. . . 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; 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.'
Yet it was not a little painful to me to find, that . . . he still
persevered in arraigning me as before, which was strange in him who had
so much experience of what I suffered. I, however, wrote to him two as
kind letters as I could; the last of which came too late to be read
by him, for his illness encreased more rapidly upon him than I had
apprehended; but I had the consolation of being informed that he spoke
of me on his death-bed, with affection, and I look forward with humble
hope of renewing our friendship in a better world.
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