remains are laid in their kindred clay, as the poet says.

I desired your son Frank to accompany us to London. He is a spirited
young fellow, and behaved well on the road, where he had an affair with
a highwayman, and got a slight wound; but he is in no danger. He is a
fine fellow, a brave fellow, and an honour to you, honest Aby.

Some grounds which I saw on my journey, with water purling, meandering,
and occasionally dashing down a steep declivity, or winding along a
more gentle descent, as it happened to be, suggested an idea to me. It
came into my mind that, as we lie high, if we had but a lake
sufficiently large on the top of the hill, we could send the water down
in rivulets on every side. But then the difficulty struck me how to get
it up again. Perhaps it may be overcome. It would have a charming
effect, and we will think of it hereafter.

When you have received my address at Paris, do not fail to let me know,
once a week, how every thing proceeds. Be particular in your accounts,
and do not be afraid of wearying me. My heart is in my grounds and my
improvements; and the more places and things you name the more pleasure
you will give me. Write to me too concerning my herd of deer, my
Spanish sheep, my buffaloes, my Chinese pheasants, and all my foreign
live stock.

I will make my journey as short as possible; it shall not be long
before I will re-visit my Wenbourne-Hill. To own the truth, honest Aby,
after reading your letter, I had ordered the chaise to the door to come
down again; but Anna St. Ives would not hear of it, so I was obliged to
yield. But, as I tell you, my heart is with you; Wenbourne-Hill is
never out of my mind.