AND 11 O U T 1 C U L T U It A L R E G I S T E K . 



PUBLISHED BY JOSEPH BR&CK fc CO., NO. Si NOUTH M.IRKET STRKliT, (Aoiiicuitubai. War«mou.£.)-ALLEN PUTNAM, KDITOK. 



BOSTON. WEDNKSDAY ?:VENING, NOVEMBER 17, 1841. 



ino. 



N. E. FARMER 



• TURNED FARMER. 



An article in Blackwood'* Magaiinc, 18.19, was 

 jighly ciilcrlauiinjr wlieii we read it, soon alter its 

 ippcarancc. Wo have turned back to it. and find 

 ,t so po«d llint we elinll till the most of our col- 

 jmns Willi It tins week. Here our readcra mil 

 Snd a !,"•'"' anlidolo to the many published articles 

 vhicli are calculated to draw inexperienced men, 

 jf small means, into liie purchase ol"a farm. 



The pursuit oi' agriculture is certainly a good 

 >De for those who understand it, and itIio have 

 itruog arms to aid Uiein in the work : it is also one 

 )f the best luxuries of those who have ample means 

 o farm fur pleasure. But it will rarely do for one 

 »ho has made a little, and only a little money in 

 lome other pursuit, to invest all his little property 

 n a farm, and i.'iink to get a living from it. Some 

 if the disappoiiitiiicnts to which he is liable, are 

 linttd at or may be suggested by the extracts be- 

 ow. Though the picture we hare show may be a 

 ■ricaturo, it yet keeps near enough to nature, 

 ruth and fact, to teach some useful lessons, and 

 li»t too in a pleasant way. — En. 



ON AGRICULTURE. 

 Letter from Euscbius to hisfrienii, and his Reply. 

 It was long before I could bring myseif to think 

 eriously of your intentions. You farm! — arc you 

 imenled ? I have imagined you in all possible 

 isitions agricultural — and have laughed at the 

 retched figures I have conjured up, very heartily. 

 You will be the butt of the whole race of 

 it-faced farmer.", and before you have been in it 

 X months, will be reduced to be the scarecrow 

 your own fields — andt:ven then, the very hedge- 

 rrows will cock up their tails at you, and chirp 

 itticisms upon you in their depredations. Well, 

 U your own doing — and remember the saying, 

 He that makes his choice without discretion, do.h 

 W his corn he knows not when, and reaps he 

 lows not what." Your reason is sophisticated, 

 id your heart is not in the matter, and never can 

 i The very style of your letter proves you are 

 iluding yourself. Yon used to be a plain-spoken 

 ■n, told a plain tale in plain words; now you 

 Hte, and to me your familiar, as if you were la- 

 iring at a prize essay, and run your periods into 

 ceronian English. .\nd because Virgil tossed 

 out the dung with dignity, you think it incum- 

 nt on you to walk out of your library with a 

 tchfork over your shoulder, upon your campaign 

 folly ! ' * .^nd there you are, I dare to say, 

 this moment, in your easy chair, dreaming on, 

 id glorifying yourself, leading a prize ox by the 

 Iter: dream on — it will soon turnout — "The 

 icar my defeat, and all the village see." 

 The fabulous part of ancient rusticity is pleasant 

 iongh, when there was a sort of golden age, and 

 I taxes, and shepherds had nothing to do but 

 pe, and nymphs to dance — but now we must " pay 

 e piper" — and who now-a-days ever sees Chaw. 

 iCon like Alphesibeus, dancing the "satyrs ?" 



The only tune the farmer delightoih to ilance to, is 

 " Money in both pockets" — I wish ho may got u ! 

 for "he dancrth well to whom I'ortuno pipeth." 

