to say more. This stroke was unexpected, and my fears last year were ten times greater."
In a subsequent letter he says, "If I had any tolerable health, I would go this moment to Ireland; yet I think I would not, considering the news I daily expect to hear from you. I have just received yours of August the 24th. I kept it an hour in my pocket, with all the suspense of a man who expected to hear the worst news that fortune could give him, and at the same time was not able to hold up my head. These are perquisites of living long: the last act of life is always a tragedy at best; but it is a bitter aggravation to have one's best friend go before one. I do profess, upon my salvation, that the distressed and desperate condition of our friend, makes life so indifferent to me, who by course of nature have so little left, that I do not think it worth the time to struggle; yet I should think, according to what had been formerly, that I may happen to overcome this disorder; and to what advantage? Why, to see the loss of that person, for whose sake only life was worth preserving. What have I to do in this world? I never was in such agonies as when I received your letter, and had it in my pocket. I am able to hold up my sorry head no longer."
Let any one who understands the language of nature, judge whether the writer of the above passages, had not a heart susceptible of the utmost tenderness and warmth of friendship.
Nor was it to his friend Sheridan alone that he thus opened his heart: I have a letter before me, never published, to Mr. Stopford, then at Paris,
