in a wretched state indeed when your company would
not be a delight to me." "My dear sir," said Burke,
with a breaking voice, "you have always been too good
to me;" and parted from his old friend for the last time.
Of Reynolds, he begged three things: to forgive a debt of
thirty pounds, to read the Bible, and never to paint on
Sundays. A few flashes of the old humour broke through.
He said of a man who sat up with him: "Sir, the
fellow's an idiot; he's as awkward as a turnspit when
first put into the wheel, and as sleepy as a dormouse,"
His last recorded words were to a young lady who had
begged for his blessing: God bless you, my dear."
The same day, December 13th, 1784, he gradually
sank and died peacefully. He was laid in the Abbey
by the side of Goldsmith, and the playful prediction has
been amply fulfilled: --

Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis.

The names of many greater writers are inscribed upon
the walls of Westminster Abbey; but scarcely any one
lies there whose heart was more acutely responsive during
life to the deepest and tenderest of human emotions.
In visiting that strange gathering of departed heroes and
statesmen and philanthropists and poets, there are many
whose words and deeds have a far greater influence upon
our imaginations; but there are very few whom, when
all has been said, we can love so heartily as Samuel
Johnson.

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