his sweet Bobbin； and on a tablet in an annexe appears a touching memorial inscription to her； which I regret I had no time to copy。 It does not； I think； appear in the Life by Miss Betham Edwards。
How sadly read his words written at Bradfield in the year 1800：
I never e to this place without reaping all the pleasure which any place can give me now。 It is beautiful and healthy； and is endeared to me by so many recollections； melancholy ones now； alas！ that I feel more here than anywhere else。 Here have I lived from my infancy； here my dear mother breathed her last； here was all I knew of a sister； and the church contains the remains of my father； mother； and ever beloved child！ Here； under my window； her little garden — the shrubs and flowers she planted — the willow on the island； her room； her books； her papers。 There have I prayed to the Almighty that I might join her in the next world。
Well； his sorrows are done and； had she lived the full life of woman； by now Bobbin’s days would have been counted out twice over。 Let us trust that long ago her broken…hearted father’s petition has been granted； and that this pathetic pair once more walk hand in hand in some celestial garden； never to be parted more。
If I may venture to pare myself with such a man； there is a considerable similarity between our aims and circumstances。 We have both been animated by an overwhelming sense of the vital importance of British agriculture to this country and its citizens。 We are both East Anglians and born of the class of landed gentry or “squires。” We have both been official servants of the State。 We have both written novels and much connected with the land。 We were both practical farmers； which many who write on such things are not； and in the same counties。 We