still a prey to melancholy, and that the fear of death operates on him to the destruction of his peace; it is grevious, it is unaccountable; he who has the Christian hope and the best morals are irreproachable; but I am willing to ascribe it to bad nerves and bodily disease." In one of the intimate conversations which Dr. Johnson held with one of his friends several years before, he had said that there never was a day passed by him in which the fear of death had not weighed upon his spirits; and that the whole of life had been a struggle to repress the thought of that solemn hour. In the last year of his life, these feelings, as we learn from his letter to Dr. Taylor, were not abated. "Oh! my friend, the approach of death is very dreadful; I am afraid to think on that which I know I cannot avoid; it is vain to look round and round for that help which cannot be had." He is still watching his symptoms with the utmost anxiety, hailing every sign of improvement, and depressed by every symptom of disease. If he writes that he can resume his walks, and feels neither breathless nor fatigued, he hopes that he shall support a winter at home, and once more meet his friends at the Literary Club. On the other hand, the death of others makes him dwell upon the prospect of his own. A few months before his death he writes to Dr. Burney: "Wherever I turn, the dead or the dying meet my notice, and force my attention upon misery and mortality. I struggle hard for life: I take physic, and take air; my friend's chariot is always ready; we have run this morning twenty-four miles, and could run forty-eight more; but who can run the race with death ?" in 1776, she says that she spent an evening in | tinued during the last year of his life. "I am his society-"Johnson, full of wisdom and grieved," she writes, "to find that his mind is piety, was very communicative." She says, on another occasion, in 1781, then when he came to see Mrs. Garrick and herself in the morning, they entered into a discussion on the subject of the Port-Royal authors. "He foundation, whose faith is strong, whose reproved me with pretended sharpness for reading Les Pensées de Pescal,' or any of the Port-Royal authors, alleging that, as a good Protestant, I ought to abstain from books written by Catholics. I was beginning to stand upon my defence, when he took me with both hands, and with a tear running down his cheeks, 'Child,' said he, with the most affecting earnestness, I am heartily glad that you read pious books, by whomsoever they may be written."" A year and a half before his death, when Hannah More met him in company, she remarks, "He is more mild and complacent than he used to be; his sickness seems to have softened his mind, without having at all weakened it. It was struck with the mild radiance of this setting sun." When we put together the information thus derived, with the particulars recorded by Miss Burney, we are enabled to see somewhat more clearly what was passing in his mind during the last year of his life. It was in the year 1783 that he was struck with paralysis; the attack occurred about four in the morning; he arose, and composed in his mind a prayer in Latin to the Almighty, that however acute might be the pains for which he must prepare himself, it would please Him, through the grace and mediation of our Saviour, to spare his intellects, and to let all his sufferings fall upon his body. As soon as he rallied, he saw Dr. Burney and his favorite Miss Burney; and in one of his interviews with her during that year, when he spoke to her of some bad symptoms which had displayed themselves, he added, earnestly, "Ah, priez Dieu pour moi." The next insight we have is at a visit of Miss Burney's, made to him a month before his death; the last time, indeed, she ever saw him. He detained her long, and seemed unwilling to part with her; and, when at length she was going, he called her back, and with To his beloved friend Mr. Langton he says, great energy, and a solemn voice, he said, "Of my health I cannot tell you what my "Remember me in your prayers." Miss wishes persuaded me to expect, that it is much Hannah More informs us, what we should improved by the season or by remedies." have gathered from the incidental remarks of And then, after stating the symptoms, "This Miss Burney, that the fear of death, which is my history,-like all other histories, a hishad long been a prevailing sentiment, con- tory of misery;" or, as he says to another He says to his favorite Miss Burney, in the end of 1783, "The blister I have tried for my breath has betrayed some very bad tokens, but I will not terrify myself by talking of them. Ah! priez Dieu pour moi.' 'Good and excellent as he is, how can he so fear death ?'" friend, "It is time to conclude the tale of in a mind so thoughtful and so unsatisfied, misery." But while these fears and bodily sufferings oppressed him, his trials were increased by the state of his mind. His rooted conviction remained, that we were to work out a title to salvation by meritorious acts and by penitence for sin. Thus, in conversing with Mr. White, he stated that he had been disobedient to his father, and that he felt pride to be the cause. "A few years ago I desired to atone for this fault. I went to Uttoxeter in very bad weather, and stood for a considerable time bareheaded in the rain, on the spot where my father's stall used to stand. In contrition I stood, and I hope the penance was expiatory." In his last year he surprised not a little Mr. Henderson, by acknowledging, with a look of horror, that he was much oppressed by the fear of death. The amiable Dr. Adams suggested that God was infinitely good. "Dr. Johnson. That he is infinitely good as far as the perfection of his nature will allow, I certainly believe; but it is necessary for good upon the whole that individuals should be punished. As to an individual, therefore, he is not infinitely good; and as I cannot be sure that I have fulfilled the conditions on which salvation is granted, I am afraid I am one of those who shall be damned." "But may not a man attain to such a degree of hope as not to be uneasy from the fear of death?' "Johnson. A man may have such a degree of hope as to keep him quiet. You see I am not quiet, from the vehemence with which I talk; but I do not despair.' "Mrs. Adams. You seem, sir, to forget the merits of our Redeemer.' "Johnson.