lusion to Burns, or to Thomson, or to Cowper. He more than once speaks of Faust; and now we have him mention Coleridge's "Wallenstein " :— I am just finishing the 'Wallenstein,' which I never before read in the original. It is buff to Faust;' and even the poetry does not impress me so much as when I read it in translation in more blossomloving days. I think Schiller is but a ladypoetess compared to the manhood of Goethe. Yet I like the man, of course, far better. Still, even on his own ground, of the tender, the enthusiastic, and the beautiful, the cold old heathen by his art can surpass. I compare Coleridge's translation with it. He has taken strange liberties often with the text, overhauled the whole structure of the play, left out large bits, and now and then expanded little ones, perhaps on the whole judiciously; but I have caught the knave in some actual blunders, which leads me now and then to suspect that he has skipped passages, because he found their construction hard; nevertheless both are glorious." p. 362. Coleridge translated from a stage copy of "Wallenstein," which is nearly identical with the early printed editions. Changes were made in the later editions, and the scenes differently arranged. We presume that Mackintosh did not know this, and supposed that the apparent deviations of Coleridge from the copy of "Wallenstein," which Mackintosh read, were capricious changes of the English poet's, instead of faithful copyings of the German poet's first draft of the play. This letter is dated November 2nd, 1850, and there are a few more letters of that year, some of which describe the beautiful custom of the Christ tree, with its silver bells and glittering tapers. In none of these letters is there the faintest allusion to the subject of his health, which he yet must have felt endangered. In a letter to a friend, then residing at Berlin, he communicated his fears, enjoining his strictest silence. The letter is dated February 5, 1851, and on the 11th of March, of the same year, he died. A few days before, he had written to à friend at Stuttgart, stating his illness, but with the same anxiety that the intelligence should not be communicated to his mother, who, he well knew, would at once come over to him, and for whom he feared the effects of such a journey at this season of the year. His journals of an earlier "It was a clear frosty night. The full moon shone from a cloudless sky; and the sound of my solitary steps alone was heard in the silent streets, as I made my way to the hotel to which I was directed. But where was John Mackintosh? Was he still in the town? Had his friends arrived? Maybe they had come, and departed again with their precious charge homewards, or to the south? Or, what it all was over! "On gaining admission to the hotel, I could not refrain from immediately asking the boy who half-asleep slowly undid the door-though my eager questionings seemed vain If he knew of any English gentleman, residing in Tubingen, who was in bad health?' 'Yes; he knew Mr. Mackintosh.' Was he still in town?' 'He was; and two days ago his mother and sister, with a friend, had come to see him.' Where did he live?' 'Here.' 'Where! in the hotel ?' Yes; his room was up stairs!' In a few minutes I was standing in breathless silence at his door; and, with strange thoughts, heard his hollow cough within! "Next morning early, I saw Mrs. Mackintosh and her daughter, and found them alone; Mr. Strong having been obliged to return to Edinburgh. They were in great distress. John's case was worse even than they had anticipated; and had been pronounced hopeless by the doctor, who also said that he had not many weeks to live. To add, moreover, to their sorrow, he had received them in the most unaccountable manner with coldness, almost with sternness as if irritated and annoyed by their presence! "A friend from Stuttgart, on the day previous to their arrival at Tubingen, had informed him of their coming. But it was several hours after they reached the hotel "What could be the meaning of this state of mind? Was it from a strong will, crossed in its plans, presumed to be wisely made-and not yet bending itself to a higher will? Was it nervous fear, lest the quiet and repose which he deemed necessary for his recovery might be broken in upon? Was it a morbid state of mind occasioned by his struggles, alone and in silence, for life, against the slow but sure progress of overpowering weakness and decay? Or was it not possible that Satan might thus tempt or torment him ere the last and final victory of the Christian was achieved! "I now longed the more to see my friend; and accordingly wrote to him a note announcing my arrival, and asking when he would see me. I received an immediate reply- Come now.' "When I entered his room, he was seated on a sofa reading, with a large screen between him and the door. Before him was his desk, and a table loaded with books. His chest was wrapped in a plaid; his winter walking-coat, buttoned to his throat and ears, partially concealed his face; his dark eyes, always so peculiarly mild and loving, flashed beneath his long black hair with an intense and painful lustre; while his cheeks glowed with spots of crimson. "The moment he saw me he smiled, and, stretching out both his arms, without rising from his seat, embraced and kissed me, while he breathed my name in a whisper, scarcely audible; then, after one or two remarks, he made a sign to me to be seated and to take a book, while he resumed his own, saying, 'I am holding communion with God!' and so we both sat in silence. "I soon made an excuse to leave the room, and I did so more perplexed than before, and thought for a moment that his mind was affected all was so strange and unnatural. What was to be done? There was one resource for us all - prayer; but beyond that, all seemed dark !"