He left three sons, all of whom were greatly distinguished as scholars and divines. The youngest of these, Philip, with whom we have to do, was for a number of years intimately known to the Sexagenarian, and may, without impropriety, perhaps, be denominated his first literary patron. Though considerably advanced in life, he took great pleasure in conversing with our friend, then very young, upon scholastic subjects, and afforded him much aid and encouragement in the prosecution of his literary pursuits. He had a valuable collection of classics, with which he was intimately conversant, many of the best of which he gave to his _protegé_. With respect to literature, his mind was somewhat of a singular cast. He knew nothing of modern languages, and in fact despised them. He had the same feelings as to the Belles Lettres. Latin and Greek authors comprised all that he studied; the Septuagint and Greek Testament all that he venerated. A few of our old divines, and more particularly Bishop Hoadley, Dr. Clarke, and his father, were high in his estimation; but, generally speaking, he had rather the disposition to despise all modern writers. His habits of life partook of the singularities of his opinions. Every day, when the weather permitted, he took a very long walk of many miles with his wife, whose personal appearance, character, and manners, were little, if at all less eccentric than those of her husband. But the information or amusement communicated on either side could not be very great, for the gentleman invariably walked at least a hundred yards in advance. He lived plainly, but exceedingly well, allowing himself a bottle of wine every day, about his management of which, he was also remarkably whimsical. He had no wine-cellar, but every day, within half an hour of dinner, his servant went to the tavern for a bottle of port. This he divided into two equal parts, one of which he drank at dinner, which at that time was at three o’clock, the other at supper, which was precisely at nine. His wife, he said, or any accidental guest, might have what they pleased, but “not a drop of his” for any body. He had the further peculiarity of drinking his wine out of a jelly glass, with a large wide foot, and this he did from the apprehension that some of the numerous four-footed animals which filled his house might throw it down. The fondness, which he and his wife encouraged for the feline species, was really ridiculous. When the door was opened, it, in some degree, resembled the opening of a dog-kennel, nor were the olfactory nerves less annoyed. Black, white, tabbies, tortoise-shell, grimalkins of all kinds and colours, rushed from every opening, to the great annoyance of the visitor.