gently lanced the surface. Johnson cried
out, "Deeper, deeper! I want length of life, and you are afraid of
giving me pain, which I do not value."

On the 8th of December, the reverend Mr. Strahan drew his will, by
which, after a few legacies, the residue, amounting to about fifteen
hundred pounds, was bequeathed to Frank, the black servant, formerly
consigned to the testator by his friend Dr. Bathurst.

The history of a death-bed is painful. Mr. Strahan informs us, that the
strength of religion prevailed against the infirmity of nature; and his
foreboding dread of the divine justice subsided into a pious trust, and
humble hope of mercy, at the throne of grace. On Monday, the 13th day of
December, the last of his existence on this side the grave, the desire
of life returned with all its former vehemence. He still imagined, that,
by puncturing his legs, relief might be obtained. At eight in the
morning he tried the experiment, but no water followed. In an hour or
two after, he fell into a doze, and about seven in the evening expired
without a groan.

On the 20th of the month his remains, with due solemnities, and a
numerous attendance of his friends, were buried in Westminster abbey,
near the foot of Shakespeare's monument, and close to the grave of the
late Mr. Garrick. The funeral service was read by his friend, Dr.
Taylor.

A black marble over his grave has the following inscription:

SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.
obiit XIII die Decembris,
Anno Domini
MDCCLXXXIV.
Aetatis suae LXXV.

If we now look back, as from an eminence, to view the scenes of life,
and the literary labours in which Dr. Johnson was engaged, we may be
able to delineate the features of the man, and to form an estimate of
his genius.

As a man, Dr. Johnson stands displayed in open daylight. Nothing remains
undiscovered. Whatever he said is known; and without allowing him the
usual privilege of hazarding sentiments, and advancing positions for
mere amusement, or the pleasure of discussion, criticism has endeavoured
to make him answerable for what, perhaps, he never seriously thought.
His diary, which has been printed, discovers still more. We have before
us the very heart of the man, with all his inward consciousness; and yet
neither in the open paths of life, nor in his secret recesses, has any
one vice been discovered. We see him reviewing every year of his life,
and severely censuring himself, for not keeping resolutions, whic