and sent into the world. Lyttelton took money
for his copy, of which, when he had paid the pointer, he probably gave
the rest away; for he was very liberal to the indigent.

When time brought the history to a third edition, Reid was either dead
or discarded; and the superintendence of typography and punctuation was
committed to a man originally a comb-maker, but then known by the style
of doctor. Something uncommon was probably expected, and something
uncommon was at last done; for to the doctor's edition is appended, what
the world had hardly seen before, a list of errours in nineteen pages.

But to politicks and literature there must be an end. Lord Lyttelton had
never the appearance of a strong or of a healthy man; he had a slender,
uncompacted frame, and a meagre face: he lasted, however, sixty years,
and was then seized with his last illness. Of his death a very affecting
and instructive account has been given by his physician[200] which will
spare me the task of his moral character.

"On Sunday evening the symptoms of his lordship's disorder, which for a
week past had alarmed us, put on a fatal appearance, and his lordship
believed himself to be a dying man. From this time he suffered by
restlessness rather than pain; though his nerves were apparently much
fluttered, his mental faculties never seemed stronger, when he was
thoroughly awake.

"His lordship's bilious and hepatick complaints seemed alone not equal
to the expected mournful event; his long want of sleep, whether the
consequence of the irritation in the bowels, or, which is more probable,
of causes of a different kind, accounts for his loss of strength, and
for his death, very sufficiently.

"Though his lordship wished his approaching dissolution not to be
lingering, he waited for it with resignation. He said, 'It is a folly, a
keeping me in misery, now to attempt to prolong life;' yet he was easily
persuaded, for the satisfaction of others, to do or take any thing
thought proper for him. On Saturday he had been remarkably better, and
we were not without some hopes of his recovery.

"On Sunday, about eleven in the forenoon, his lordship sent for me, and
said he felt a great hurry, and wished to have a little conversation
with me, in order to divert it. He then proceeded to open the fountain
of that heart, from whence goodness had so long flowed as from a copious
spring. 'Doctor,' said he, 'you shall be my confessor: when I first set
out in the wor