Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “Farmers are a long way behind the intelligence o’ the day — a monstrous long way. They seem: to me to travel by the ‘eavy Falmouth, instead o’ the dartin’ rally. By-and-by, when Mr. ‘Enson accomplishes flyin’, p’raps they’ll take to steam. You all go too much in the old track; wot your fathers did, you do; confound your stupidity. I want to put some new skylights into your ‘eads. There was a great man, his name was Bacon — he wore a conical pointed hat, with a frill round his neck, and wrote a book which they call Bacon’s Essays, and among other sensible things he put in it was one about peoplin’ a country; says he, ‘In a new country, first look about what kind o’ wittle the country yields of itself to ‘and, as chestnuts, walnuts, pine-apples, and make use on ’em.’ That, gen’lmen, is wot I adwises you to do. If your land won’t grow barley, try summut else, pine-apples for instance. Nothin’ pays better nor pine-apples, nor can anything be finer eatin’.’ Byron, I think, said that ‘critics’ alone are ready made;’ but there he was wrong, for farmers are also ‘eaven-born,’ thick ‘ead and thick shoes seems all that’ is wanted to make one. There was a gen’lman called Smith, in all ‘uinane probability he was the father of that now werry numerous family, for his Christian name was Hadam. Hadam Smith, I say, wrote a book, and among other intelligent things he put in it was the following, which I cut out for the purpose of stickin’ into my speech.

  “‘ No ‘prenticeship has ever been thought necessary to qualify for ‘usbandry, the great trade o’ the country; but after what are called the fine arts, and the liberal professions, there is no trade which requires so great a wariety of knowledge and experience.’

  “Werry true,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, swigging off his punch. “Farmin’, my frinds, is in its infancy, nay, hardly that. You’ve all seen a butterfly afore it is hatch’d, when in its chrysillis state, dead and inanimate. You are jest like them, and I’m a-goin’ to break the shell o’ your ignorance, and start you into life! set you on your legs! make men instead o’ mice o’ you! so give me some more punch.

  “No one knows what human skill may accomplish,” continued he, as soon as his glass was returned. “I’ve lived a liberal allowance: not that I’m old, far from it; but I’ve seen summut o’ life, and not gone through the world with my eyes shut; indeed a man can’t travel that way in the City, and I minds the time when steam and gas were thought all my eye and Miss Elizabeth Martin, and coachin’ was looked upon as the perfection o’ travellin’. A hunt in Surrey was all a Cockney could aspire; now Mr. Lockhart, that great man wot does the Quarterly Review, says that they can take the cream o’ Leicestershire for their day. ‘Stonishin’ work! But that’s beside the question; another pair o’ shoes, as we say in France. Farmin’ is the subject o’ this discourse. There’s no sayin’ what skilful farmin’ may do — science, machinery, and the use o’ manures. Folks talk o’ Peel, but I thinks nothin’ o’ Peel; Graham neither. Smith o’ Deanston’s the man! the greatest benefactor the world ever saw — monstrous benefactor! Who ever ‘eard o’ drainin’ afore Smith o’ Deanston inwented it?” Something like murmurs of dissent follow this inquiry.

  “It is a mistake to suppose that any fool will make a farmer. A farmer should be a philosopher, an astrologer, a chemist, an engineer, a harchitect, a doctor, I don’t know what else.

  “This werry mornin’ I made a remark that may be the foundation of a most important diskivery. As I was a shavin’, I looked out o’ the window, and there I saw Mrs. J.’s ‘ens a scratchin’ and scatterin’ the new-mown grass with all the regularity of ‘ay-makers. Who knows but by the application of — of — of — application of somethin’, those useful birds may be made still more serviceable by conwertin’ them into ‘ay-makers. Turnin’ a whole drove into a field, and making them do on a great scale wot I saw them this morning doin’ on a small one. Why shouldn’t the cold-water cure be successful in stables, and the homoeopath be tried among cows?

  “But them are twopenny affairs compared with the great golden sovereign pound-cake of steam and engineerin’ skill. I’ve got an inwention in my ‘ead — in course I tells you this in strict confidence, lest some unprincipled waggabone should filch me of it. But I’ve got an inwention in my ‘ead — at all ewents, the notion of an inwention, that I wentures to say will work wonders in the terrestrial globe — flabbergaster the world! It’s a steam happaratus or hengine that will do at one ‘ go’ wot now takes I doesn’t know how many ‘ands, and how many ‘osses, or how many hours to accomplish. It is, I say, an inwention so complicated in its detail, and yet so simple in its performance, that unless I am half asleep on my pillow o’ repose, I am sometimes bother’d myself to compass its extraordinary capabilities.

  “Then as I lay all at ease, ‘alf sleeping or ‘alf seas over, I sees its every part working away with all the ease imaginable, jest like a thing I’ve been used to all my life.

