When my father returned to Bradfield, after passing the winter in London, he pulled down the old part of the house, a wretched lath and plaster ill-contrived building; then, to the astonishment of every one, he employed a hedge carpenter to rebuild exactly on the old foundations. Thereby was constructed a mansion which had not a single room free from every fault that could be found, whether as to chimney, doors, windows, or connecting passages, and this at a larger expense than need have cost an excellent house. The new stables, with coach-house, brew-house and offices, were built of brick, and cost 500_l._ It was rather whimsical to give his horses, carriage, and brewery[6] the warmth of solid walls, and to house himself in lath and plaster; but in fixing his new farmery,[7] a sad error was committed. The whole interposed between the dwelling, and four acres of turf dotted with beautiful oaks. My poor father, however, did not live to enjoy his improvements, for he was very soon seized with a dropsy, and which—as will be seen—terminated his life. During one of his journeys to London in order to consult a doctor, occurred a circumstance so whimsical that I must mention it. Several sleepless nights made him take it into his head that anything would be better than a bed; as an experiment at one inn he ordered that a hole should be cut in a haystack, in which he passed the night. But it is time to return to myself. During all these years I was at Lavenham School reading Cæsar, Sallust, Homer and the Greek Testament, when a sudden whim seized my father, and he ordered Latin and Greek to be discarded and algebra to take their place. I thus became absorbed in Saunderson.[8] But what commanded more of my attention at this time was a very different branch of learning, namely, the lessons of a dancing master; he came once a week from Colchester to teach the boys, also some young ladies of the neighbourhood, two of whom made terrible havoc with my heart. The first was Miss Betsy Harrington, a grocer’s daughter, admitted by all to be truly beautiful; the second of my youthful flames was Miss Molly Fiske, a clergyman’s sister. For one or two years we corresponded, but afterwards I went away, and she married the Rev. M. Chevalier, of Aspall. Long after her marriage she told me that she had accepted that gentleman on finding that I did not come forward with the proposal. Her fortune was 4,000_l._ _Arthur Young, from his Sister Elisa Maria_ ‘1755.