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, which morbid melancholy, and other bodily infirmities, rendered impracticable.  We see him, for every little defect, imposing on himself voluntary penance, going through the day with only one cup of tea without milk, and to the last, amidst paroxysms and remissions of illness, forming plans of study and resolutions to amend his life[aa].  Many of his scruples may be called weaknesses; but they are the weaknesses of a good, a pious, and most excellent man.

His person, it is well known, was large and unwieldy.  His nerves were affected by that disorder, for which, at two years of age, he was presented to the royal touch.  His head shook, and involuntary motions made it uncertain that his legs and arms would, even at a tea-table, remain in their proper place.  A person of lord Chesterfield’s delicacy might, in his company, be in a fever.  He would, sometimes,