-Madam, I do not forget the merits of my Redeemer; but my Redeemer has said he will set some on his right hand and some on his left.' He was in gloomy agitation, and said, 'I'll have no more on't."" In the same manner, in one of the last conversations which he held with his friends, while they were comforting him by referring to the works which he had written in defence of virtue and religion, he had said, "Admitting all you urge to be true, how can I tell when I have done enough ?" And in harmony with these impressions of anxious doubts unrelieved, he told Sir John Hawkins, in the February of his last year, with a look that cut him to his heart, that he had the prospect of death before him, and that he dreaded to meet his Saviour. We cannot wonder that, there should have remained an overhanging apprehension which clouded all the pleasures of life. Only in his last year, when he was describing his misery, and that he had never passed a day which he would desire to live again, it was observed to him that it seemed strange that he who had so often delighted his company by his lively and brilliant conversation should say he was miserable. Johnson: "Alas! it is all outside. I may be cracking my joke, and cursing the sun. Sun! how I hate thy beams." Such was the state of Johnson's mind, as proved by the most abundant evidence, up to the last months of his life. That it was a state most harassing to himself, he himself is the witness. That it was not satisfactory to those who regarded him with affectionate sympathy, is also clear. Among those who desired to impress him with a very different view, and who had access to his mind, was the Moravian Bishop, Mr. Latrobe. He is mentioned by Boswell among Johnson's intimate friends; and the discipline of his church, as well as the gentleness of his character, induced Johnson to treat him with confidence. His views of religion were very different from those we have described, and he took frequent opportunities of placing them before the great moralist. So much did Dr. Johnson regard him, that he requested his presence during his last illness; and though his absence prevented this, and he only arrived in time to pray by his bedside, Dr. Johnson showed that he was sensible of his presence and grateful for it. But though we have little doubt that Mr. Latrobe's conversation had effect in preparing Dr. Johnson's mind, it is evident that it was not from Mr. Latrobe that the impulse came which led to the decisive change. That a great change came upon Dr. Johnson during the concluding part of his last illness, we have evidence which it is impossible to question. His fears and his peculiar belief have been already described. His will, which is extant, and which was written on the 9th of December, while his death occurred on the 13th, shows that a change had taken place, and that his fears were gone. "I bequeath to God," he says, "a soul polluted by many sins, but, I hope, purified by Jesus Christ." Boswell adds :- "Dr. Brockelsby, who will not be suspected of fanaticism, obliged me with the following account: 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. Since I saw you [writes Mr. Boswell] I have had a long conversation with Cawston, who sat up with Dr. Johnson from nine o'clock on Sunday evening till ten o'clock on Monday morning; and from what I can gather from him, it should seem that Dr. Johnson was perfectly composed, steady in hope and resigned in death. At the interval of each hour, they assisted him to sit up in his bed, and move his legs, which were in much pain, when he regularly addressed himself to fervent prayer; and though sometimes his voice failed him, his sense never did during that time." Cawston says, that no man could appear more collected, more devout, or less terrified at the thoughts of the approaching minute. These accounts are confirmed by Dr. Burney, who speaks of the touching prayer which Dr. Johnson poured forth for his friends and himself; and by the testimony of the many who saw him, which Miss Burney thus records : "Dec. 10.-At night, my father brought in the most dismal tidings of dear Dr. Johnson. Dr. Warren had seen him, and told him to take what opium he pleased. He had thanked and taken leave of all his physicians. I hear from every one he is now perfectly resigned to his approaching fate, and no longer in terror of death. I am thankfully happy in hearing that he speaks himself now of the change his mind has undergone from its dark horror, and says he feels the irradiation of hope." In what did that change consist, and when and how did it come? What the change was, is attested by his own prayers. On the 12th of August, 1784, he thus writes: 66 : "O Lord, my maker and protector! who hast graciously sent me into this world to work out my salvation, enable me to drive from me all such unquiet and perplexing thoughts as may mislead or hinder me in the practice of those duties which thou hast required." Here his mind is absorbed in his own work, and is leaning on his own performance. On the 5th of December he composes the following prayer :— and confidence may be in his merits and thy mercy. Forgive and accept my late conversion. Enforce and accept my imperfect repentance," &c. had hitherto regarded death as terrible, and So great was the change, that, while he had his eye fixed with anxiety on his own works and merits, to the same friend, Sir John Hawkins, he said, on the 28th of November : of sin and of myself, particularly at the be"I have, at times, entertained a loathing ginning of this year, when I had the prospect when my fears of death have been less; and at these times I have had such rays of hope shot into my soul as have almost persuaded me that I am in a state of reconciliation with God." of death before me, and this has not abated This great change can be decisively traced. We