- pp. 393-396. In the course of the evening his strange conduct to his mother and sister was explained. He was under the impression that they did not know the extent of his danger; and that both he and they might, by his not seeing them, be spared the shock which the discovery would occasion to them. He was not without a belief that life might be yet prolonged, and the disease overcome. This delusion appears to have been removed by Macleod's conversation. He sent for the friend who had written to Scotland, to express to him his forgiveness : "We all met in his room for some hours the same evening: he seemed a different person. In spite of the pale and altered countenance, the old familiar look of gentle. ness and love had come again, and was beaming on us all, as he gazed in silence around him. I had brought Tennyson's 'In Memoriam' with me, and he heard with delight some of its exquisite contents. I selected a Psalm, which, in spite of trial, we now felt to be peculiarly appropriate, the 103rd; and, to link us still more with other days, with home, and scenes of peace, I 'gave out the line' before singing it, and my tune was Coleshill; for both psalm and tune thus sung, are associated by every member of the Scotch Church with seasons of holy communion, and never fail to summon up vivid pictures and undying memories from the past of the old church where he used to worship, and the churchyard where his dearest lie interred with the once familiar faces and forms of Christian friends now no more; and to recall also periods of his life in which perhaps, more than in any other, he enjoyed fellowship with God. It was, indeed, a tranquil meeting, and when it was over he asked me to remain with him alone; and then he poured out his heart, and said how much he was soothed, and, in his own humble and loving way, expressed his gratitude and joy at having us with him; his immense relief, too, in knowing that his mother and sister were fully prepared for whatever might happen to him, in God's providence, and that they were so calm and resigned. "Thus the day, whose morning was so dark and troubled, ended in an evening of heavenly serenity and peace; and all our hearts were very full as we retired to rest indeed, acknowledging the good hand of our God upon us, and committing the future to His care."-pp. 398, 399. On the 20th of February he removed to the more genial climate of Canstadt, on the Neckar, about two miles from Stuttgart. He survived the removal for a period of about three weeks. There appears to have been but little of actual bodily suffering; and he possessed such entire consciousness to the last, that he not only enjoyed music and conversation, and looked anxiously for the arrival of the first written letter from Scotland, but he read the latest publications on subjects connected with his studies. The details of his death-illness are affectingly given by Mr. Macleod, who was enabled to remain with him till the day before his death. He expressed a wish to be buried near the grave of Chalmers. On the 11th of March he died: "They bore him to an old Lutheran chapel, situate in a picturesque and sequestered spot in the immediate neighbourhood of Canstadt, and which we had often admired. The weather still continued serene, and nothing could exceed the loveliness of that evening. As the small and unknown procession moved along, an organ, somewhere in the town, was pealing out a solemn German hymn, and its echoes, borne upon the silent air, more or less faintly accompanied the mourners on their way. When they reached the chapel, the moon was dimly visible in the deep blue of the cloudless sky; and, though the valley was in shadow, the last rays of a gorgeous sunset lighted up with a purple radiance the trees which crested the surrounding hills. "The coffin was placed beneath the altar and the cross. Those who laid it there, before departing, stood for a short time around it, apparently engaged in prayer. Upon Sabbath evening, his mother and sister were enabled, in great peace, to spend some time alone beside him. "The same kind relative who had accompanied his aunt, Mrs. Mackintosh, when she went to Tubingen, now returned to Germany, and brought the bereaved ones home. "The 9th of April was the day of burial in Scotland. The funeral was a private one; but permission to follow him to the tomb was cordially given, as requested by themselves, to some of his fellow-students of Divinity from the Free Church College; and also to a few old friends. - many of whose names he had uttered when dying, and which are familiar to the reader. "This day of burial was also one of calm beauty, like those which had shone upon him at Canstadt. Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags, in the transparent air, appeared to look down upon us. We heard the lark singing overhead; and all was bright and peaceful, as the companions and friends who loved and honoured him, slowly and silently carried him to his grave, and buried him 'beside Chalmers.' "His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light "Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace! Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet, Nothing can be better than Mr. Macleod's narrative; and yet we should have preferred an arrangement which separated more distinctly Mackintosh's own journal and letters from the rest of the work. We incline to think, too, that the whole journal ought to have been given rather than extracts; and the specimens of Mackintosh's poetry which are given lead us to think it probable he may have often found in verse the natural expression of feelings too strong for other utterance. There is manifestly great cordiality of heart, but somewhat of reserve; and living so much among strangers as he did, during the last years of his life, we should think it not unlikely that in his latter journals, and in any poems written towards the close of his life, his mind may be most fully exhibited. We cannot but indulge the hope that further extracts from his journals and letters may yet be given to the public. The book is ornamented with a lithographic engraving of his burial place and monument. We wish that a portrait had also been given. In his last will Mackintosh directed, that after the payment of certain sums, the residue of any money at his disposal should be employed in the missionary projects of the Free Church. The fact is stated by Mr. Macleod, to illustrate Mackintosh's character. It should be added, as a fact honourable to Mr. Macleod and to his publisher, that the profits of this work, "which have been secured by the liberality of its publishers," have been handed over for the objects which Mackintosh had so much at heart. Not only in his last will, but in some of the published letters to his family, the missionary projects of the Free Church are mentioned by Mackintosh, as what he should wish to promote, by any personal sacrifice, and by the application of any money he could command. Mr. Macleod, in a very graceful sentence, says "The book in everything which gives it any value, belongs to him, not to me. To Mr. Macleod is due the praise of having rendered happy the last days of this admirable man; of having lightened the heavy affliction of his mother and sisters, by his judicious kindness 2 s during the time which he passed with his dying friend at Tubingen and at Canstadt, and of absolutely restoring him to his family, and rendering the recollections of a period, which opened to them with a gloom deeper than that of death, among their chief consolations. And now he has written such an enduring record of his friend's life as will, beyond all doubt, by the example it makes known of a single-minded, true-hearted, and highly-gifted man, dealing in the most perfect honesty with his own mind honourable and just in all the relations of life-never forgetting his duties to God or manbe to many instructive and encouraging. THE ISLESMEN OF THE WEST. I. THERE is mustering on the Danube's banks Old Earth ne'er saw before, All battle-harnessed for the strife, and panting for the fray. No jewelled robe is round her flung, no glove is on her hand, But visor down and clasped in steel, her gauntlet grasps the brand; Oh! lordly is the greeting as she rises from her rest, And summons to the front of fight the Islesmen of the West. II. No braver on this earth of ours, no matter where you go, Than they whose boast was aye to bear the battle's sternest blow; Ho! gallant hearts, remember well the glories of the past, III. Brave are the chivalry of France as ever reined a steed, Or wrung from out the jaws of death some bold heroic deed; A hundred fields have proved it well, from Neva to the Po, When kings have knelt to kiss the hand that smote their souls with wo. And worthy are the sons to-day of that old Titan breed, Who spoke in thunders to the Earth that glory was their creed; Ay, worthy are the sons of France, in valour's lap caress'd, IV. Oh, England! in your proudest time you never saw such sight, V. Who are those haughty Islesmen now who hold the keys of earth, From Michael's-Mount to stout Carlisle, from Thames to Mersey's sands; VI. The stormers of the breach pass on, the daring sons of Eire, VII. The tartan plaid and waving plume, the bare and brawny knee, Oh, God assoilze them who hear their highland battle yell. Those Campbell and those Gordon men, who fight for "auld lang syne," VIII. Speak! from your bristling sides, ye ships, as Nelson spoke before- J. J. W. |