  “O Mrs. Ceres and Mr. Morpheus,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, casting his eyes with supplicating air up at the ceiling, “look benignantly down and grant your worshipful admirer power to describe to these enduring boobies all wot I have seen in balmy somnifulo, somnifulorum. And you, Mr. Bacchus, or, at all ewents, Mr. Brandy and Waterus, give us a left in this most me-men-torn crisis, to explain this most laudable but werry complicated affair! I’ve caught the idea,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, “and thinks I can go on. In my mind’s eye, I see a ten-hacre wheat-field, yellow as gold, and level as a die, and my monster reaper a-snortin’ at the gate. The gate hopens, the steam’s hup, and in he comes. Forrod he moves straight up the rig, and, as he goes, the yellow grain is cut by the ground — not a hinch o’ stubble left — and falls upon plates like the receiving plates of a paper mill — then it turns suddenly round and ascends the second floor, where the heat o’ the biler seasons the grain, and a wop of a flail sends it bang out of the hear. Again, it takes another turn, and behold it’s landed on the third floor, all dry and mellow for Teddy the grinder — round go the stones, crush goes the grain, and in the twinklin’ of an eye, the waving wheat is turned into flour, jest as one sees an old coat in a paper mill go in at one end and come out a sheet o’ paper at t’other. Wondrous miracle! but still more wondrous yet is Mr. Jorrocks’s miracle, for the same monster engine wot does all this upstairs, ploughs the land by machinery down in the area, so that reapin’ and sowin’ go ‘and in ‘and, like the Siamese twins, or a lady and gen’lman advancin’ in a quadrille, or the poker.

  “Oh, but science is the ticket; neat genuine unadulterated science. Everything now should be done by science. The world’s on the wing, and why shouldn’t farmers take flight? Look at Mr.’Enson. There’s a man o’ pith for you. If I had ‘ounds, I’d take a great hair ship, and fly to’Merica, to Jones of Faire Knowe, and give him a good quiltin’ for his imperance to me in Jonathan’s Magazine; then I’d ‘unt the ‘red and grey,’ and fly back to my farm surrounded with brushes, all in three days—’ three glorious days,’ as Monsieur Frog-eater Frenchman would say. Flyin’ and farmin’ may seem ill assorted, and certainlie you don’t look like likely birds; but there’s a deal in ‘Enson that may be useful to agriculture. Had he got his machine under way, we should have heard nothin’ o’ Rebecca and her darters, for farmers would have put their corn, and their pigs, and their poultry, and their charmin’ wives and accomplished darters into their flyin’ machines, and bilked all the pikes in the land (loud cheers). Ah, my frinds and fellow-farmers, I see you’re awakin’ from your long trance of indolence to the day-dawn of intellect and sunshiny times. Look again, I say, at science and Mr.’Enson! Suppose you alighted at your accustom’d country town, and found the market glutted, and prices failin’, wot would you have to do, but bundle up your traps, take wing again, and cut to other places? (Renewed cheers.)

  “No pikes, no tickets, no tolls, no market dues, no mayors, no corporations, no inns, no ostlers, no ‘orrid exactions. —

  ‘Corn, by the hair, at sight o”uman ties

  Cuts its light stick, and in Mr.’Enson
flies.’

  (Repeated cheers.)

  “There, gen’lmen — frinds and fellow-farmers, I should say,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, as the applause subsided, “I’ve got your steam up, by the hargumentum ad pockctum. Let us now take a good swig o’ punch.”

  The punch having been liberally dealt out, and the bottles having made their movements, our worthy Squire resumed his legs, and again proceeded to address the company. “Having now, my beloved ‘earers,” said he, “given you an insight into the deplorable state of puppy-like blindness in which you’ve been livin’, I now come to the means of improvin’ the light wot has bust upon you, and overtakin’ science afore it runs clean away from farmin’ altogether. You have all doubtless heard of Agricultural ‘Sociations, and ‘Sociations for the encouragement of Long’Orns and Short’Orns, and all that sort o’ thing; and though it would ill become us to follow in the beaten track of seven pund for the best tup, three pund for the biggest pig, or five pund for the man wot has the biggest family of little ‘uns; still we may learn something from the ‘sociations in existence, and take their plans for our outline. Poor example, as we say in France, I would elect a President, a Wice-President, a Sec, and a Committee of white wands; and I would also have shows, and give premiums for best balls, best boars, best black-faced gimmers, with in course dinners for gen’lmen to butter each other at: but I’d extend the scheme, and have punishments as well as prizes.

