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THE FARMER'S MAGAZINE. 



THICK AND THIN SOWING. 



TO THE EDITOR. 



Sir, — If my memory be correct — for I have not the work 

 by me — the celebrated or notorious Mr. Home Tooke 

 begins one of his controversial letters thus : " War, physic, 

 and divinity against one poor parson — fearful odds ! " But 

 what was a phalanx of mortals, however formidable for its 

 mental and corporeal prowess, to the recorded exploits of a 

 demigod-hero, who can be visible or invisible — a lump of 

 inert clay, or a mere nebulosity — as may best suit his pur- 

 pose for achieving some notorious or disreputable act ? Or, 

 whilst engaged with a mortal, he may skulk out of the 

 contest enveloped in his cloud, as did his prototype, the 

 redoubtable hero Paris, who, it will be remembered, whilst 

 engaged with the manly Menelaus, whose wife he had 

 stolen, fled from the contest, concealed by a lady. 



But this modern mythological hero, the hundred-ej'ed 

 "Argus," hides himself in his cloud, and is afraid to be 

 visible, because there is such a mortal in the world as the 

 aged and unwarlike incumbent of Wix. Oh, shame on the 

 dastard ! hang a calfskin about his recreant shoulders ! 



But he trembles at Mr. Wilkins's personalities ! If the 

 hero fought with honourable weapons — if he entered into 

 the contest armed with the breastplate of truth, as every 

 honourable mortal does— the shield of faith would be his 

 also, and he would require no hundred-eyed demigod to 

 guard him from an aged, unoffending, and unwarlike 

 parish-prieat. No : but he is afraid of the personalities of 

 Mr. Wilkins ! Like the renowned tailor of Brentford, 

 rather, he, as all cowards are, is afraid of himself. 



The fact is, Mr. Editor — and I here, in limine, proclaim 

 it to the numerous readers of your journal — the being, 

 ■whether mortal or not, who metamorphosed himself from 

 a hundred-eyed demigod to an Essex farmer (for '■ I am 

 an Essex farmer," the hero cries out), was afraid of Mr. 

 Wilkins — and this, I state, is the highest compliment to 

 Mr. Wilkins — because he knew he had taken his pen in 

 hand, as I shall show, regardless of truth, regardless of 

 honour, and to write, I may state, a whole tissue of accu- 

 sations which he knew, or ought to have known, were not 

 true. 



But how is it, Mr. Editor, that a practiser of, or a writer 

 on, agriculture, if he diverges from the customs of his fore- 

 fathers, or if he writes that the modern practice of 

 husbandry is not the very acme of perfection, should imme- 

 diately become a marked man— a target to be shot at? 

 And his enemies are not here and there only, a few scores 

 or hundreds in a place ; but they are legions, visible and 

 invisible, mortals and demimortals, of all shapes and all 

 sizes— one-eyed, like the giant Cyclops, Polyphemus ; or 

 two-eyed, like common mortals ; or hundred-eyed, like the 

 jealous goddess's cowkeeper, the world-renowned and 

 drowsy hero, Argus. How is it that a man cannot act and 

 talk and write on this subject of agriculture, without bring- 

 ing down upon his devoted head envy, hatred, and malice 

 sufficient, it not armed with the breastplate of truth, to 

 crush or annihilate a whole country ? It was so with 

 Tusser, and so with TuU, both of whom were persecuted 

 nearly to the death, though no two p]nglishmen ever did 

 more good. And it is so with every one who dares to pro- 

 claim that modern farmers, without exception, are not the 

 fattest, the plumpest, the cleverest, tlie most learned and 

 scientific, chemical and mechanical, theoretical and prac- 

 tical men the world ever produced. How is this ? 



Some years since, a clergyman, in writing to me, stated 

 that a parishioner of his was growing, on what had been 

 called a very poor farm, extraordinary crops of corn, roots, 

 and grass, by an improved method of "tillage, and from the 

 blood, &c., which he purchased from some slaughter- 

 houses; yet the man (who, my friend said, was a most 

 quiet and inotfensive one) was so persecuted, that he was 

 afraid to go to market, to sell the produce of his farm ! 

