not exempt from this national weakness: she mused and pondered deeply over the circumstance, and at length came to the conclusion, that it was a warning her latter end drew near. This feeling gained at last such an ascendancy over her that her spirits became quite depressed; and the ordinary pleasantries of Athanase were tried in vain. He would inquire why she had suddenly become so melancholy? but she made no reply; and at last, by constantly brooding over the idea, she began gradually to lose her strength as well as her appetite. "What on earth is the matter with you, Pulcheria? you must be unwell." "No," she would reply, with a mournful shake of her head; "I am not unwell, but a presentiment has overtaken me which I cannot get rid of, that my life is nearly over: I am an old woman now, Athanase, you know." The lips of Athanase Ivanovitch were compressed in a moment with sadness; he tried to conquer the mournful presage which constantly communicated itself to his own mind, and said with a smile "God knows what you will say next, Pulcheria; probably, in place of your usual beverage, you have taken some peach- water, which may have disagreed with you." "No, Athanase, I have not taken any peach-water," replied Pulcheria; and Athanase felt a sudden twinge of remorse for having thus rallied his wife; he looked at her in silence, and a tear gathered in his eye. "I would make one request of you, Athanase Ivanovitch," said she mournfully "I entreat of you to perform it'; if what I feel is about to take place should happen, let me be dressed in my grey robe with the little brown flowers; let me be buried near the old church, upon the little grassy mound, from whence we used to watch the sun set long ago." "Do not talk such stuff, silly old woman," replied Athanase; "you will not die until it is God's will; but such words as you have just used frighten me." "So be it, Athanase; but I am very old now. I have lived long enough; you are old, too; and before long we shall meet where nothing can separate us any more." Athanase Ivanovitch began to cry like a child. "Do not weep, Athanase; it is not right. There is only one thing which causes me any sorrow, and that is the thought that I do not know to whom I shall trust you-who will take care of you when I am gone away? You are like a little child; and it is necessary that those who serve you should love you also." As she spoke these words a deep and tender expression of pity beamed from her face no one could look on her and feel unmoved. "Sister Ivadoka," she said, as the housekeeper, whom she had sent for, made her appearance, "when I shall be gone away from you, take care of your master; shield him as you would your own eyes, as if he were your own child. Take care that the dishes he likes best are always prepared for him, and that his linen and clothes are kept in good order; never let him out of your sight, Ivadoka: I shall pray for you in the other world, and God will recompense you. Do not forget what I have said to you, Ivadoka; you are already old, and you may not, perhaps, have many years to live; but if you do not take care of him, you will have no happiness in this world: I will pray that God may grant you a happy end." Poor old woman! She thought, then, neither of the solemn moment which was indeed drawing near, nor of her own soul, nor of the awful future: she thought only of the poor companion of her earthly pilgrimage, whom she was so soon to leave behind, like a helpless orphan. She then proceeded to set her house in order, that Athanase should feel her absence as little as possible. The conviction that her end was approaching was so strong upon her, that in a few days more she took to her bed, and her appetite entirely failed. Athanase never for an instant quitted her pillow, and was sedulous in his attention. Would you not like to eat someting, my dear Pulcheria Ivanovna?" he was constantly saying, with a sort of dolorous disquiet. But poor Pulcheria never answered him; at last, one day, after a long silence, she sighed faintly; her lips moved as if she wished to speak, and her last breath floated out into the summer air. Athanase appeared overwhelmed by the blow. This death seemed to him so strange that he could not weep; he looked wistfully at the body, with his dim and weary eyes. It was laid, according to the custom of the country, upon a table. They dressed Pulcheria in the robe she had mentioned; they crossed her arms on her chest, and placed a taper between her fingers. He saw them perform these last offices with an air of utter insensibility: the little courtyard was filled with people, and many visitors came to the funeral. Long tables were spread out, covered with koutia,* with pasties, and bottles of eau-de-vie. The guests spoke, wept, and looked mournfully on the dead body; they talked of her good qualities, and then they looked at Athanase Ivanovitch. He went through the crowd like an idiot; at last