Jessop's ideal garden was to foreshadow the repose of Paradise:

Some dark alcoves, immers'd in shades remote,

To calm repose and silence deep devote.

And in his garden he hoped at last to rest his wornout frame:

Here where the shades their verdant curtains close,
Spread the soft pillows for thy last repose.

But in the meanwhile repose was to consist in wellearned relaxation after strenuous effort:

Through all besides, activity should reign.

If absent this, the whole insipid grows;
Careless we saunter or lethargic doze.
Thus let thy scenes with animation glow,
Let buoyant swans along thy currents row,
Let steeds, and kine, and chief the fleecy race,
From ev'ry field a vacant dullness chase.

The peacock strutting in magnific state,

The pigeon faithful to its constant mate,

The ducks, the geese, the turkeys swarm around,
And urge thy bounty with a craving sound.

Though he loved to be surrounded with animal life, Jessop would probably not have placed his pigsty immediately under his dining-room window. But Percy, while partaking of his solitary meals, liked to watch the gambols of his young pigs, who later on, in another capacity, were admitted to a place at his table, or rather on it.

During his residence at Dromore, Bishop Percy took a kindly interest in his neighbours' concerns, and on one occasion wrote to his wife:

The two unmarried Miss Stothards have gone beside themselves on account of the unfortunate state

of their affairs. Their Mother is a shocking illtempered old crone, but I have renewed all the leases for their benefit.'

Sometimes domestic misfortunes are recorded. When the kitchen chimney was on fire a loaded blunderbuss was discharged up it, that not only broke the windows, but impaired Percy's power of hearing for several days.

During her prolonged absence, Mrs. Percy was naturally very anxious concerning the welfare of her husband, and in answer to her inquiries, he wrote:

'I am much obliged for your tender concern for me. Your fears are needless. If necessary I could ship over to Scotland. You hope I do not loiter amongst my workmen in this severe weather; that I have a fire in my bedroom, and have not any cough. I never was better in my life; I have left off the perpetual blister on my head and the flannel waistcoat under my shirt, and have never had a fire in my bedroom.

To my being a water-drinker till I was 37 years of age, and abstaining from suppers, I attribute my health, activity, and spirits. I send you a few hairs which have escaped the razor by growing behind my ears. They are exactly of the same colour as they were when I was 10 years old. Ever since I have worn a wig. I cannot discover one grey hair, though I want but one month of 70. Had I always worn my own hair, I suppose it would all have been of this colour. As you may never see so much of my hair again, let this be kept as a curiosity.'

While congratulating himself on his youth, Bishop Percy advised his wife, who was only two years younger than himself, to find among his books a good large Bible, in two volumes quarto, which might suit her eyes.

Every family anniversary was duly celebrated at Dromore House. When commemorating Mrs. Isted's wedding day the Bishop wrote to his wife:

'Whilst all our Servants are giving a Ball below, and spending the evening in grand Gala on this festive occasion, I take up my pen to pass the moments with you and your happy fireside, while dear little Ambrose is playing about you, turning over the leaves of some book, and pointing out his round O. You made me particularly happy by your most affectionate letter. The slightest writing from your own dear hand always gives me superior pleasure, yet I know how much it fatigues you to write.'

'I kept your birthday on Sunday,' he wrote on another occasion, by a little regale to the servants, but the solemnity of the day obliged me to do it with a proper reserve. However, I promised them a dance on Ambrose's birthday, and it was celebrated with all due splendour by the High Life below stairs.

'As I do not exactly know your age, you need not be afraid of my having revealed that secret, so disagreeable to you young ladies. As to my own age, everyone pronounces it to be 55.'

On April 24, 1799, the Bishop wrote from Dromore House:

My Dearest Life,-This being the anniversary of our wedding, as well as my birthday, I address my congratulations to you, who have contributed so much to the happiness of my life. When I look back on the humble prospects with which we entered into the marriage state 40 years ago, and reflect on our present splendour and comforts, what fervent gratitude ought we to feel.