the close of his last work, the malady that persecuted him through life came upon him with alarming severity, and his constitution declined apace.  In 1782, his old friend, Levet, expired, without warning and without a groan.  Events like these reminded Johnson of his own mortality.  He continued his visits to Mrs. Thrale, at Streatham, to the 7th day of October, 1782, when, having first composed a prayer for the happiness of a family, with whom he had, for many years, enjoyed the pleasures and comforts of life, he removed to his own house in town.  He says he was up early in the morning, and read fortuitously in the Gospel, “which was his parting use of the library.”  The merit of the family is manifested by the sense he had of it, and we see his heart overflowing with gratitude.  He leaves the place with regret, and “casts a lingering look behind.”

The few remaining occurrences may be soon despatched.  In the month of June, 1783, Johnson had a paralytic stroke, which affected his speech only.  He wrote to Dr. Taylor, of Westminster; and to his friend Mr. Allen, the printer, who lived at the next door.  Dr. Brocklesby arrived in a short time, and by his care, and that of Dr. Heberden, Johnson soon recovered.  During his illness, the writer of this narrative visited him, and found him reading Dr. Watson’s Chymistry.  Articulating with difficulty, he said, “From this book, he who knows nothing may learn a great deal; and he who knows, will be pleased to find his knowledge recalled to his mind in a manner highly pleasing.”  In the month of August he set out for Lichfield, on a visit to Mrs. Lucy Porter, the daughter of his wife by her first husband; and, in his way back, paid his respects to Dr. Adams, at Oxford.  Mrs. Williams died, at his house in Bolt court, in the month of September, during his absence.  This was another shock to a mind like his, ever agitated by the thoughts of futurity.  The contemplation of his own approaching end was constantly before his eyes; and the prospect of death, he declared, was terrible.  For many years, when he was not disposed to enter into the conversation going forward, whoever sat near his chair, might hear him repeating, from Shakespeare,

  “Aye, but to die, and go we know not where;
  To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;
  This sensible warm motion to become
  A kneaded clod, and the delighted spirit
  To bathe in fiery floods”—­

And from Milton,

—­“Who would lose,
  For fear of pain, this intellectual being?”

By the death of Mrs. Williams he was left in a state of destitution, with nobody but Frank, his black servant, to sooth his anxious moments.  In November, 1783, he was swelled from head to foot with a dropsy.  Dr. Brocklesby, with that benevolence with which he always assists his friends, paid his visits with assiduity.  The medicines prescribed were so efficacious, that, in a few days, Johnson, while he was offering up his prayers, was suddenly obliged to rise, and, in the course of the day, discharged twenty pints of water.