the corpse was brought out, the procession was formed, and he accompanied it. The sun was shining; the priests carried their golden crosses, children wept in their mothers' arms; a funeral hymn was sung; they finished by placing the coffin beside the grave which had been prepared for its reception. Then Athanase Ivanovitch was asked to approach the body, and embrace it for the last time. He drew near, tears gathered in his eyes, but they were the tears of one who had ceased to feel. The bier went down; the priest, taking a shovel, threw down a little earth; the deacon and his two assistants began to sing the funeral hymn, the music of which, floating upwards, was lost among the clouds. Then the grave-diggers, seizing their spades, soon filled the grave with earth, and covered it over. this moment Athanase Ivanovitch drew near; every one made room for him; he raised his eyes, looked about with a troubled glance, and said, “You have just buried some one; why?. At He stopped, and was unable to finish the sentence. But when he had returned home, and saw the empty chamber, and the chair on which Pulcheria used to sit, vacant, he began to weep, and the tears flowed, flowed without ceasing. Five years rolled over since this event took place what suffering will not that time subdue? I once knew a man, in the flower of his life, full of the kindest and best qualities; he loved tenderly and devotedly; and before me- almost under my very eyes the creature whom he loved so fondly, faded away and perished. I have never seen transports of grief or an agony of sorrow more intense than his. They watched him carefully, and removed every implement of destruction out of his reach; in fifteen days he seemed to have got over his sorrows, and talked quite pleasantly and rationally. They gave him his liberty, and the first use he made of it was to purchase a pistol. One morning, a report of firearms was heard, which alarmed the whole honsehold; they entered his room, and found him stretched on the ground, with his skull apparently fractured by a bullet. A surgeon of eminence, who was in the house by the merest accident, thought he saw some signs of life; and to the great surprise of every one he suc ceeded in restoring the patient to consciousness, and ultimately to health. They redoubled their surveillance, and took away even the table knives. But soon afterwards he found another mode; he threw himself under the wheels of a carriage that was passing; his arms and feet were severely wounded, but he again recovered. Nearly a year afterwards I met him in a saloon, in the great world; he was seated at a table, and said gaily "Poor little wretch !" And behind him, leaning against the back of his chair, was a young and beautiful girl, who played with the tassels of her dress. About five years after the death of Pulcheria Ivanovna I found myself in the neighbourhood of the cottage, and I went to visit the old gentleman, with whom I had passed so many agreeable days. The house seemed twice as old. The cabins of the village appeared leaning to one side, like their inhabitants. The enclosure which formerly surrounded the courtyard was entirely destroyed, and I saw with my own eyes the cook cutting down the piles for fire-wood. I approached the portico. The same dogs were there, but they had grown blind and infirm, and they made an abortive attempt to wag their tails, which were stiff and matted. A cake composed of rice, sugar, and dried fruit, which is used for funeral ceremonies. The old man came out to meet me. He recognised me in an instant, and accosted me with his usual smile. I followed him into the house. At first sight, everything appeared nearly in the same condition; but it was not long before I observed sensible traces of the absent. In a word, I felt that emotion which seizes us when we enter for the first time the home of a wiclowed man, whom we have known intimately under different circumstances. The table was no longer served with the same nicety. One of the knives which was placed on the table wanted a handle. The viands were less carefully prepared. I avoided speaking of anything which might recall painful associations. When we were seated at table a servant placed a napkin under the chin of Athanase Ivanovitch, who listened to my conversation with the same air of pleased attention; but it was evident by his questions that his thoughts were far away. His movements were uncertain, and not unfrequently he wandered in his discourse. It so happened that we had to wait a few minutes for a certain entree. Athanase Ivanovitch observed the delay. "Why," he said, "do they keep us waiting so long for the courses ?" But I saw through the door, which was half open, the boy who should have served us had fallen asleep, and was sitting quietly in that condition upon a bench outside. "Here is the 'plat,'" said Athanase Ivanovitch, when certain little cakes, called "minichis," were brought