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To which says Banquo,

he continues,

"That trusted home

Might yet enkindle you into the throne
Besides the thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange,'

'And oftentimes to win us to our harm

The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win us with honest trifles, to betray us
In deepest consequence.'

This is a wise saying, and invites remark. The devil, it is true, is a liar and the father of it,' but it would be a great mistake to think that he utters nothing but falsehood. Lying would lose its power to deceive were it not mixed with truth. Ye shall be as God, knowing good and evil,' said the serpent to our first parents, and certainly their transgression brought enlargement of their knowledge. The tempter is too skilful in his profession to deceive always. The fishes for which he angles are allowed to taste the bait. In the gambling-house of sin, the human players always win the first stakes. It will not do to base our morality on the maxims of selfishness, as, 'Honesty is always the best policy,' or 'Deceit is always a losing game.' Of course it is so in the end, but it is never so in the beginning; and the end, when at last the wheel comes full circle,' is beyond the range of present vision. Macbeth is 'won to his harm' by the 'honest trifle' that the prophecy of the witches had so far come true. And so does it happen continually. The youth is tempted to one deed of licentious indulgence, and no disgrace ensues; and the next opportunity finds him ready to be more easily enticed, till his soul is fettered by inextricable bonds. The servant is prevailed on to appropriate a little of his employer's property, and no disclosure follows for a while, till at last principle is overthrown, character is blasted, and prospects are ruined. By some trifling gains-a few pounds, an hour or two's indulgence, a little advance in position-are men blinded and bewitched so as to hire themselves to Satan's service, and acquire the right to his wages.

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Here is also to be noticed the power which a prophecy believed in exercises over the spirit. It used to be said that the late Emperor of the French was sustained under his repeated unsuccessful attempts to reach the goal he sought, by some prophetic announcement that he should reign over France. It might appear as if such an assurance would lead those possessed by it to commit their future to the absolute control of the power from whom the prediction comes, and render them careless in putting forth effort to win the destined prize. The objection has been often brought against the doctrines of the saints' perseverance and assurance, that they tend to repress moral endeavour and to encourage indifference and sloth. But this is an idea altogether groundless. Universal experience proves that if the prize predicted is really interesting to the heart and earnestly desired, the prediction stimulates rather than represses effort. Jacob, who had the promise that he should inherit the birthright, was not the less vigilant that he should not be supplanted by his brother. Hazael, immediately on hearing from the prophet that he should be king over Syria, set himself to make the promise sure by the murder of his master. Macbeth is strongly inclined to believe that, having obtained a part, he is certain to obtain the whole of that which the weird sisters promised, and he is thereby stirred to most strenuous endeavour to realize the utmost of his ambitious desires. Nor is this all. A prophecy believed in often so acts upon the spirit as to weaken or annihilate the obligations of morality, and to lead the person in whose favour it runs to

have recourse to any means, however unlawful, in order to gain the predicted prize. Such a prophecy is often dealt with as if it left a man free to practise nay, as if it offered a divine sanction to-whatever unscrupulous or unholy methods he may choose to adopt. Thus in part is to be explained the deceit practised upon the blind Isaac by Jacob and his mother. And in view of this depraved tendency of the human spirit, the law was laid down for the Israelites: If there arise among you a prophet, or a dreamer of dreams, and giveth thee a sign in a wonder, and the sign in the wonder come to pass whereof he spake unto thee, saying, Let us go after other gods which thou hast not known, and let us serve them, thou shalt not hearken unto the words of that prophet or that dreamer of dreams; for the Lord your God proveth you to know whether ye love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul.' That can be no prophet of God who tempts us away from God. That can be no heavenly influence which inflames unholy desire and prompts to guilty deeds. Prove all things; hold fast that which is good.' By the one infallible rule of righteousness let us try the spirits whether they are of God, because many false prophets are gone out into the world.' Macbeth forgot, if he knew, that the working of Satan is 'with all power and signs and lying wonders, and with all deceivableness of unrighteousness in them that perish.' Thus he muses:

This supernatural soliciting

Cannot be ill-cannot be good. If ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor.

