Art thou, my Gregory, for ever fled? And am I left to unavailing woe? When fortune’s storms assail this weary head, Where cares long since have shed untimely snow, Ah, now, for comfort whither shall I go? No more thy soothing voice my anguish cheers, Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow, My hopes to cherish and allay my fears. ‘Tis meet that I should mourn, flow forth afresh my tears.’ Gregory wrote little upon religious subjects, except some chapters in the _Comparative View_ and in the _Father’s Legacy_, but he spoke often of the things which pertain to the Life Eternal. To him they were as really present as the circumstances of every day. His mind was deeply religious, but it was of that sort that lives more by meditation than church-going. Though he was a Presbyterian himself, he had his younger children brought up as Episcopalians, wishing them in everything to be likened as much as possible to their mother. One day in the beginning of February 1773, John Gregory was talking to his son James about his health. His son told him that he feared it was likely he would soon have a bad attack of gout, a disease from which he had been entirely free for three years. Professor Gregory, who felt himself in full vigour, and who was in the height of his work, was much vexed with this prognosis. Gout was a dread enemy in his mother’s family, and he always feared its visitations. He had suffered from it more or less since he was eighteen, and the preface to the _Father’s Legacy_ indicates his anticipation of an early death. On the morning of the 10th he was found dead in bed. His face was peaceful, everything was smooth and still, showing that death had come gently. But the familiar presence had passed away for ever from his home. It is said that Gregory had a great fear of darkness, and that after his wife’s death he used to have an old woman come and sit by him to hold his hand till he fell asleep, and if this is true, it is most strange. He was forty-nine when he died. John Gregory was succeeded in the chair by William Cullen, who, when his time came, made room for James Gregory, the fourth incumbent of the chair: a son of Dorothea Gregory, William Pulteney Alison was the sixth. In appearance John Gregory was tall and strongly built. His face in repose was kind, although too full and heavy to look clever; even his eyes were dull. When he was talking there was a complete change. Interest, life and expression transformed his features, until one could hardly suppose him to be the same man. The charm of his manner has never been gainsaid, and like the beauty of his wife, it is mentioned in every biography.