correct the press himself, and print it without any interval between the stanzas, because the sense is in some places continued beyond them; and the title must be,—­Elegy, written in a Country Churchyard.  If he would add a line or two to say it came into his hands by accident, I should like it better.  If you behold the Magazine of Magazines in the light that I do, you will not refuse to give yourself this trouble on my account, which you have taken of your own accord before now.  If Dodsley do not do this immediately, he may as well let it alone.

TO THE SAME

At Burnham

[Burnham,] Sept. 1737.

I was hindered in my last, and so could not give you all the trouble I would have done.  The description of a road, which your coach wheels have so often honoured, it would be needless to give you; suffice it that I arrived safe at my uncle’s, who is a great hunter in imagination; his dogs take up every chair in the house, so I am forced to stand at this present writing; and though the gout forbids him galloping after them in the field, yet he continues to regale his ears and nose with their comfortable noise and stink.  He holds me mighty cheap, I perceive, for walking when I should ride, and reading when I should hunt.  My comfort amidst all this is, that I have at the distance of half a mile, through a green lane, a forest (the vulgar call it a common) all my own, at least as good as so, for I spy no human thing in it but myself.  It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices; mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above the clouds, nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover Cliff; but just such hills as people who love their necks as well as I do may venture to climb, and crags that give the eye as much pleasure as if they were more dangerous.  Both vale and hill are covered with most venerable beeches, and other very reverend vegetables, that, like most other ancient people, are always dreaming out their old stories to the winds.

And as they bow their hoary tops relate, In murm’ring sounds, the dark decrees of fate; While visions, as poetic eyes avow, Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough.

At the foot of one of these squats ME I (ilpenseroso), and there grow to the trunk for a whole morning.  The timorous hare and sportive squirrel gambol round me like Adam in Paradise, before he had an Eve; but I think he did not use to read Virgil, as I commonly do there.  In this situation I often converse with my Horace, aloud too, that is talk to you, but I do not remember that I ever heard you answer me.  I beg pardon for taking all the conversation to myself, but it is entirely your own fault....

To THE REV.  WILLIAM MASON

The Laureateship

19 Dec. 1757.

DEAR MASON,