ntain that the fear of it might be got over. I told him that David
Hume said to me, he was no more uneasy to think he should NOT BE after
this life, than that he HAD NOT BEEN before he began to exist. JOHNSON.
Sir, if he really thinks so, his perceptions are disturbed; he is mad:
if he does not think so, he lies. He may tell you, he holds his finger
in the flame of a candle, without feeling pain; would you believe him?
When he dies, he at least gives up all he has.' BOSWELL. 'Foote, Sir,
told me, that when he was very ill he was not afraid to die.' JOHNSON.
'It is not true, Sir. Hold a pistol to Foote's breast, or to Hume's
breast, and threaten to kill them, and you'll see how they behave.'
BOSWELL. 'But may we not fortify our minds for the approach of death?'
Here I am sensible I was in the wrong, to bring before his view what he
ever looked upon with horrour; for although when in a celestial frame,
in his Vanity of Human Wishes he has supposed death to be 'kind Nature's
signal for retreat,' from this state of being to 'a happier seat,'
his thoughts upon this aweful change were in general full of dismal
apprehensions. His mind resembled the vast amphitheatre, the Colisaeum
at Rome. In the centre stood his judgement, which, like a mighty
gladiator, combated those apprehensions that, like the wild beasts of
the Arena, were all around in cells, ready to be let out upon him. After
a conflict, he drives them back into their dens; but not killing them,
they were still assailing him. To my question, whether we might not
fortify our minds for the approach of death, he answered, in a passion,
'No, Sir, let it alone. It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives.
The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.' He
added, (with an earnest look,) 'A man knows it must be so, and submits.
It will do him no good to whine.'

I attempted to continue the conversation. He was so provoked, that he
said, 'Give us no more of this;' and was thrown into such a state
of agitation, that he expressed himself in a way that alarmed and
distressed me; shewed an impatience that I should leave him, and when I
was going away, called to me sternly, 'Don't let us meet tomorrow.'

I went home exceedingly uneasy. All the harsh observations which I had
ever heard made upon his character, crowded into my mind; and I seemed
to myself like the man who had put his head into the lion's mouth a
great many times with perfect safety, but at last