ecting
discontent, and indulging the vanity of complaint.' It, however,
proceeded,--

'Write to me often, and write like a man. I consider your fidelity and
tenderness as a great part of the comforts which are yet left me, and
sincerely wish we could be nearer to each other.... My dear friend, life
is very short and very uncertain; let us spend it as well as we can. My
worthy neighbour, Allen, is dead. Love me as well as you can. Pay my
respects to dear Mrs. Boswell. Nothing ailed me at that time; let your
superstition at last have an end.'

Feeling very soon, that the manner in which he had written might hurt
me, he two days afterwards, July 28, wrote to me again, giving me an
account of his sufferings; after which, he thus proceeds:--

'Before this letter, you will have had one which I hope you will not
take amiss; for it contains only truth, and that truth kindly
intended.... _Spartam quam nactus es orna_[1168]; make the most and best
of your lot, and compare yourself not with the few that are above you,
but with the multitudes which are below you.... Go steadily forward with
lawful business or honest diversions. _Be_ (as Temple says of the
Dutchmen) _well when you are not ill, and pleased when you are not
angry_[1169].... This may seem but an ill return for your tenderness;
but I mean it well, for I love you with great ardour and sincerity. Pay
my respects to dear Mrs. Boswell, and teach the young ones to love me.'

I unfortunately was so much indisposed during a considerable part of
the year, that it was not, or at least I thought it was not in my power
to write to my illustrious friend as formerly, or without expressing
such complaints as offended him. Having conjured him not to do me the
injustice of charging me with affectation, I was with much regret long
silent. His last letter to me then came, and affected me very
tenderly:--

'TO JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.

'DEAR SIR,

'I have this summer sometimes amended, and sometimes relapsed, but, upon
the whole, have lost ground, very much. My legs are extremely weak, and
my breath very short, and the water is now encreasing upon me. In this
uncomfortable state your letters used to relieve; what is the reason
that I have them no longer? Are you sick, or are you sullen? Whatever be
the reason, if it be less than necessity, drive it away; and of the
short life that we have, make the best use for yourself and for your
friends.... I am sometimes afraid that your omission