 The country pipes, now-n-days, are terribly lusti- 

 cated with tobacco, not the bacca hedcne, and ol- 

 ivo". And can my friend — my classical, my taste- 

 ful friend ^jog with bumpkins to fairs? Can he 



bear to fumigate away all his better ideas in the 

 Cacua dens of " entertainment for man and horse, 

 his damp clothes reeking of stall, stable, wool and 

 the weed." You have been reading about " the 

 Divine Swineherd," and want to "go the whole 

 hng." It won't do — it is altogether a n.istake — 

 you are not " natural born and bred to it." You 

 will be cheated by your servants, laughed at by 

 your neighbors, and, worst of all, detested by your- 

 self, before you have been initiated, if initialed you 

 ever are. Your sheep will die of the rot, and your 

 hny will be burned in the making — you li'ave no 

 Pan as the '' oi'iiim cuslo:" and so you will be out 

 of the frying-pan into the fire. Your cattle will 

 go astray, and your neighbors bring actions of 

 trespass against you. You will be so sick of and 

 mad with troubles, that, like poor old King Lear 

 in the storm, you'll bid them "Blow and crack 

 their cheeks." Yes — the " pitiless storm" — it will 

 como down, well directed upon your hay-field, 

 whilst your host of laborers, your Damons, your 

 Thestylus', and Phillis', are enjoying their idleness, 

 and drinking you up by the gallons. In vain you 

 will be classical, and cry out upon the ^^illa misto- 

 mm" — down pours the inexorable torrent, and the 

 living tottering cider-casks and beer-barrels drink 

 to you in their ''swilled insolence," and then fall 

 off and snore like pigs in your presence. You 

 must positively contrive to lose the delicacy of 

 every sense ; seeing, touching, smelling, tasting, 

 hearing. There has been a story going the rounds, 

 of a musical genius in the back settlements, for 

 lack of other instruments, arranging his pigs. What 

 think you of studying the gamut of grunts, in ex- 

 change for your "ancient C(mcerts ?" You that 

 ore wrapt in Elysium with Handel and Mozart, to 

 be put off with a chorus of butchers cheapening 

 your cattle ! You used to delight in the song of 

 birds, and would stay at the chirping of a hedge- 

 sparrow, and say it was the very note of exquisi- 

 tive happiness ; you fed them with crumbs ; but 

 now your innocent delight is gone ; they are no 

 longer your sweet choristers, but feathered depre- 

 dators ; you even teach poor children mercenary 

 cruelty, by instigating the churchwarden to put a 

 price upon their heads — a penny a dozen — nay, 

 those you used to feed so familiarly from your 

 window, you immolate into a sparrow pudding. — 

 Yon will no longer go out to admire nature with 

 your sketch-book and colors; your portfolio will 

 contain nothing but maps and terriers ; the earth 

 will be estimated by chain acres. In vain will the 

 sun's gleams glide before you, enticing you into 

 wood and glen ; you will bid them begone to ripen 

 your mangel wurtr.el. Do you remember showing 

 your Itolian landscape (a veritable old niaaler) to 



Farmer S , who asked you the value of it, and 



' when you told him, was astonished, and inquired 



'• If that iort of piiint waH paitieiilarly dear, for h»t 

 had painted all his front paling for fifty Hhillingii :" 

 You will soon be like him. Yon will, depend up- 

 on it : you will prefer coal-tar to ultramarine ; sub- 

 lime effects of cloud and vapor will no longer at- 

 tract your eyes upward ; your utilitarian ospccl 

 will be to the ground ; you will not enjoy tha 

 weather l'rovi<lence thinks fit to give yon, without 

 grumbling. In siin>ihiiie you will want ram, in 

 rain suiishino ; you will perpetually put on the 

 crying philosopher, alternating your Borrows be- 

 tween arable and pasture. 



Do you really think yon have the making of a 

 farmer in you ? — not a bit of it. I have heard yoa 

 declare that nature made men specially for their 

 occup.ition.i. Have you looked in a glass lately ? 

 Have you the broad hand and the largo foot, to 

 handle well the spade and press it into the soil, 

 which is the very stamp and mould of a natural- 

 born agriculturist; not forgetting, however, the 

 broad shoulders and sloiit calves, to help a cart 

 wheel out of a rut, and if need be, for breast-plow- 

 ing.- Then how different are the " /Vtig'f* con- 

 mmere nnti !" Small hands and feet, of little worth 

 for sturdy work — a goodly paunch, no very large 

 head, but an undue proportion of mouth. Then 

 comes the artisan, slender throughout, somewhat 

 pinched, nimble fingers and a busy eye. Whatev- 

 er of either of the two there may be in your com- 

 pound, there is not an atom of the agricultur.st — 

 • • An agriculturist's eyes have but one specu- 

 lation — arable and pasture ; all else is a desert 

 When you and I asked farmer John Turnsoil, who 

 hud gone to and returned from London, what he 

 thought of St. Paul's — what was hia reply r "I 

 do n't think much on 't ; 't seems there 's a good 

 deal of ground throw'd away." * ' With your 

 helpless incapacity, (excuse me for the plainness,) 

 how long will it take you, map in hand, to know 

 your own lands — and for the minutest trespass, you 

 will suffer by encroachments, or worse penalties. 

 You will cut your neighbor's hedges for your own, 

 by mistake, and not have the wood ; and your 

 neighbor will cut yours, and carry away all — and 

 no mistake. Then you must have farming ser- 

 vants — locusts — eating up the land, and iheir ig- 

 norant master too. Do you flatter yourself you 

 can manage thein ? Can you bluster and swear at 

 them ? You will not even know if they have done 

 what thoy ought to have done. Out of your genu- 

 ine kindness you will thank them, and the first 

 time you do so, you will be laying down a measure 

 for their idleness, to say no worse of it, for their 

 perquisites shall be measured by it, till they ex- 

 j cced all measure. Yuii must have a hind to man- 

 age for you, who will inevitably be your master — 

 I the worst of masters — a semi-slave master- — your 

 taskmaster, whom, like any other inadinan, you will 

 have to pay for being your keeper. He will whig, 

 tie and sing all about your hou«e, that used to be 

 80 quiet, and if you gently remonstrate with him, 

 . won't keep his mouth shut nor his tongue and 

 teeth idle, hut will sn'l'ily fling himself upon your 

 ' bench, and sit down to your beef and puddin^; with 

 a vindictive appetite. And all under him, and 