If good, why do I yield to that suggestion

Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair,

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature?'

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Ah! Macbeth, verily that cannot be good' which thus even in fantasy revolts thy conscience and appals thy heart! Recognise in this perturbation within, the warning of a merciful God against thy fell purpose.'

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The words just quoted show that in our hero's soul his lust had already conceived, as the means of gratification, a fearful crime-the murder of the king. True, he maintains as yet a certain struggle against the horrid suggestion. The balance is still oscillating in his spirit. On the one hand, the appearance of serious obstacles to the accomplishment of the deed may turn him from the path of crime, but, on the other hand, the presentation of facilities will certainly hurry him on in the way of evil. Now, I have already remarked how frequently circumstances occur to favour wicked desire, and to furnish occasion to those who seek occasion. We are sometimes led to ask, Has the devil power over providence as well as over prophecy? Are the glimpses which Scripture allows us of the activity of Satan, in the trying of Job, in the sifting of Peter, and in the hindering of Paul, to be understood as revealing constant facts and laws of the unseen world? It is certain that in this evil world circumstances are seldom found unsuitable for sin. We remember the scene of temptation in the Book of Proverbs: 'Behold, there met him a woman,' etc., and among the other inducements presented to her victim was this: The goodman is not at home, he is gone a long journey; he hath taken a bag of money with him, and will come home at the day appointed; '-as if she had said, See how we are favoured by providence! It is true that only the 'simple ones' find in such providences an incentive to transgression. Those who, like Joseph, are wise and strong, however favourable the circumstances, flee from the temptation as from a serpent. Macbeth has hatched the serpent in his own bosom, and he has nursed it there too kindly to cast

it from him when it begins to rear its head and show its fangs. He has prepared himself to yield to the solicitation of opportunity, and by this he is immediately addressed. The king himself meets him, and with many expressions of gratitude and admiration announces that he is about to lodge with him that night in his castle. Here at once is promise enough of opportunity. But inasmuch as in the heart of every man, and in a high degree in that of Macbeth, there are elements of goodness, principles of gratitude, hospitality, loyalty, much of the milk of human kindness' and of natural nobleness, which even in the midst of favouring circumstances might hinder him from 'catching the nearest way' at the destined prize, there is provided for him, by the enemy to whom he is selling his soul, an abettor and helpmeet in his perilous path. This is his own wife, who acts towards our hero the part that Jezebel did to Ahab, and who differs from her husband at this stage of their career in this, that while he 'dares do anything that may become a man,' she dares do whatever is necessary to gain at once her end. I do not dwell upon the magnificently powerful scenes, which must be familiar to most readers, in which the poet represents this formidable coadjutor acting upon the spirit of her husband, stimulating the ardour of his ambition, repressing the rise of better feelings, strengthening his wavering courage, planning the method, providing the necessary explanations, and guiding in the execution of the deed. In the case before us, as in that of the first fall, the stronger is overcome and governed by the weaker. Macbeth is a man, and one not only marked by ability and force of character, but one also in whom reason, conscience, and other high principles have large, though not large enough, control. Lady Macbeth is a woman marked by all a woman's eagerness and fire, in whose heart ambition, once appealed to and roused into activity, leaps up with a resistless bound to catch the offered prize, and whose soul seems altogether void of any elements of counterpoise, unless it be something, perhaps not a little, of a woman's tenderness. She goes and makes all things ready for the commission of the crime in the king's chamber, gazes calmly on the sleeping victim, and says when she comes out,—

'Had he not resembled

My father as he slept, I had done't.'

In that terrible hour, she is reminded by the aspect of the aged Duncan of her father's grey hairs, and her hand is stayed. At the same time, she is aware of this element of weakness, and presciently fortifies herself against being overcome by the horror of the occasion. Among her preparations, she not only saturates with wine the king's attendants,—she is also careful to stimulate her own nerves with the same potent influence:

'That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold;

That which hath quenched them hath given me fire.'

