In the year 1800 the extended patent right, which had been granted to Boulton and Watt for their improved engine, expired, and at this time Mr. Watt retired altogether from business. He was succeeded by his two sons, the present Mr. James Watt, and Gregory, one of the children of his second marriage. The works at Soho continued to be conducted by the present Mr. Boulton, the son of the partner of Mr. Watt, and the two Messrs. Watt. In 1804 Gregory Watt died at the age of twenty-seven, of a disease of the chest. This afflicting event was deeply felt by Mr. Watt; but he did not sink under it into that state of despondency in which he has been represented to have fallen by M. Arago. On the contrary, he continued to show the same activity of mind which had characterised his whole [Pg312] life; nor did he lose that interest which he always took in the pursuit of literature and in society. The state of his feelings under this affliction is shown by the following extracts from letters written by him at that time, which have been published by Mr. Muirhead. "Heathfield, January 26th, 1805. * * "I, perhaps, have said too much to you and Mrs. Campbell on the state of my mind. I, therefore, think it necessary to say that _I am not low spirited_; and were you here, you would find me as cheerful in the company of my friends as usual; my feelings for the loss of poor Gregory are not passion, but a deep regret that such was his and my lot. "I know that all men must die, and I submit to the decrees of nature, I hope with due reverence to the Disposer of Events. Yet one stimulus to exertion is taken away, and, somehow or other, I have lost my relish for my usual avocations. Perhaps time may remedy that in some measure; meanwhile, I do not neglect the means of amusement which are in my power." "Heathfield, April 8th, 1805. * * "It is rather mortifying to see how easily the want of even the best of us is dispensed with in the world; but it is very well it should be so. We here, however, cannot help feeling a terrible blank in our family. When I look at my son's books, his writings and drawings, I always say to myself, where are the mind that conceived these things, and the hands that executed them? In the course of nature, he should have said so of mine; but it was otherwise ordered, and our sorrow is unavailing. As Catullus says:— —— 'Nunc it, per iter tenebricosum, Illuc, unde negant redire quemquam. At vobis male sit, malæ tenebræ Orci, quæ omnia bella devoratis!'