Life of Johnson: Dec. 13, 1784

It is strange, to feel so sad for the death of a man who lived into old age and died in bed 223 years ago. But it is sad; the book so resounds with Boswell's honest love that you cannot help but hear the echo of Johnson's voice, see him in his strange mannerisms, and feel a share of that love yourself. How terrible it is that men die can hardly be imagined, but page by page Boswell manages to put into words the impossible truth that even 1,400 pages seem too few to hold. I almost wish I had not read the book, so painful is it to feel the reality of death.

The last year of his life was marked by great pain, especially from dropsy, a hideous disease, which all but crippled his legs even when it was in remission. He seems to have been treated with the right sort of medicine for one kind of dropsy, since he was given powder of squills, a diuretic herb. He also had opiates to ease the pain, so for the time he was fairly well provided for, but I had a brief physical urge to get him an oxygen tank when he so often could hardly breathe. Even in such pain, "during his sleepless nights he amused himself by translating Latin verse, from the Greek, many of the epigrams in the Anthologia," but as his last year wore on, he regretted that he could no longer even read away his insomnia, saying that on sleepless nights he used to be able to "read like a Turk," which I suppose means lying on his side on cushions.

His last year was spent trying to convalesce in the countryside; he went to his hometown, but found all his remaining friends had died. He then had a wretched year of isolation, seeing no one close to him, and often no one at all. Boswell includes a long series of his letters, which were his sole contact with his former life, and that are highly affecting as the uncomplaining but honestly despairing notes pile up. May it be, that however I die, my last year should not be so utterly alone. And may I also be spared the fate of Boswell, who prostrate with melancholy, failed to write for most of the year, so that after this letter he was only able to get one reply to Johnson before his death:

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 [dropsy] 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....[ellipsis original] I am sometimes afraid that your omission to write has some real cause, and shall be glad to know that you are not sick, and that nothing ill has befallen dear Mrs. Boswell, or any of your family. I am, Sir, your, etc,
Sam. Johnson

How endlessly Boswell must have reproached himself.

As his life dwindled to weeks, he came back to London to die. When a doctor hoped he was feeling better, Johnson said, "No, Sir; you cannot conceive with what acceleration I advance towards death." His friends then were often with him, though his death has a horrifying solitude about it anyway. I suppose death must always be a terrible solitude; even though I picture those who die in bed meeting their end supported by companions, it must be solitary when there is one second that for everyone is followed by another, except for him.

A young woman, the daughter of a close friend, came to ask Johnson's blessing, which proved his last action:

The Doctor turned himself in the bed, and said, "God bless you, my dear!" These were the last words he spoke. His difficulty of breathing increased till about seven o'clock in the evening, when Mr. Barber and Mrs. Desmoulins, who were sitting in the room, observing that the noise he made in breathing had ceased, went to the bed, and found he was dead."