 The clergyman also, who followed his parishioner's plan 



as to his meadows, the produce of which his liquid manure 

 more than doubled, received the same persecution ; and on 

 one occasion, some gentlemen at an inn, on a market-day, 

 composed an address, and then walked in a procession, 

 with musical instruments which they obtained from the 

 inn-kitchen— such as warming-pans, frying-pans, dish- 

 covers, and I know not what besides — and read the ad- 

 dress aloud, iirst before the clergyman's house, which was 

 in the street, and tit en before the poor bewildered farmer's. 



Are not such scenes and persecutions as these, jMr. 

 Editor, a satire upon our age ? and are they not dis- 

 reputable to all wlio engage in them ? Many farmers — I 

 may say, most of them— are among the most hospitable of 

 men. I myself esteem very many of them most highly. 

 But why should they so much dread investigation? why 

 tremble at discussion ? Why should an humble individual 

 like a parish minister cause them so many sleepless nights? 

 why should he be the subject of so much discussion at 

 market- tables ? 



It is unaccountable ; but the thorough-drainers, deep 

 and thorough-cultivators, moderate-seeders, horse hoers, 

 want to raise rents 1 This is the cry, but the 

 most senseless that ever was used, or can bo used. 

 It ia farmers themselves alone who can raise rents. All the 

 writing and all the discussious in the world caunot raise the 

 price, except most temporarily, of any marketable article ; and 

 land is nothing else than a marketable article, depending en- 

 tirely, as to its price, as everything else does, upon the supply 

 and the demand for it. 



In ancient days, in all the highly civilized countries of the world 

 the most highly-talented of the human race, the richest en- 

 dowed, by Divine assistance the greatest favourites of Heaven, 

 were those who practised and wrote upon agriculture. As a proof 

 of which, we may, mentally at least, pass through ancientEgypt, 

 the cradle of all the arts of the remotest periods after the Flood ; 

 thence to China, and the East Indies ; and thence back to the 

 Holy Land, wherein, 900 years before Christ, agriculture, as 

 we read in the 19lh chapter of the first book of Kings, was in 

 a state of perfection which would put to shame that of every 

 country in modern times. And those who practised it, as I 

 have stated, were the greatest favourites of Almighty God, 

 himself being miraculously chosen to impart His will to all 

 His humam creatures. 



From the Holy Land we pass into Persia, thence back into 

 Greece, and thence to ancient Rome. In all which countries 

 the most highly-endowed with mental talents, moet learned and 

 scientific, wrote and discoursed on the improvements and 

 blessings of agriculture, but without offence ; as we read of 

 no persecutions, of no mock processions, of no insults heaped 

 upon them, of no Arguses hurling envenomed shafts, skulking 

 behind the spread-out tails of peacocks. No, no : in those 

 days, and in those countries, all the writers and diacoursers on 

 agriculture were honoured, and held iu the highest esteem by 

 their fellow-men, as the greatest benefactors of their race. 



And from Greece and Rome, if we return to the Holy Land, 

 we find the Redeemer himself drawing the sublimest divine 

 truths, for his parables and discourses^to the people, from rural 

 affairs and agricultural operations. 



In our own country ateo, in the middle, and what we call 

 the dark ages, churchmen had their lands in the highest possi- 

 ble state of perfection, whilst the lay lands^were, in comparison, 

 not half-cultivated and nearly barren. 



These are facts which none can deny ; and yet Mr. Wilkins, 

 whose chief writings are intended to draw the attention of men 

 to them, is set up as a target for every cowardly scribbler to 

 hurl envenomed shafts at, dipped in gall, as if he were guilty 

 of some monstrous crime against his fellow-man or deadly sin 

 against his God. 



But who is this Essex farmer, as he calls himself? And he 

 may be one, for aught I know to the contrary; but he is not 

 an Essex man. This I state without fear of refutation ; for 

 he has left footmarks behind, sulhcieut for me to trace him much 