in. continued he, and I remarked that his voice began to tremble, and that tears were gathering in his faded eyes. He made an effort to restrain them, but nature at last got the upper hand, and he burst into tears; his hand fell upon the plate, the plate went to the ground; but he remained seated, and apparently indifferent. He endeavoured to collect himself, but the fountain of his tears was unloosed, and they flowed, as if feelings long pent up had found at this association their natural vent. "Here is the 'plat,' “Good heavens!" I thought, as I watched him, "five years of time, which stifle and destroy so many strong feelings, have not obliterated the memory of the past within the heart of this old man, who has passed the greater portion of his life seated in an easy chair, eating pears and dried fish, 307 and telling stories. Which has the strongest dominion over us, habit or passion? He endeavoured many times to pronounce the name of his dead wife, but in the middle of the word his countenance altered with a convulsive movement, and sobs, like those of a child, struck me to the heart. These were not the tears of an old man who bewails his sad position or his misfortunes, such as he might shed over a bottle of wine; they were tears which flowed spontaneously-the offering of a heart long since cold, and wounded by sorrow which was irremediable. long after my visit. I received intelAthanase Ivanovitch did not live ligence of his death; and what seemed strange, his last moments were not unlike those of his deceased wife. One day as he was walking in the garden, with his usual slow and measured step, utterly indifferent to every surrounding object, and without any fixed idea in his head, he fancied he heard some one pronounce his name, in a clear, distinct tone. He turned rapidly; no one was there. He looked carefully about, and saw nothing. The weather was fine, and the sun shone brilliantly. The old man reflected for an instant, his whole countenance lighted up, and he said "It is Pulcheria Ivanovna who calls me." It has happened, perhaps, to you, my dear reader, to hear a voice uttering your name. Our peasants explain the phenomenon by the hypothesis that it is some soul which languishes with desire of seeing again the person who is thus called, and that death invariably follows soon afterwards. I remember how in my youth the same thing happened often to myself. I heard some one pronounce my name distinctly behind me. It was a fine sunshiny day. Not a single leaf was stirring on the trees. The crickets had ceased their song. There was no living soul in the gardens all was silent. But I am satisfied that the darkest and most stormy night which could overtake me in the thickest wood, would be less appalling than that solemn sound of a clear, calm, sunny day. Athanase Ivanovitch became immediately possessed with the idea that the spirit of his wife had called him and from that day, without any perceptible illness, his strength gradually wasted away. "Let me be buried beside my wife," were his last words. His wishes were religiously observed. His funeral was attended by nearly all the country people, and the poor regretted their kind and simpleminded benefactor. The house was now empty. The dishonest steward, with the "starosta, " carried off between them all the clothes which the housekeeper had not had time to make away with. Then came, no one knew from whence, the heir, a distant relative, who held the rank of lieutenant in some regiment, the name of which I have forgotten. He soon saw that the establishment had fallen into complete disorganisation, and set himself vigorously to the work of reformation. He began by purchasing half-a-dozen fine English sickles, caused a number to be painted by each peasant on his door, and in about six months he succeeded in effecting a complete revolution. The office of steward was entrusted to an elderly lieutenant, in an old faded uniform, who made a clean sweep of everything. The cabins, which were leaning to one side, fell into total ruin. The peasants took to drinking, and were tipsy all day. The proprietor himself, who in other respects lived on good terms with his neighbours, and drank punch in their company, came but seldom into the village, and although he frequented most of the fairs in the province, and accurately informed himself on the prices of such commodities as are only sold in wholesale, such as corn, and hemp, and honey, he seldom bought anything but some trifle which never exceeded the value of a rouble. SIR ISAAC NEWTON. THERE is scarcely any subject which contains within itself so much interest, as the study of the lives of great men. We are all of us such complete puzzles to ourselves, when we come to investigate our own thoughts, our own powers, and our own springs and motives of action, that our attention is instantly arrested when those of others of our species are laid open to our observation. This is more