  “I knows in these ‘umanity, ante-’angin’ times, punishment is quite out o’ fashion, and everything must be done by the noble spirit o’ emulation, jest as if you could make a string o’ donkeys race like Newmarket ‘osses. I heard tell of one o’ them peripetetic ‘umbugs, wot all administrations pawn on the public, called a commissioner, or Paul Pryer, who was a-goin’ about, inquirin’ into the management of those modern palaces called gaols, and he stopped at ours to pour his quart of ignorance on the gaoler; well, he went his rounds — into this cell, out o’ that cell, up to this apartment, down to that apartment, and wonderful to relate, he hadn’t a hole to pick. ‘Werry well manish’d,’ said he, takin’ a consequential pinch o’ snuff, ‘ werry well manish’d indeed — does your beaks great credit — werry quiet — werry orderly — the ladies and gen’lmen whom you ‘ave in charge seem werry ‘ealthy — werry jappy — werry com fey — pray wot’s your system?’— ‘Oh, the system’s simple enough,’ replied the gaoler, ‘when they don’t be’ave we trounce ’em well.”All wrong!’ exclaimed the commissioner, throwin’ up his hands in ‘orror, ‘all wrong together! reward should be the incentive o’ wirtue, and not the fear of punishment.’

  ‘ “‘ That may do werry well in ladies’ seminaries,’ replied the gaoler, ‘ but it von’t act here.’

  “So much for ‘umanity and ‘umbug. I really believes much o’ this nonsense has been engender’d by the poppilar melody,

  ‘If I had a donkey vot vouldn’t go,

  Do you think I’d wollop him? oh, no, no!’

  and the hauthor has much to answer for.

  “It’s all my eye apply in’ the same rule to everything — some may be led, but others must be driven. My frind Willey Goodheart, there, for instance, wants no tellin’, he sees all wot’s wanted, and does it of himself; but old Tommy Sloggers waits and waits to see if the thing won’t do itself, and at length, findin’ it doesn’t, he either leaves it alone altogether, or does it at the wrong time. Wot-ever may be the season, whatever crops may fail, Tommy Sloggers is sure of one thing, a good crop o’ weeds. I found a thistle at his back door t’other day, carryin’ its wood from the ground like a hoak, and branchin’ out like the genealogical tree of a ducal family. It was a superb specimen o’ the genus — it must have grown and flourished for weeks; for it had flowers, and it had seeds, and as many ‘eads as a hydra — it was well calculated to stock ten hacres o’ land, and yet Tommy Sloggers had passed that werry thistle mornin’, noon, and night, and had never taken the trouble to give it a back ‘ander with his stick. Few men, perhaps, have magnanimity enough to knock thistles off their neighbour’s ‘edges, but surely one would think they would do so off their own. Not so my frind Sloggers; he would see them spring, and flower, and seed, and droop, afore he’d be at the trouble of raisin’ his ‘and. Wot can one do with sich slugs? Will the brightest medal o’ the purest gold, with the most flowering superscription wot-ever was wrote, put life and activity into sich lubbers? Assuredly not. Then, I say, let ns try wot the rewerse will do. Let us add to our premiums and prizes a distinguishin’ emblem for the greatest lout in the country. In addition to five or ten sovs for the best-managed farm, let us give somethin’ to the worst. Let us strike a medal with the evil gen’lman on one side, and a big thistle on t’other, to be worn round the neck of the fortinate obtainer for one whole year, so that, wherever he goes, to church, or to market, or to the public, where he is most likely to be found, people may pint and say, ‘There goes the most slovenly farmer in the county;’ and let us show to England — to Europe — show to Europe, Hasia, Hafrica, and ‘Merica, that while we foster talent, encourage hemulation and industry, we put our big toe of detestation and obbrobrium on slovenliness, hignorance, and sloth.”

  Mr. Jorrocks sat down amidst loud and long-continued cheering.

  When the applause had subsided, and our friend had quaffed off a large glass of punch that had been cooling before him, he again rose and said—” Gen’lmen, I sat down because I wished to finish my speech with a splash, and hear what quantity of applause my eloquence would obtain. I have now ascertained that; and I’m bund to say, you have done the genteel by me. I am quite content; and I now come to wot I should have finished the speech with if I hadn’t been desirous of keepin’ the two accounts separate. We are honoured this day, as you doubtless all know, with the presence of the distinguished scion of the most noble ‘ouse in this county — a nobleman young in ‘ears, but old in ‘usbandry — one who, while cultivatin’ the classics, has also had an eye to the clay — one who looks proudly forward to protectin’ your interests in that august assembly called the’Ouse o’ Commons (cheers) — one who, moreover, takes sich delight and interest in our doin’s as to have signified his intention of becomin’ the President of our ‘Sociation (loud cheers). Need I after sich an announcement entertain a doubt as to its success? Oh, surely not! The sun of science has bust upon us from the portals of Donkeyton Castle, and though no President likes to hear another more loudly cheered than himself, I do assure you from the bottom of my breeches pocket, that I shall not take it the least amiss if you wisit the name o’ the Markis o’ Bray with the heaviest round o’ Kentish fire wotever was issued.

