London to John O'Groafs. 239 



throw of the farmer's house. I doubt if any county 

 in New England produces so many in a year as the 

 holding of Mr. Samuel Jonas already described. Rab- 

 bits have been put out of the pale of protection some- 

 what recently, I believe, and branded with the bad 

 name of vermin; so that the tenant farmer may kill 

 them on his occupation without leave or license from 

 the landlord. It may indicate their number to state 

 the fact, that one hundred and twenty-five head of 

 them were killed in one day's shooting on Mr. Jonas's 

 estate by his sons and some of their friends. 



It was market day in Oundle, and I had the plea- 

 sure of sitting down to dinner with a large company of 

 farmers, and cattle and corndealers. They were intel- 

 ligent, substantial-looking men, with no occupational 

 peculiarity of dress or language to distinguish them 

 from ordinary middle-class gentlemen engaged in trade 

 or manufacture. Indeed, the old-fashioned English 

 farmer, of the great, round, purply-red face, aldermanio 

 stature, and costume of fifty years ago, speaking, the 

 dialect of his county with such inimitable accent, is 

 fast going out. I have not seen one during my pre- 

 sent sojourn in England. I fear he has disappeared 

 altogether with the old stage-coach, and that we have 

 not pictures enough of him left to give the rising 

 generation any correct notion of what he was, and how 



