s death. The decease of him, from whose friendship I had
obtained many opportunities of amusement, and to whom I turned my
thoughts, as to a refuge from misfortunes, has left me heavy. But my
business is with myself."--From 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 n