yet hesitated to disturb the other members of the household, but went to sleep, philosophizing on the phenomena of the case—­alert for more knowledge, as was his wont.  Morning came and being speechless, he wrote on his ever-ready pad of paper and handing the sheet to his servant, watched with amused glances the perplexity and terror of the man.  He next wrote to his friend, Mrs. Thrale, that letter, a classic of wit and resignation, wherein he explains his condition and excuses himself for not calling upon her and explaining the matter by word of mouth.

Such willingness to accept the inevitable is curative.  He grew better and recovered his speech.  But old age is a disease that has no cure save death.  Johnson accepted the issue as a brave man should—­thankful for the gift of conscious life that had been his.  When the last hour was nigh he sent loving messages to his nearest friends, repeating their names over one by one.  His last recorded words were directed to a young woman who called upon him, “God bless you, my dear.”

And so he passed painlessly and quietly into the sleep that knows no waking; pleased at last to know that his dust would rest in Westminster Abbey.

Thus ended, as the day dies out of the western sky, this life, seemingly so full of tempest and contradiction.  The autumn of his life was full of enjoyment, and no day passed but that some one, weak, weary and worn, arose and called him blessed.  Most of his wild imprecations and blustering contradictions were reserved for those who fattened on such things, and who came to be tossed and gored.  In his spirit Socrates and Falstaff joined hands.  In his life there was a deal of gladness—­far, far more than of misery and unrest; which fact I believe is true of every life.

The Universe seems planned for good.

A world made up of such men as Samuel Johnson would be a wild chaos of tasks undone.  But since Nature has never sent but one such man, and more than a century has passed since his death and we know not yet with whom to compare him, we need have no fears.  The world is held in place through the opposition of forces:  and the body of every healthy man is the battle-ground of animal organisms that match strength against strength.  So, too, a healthy society always has these active and sturdy organisms, which set in play other forces that hold in check their seeming excess.  That the Divine Energy should incarnate itself and find expression in the form of a man, and that this man should inspire others to think and write, to do and dare, is a subject the contemplation of which should make us stand uncovered.  The companionship of Johnson inspired Reynolds to better painting, Garrick to stronger acting, Burke to more profound thinking—­and hundreds of others, too, quenched their thirst at the rock which he smote whenever he discoursed or wrote.