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].
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