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 such men as Samuel Johnson would be a wild chaos of
tasks undone. But since Nature has never sent but one such man, and more
than a century has passed since his death and we know not yet with whom to
compare him, we need have no fears. The world is held in place through the
opposition of forces: and the body of every healthy man is the
battle-ground of animal organisms that match strength against strength.
So, too, a healthy society always has these active and sturdy organisms,
which set in play other forces that hold in check their seeming excess.
That the Divine Energy should incarnate itself and find expression in the
form of a man, and that this man should inspire others to think and write,