tions,
which were punctually followed with equal chearfulness and submission.

In this state of power, and popular admiration, he remained 'till he
lost his senses; a loss which he seemed to foresee, and prophetically
lamented to many of his friends. The total deprivation of his senses
came upon him by degrees. In the year 1736 he was seized with a violent
fit of giddiness; he was at that time writing a satirical poem, called
The Legion Club; but he found the effects of his giddiness so dreadful,
that he left the poem unfinished, and never afterwards attempted a
composition, either in verse or prose. However, his conversation still
remained the same, lively and severe, but his memory gradually grew
worse and worse, and as that decreased, he grew every day more fretful
and impatient. In the year 1741, his friends found his passions so
violent and ungovernable, his memory so decayed, and his reason so
depraved, that they took the utmost precautions to keep all strangers
from approaching him; for, 'till then, he had not appeared totally
incapable of conversation. But early in the year 1742, the small remains
of his understanding became entirely confused, and the violence of his
rage increased absolutely to a degree of madness. In this miserable
state he seemed to be appointed the first inhabitant of his own
Hospital; especially as from an outrageous lunatic, he sunk afterwards
to a quiet speechless ideot; and dragged out the remainder of his life
in that helpless situation. He died towards the latter end of October
1745. The manner of his death was easy, without the least pang, or
convulsion; even the rattling of his throat was scarce sufficient to
give an alarm to his attendants, 'till within some very little time
before he expired. A man in possession of his reason would have wished
for such a kind dissolution; but Swift was totally insensible of
happiness, or pain. He had not even the power or expression of a child,
appearing for some years before his death, referred only as an example
to mortify human pride, and to reverse that fine description of human
nature, which is given us by the inimitable Shakespeare. 'What a piece
of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form
and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in
apprehension how like a God! the beauty of the world! the paragon of
animals!' Swift's friends often heard him lament the state of childhood
and idiotism, to whi