The state of the British Farmer is growing desperate. Unless something
is done quickly, they will ere long become mere men of straw. As it is,
the distress prevalent in the different counties has nearly reached its
climax. The farmers are so tied down in NOTTS that scarcely any of them
have tasted Champagne for the last six months. There isn't a man in BEDS
that dreams of hunting more than twice a-week, and OXON, nearly mad from
being driven so hard, has scarcely a dozen families in which the French
language is spoken.
The great question of what will become of the British Farmer has been in
part answered by Mr. Hiceter, who has become—insolvent. It appears that
gentleman has for some time expected the Ploughshare of Distress to cut
up his hearth, and the Harrow of affliction to dig its teeth and nails
into the bosom of his family. This he has long anticipated, on account
of his not having paid any rent for the last two years—indeed from the
fact of farming seldom _paying_, Mr. Hiceter had long since learned to
look upon the agricultural business as an extensive _field for hoeing_
(owing). Mr. Hiceter complains that he has suffered much from his
kidneys, which have been diseased for these last two years. His barley,
he says, has run to nothing but beard. His ears, however, have been
remarkably long; still, his corn has been so bad of late, that it has
been as much as he could do to hobble on for this long time. Two large
fields of Mangel Wurzel have been swallowed up by a _Native de Paris_,
whom he engaged to perfect his daughters in the French tongue; and the
whole of his six acres of canary seed have gone to teach the girls
singing.
The sympathy of the country for miles round has been raised on behalf of
the Misses Hiceter. Their accomplishments are such that if they were not
born, at least they have been bred ladies of quality. In the midst of
their sorrows they find great comfort in the use of the globes. They do
not complain, but pass their time singing Italian duets, and they have
already worked several superb ottomans. Their extreme repugnance to the
disgustingly early hours, and vulgar laborious offices of a farm life,
completely reconciles them to their present condition of having nothing
to do. They also feel great consolation in knowing that in future they
will be able to appear every evening in "low-necked dresses," without
being pointed at by the ploughboys, and to dine at the much more
civilized hour of seven, without being called proud by the Goodies.
In their prosperity it was ever the object of the Misses Hiceter to
ennoble and refine the low manners and customs of the British Farmer. It
was through their exertions that their brother, Mr. Albert Hiceter, was
induced to wear a diamond ring and yellow kid gloves whilst guiding the
plough. Whistling at the plough was also strictly forbidden by them
among the farm servants, and white berlin gloves and meerschaum pipes
rigorously insisted upon.
It is very gratifying to learn that these two young ladies have made up
their minds to marry only persons of independent fortune and title, and
to leave their papa as soon as they conveniently can, unless he consents
to forego his filthy clay pipe before company.