XXIV MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR 
offered him the living of Sproughton, near Ipswich ; 
and it was at Sproughton, after nearly twenty years’ 
residence, that he died. 
At Redgrave he began to take an interest in 
rose-growing, an interest that gradually deepened 
through the years spent at Tostock. At Tostock 
Rectory he planned and planted a rose garden which, 
until certainly quite recently, used to be shown 
on the ordnance survey map as “the rosary,” 
although the roses have disappeared these many 
years to make room for a tennis-court. But it was 
at Sproughton that he became so well-known that, 
just to mention the name of Sproughton, begat 
a vision of eternal summers among the lovely roses 
there—the long low beds of them, backed by the 
brooding beeches in their dark-green summer garb. 
Perhaps, in his heart, there was no country quite 
like the old west country; but, in time, he grew 
to love this Sproughton of his, lying low along the 
river, that wound softly through its great green 
meadows—Sproughton and its people, the people 
whom he came to know so well, whose troubles were 
his troubles, whose joys were his joys. He knew 
their lore, knew their speech and habits, or, as 
he would say, their ‘‘ manners and customs.” And, 
in return, the people too learnt to love the “old 
Rector,” though they never, perhaps, quite under- 
stood the reserved strong character that lived among 
them nearly twenty years. But, if they never quite 
understood him, they knew what he stood for. 
Upright, steadfast, ‘‘straight,” no case of injustice 
or oppression passed him by unheeding. 
Possibly very few ever understood him really. 
A great talker, most entertaining when telling 
