thousand out of politics.  He is said to have refused to serve under Sir Edward Hawke in this armament.  Shall I tell you what, more than distance, has thrown me Out of attention to news?  A little packet which I shall give your brother for you, will explain it.  In short, I am turned printer, and have converted a little cottage here into a printing-office.  My abbey is a perfect colicue or academy.  I keep a painter in the house and a printer—­not to mention Mr. Bentley, who is an academy himself.  I send you two copies (one for Dr. Cocchi) of a very honourable opening of my press- -two amazing Odes of Mr. Gray; they are Greek, they are Pindaric, they are sublime! consequently I fear a little obscure; the second particularly, by the confinement of the measure and the nature of prophetic vision, is mysterious.(812) I could not persuade him to add more notes; he says whatever wants to be explained, don’t deserve to be.  I shall venture to place some in Dr. Cocchi’s copy, who need not be supposed to understand Greek- and English together, though he is so much master of both separately.  To divert you in the mean time, I send you the following copy of a letter written by my printer(813) to a friend in Ireland.  I should tell you that he has the most sensible look in the world; Garrick said he would give any money for four actors with such eyes—­they are more Richard the Third’s than Garrick’s own; but whatever his eyes are, is head is Irish.  Looking for something I wanted in a drawer, I perceived a parcel of strange romantic words in a large hand beginning a letter; he saw me see it, yet left it, which convinces me it was left on purpose:  it is the grossest flattery to me, couched in most ridiculous scraps of poetry, which he has retained from things he has printed; but it will best describe itself:—­

“Sir, “I date this from shady bowers, nodding groves, and amaranthine shades,—­close by old Father Thames’s silver side--fair Twickenham’s luxurious shades—­Richmond’s near neighbour, where great George the King resides.  You will wonder at my prolixity—­in my last I informed you that I was going into the country to transact business for a private gentleman.  This gentleman is the Hon. Horatio Walpole, son to the late great Sir Robert Walpole, who is very studious, and an admirer of all the liberal arts and sciences; amongst the rest he admires printing.  He has fitted out a complete printing-house at this his country seat, and has done me the favour to make me sole manager and operator (there being no one but myself).  All men of genius resorts his house, courts his company, and admires his understanding—­what with his own and their writings, I believe I shall be pretty well employed.—­I have pleased him, and I hope continue so to do.  Nothing can be more warm than the weather has been here this time past; they have in London, by the help of glasses, roasted in the artillery-ground fowls and quarters