it had never moved her. She had no hand in Banquo's death, and therefore Banquo's ghost could cause her no alarm. My own opinion is, that we have here two ghosts, which opinion receives more licence, as I believe the stage direction in the old copies is in both cases simply, "Ghost rises." On this point I have for some time dwelt, and confess that I am rather inclined to favour the opinion of the modern critic.

One word more before I leave the general points of this playone word upon the introduction of the singing witches. Every Shaksperian must be disgusted with the dancing and singing in this play. That Macbeth should be made an opera may please the pocket of the manager, and pamper the vitiated taste of the public,

but it cannot fail to disgust the real lover of our poet. For this purpose we have Middleton's witches dragged into Scotland, and doggrel rhymes into Shakspere's plays; while, amidst the tragic scenes of our great author, we are indulged with a dance from beings whom Shakspere has drawn awful and mysterious. Enough upon this point. Good taste will suggest more than I

can say.

Here, then, I leave the general points in Macbeth, proceeding in my next to the passages in this play.

C. H. H.

THE SONG OF NIGHT.

WHO am I, with my ebon vest?
Spangled with stars, over earth I creep,
And I scatter the dews of gentle sleep
On every weary eye;

And I give to the spirit rest,
As over the earth I peep

From my home in the cloudless sky.

Who am I, with my sable wings?
Shading the face of Cynthia fair;
Filling the world with a silence rare,
Or song of the nightingale.

I am loved by all living things
In earth, and in sea, and air,

In the mountain, and wood, and vale.

Who am I, with my Zephyr wild?
Fanning the leaves of the quiet grove,

Telling all nature of rest and love,
And golden dreams of bliss;

I send forth my fairest child

Over lakes and sweet streams to rove,

And to close up each flower with a kiss.

Who am I, but the Spirit of Night?

I am the child of the golden sun;

And when first through the heaven his race was run,

I rose from the purple west,

Bringing sweet slumber and light,

And a heaven of peace and rest.

C. H. II.

Lisette; or, Fairy Favours.

PUCK. If we shadows have offended
Think but this, (and all is mended,)

That you have but slumbered here,
While these visions did appear;
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend.

Midsummer Night's Dream.

CHAPTER I.

HOW LISETTE LIVED IN THE VALLEY OF FLORAINE.

WERE the Guide-books wrong, when they said that in all the country round there was not a spot so pretty as Floraine? or of all the travellers that journeyed thither to verify its fame, was every one bewitched? One of these two things must have been the case; for no one, that ever returned, was able to say one word in praise of the village or its valley. The Guide-books certainly were right;— they gave even a classified catalogue of the beauties of the neighbourhood; but then the chief beauty was omitted, there was no mention of Lisette; and nobody went to Floraine without seeing Lisette; and with Lisette to look at, who could have time to waste over the valley? And so the travellers came back, and could not tell whether Floraine was a desert or a garden; though they were quite sure it must be a paradise, or else it could not hold a Lisette. -They called her Lisette, but the very old men of the village positively declared that her proper baptismal name had been Elizabeth. Not that it at all required an old man to remember when Lisette had been baptized; only no one but a very old man would have thought of remembering anything, that could change the merry and kind Lisette into a prim and stately Elizabeth. Well but, Floraine-this paradise. Yes, the travellers thought right, a paradise it was; the very philosophers called it a kingdom of flowers, although they knew no more of flowers than that one might be gamosepalous, another polypetalous; but a kingdom of flowers it must be, for its name was derived from latin words to that effect, and had it been another Zahara, the classical

authority would have clothed it in their eyes with everlasting verdure. The ignorant villagers showed their imperfect education, (for the period of my story was remote from the present days of universal enlightenment,) by calling it a queendom; flowers filled the valley of every hue and odour, scattered by the mountain side, crowding round the brook, and Lisette was their Queen, the fairest of them all. And well did the queen love her subjects, and fondly did her light heart beat when she surveyed her beauteous empire. Seldom was she happier than when roaming among flowers. Pretty Lisette! Never was she prettier than with flowers in her hair; her nut-brown hair, that Nature--that best of all hair-dressers, careless as she is-had curled so prettily, and tossed so negligently behind her neck and over her white shoulders. Lisette's eyes, what colour were they? Never any youth tried to discover—and many did try that had not his heart to pay as a penalty for his curiosity. Nobody ever knew exactly the colour of Lisette's eyes; they were not black-people thought they were dark-but they were so sparkling and full of meaning, that they invariably set people thinking of something else when they intended to satisfy themselves as to colour. Nobody at all classical could look at her lips without feeling the force of the assertion, that from such lips the shape of Cupid's bow was modelled; and then what arrows did she shoot from them! every word went to the hearer's heart. And her face, nobody that had ever heard of Lavater could feel that she was otherwise than as good as she was pretty; but the villagers, who knew nothing of Cupid or Lavater, contented themselves with believing that she was a wonder upon earth, and that, as all her thoughts and actions were as beautiful as herself, they ought to be proud of her, and love her; and so all the inhabitants of Floraine were very, very proud of Lisette, and all, (especially the young men,) loved her heartily.

CHAPTER II.

HOW LISETTE SAT BESIDE THE BROOK, AND WHAT BEFEL HER THERE

Now, there was a little brook that danced, and bubbled, and sparkled through the valley of Floraine; and Lisette loved the brook because it loved her flowers, and watered them, and would sprinkle them with little diamonds, to punish them, if they came

too near its edge. And Lisette used to sit beside the brook, and watch its sporting, and listen to its babble, and then the birds would sing around her, and she would wonder what the brook and the birds were talking about together. Now, one day, as she sat thus listening, and the birds were silent because a cloud was coming over the sun, she thought the brook addressed its talk to her; and she smiled to think herself so silly, and her smile was like the sunbeam,-only the beam was about to be blotted by a dark cloud; but so had Lisette's smiles never been, and there seemed no reason why they should be now. Yet, though she laughed at herself, she listened to the brook, and it seemed to say to her, "Lisette! Lisette! follow me, Lisette!-Lisette! Lisette! follow, follow me!" Lisette listened so long that she forgot it was silly to do so, and laughed then at the brook instead of at herself; and while it still called to her," Lisette! Lisette !" she still laughed at it, and let it dance away, and did not follow. Presently there came a little angry breeze that the cloud brought with it, or that the brook called in as an ally, and shook Lisette's white dress, and a rose fell out of her bosom into the brook; then the brook danced on, laughing in its turn, and bearing the rose onward in its course. Now, had it been simply a rose, Lisette would have let the tiresome brook dance away with it, rather than follow and give up her point; but then, that rose Silvan had given to her, and she had worn it in her bosom, and she would wish Silvan, when she passed his cottage that evening, to see where she had kept it, and-

"Lisette! Lisette! Now you follow me!" seemed the brook to say, as half angry, half laughing, the mischievous breeze still fluttering over her dress and her brown hair, she hurried to recover Silvan's rose.

CHAPTER III.

HOW LISETTE FOLLOWED IN PURSUIT OF SILVAN'S ROSE.

THE brook seemed to laugh so heartily, that Lisette began to scold; and then the brook seemed sorry for what it had done, and its waters would stop with the rose behind a stone; but when Lisette put out her hand to regain the flower, away it would dance, and the brook laughed more noisily than ever. Thus, with her loose dress and hair still floating on the breeze, the rose always within her reach, but always contriving to elude her grasp, Lisette