162 THE HUNTING FIELD 



is the " love in a cottage " of industrious life. We who live in 

 smoky, foggy, pent-up London, to whom Primrose Hill or the 

 tree-clad heights of Hampstead are a luxury, sigh for the 

 enjoyment of our own cow, and a shady flower-strewed pasture 

 to feed her in. What pleasure to turn an old fat hen off her 

 nest and pick out our own warm egg — to shake the thick 

 reluctant cream from the spout of the well-filled jug. How 

 delightful to wander in the flower-garden, amid the hum of 

 our own bees, all at work for our own profit — to see our own 

 ducks scudding over our own pond, and instead of the carrier 

 pigeons of Islington and Holloway, to see the wheeling flocks 

 alight on our own white dovecote. Above all, picture the 

 enjoyment of the sunny hay field, with coatless men mingling 

 with the merry maids of the village green. 



Farmers are about the only people exempt from an}- settled 

 denunciation on account of their calling. We hear of savage 

 soldiers, rascally lawyers, humbugging parsons, greedy trades- 

 men, grasping doctors, exorbitant coachmakers, ruinous 

 milliners, but the worst accusation we ever hear brought 

 against a Farmer is that of doltishness or stupidit\-. That is 

 a last "refuge of the destitute" sort of charge, answering to 

 the " ugly old cat " of the ladies, or the school-boy's objection 

 to Dr. Fell :— 



" I do not like you, Dr. Fell, 

 The reason why I cannot tell ; 

 But this I know full well, 

 I do not like you, Dr. Fell." 



" You are a thick-headed farmer, and that's the long and short 

 of it," as a friend of ours would say, in closing what he would 

 call an "argument." 



To appreciate a farmer properly, it is necessary for a person 

 to be acquainted with countr}' as well as with town life. He 

 will then be able to draw a just estimate of the quiet, respec- 

 table loyalty that pervades the whole class, and contrast it 



