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Were there no phantoms that would rise up, like Banquo's ghost, to their seat, unbidden, at his board? While he smacked his great lips over those bumpers of dark red Burgundy, had he quite forgotten the days of old the friends he had pledged and made fools of the kind hearts he had loved and betrayed? Did he ever think of Damocles and the hanging sword?
As far as I could judge, Banquo's pocket was situated somewhere in the middle of his back, for it was from a region in that quarter, where I had already felt a hard excrescence, due as I might have thought to an unextracted cannon-ball received in South Africa, that the cornet was produced.
Macbeth has a purely physical dislike for Banquo's spirit and the "twenty trenchèd gashes." He is afraid of he knows not what. He is abject, and again blustering. In the end he so far forgets himself, his terror, and the nature of what is before him, that he rushes upon it as he would upon a man.
Mr Ferguson kicked the waste-paper basket savagely. The unfairness of the thing hurt him. A sacked office-boy ought to stay sacked. He had no business to come popping up again like Banquo's ghost. It was not playing the game.
The same doubt flashes across the mind of Macbeth on the second entrance of Banquo's ghost which is probably intended to be a devil appearing at the instigation of the witches when he says, with evident allusion to a diabolic power before referred to "What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The armed rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger, Take any shape but that."
"Kindly don't stare as if I were Banquo's ghost or something. I'm so tired and dusty and desperately hungry that if you don't grin at once I shall dissolve in tears." She held out both hands, and Jim, aching to seize her in his arms and kiss her breath away, took the extended hands as if they had been marked "dangerous." "Where's your father?" was his first question.
For though all nature teems with the essence and the outward mold of beauty, to the unkindled mind beauty is no more present then was Banquo's ghost to the guests of Macbeth.
In spite of such precautions, large Drawing-rooms became latterly hard-pressed crowds struggling to make their way, and the State-rooms of Buckingham Palace were put in request as affording better facilities for these ceremonies. There is a picture gallery where a long row of Kings and Queens, in their full-length portraits, stand like Banquo's descendants.
But what "turned our liver to water" as the graphic Oriental phrase has it was the knowledge which, like Banquo's ghost, would not down, that while many cases would recover of themselves, and in many border-line ones our skill would turn the balance in favor of recovery, yet if the disease happened to take a certain sadly familiar, virulent form we could do little more to stay its fatal course than we could to stop an avalanche, and we never knew when a particular epidemic or a particular case would take that turn.
Macbeth's deportment when confronted with Banquo's ghost was stolid by comparison. There was no doubt that Buck's visit had upset the smooth peace of our happy little community to quite a considerable extent. The noise in the hall had increased rather than subsided. A belated sense of professional duty returned to Glossop and myself.
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