do not mean that it was sudden, and the result of impulse. We believe rather that it was promoted by many influences, and that the light broke slowly, like that which spreads in the evening as the clouds slowly disperse from a sky long obscured. But the time of the change, and the convictions by which it was wrought, have been set before us with a clearness which removes all reasonable doubt. It appears that it was a letter from a clergyman, Mr. Winstanley, which was the instru ment permitted by God to bring his mind to a quiet trust. In answer to the anxious question, written to Mr. Winstanley by the dying moralist, "What shall I do to be saved?" Mr. Winstanley wrote,-" I say to you, in the language of the Baptist, Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.” That passage had been often read by him, and had made but a slight impression; now, pressed home by the gracious spirit, it went straight to his heart. He interrupted the friend who was reading the letter," Does he say so? Read it again!" And he then earnestly begged that the writer might be sent for, that he might hear from him a confirmation of the truth. The state of Mr. Winstanley's health and nerves made an interview impossible; but he wrote, enforcing the truth. We have no doubt that this was well for Dr. Johnson's mind. He, whose life had been passed among men; who had derived his chief pleasure from their society, and leant upon their friendship, was taught that he must look for comfort in religion from a different source, and that, as God only was the mediator, the spirit of God alone | his reason unclouded, and with the strength could be the comforter. That that comfort of an intellect which sickness did not subdue, was effectual, we have already shown from he gave this remarkable testimony to a simple abundant evidence; but on what it was faith in Christ-a testimony specially valuafounded is proved by the memorable conver- ble at the time when it was delivered. sation which Dr. Johnson held with his physician, Dr. Brockelsby. A little before he died, he turned to him with great earnestness," Doctor," he said, " you are a worthy man, and my friend; but I am afraid you are not a Christian. What can I do better for you than offer up in your presence a prayer to the Great God, that you may become a Christian in my sense of the word?" Instantly he fell upon his knees, and put up a fervent prayer. When he got up, he caught hold of his hand with great earnestness, and cried, "Doctor, you do not say, Amen." the Doctor looked foolish, but after a pause, cried "Amen." Johnson said, "My dear Doctor, believe a dying man; there is no salvation but in the sacrifice of the Lamb of God." With this witness Dr. Johnson died. With Why from this anxious spirit the clear view of truth was so long withheld-why the light arose upon his mind in the evening of life after a weary time of doubt and darkness— are questions we are, perhaps, not called upon to examine; which, at all events, it would demand a long and cautious inquiry to resolve. From this we abstain; enough for us to know, that this man of high philosophy and vigorous thought reached the restingplace of a Christian's hope in the same way as the weakest among us may gain it-on his knees; and that the peasant, who hears the gospel, and accepts it with a child-like trust, enjoys through life a peace which the great which he then felt to convey a pleasure immoralist only reached on his death-bed, and measurably greater than that which is derived from the acquirements of learning, the esteem of society, and the utmost splendor of fame. there were not some narrow pathway round the shoulder of the rock, and as we afterwards found to our imminent peril; but it was soon evident that it stopped at the edge of the precipise. E. was anxious to make further trial, imagining there must be some track, but, now knowing the peril, I determined to turn back and confer with Delapierre. When, after some time, we met him, he would not believe that we had not made a mistake, and we all returned to the dark gorge to make a final trial, leaving E. at its entrance with Mora. However, after he had groped about and examined the edge of the road and face of the rock in every direction, he was at last convinced of the fact, and expressed his unfeigned horror at our fearful escape-a feeling in which we fully shared. We afterwards returned by daylight to visit and examine the place, which we found was the famous chasm of the "orrido e meraviglioso Ponte della Gula,' as a local guide calls it; and celebrated as one of the greatest wonders of the country, both for the majestic grandeur of its scenery, and the awe-inspiring situation in which the old, crazy bridge is built.-The Italian Valleys of the Pennine Alps, by the Rev. S. W. King, M.A. A SCENE IN THE VAL MASTALONE.-Again | tiously about for some little time, trying whether the mountains closed in, and seemed to imprison us; the road entered a deep, dark gorge, shut in by huge, overwhelming rocks; and the torrent, which had dropped gradually deeper and deeper below us, at this point entered the rift at so awful a depth that the sound of its rushing waters was lost. At first the darkness was almost palpable, and the damp, raw feeling was like that of a cavern. A low parapet of large stones just kept us from stepping over the edge, and, heaving some of them over, they plunged into the abyss, thundering down on the sides of the narrow chasm; though the sound of the last plunge never reached our ears, as if lost in a bottomless well. Keeping E. on my left, under the rock, for safety, I groped along by the parapet, with the help of my alpenstock, and the once more friendly light of Jupiter, which shone dimly down into the narrow reft; when, just in time to save us, my alpenstock suddenly met no footing, and, shouting hurriedly to E. to stop! we paused on the very brink of an abyss into which one step more would have hurled us headlong. Still it seemed hardly possible that the road, well beaten and without a single obstruction to the very edge, could end thus suddenly; and we groped cau |