ABSTRACT
AT this lonely inn, or rather alehouse, where I have taken up my temporary abode, I enjoy the seclusion I have so long sought. The simple folk who keep the house, were they to-morrow to find me dead, would have no other concern than to discover whether I had effects enough about me to pay for Christian burial; for undoubtedly it would shock them extremely to comply with the request I have, you remember, made to my friends – to be deposited under the turf of the nearest hill, beneath the rugged surface of a wild heath, the shade of the next copse of hazle, or group of beech.
