Petersburg.
Goethe says somewhere, that as soon as a man has done any thing
remarkable, there seems to be a general conspiracy to prevent him from
doing it again. He is feasted, feted, caressed; his time is stolen from
him by breakfasts, dinners, societies, idle businesses of a thousand
kinds. Mr. Buckle had his share of all this; but there are also more
dangerous enemies that wait upon success like his. He had scarcely won
for himself the place which he deserved, than his health was found
shattered by his labors. He had but time to show us how large a man he
was, time just to sketch the outlines of his philosophy, and he passed
away as suddenly as he appeared. He went abroad to recover strength for
his work, but his work was done with and over. He died of a fever at
Damascus, vexed only that he was compelled to leave it uncompleted.
Almost his last conscious words were: "My book, my book! I shall never
finish my book!" He went away as he had lived, nobly careless of
himself, and thinking only of the thing which he had undertaken to do.
But his labor had not been thrown away.
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