And thus between them the deed is done. The ambitious lust conceives, and in different ways, according to their natural differences of temperament and constitution, it brings forth sin.'

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(To be continued.)

SOME OF MY IMPRESSIONS OF A TRIP TO JAMAICA AND BACK.

(Continued.)

My two horses are out of the buggy, and have struck work; they will proceed no farther without a day or two's rest. I cannot afford that time, and hire two fresh horses to carry me fourteen miles along the shore to Flint River, where I expect a

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riding-horse to be awaiting me for the remaining nine miles up-hill inland to Brownsville.

The two fresh horses are in the buggy; we have got down the steep rough track from the house to the road without breaking any one's legs or neck, and are careering through the town about twelve o'clock. It seems a very busy place, and has a large solemn-looking courthouse in the centre of it; fruits of all tropical kinds exposed for sale wherever you turn your eye; a great many bread shops; drapery and general store establishments great and small; and rum shops, alas! not a few. People of all descriptions are rife in the streets; every pair of black-framed eyes, in shop or thoroughfare, eagerly turned on us, and looking after us, wondering what buckra that is.

We pass along a level straight road for a while, then zig-zag round capes protruding into the sea, with great rocks on either hand, and the deep sea dashing heavy billows at us, well aimed, but falling a few feet short, and wetting us with the spray only.

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Flint River is at hand about three o'clock. Looking along the road in front, I see a young man apparently waiting for something or somebody. I guess it is your brother-in-law?' You are quite right. He has been waiting for me for some time, two horses with him, and two coloured lads,-the horses to carry the two buckras, and the lads on foot to carry the baggage.

There is no town or village at Flint River, simply a wayside store. By the lonely seaside I bid farewell to the negro youth who has been my companion and guide all these fatiguing days, and has driven me safely over a long and dangerous road, where accidents happen almost as often as a buggy is driven on it. I felt sorry to part with him. He will rest his horses two days at Montego Bay, and then make his way home with them and the vehicle to Spanish Town.

At this time and place I sit on a horse's back for the first time in my life. The horse, like most of its Jamaica kindred, is small, for which my bones, expecting soon to feel the ground, are thankful. The horse is very quiet, I understand, and sure-footed; and with the reins in my wrong hand, holding my white umbrella in the other, and my feet dangling out of the stirrups, very unlike a Scots Grey, except in the tint of my tweed clothing, I begin to ascend the mountain track.

On leaving Montego Bay, Mr. Thomson warned me against getting wet if it should rain, as was not unlikely from the appearance of the sky above the western hills. That is the great danger to which new-comers are exposed. I had no waterproof, and he kindly lent me an old Highland cloak, which he said was the next best thing to that. We have nine miles to ride up and round about the hills; not ten minutes on our way, however, till I hear thunder in the distance. 'I wager anything you like you are going to have a deluge of rain.' I wager nothing, for I would lose, as surely as you speak the truth. The thunder comes near in great haste lest I should escape, bringing forked lightning with it, and rain such as no mortal out of the tropics ever saw. Hapless rider! No, not altogether hapless; for I drew on the Highland cloak with all possible despatch, and held my umbrella as steadily as I could over my head. I guess you are under shelter in two minutes?' Nay, there you are mistaken; there is no shelter nearer than four miles on, and although there are trees everywhere around us, they are themselves like clouds pouring down rivers of waters on the ground under them. Did I wish then that I had never left Edinburgh, or that Jamaica had never risen above the level of the sea? Not exactly; but I must say that I felt somewhat anxious. Not a drop of rain I had had all the way till now, and it was rather hard to think of being drowned when so near the desired end of my pilgrimage. We have some rivers, or the same river, several times to cross; and if this rain continue, we must either swim across or sink to the bottom. At present we are not near the rivers,-high above where their courses could possibly be, and either ascending higher or winding round the breasts of the hills on a high level. I cannot see the landscape now for the rain; but before it came on I noticed that the country all round was a succession of high hills and deep valleys, thicket or jungle everywhere from hill-top downwards. It is the wildest district I have yet seen, and the storm very much deepens that impression in my mind. Although a little perplexed as to how I was to protect myself from a wet skin and subsequent fever, yet I did really enjoy the