especially the case, if the individual thus submitted to analysis and description be one of those who by his native genius and ability raised himself to great eminence above his fellows. Most of us, in our secret aspirations, have longed for this eminence, and not a few may have thought that Had circumstances been favourable, we might perhaps have attained to some portion of it at least. We are, therefore, naturally anxious to know by what means others have reached it, to form some estimate of their powers, or their opportunities, whether to compare with our own, or to learn, in the abstract, of what their real superiority consisted. ** Two errors are not unfrequently made with regard to heroes and great men, in whatever department of merit they may have excelled. The one is hero-worship, and the other is heroclasticism. One class of men are ready to fall down and worship at the feet of any man, and all men, who have acquired great fame, to envelope themselves in the sackcloth of veneration, and to cast upon their own heads the dust of abasement, utterly refusing to form any judgment on the objects of their adoration, and looking on it as a piece of impiety to think of passing an opinion on them, and to search into their characters, and question their actions, for the purpose of making that opinion a correct one. This is the method of the common herd of men, those who presume not to think for themselves, who tremble to express an idea which has not on it the stamp of custom, as much as if they were passing unauthorised coin on 'Change. They make up the mass of political parties and of religious sects; they are branded sheep, who consent and even rejoice to wear the initials of "Memoirs of the Life, Writings, and Discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton." By Sir David Brewster, K.H. Edinburgh: Constable and Co. 1855. Sir Isaac Newton. their master, and to be penned in Another class of men there are, The philosopher and the man of sense and discretion will avoid the errors of both thèse classes. Bringing to the examination of the life of any great man all the love, and gratitude, and respect which he feels and knows to be due to the eminent benefactors and guides of our species, he will yet look upon him as a man, and not as a demigod. He will view him as one subject to the same passions and instincts, thinking many of of the same thoughts, feeling many of the same sensations, and liable to many of the same infirmities, as the meanest and lowest of our Knowing, and making allowance for, this large share of common humanity, with all its weaknesses and all its imperfections, he will be able to form a truer, and therefore, often a more ex race. 309 alted estimate of those peculiar powers and abilities, those particular faculties and special excellences to which great men owe their eminence above the crowd. This is more especially the case when the hero is one whose deeds are of a special, and we may say, a technical kind. No one can form an adequate original judgment of the strategy of a great general, but one who is, or might be, a great general himself. Admirable seamanship can only be appreciated by a seaman. scientific discoverer and investigator A great can only be thoroughly understood, mastered, and described by one who is himself endowed with great scientific powers and attainments. There is, therefore, a peculiar fitness and propriety in Sir David Brewster becoming the biographer of Sir Isaac Newton. In one department of science, at least, that of optics, he is the worthy successor of his illustrious master, and there is no department in which he is not able to form, and entitled to express, an opinion, we may almost say, to pronounce a judgment, ex cathedra, upon what Newton did. In compiling this life, Sir David has had great advantages, since new materials of many kinds have been placed in his hands, as he describes in his preface. He has made excellent use of them; and in reading his narrative we have been struck, among other things, by the impartiality he maintains throughout. He most religiously avoids the two errors we mentioned above, and neither exalts his hero into a demigod, nor allows his human failings and imperfections to dwarf in his eyes the colossal stature of his intellect, or detract from the nobility and native worth of his disposition. We regret, however, that one slight stumbling-block meets us at the outset, which has elsewhere been remarked upon, and that is, the dedication to Prince Albert. His Royal Highness has merit enough of his own to enable him to dispense with adventitious praise and mere courtier-like compliment; and if Sir David's work really did stand in need of the protection of the Prince's name, it would be of very little advantage to it. Sir David seems himself to find his courtier's dress sit awkwardly upon him, for there is not in his two volumes any other such clumsily expressed passage as his dedica |