ame that is one man's due; he had all the money
he needed, or knew how to use; the coveted LL.D. came from his Alma Mater;
and the patronage from Lord Chesterfield, for which he craved, only that
he might fling it back. He was the friend and confidant of the great and
proud, deferred to by the King and sought out by those who prized the
far-reaching mind and subtle imagination--the things that link us with the
Infinite. The fear of hell and dread of death that haunted him in youth
and middle age, finally gave way to faith and trust. When partial
paralysis came to him at midnight, his sanity did not fail him, and
knowing the worst, he 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