(Concluded from page 43.)
Mr. Windham having placed a pillow conveniently to support him, he
thanked him for his kindness, and said, “That will do--all that a pillow
can do.”
As he opened a note which his servant brought him, he said, “An odd
thought strikes me---We shall receive no letters in the grave.”
He requested three things of Sir Joshua Reynolds:---To forgive him
thirty pounds which he had borrowed of him---to read the Bible---and
never to use his pencil on a Sunday. Sir Joshua readily acquiesced.
Johnson, with that native fortitude which, amidst all his bodily
distress and mental sufferings, never forsook him, asked Dr. Brocklesby,
as a man in whom he had confidence, to tell him plainly whether he could
recover. “Give me,” said he, “a direct answer.” The doctor having first
asked him if he could bear the truth, which way soever it might lead,
and being answered that he could, declared that in his opinion he could
not recover without a miracle. “Then,” said Johnson, “I will take no
more physic not even my opiates, for I have prayed that I may render up
my soul to God unclouded.” In this resolution he persevered, and at the
same time used only the weakest kind of sustenance.
After being in much agitation, Johnson became quite composed, and
continued so till his death.
Dr. Brocklesby, who will not be suspected of fanaticism, obliged Mr. B.
with the following accounts:
“For some time before his death all his fears were calmed and absorbed
by the prevalence of his faith, and his trust in the merits and
_propitiation_ of Jesus Christ.
“He talked often to me about the necessity of faith in the _sacrifice_
of Jesus, as necessary beyond all good works whatever for the salvation
of mankind.
“He pressed me to study Dr. Clarke, and to read his sermons. I asked him
why he pressed Dr. Clarke, an Arian. ‘Because,’ said he, ‘he is fullest
on the _propitiatory sacrifice_.’
“Johnson having thus in his mind the true Christian scheme at once
rational and consolatory, uniting justice and mercy in the Divinity,
with the improvement of human nature, while the Holy Sacrament was
celebrating in his apartment, fervently uttered this prayer:
“Almighty and most merciful father, I am now, as to human eyes it seems,
about to commemorate, for the last time, the death of thy Son Jesus
Christ, our Saviour and Redeemer. Grant, O Lord, that my whole hope and
confidence may be in his merits, and thy mercy; enforce and accept my
imperfect repentance; make this commemoration available to the
confirmation of my faith, the establishment of my hope, and the
enlargement of my charity; and make the death of thy Son Jesus Christ
effectual to my redemption. Have mercy upon me, and pardon the multitude
of my offences. Bless my friends, have mercy upon all men. Support me,
by the Holy Spirit, in the days of weakness, and at the hour of death;
and receive me, at my death, to everlasting happiness, for the sake of
Jesus Christ. Amen.”
“The doctor, from the time that he was certain his death was near,
appeared to be perfectly resigned, was seldom or never fretful or out of
temper, and often said to his faithful servant, ‘Attend, Francis, to the
salvation of your soul, which is the object of the greatest importance:’
he also explained to him passages in the scripture, and seemed to have
pleasure in talking upon religious subjects.
“On Monday the 13th of December, the day on which he died, a Miss
Morris, daughter to a particular friend of his, called, and said to
Francis, that she begged to be permitted to see the doctor, that she
might earnestly request of him to give her his blessing. Francis went
into the room followed by the young lady, and delivered the message. The
doctor turned himself in the bed, and said, ‘God bless you, my dear!’
These were the last words he spoke.---His difficulty of breathing
increased, ’till about seven o’clock in the evening, when Mr. Barber,
and Mr. Desmoulins, who were sitting in the room, observing that the
noise he made in breathing had ceased, went to the bed, and found he was
dead.
“A few days before this awful event, he had asked Sir John Hawkins, as
one of his executors, where he should be buried; and on being answered,
‘Doubtless in Westminster Abbey,’ seemed to feel a satisfaction very
natural to a poet, and indeed very natural to every man of any
imagination, who has no family sepulchre in which he can be laid with
his fathers. Accordingly, upon Monday, December 20, his remains were
deposited in that noble and renowned edifice; and over his grave was
placed a large blue flag stone, with this inscription:
SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D.
Obiit xiii die Decembris,
Anno Domini
M. DCC. LXXXIV.
Ætatis suæ LXXV.
“His funeral was attended by a respectable number of his friends,
particularly by many of the members of the Literary Club, who were then
in town; and was also honoured by the presence of several of the
reverend chapter of Westminster. His school-fellow, Dr. Taylor,
performed the mournful office of reading the service.”
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