wild grandeur of nature as it appeared to me then, in a passive state in the hills and vales and woods on the earth, and in an active state in the thunderclouds in the heavens above. Thunder, comparatively speaking, only whispers in Scotland; in Jamaica it roars indeed. And to hear it, as I did, reverberated amongst those hills, was truly awful. The lightning, too, was such as I had never before seen,a red-hot vividness about it most appalling, and recurring so frequently it seemed as if the clouds had too many flashes on hand, and wished to get the fire out of their fingers as soon as possible.

It is said that the Princess of Wales, when she first bore that title, had very little experience in riding, and was heard to remark once, while riding with the Prince in or about London,—‘Oh, Berty, Berty! don't go on de trot, or I will fall.' I confess that I had often to plead in a similar fashion with my companion on horseback, for, as the storm increased, he felt it advisable to get on quickly, and so did I; but when he went smartly on 'de trot,' it was both ridiculous and difficult for me, holding my umbrella up, my hat hanging by the elastic at the back of my neck, and my feet constantly slipping out of the stirrups,-it was both ridiculous and extremely difficult for me to follow him. He gave me little consolation, too, when he said that the rain, coming on at that time, did not usually cease till after nightfall.

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Scripture repeatedly speaks of the 'sound of many waters.' You never can enter into the meaning of that expression until you have heard thunder-rain fall through the wilderness of trees, and in a thousand streamlets down the hill-sides and over the rocky precipices, in such a wild tropical district as I was then passing through.

On

After making slow progress over five miles through rain, we reach a place called 'Great Valley,' which appears like a great basin made up of large patches of green pastures. In the middle of this valley is the house of its proprietor, only the distance of a gunshot from our road. We call there for a short while's rest and shelter, and are very graciously received and hospitably entertained. taking off my cloak, I find it has been a most complete protection from the rain. I am not at all wet, except from the knees downwards, but that part is as wet as water could make it. We get a light dinner here and dry stockings. The rain has ceased, and the thunder; the blue sky appears here and there through the broken clouds, and we are on our horses again, with four miles before us to Brownsville, and barely time enough to reach it before dark.

The proprietor of Great Valley estate is a friend of the Carlile family; but even though we had been entire strangers, it would have been reckoned no breach of propriety for us to come and refresh ourselves at the house. The hospitable customs of the island warrant any stranger to enter and take rest and refreshment by day or night in any house on the wayside that may be convenient for him. And I never heard that any one's generosity, so freely offered in this way, was ever abused.

The path from Great Valley to Brownsville is very rugged, and seems to get more so as you go on. I had often heard of the bad roads out here, but never imagined them to be half so bad as they really are; but this evening, after the rains, they are perhaps in a worse state than usual. If you have not deep mud you have loose stones in the path, such as you find in the forsaken bed of a mountain torrent, and the course of the path so far from level, that every five minutes an inexperienced rider is at his wits' end how to keep himself from being an outcast, now by the front door of his horse's ears, and then by the back door of the tail! At one time you are in an open place, and can see the country round; at another, you are in the mirkiness of thick jungle, the wet branches and broad leaves giving you a copious shower, or, like little monkeys, lifting the hat from your head.

Coming near Brownsville, we pass through a deep ravine, and have to cross a flooded stream several times. This feat of horsemanship I manage successfully, or rather to the credit of the nobler animal under me be it spoken, for it seems to know perfectly well what to do and where to go, and, I think, gives me a side look sometimes, as if to say, 'What an awkward fool you are!'

We push on as rapidly as the deep mud and other hindrances will allow, for the

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