t of a play which he had not seen for half a century. Holcroft's
'Road to Ruin,' thus, was one that he once described to me. He was a
master of the art, now wellnigh lost, of "capping verses"; and he had a
rare knowledge of the less-known Elizabethan dramatists. In his first
Charge occurs a quotation from an "old play"; and one of his hearers,
Canon "Grundy," inquired what play it might be. "Ford's," said my
father, "''Tis pity she's no better than she should be.'" And the good
man was perfectly satisfied. But stronger than his love of Wordsworth
and music, of the classics and foreign theology, was his love of
Suffolk--its lore, its dialect, its people. As a young man he had driven
through it with Mr D. E. Davy, the antiquary; and as archdeacon he
visited and revisited its three hundred churches in the Norwich diocese
during close on a score of years. I drove with him twice on his rounds,
and there was not a place that did not evoke some memory. If he could
himself have written those memories down! He did make the attempt, but
too late. This was all the result:--

"_Oct._ 23, 1886.

"I cannot see to read, but as yet I can see to write. That is, I can see
the continuous grey line of writing, and can mechanically write one word
after another. But if I leave off abruptly, I cannot always remember
what was the last word that I wrote, and read it generally I cannot.

{Monk Soham Church: p6.jpg}

"I should be thankful for being able to write at all, and I hope I am;
but I am not enough thankful. The failure of my sight has been very
gradual, but of late it has been more sudden. Three months ago I could
employ myself in reading; now I cannot, save with a book, such as the
Prayer-book, with which I am well acquainted, and which is of clear large
type. So that as yet I can take my duty.

"I was born at Framlingham on January 18, 1810, so that I am now nearly
seventy-seven years old. The house still stands where I was born, little
if at all changed. It is the first house on the left-hand side of the
Market Hill, after ascending a short flight of steps. My father, at the
time of my birth, was curate to his brother-in-law, Mr Wyatt, who was
then rector of Framlingham. I was the younger of two sons, my brother
Hindes being thirteen months older than I was.

"As we left Framlingham in 1813, my recollections of it are very
indistinct. I have an impression of being taken out to see a fire; but
as I have since