me to his dissolution
seemed long. At six in the morning, he inquired the hour, and, on being
informed, said that all went on regularly, and he felt he had but a few
hours to live.

'At ten o'clock in the morning, he parted from Cawston, saying,
"You should not detain Mr. Windham's servant:--I thank you; bear my
remembrance to your master." Cawston says, that no man could appear
more collected, more devout, or less terrified at the thoughts of the
approaching minute.

'This account, which is so much more agreeable than, and somewhat
different from, yours, has given us the satisfaction of thinking that
that great man died as he lived, full of resignation, strengthened in
faith, and joyful in hope.'

A few days before his death, 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 in my opinion 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.
Aetatis suae LXXV.'

His funeral was attended by a respectable number of his friends,
particularly such of the members of the LITERARY CLUB as were then in
town; and was also honoured with the presence of several of the Reverend
Chapter of Westminster. Mr. Burke, Sir Joseph Banks, Mr. Windham,
Mr. Langton, Sir Charles Bunbury, and Mr. Colman, bore his pall. His
school-fellow, Dr. Taylor, performed the mournful office of reading the
burial service.

I trust, I shall not be accused of affectation, when I declare, that I
find myself unable to express all that I felt upon the loss of such a
'Guide, Philosopher, and Friend.' I shall, therefore, not say one word
of my own, but adopt those of an eminent friend, which he uttered with
an abrupt felicity, superior to all studied compositions:--'He has made
a chasm, which not only nothing can fill up, but which nothing has a
tendency to fill up. Johnson is dead. Let us go to the next best:--there
is nobody; no man can be said to put you in mind of Johnson.'

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Life of Johnson, by James Boswell