370 
AN OLD SAILOR TURNED FARMER, ETC. 
away to the rich prairies of the west, and leave 
those engaged in other occupations to eat their own 
productions. For my own part, as a showman, I 
should be sadly puzzled if I was forced to eat 
“stuffed monkeys,” “Fejee mermaids,” or “woolly 
horses,” and I have no doubt that many others 
would be bothered to digest their own productions. 
I will merely instance the blacksmith, the shoe¬ 
maker, the clergyman, the dentist, the saddler, the 
carpenter, and the stone mason. Surely the black¬ 
smith would be obliged to pick his teeth with one 
of his own nail rods, after having made a breakfast 
of horse shoes or ox chains; the shoemaker, after 
dining on sole leather and black wax, would hope 
it was his last and his all; the clergyman, who 
could digest nothing but his own sermons, would 
consider it a terrible sentence to be forced to “eat 
his words;” the carpenter would declare it was 
the hardest deal he ever saw, if he was obliged to 
swallow deal boards for his lunch; the dentist 
would starve to death “in spite of his teeth,” if he 
had nothing but teeth for his food; the saddler 
would rather be a horse, and wear the saddle on 
the outside, than to find a place for a stir-up in his 
interior; and the stone mason would soon be at 
work building his own sepulchre, if he saw that he 
must gnaw nothing but granite, till “dust returned 
to dust.” 
It seems quite necessary, therefore, that we 
should keep the farmers among us, and as this is 
only to be done by letting them have land worth 
tilling, it is highly important that they should 
know how to make such land. 
When I visited England, six years ago, the first 
thing that struck me was the beauty and fertility 
of the soil. Every farm appeared a garden. In 
fact, England is a garden. Every inch of land is 
cultivated. Even the sides of railroads, up to 
within a few feet of the iron track, are made to pro¬ 
duce wheat, barley, or potatoes. The beautiful 
lines of hedges, which so gladden the eye of an 
American, enclose no uncultivated lands. The 
very hill tops are made fertile to their summits; 
the swamps are drained, ditched and blind-ditched, 
and every foot of earth that the labor and in¬ 
genuity of man can render cultivatable, is made 
to send forth its green stalks and golden har¬ 
vests. 
It is important that the American, and especially 
the New-England farmer, should know how this is 
all done. I have dined and lived with English 
farmers ; I have associated with them ; I have fre¬ 
quently obtained their friendship, and sometimes 
their confidence ; and, by hook and by crook, I 
have wormed this important secret out of them. I 
have obtained their philosopher’s stone ; I have got 
the clue to the ever-living fertility of their soil; 
and now, Connecticut farmers, in the fulness of 
my heart, which happens at this time to be over¬ 
flowing with the “ milk of human kindness,” I will 
freely, without the hope of fee or reward, impart to 
you this grand secret. See that you improve by it. 
It all consists of one simple word, not to be re¬ 
peated less than three times, and as many more as 
you please, provided you act as often as you speak 
— manure! manure! MANURE!— Barnum’sAd¬ 
dress, 
MOUNTAIN MUTTON—VENISON. 
As we passed up the Erie Railroad, along the 
Delaware River, the middle of October, we noticed 
fields of oats that had been cut only a few days 
before, and we were told that they were still grow¬ 
ing green when cut. The corn, as it stood in 
shocks along the narrow strips of bottom land, 
widely contrasted with the specimen, eighteen feet 
high, from Illinois, which we saw at the Syracuse 
fair. 
The most universal crop, we noticed in this 
valley, was buckwheat. We hope the grain was 
abundant; for we are sure that the strength of the 
soil could not have been exhausted by the great 
growth of straw, for the very simple reason that it 
did not grow. 
Shut in, as many of these valleys are, by moun¬ 
tains, that hide the morning and evening sun, and 
from their elevation, which subjects ihem to early 
and late frosts, they are not desirable locations for 
husbandmen; but surely, if well stocked with sheep, 
they might supply the New-York market with an 
abundance of most delicious mountain mutton. 
And why not also with venison % A park of deer 
might be made to yield more profit than many an 
inland farm. This matter is worthy of reflection. 
Venison is now worth, in this city, 25 cents a 
pound. 
AN OLD SAILOR TURNED FARMER. 
As an evidence that those who are brought up 
from youth upon a farm, do not always make the 
best farmers, we will call attention to a place near 
Newburgh, owned and managed by a man who has 
spent the most of his life on the ocean. And 
yet we venture to say that there is not a better cul¬ 
tivated farm in Orange county. We had the plea¬ 
sure of a short visit to this farm, a few days ago, 
and a dinner of carp from his fish pond. It may 
be interesting to our readers to know that this 
stock of fish, together with gold fish, were imported 
from Europe by this proprietor, and are now rapidly 
multiplying in the Hudson. 
We saw the best piece of wheat upon this farm 
that we have seen this year; less injured by the 
drought than other pieces, and all because the land 
was plowed deep, (never less than nine inches,) 
and well manured. To grow wheat or corn he 
prefers a Timothy sod, turned flat, and never stirred 
afterward. He considers it equal to a good dressing 
of manure turned under; and contends that the 
whole secret of successful farming, consists in ma¬ 
nuring bountifully and in deep plowing. His rule 
of seeding wheat is two bushels to the acre—never 
less—and with the wheat half a bushel of Timothy 
seed. He says that Timothy, for grass or hay, is 
better than clover; that cows will leave clover to 
eat Timothy, and that they will make more and 
better butter upon it than clover, and he has con¬ 
siderable experience, keeping fifty of them. 
The dairy is in charge of a farmer who carries 
on the place upon shares, and gives the proprietor 
sixty-seven pounds of butter per annum, for each 
cow. The milk is kept in an underground room of 
the darm house, which is regulated, in cold weather, 
by a stove, at a temperature of 65° F. In sum¬ 
mer, it is kept as near that as possible, and the 
