Mr. Edmonson has called on me; and, as he sets out to-morrow, I can safely trust my letter to him.  I have, I own, been much shocked at reading Gray’s[1] death in the papers.  ’Tis an hour that makes one forget any subject of complaint, especially towards one with whom I lived in friendship from thirteen years old.  As self lies so rooted in self, no doubt the nearness of our ages made the stroke recoil to my own breast; and having so little expected his death, it is plain how little I expect my own.  Yet to you, who of all men living are the most forgiving, I need not excuse the concern I feel.  I fear most men ought to apologise for their want of feeling, instead of palliating that sensation when they have it.  I thought that what I had seen of the world had hardened my heart; but I find that it had formed my language, not extinguished my tenderness.  In short, I am really shocked—­nay, I am hurt at my own weakness, as I perceive that when I love anybody, it is for my life; and I have had too much reason not to wish that such a disposition may very seldom be put to the trial.  You, at least, are the only person to whom I would venture to make such a confession.

[Footnote 1:  Gray died of gout in the stomach on July 30th.  He was only fifty-five.]

Adieu! my dear Sir!  Let me know when I arrive, which will be about the last day of the month, when I am likely to see you.  I have much to say to you.  Of being here I am most heartily tired, and nothing but this dear old woman should keep me here an hour—­I am weary of them to death—­but that is not new!  Yours ever.

SCANTINESS OF THE RELICS OF GRAY—­GARRICK’S PROLOGUES, ETC.—­WILKES’S SQUINT.

TO THE REV.  WILLIAM COLE

ARLINGTON STREET, Jan. 28, 1772.

It is long indeed, dear Sir, since we corresponded.  I should not have been silent if I had anything worth telling you in your way; but I grow such an antiquity myself, that I think I am less fond of what remains of our predecessors.

I thank you for Bannerman’s proposal; I mean, for taking the trouble to send it, for I am not at all disposed to subscribe.  I thank you more for the note on King Edward; I mean, too, for your friendship in thinking of me.  Of Dean Milles I cannot trouble myself to think any more.  His piece is at Strawberry:  perhaps I may look at it for the sake of your note.  The bad weather keeps me in town, and a good deal at home; which I find very comfortable, literally practising what so many persons pretend they intend, being quiet and enjoying my fire-side in my elderly days.