me, to what he was then feeling?  I saw our doom too plainly, though your brother Ned still had hopes.  Every day confirmed my fears:  but I could not bear my anxiety, and went to Richmond to-day, with as much horror as persons must go to execution yet determined to see Gal. if I found that he had expressed the leas@ desire of it.—­Alas! he has scarce had moments of sense since Sunday morning—­how can I bring myself to say of so dreadful a situation, that it is my greatest consolation!  But I could not support the thought of his remaining sensible of death with all those anxious attentions about him which have composed his whole life!  Oh! my dear child, what rash wretches are heroes, compared to this brother of yours!  Nothing ever equalled his cool solicitude for his family and friends.  What an instance am I going to repeat to you!  His most unhappy life was poisoned by the dread of leaving his children and fortune to be torn to pieces by his frantic wife, whose settlements entitled her to thirds.  On Friday, perceiving her alarmed by his danger, he had the amazing presence of mind and fortitude to seize that only moment of tenderness, and prevailed on her to accept a jointure.  He instantly despatched your brother Ned to London for his lawyer, and by five o’clock on Saturday, after repeated struggles of passion on her side, the whole was finished.  Dear Gal. he could not speak, but he lifted up his hands in thanks!  While he had any sense, it was employed in repeated kindnesses, particularly to your brother James—­he had ordered a codicil, but they have not found a sufficient interval to get it signed!

My dearest Sir, what an afflicting letter am I forced to write to you! but I flatter myself, you will bear it better from me, than from any other person:  and affectionate as I know you, could I deprive you or myself of the melancholy pleasure of relating such virtues My poorest, yet best consolation is, that, though I think his obstinacy in not going abroad, and Ill management, may have hurried his end, yet nothing could have saved him; his lungs are entirely gone.  But how will you be amazed at what I am going to tell you!  His wretched wife is gone mad—­at least your brother Ned and the physician are persuaded so—­I cannot think so well of her.—­I see her in so diabolic a light, that I cannot help throwing falsehood into the account—­but let us never mention her more.  What little more I would say, for I spare your grief rather than indulge my own, is, that I beseech you to consider me as more and more your friend:  I adored Gal. and will heap affection on that I already have for you.  I feel your situation, and beg of you to manage with no delicacy, but confide all your fears and wishes and wants to me-if I could be capable of neglecting you, write to Gal.’s image that will for ever live in a memory most grateful to him.