  Gen’lmen, I beg to propose, with all imaginable ‘onours, the health o’ the Marquis o’ Bray, the noble President of our’Sociation.”

  The toast was drunk with tremendous applause, Mr. Jorrocks acting as fugleman— “but as we mustn’t over-egg the pudding,” as the Yorkshire farmers say, we will reserve the other proceedings of the evening for another chapter.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  “WE SEE NO difficulty in organising a College of Agriculture, and we can suggest a few of the probable professorships. Of course there will be a chair of new-laid eggs, which the professor of poultry would be well qualified to occupy. Degrees will be conferred in guano; and a series of lectures on the philosophy of making hay when the sun shines would, no doubt, be exceedingly popular. We should propose that, previous to matriculation, every student should be required to undergo an examination on moral philosophy in connection with chaff, and the efficacy of thrashing by hand when the ears are unusually lengthy. Corresponding with the university Masters of Arts, there could be Bachelors of Barley; and the undergraduates might be brought direct to the Agricultural College from plough, as they are now brought to the universities immediately from Harrow.” — Punch.

  THE last chapter left Mr. Jorrocks and friends at the critical point of drinking and applauding the Marquis’s health. When the cheering had subsided, our butterfly frie
nd rose, and with one hand resting on the table, and the other stuck in his side, thus proceeded to address the meeting: —

  “Mr. Jorrocks and Gentlemen, — I do not know that I can adequately express the very great pleasure and satisfaction I experience at the flattering manner in which my health has been proposed by my valuable friend,” turning to Mr. Jorrocks with, “if he will allow me to call him so.”

  “Certainly” replied our worthy host, “certainly” adding aloud to himself, “wonders who wouldn’t.”

  “And,” continued the Marquis, “received by this great and enlightened assembly (loud cheers) — an assembly composed of a class of men second to none in loyalty, attachment to the constitution and the crown, and renowned for their intelligence, independence, and spirit.”

  Renewed cheers, increased perhaps from the sentence being so unlike the style in which Mr. Jorrocks had addressed them, and the description he had given of them.

  “Gentlemen, in all times, in all ages, the science of agriculture has been fostered and encouraged by the greatest of men — by all whom the page of history records as famous in the annals of countries (cheers). The greatest statesmen — the greatest scholars — the greatest generals — have each found, in turning from their schemes of government, their studies or the toils of warfare, solace and enjoyment in the harmless simplicity and the interesting relaxation it affords. Every man whose opinion is valuable — every man whose breast glows with a genuine feeling of patriotism — joins in testifying the importance of agriculture. Columella, the author so happily referred to by our classical and distinguished host, wrote ably and ardently on this interesting point. He insisted on the importance of agricultural training and scientific improvement. ‘ I see at Home,’ says he, ‘ schools of philosophy, rhetoric, geometry, music, and, what is more astonishing, of people not solely employed in the arts of luxury — some in preparing dishes, intended to sharpen the appetite and excite gluttony, and others in making artificial curls for adorning the head; but not one for agriculture. The rest,’ he adds, ‘might well be spared; and the republic have flourished long without any of these frivolous arts; but it is impossible to dispense with that of husbandry, because upon that life itself depends (applause). Besides,’ asks this enlightened man, ‘ is there a more honest or legal method of increasing a patrimony than by good cultivation of it? Is the profession of arms of this kind? Is the acquisition of spoils, dyed with human blood, and amassed by the ruin of our fellow-creatures? Or can commerce be compared with it, which, tearing citizens from their native country, exposes them to the fury of the winds and seas, dragging them into unknown worlds in pursuit of wealth? Is the trade of usury more laudable — odious and fatal as it is, even to those whom it seems to relieve? Are any of these occupations to be compared with wise and innocent agriculture, which the depravity of our notions alone can render contemptible, and, consequently, unprofitable and useless?’ We read,” continued his lordship, “that Numa Pompilius, one of the wisest of kings, divided the whole Roman territory into cantons, and had an exact return made of the manner in which each department was cultivated, and the names of the most scientific farmers of that day. Ancus Martius, the fourth king of the Romans, trod in the steps of Numa; and Hiero the Second wrote a work on agriculture, as did Attilus, king of Pergamus; whilst Mago, the Carthaginian general, wrote no less than twenty-eight volumes upon farming, which were preserved by Scipio at the taking of Carthage, and presented as a treasure to the Roman Senate. Attilus was found sowing corn when ambassadors from Rome came to invite him to the consulship; and the story of Cincinnatus being taken from the plough to the dictatorship is doubtless familiar to you all.” — Cheers followed this piece of confidence in their knowledge.