Fortunes for Farmers 



farmer on a market day is a sight of pride. With 

 measured tread and warm hand-shake he roams 

 the streets like a proprietor, transacts his business 

 in a leisurely manner, and sits down to a dinner 

 that would strike terror into the heart of the 

 cityling. The beef he can eat and the beer he 

 can drink deserve an epic. 



There are, of course, other sides to the picture, 

 wet harvests, diseases among the cattle, default 

 of neighbours or merchants, unaccountable losses 

 and a thousand misfortunes — but these are also 

 of the town. The would-be farmer must shun 

 low rents and poor soil like the devil, just as a 

 merchant flees a bankrupt community. He cannot 

 pay too much rent, and should choose fifty 

 acres at £3 an acre rather than 1,000 acres at 5s. 

 One means potential prosperity, the other a stern 

 struggle with perhaps failure at the finish. I write 

 of those who live in the more fortunate districts, 

 such as Lincolnshire, and, more broadly, of 

 wherever the soil is good. 



Our farmer lives in that manner which is the 

 Briton's ideal, for when the cityling has made his 

 fortune, does he not the same? He hastens to 

 procure a country seat, surrounds himself with 

 horses, grooms, and gardeners, and spends money 

 on his stables, garden, and parks, or hunting, 

 shooting, and fishing. The farmer has all these 



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