"But," continued Lord Lamerton, re-adjusting his balance, by putting one foot between the rails of the chair, and the other on the hat of a gentleman, that was on the floor near him, and removing his hand from his trouser to his waistcoat pocket, "but, ladies and gentlemen, I will pass from personal matters to the subject in hand." (Then, to himself, "Confound the rector, I can see by the twinkle of his eye that he knows what is coming.") "But, ladies and gentlemen, we are here assembled on an august and interesting occasion, perhaps one of the most august and interesting that could have arisen—I mean, I mean, a ploughing-match. And this recalls me to the fact that one of our earliest English poets, William Langland, who lived in the reign of Richard II., wrote an entire poem on—what do you suppose? Ploughing. He entitled his poem, 'The Vision of Piers the Ploughman.' And what would you think, gentlemen and ladies, was the drift of this remarkable composition? We know that long before, centuries earlier, Virgil wrote his 'Georgics,' in praise of agriculture, but here, our English poet confined himself to one branch of agriculture, and that, ploughing. And the author represents all men—mark me—all men, as ploughmen, all, from the king on his throne and the parson in the pulpit, to the least among us all, as ploughmen set to make our furrows in the great field of the world. And, ladies and gentlemen, each has his own proper furrow to run, and he may make it well, or make it badly, plough deep, or merely skirt the soil, plough straight, or run a feeble, fluttering, irregular line, or he may even fold his hands, and take a snooze in the hedge, and make no attempt to plough."
A pause: the gentleman whose hat had been converted into a footstool recovered the crushed article from under the foot of the speaker, and cast at him a melancholy, reproachful glance.
"I beg your pardon, 'pon my soul, I did not mean it. I
