, Mr. Murphy, Mr. John
Nichols, Mr. Cooke, Mr. Joddrel, Mr. Paradise, Dr. Horsley, Mr.
Windham[793], I shall sufficiently obviate the misrepresentation of it
by Sir John Hawkins, as if it had been a low ale-house association, by
which Johnson was degraded[794]. Johnson himself, like his namesake Old
Ben[795], composed the Rules of his Club[796].

In the end of this year he was seized with a spasmodick asthma of such
violence, that he was confined to the house in great pain, being
sometimes obliged to sit all night in his chair, a recumbent posture
being so hurtful to his respiration, that he could not endure lying in
bed; and there came upon him at the same time that oppressive and fatal
disease, a dropsy. It was a very severe winter, which probably
aggravated his complaints; and the solitude in which Mr. Levett and Mrs.
Williams had left him, rendered his life very gloomy. Mrs.
Desmoulins[797], who still lived, was herself so very ill, that she
could contribute very little to his relief[798]. He, however, had none
of that unsocial shyness which we commonly see in people afflicted with
sickness. He did not hide his head from the world, in solitary
abstraction; he did not deny himself to the visits of his friends and
acquaintances; but at all times, when he was not overcome by sleep, was
ready for conversation as in his best days[799].

'To MRS. LUCY PORTER, IN LICHFIELD.

'DEAR MADAM,

'You may perhaps think me negligent that I have not written to you
again[800] upon the loss of your brother; but condolences and
consolations are such common and such useless things, that the omission
of them is no great crime: and my own diseases occupy my mind, and
engage my care. My nights are miserably restless, and my days,
therefore, are heavy. I try, however, to hold up my head as high as
I can[801].

'I am sorry that your health is impaired; perhaps the spring and the
summer may, in some degree, restore it: but if not, we must submit to
the inconveniences of time, as to the other dispensations of Eternal
Goodness. Pray for me, and write to me, or let Mr. Pearson write
for you.

'I am, &c.

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

'London, Nov. 29, 1783.'

1784: Aetat. 75.--And now I am arrived at the last year of the life of
SAMUEL JOHNSON, a year in which, although passed in severe
indisposition, he nevertheless gave many evidences of the continuance of
those wondrous powers of mind, which raised him so high in the
intellectual world. His