“Egad, sir, the county is going to the dogs! Our sentiments are not represented in parliament or out of it. The ‘County Mercury’ has ratted, and be hanged to it! and now we have not one newspaper in the whole shire to express the sentiments of the respectable part of the community!”

This speech was made on the occasion of one of the rare dinners given by Mr. and Mrs. Caxton to the grandees of the neighborhood, and uttered by no less a person than Squire Rollick, of Rollick Hall, chairman of the quarter-sessions.

I confess that I (for I was permitted on that first occasion not only to dine with the guests, but to outstay the ladies, in virtue of my growing years and my promise to abstain from the decanters),—I confess, I say, that I, poor innocent, was puzzled to conjecture what sudden interest in the county newspaper could cause Uncle Jack to prick up his ears like a warhorse at the sound of the drum and rush so incontinently across the interval between Squire Rollick and himself. But the mind of that deep and truly knowing man was not to be plumbed by a chit of my age. You could not fish for the shy salmon in that pool with a crooked pin and a bobbin, as you would for minnows; or, to indulge in a more worthy illustration, you could not say of him, as Saint Gregory saith of the streams of Jordan, “A lamb could wade easily through that ford.”

“Not a county newspaper to advocate the rights of—” here my uncle stopped, as if at a loss, and whispered in my ear; “What are his politics?” “Don’t know,” answered I. Uncle Jack intuitively took down from his memory the phrase most readily at hand, and added, with a nasal intonation, “the rights of our distressed fellow-creatures!”

My father scratched his eyebrow with his fore-finger, as he was apt to do when doubtful; the rest of the company—a silent set--looked up.

“Fellow-creatures!” said Mr. Rollick,—“fellow-fiddlesticks!”

Uncle Jack was clearly in the wrong box. He drew out of it cautiously,—“I mean,” said he, “our respectable fellow-creatures;” and then suddenly it occurred to him that a “County Mercury” would naturally represent the agricultural interest, and that if Mr. Rollick said that the “‘County Mercury’ ought to be hanged,” he was one of those politicians who had already begun to call the agricultural interest “a Vampire.” Flushed with that fancied discovery, Uncle Jack rushed on, intending to bear along with the stream, thus fortunately directed, all the “rubbish” (1) subsequently shot into Covent Garden and Hall of Commerce.

“Yes, respectable fellow-creatures, men of capital and enterprise! For what are these country squires compared to our wealthy merchants? What is this agricultural interest that professes to be the prop of the land?”

“Professes!” cried Squire Rollick,—“it is the prop of the land; and as for those manufacturing fellows who have bought up the ‘Mercury’—”

“Bought up the ‘Mercury,’ have they, the villains?” cried Uncle Jack, interrupting the Squire, and now bursting into full scent. “Depend upon it, sir, it is a part of a diabolical system of buying up,—which must be exposed manfully. Yes, as I was saying, what is that agricultural interest which they desire to ruin; which they declare to be so bloated; which they call ‘a Vampire!’—they the true blood-suckers, the venomous millocrats? Fellow-creatures, Sir! I may well call distressed fellow-creatures the members of that much-suffering class of which you yourself are an ornament. What can be more deserving of our best efforts for relief than a country gentleman like yourself, we’ll say,—of a nominal L5,000 a-year,—compelled to keep up an establishment, pay for his fox-hounds, support the whole population by contributions to the poor-rates, support the whole church by tithes; all justice, jails, and prosecutions of the county-rates; all thoroughfares by the highway-rates; ground down by mortgages, Jews, or jointures; having to provide for younger children; enormous expenses for cutting his woods, manuring his model farm, and fattening huge oxen till every pound of flesh costs him five pounds sterling in oil-cake; and then the lawsuits necessary to protect his rights,—plundered on all hands by poachers, sheep-stealers, dog-stealers, churchwardens, overseers, gardeners, gamekeepers, and that necessary rascal, his steward. If ever there was a distressed fellow-creature in the world, it is a country gentleman with a great estate.”

My father evidently thought this an exquisite piece of banter, for by the corner of his mouth I saw that he chuckled inly.

Squire Rollick, who had interrupted the speech by sundry approving exclamations, particularly at the mention of poor-rates, tithes, county-rates, mortgages, and poachers, here pushed the bottle to Uncle Jack, and said, civilly: “There’s a great deal of truth in what you say, Mr. Tibbets. The agricultural interest is going to ruin; and when it does, I would not give that for Old England!” and Mr. Rollick snapped his finger and thumb. “But what is to be done,—done for the county? There’s the rub.”

“I was just coming to that,” quoth Uncle Jack. “You say that you have not a county paper that upholds your cause and denounces your enemies.”

“Not since the Whigs bought the ‘—shire Mercury.’”

“Why, good heavens! Mr. Rollick, how can you suppose that you will have justice done you if at this time of day you neglect the Press? The Press, sir—there it is—air we breathe! What you want is a great national—no, not a national—A Provincial proprietary weekly journal, supported liberally and steadily by that mighty party whose very existence is at stake. Without such a paper you are gone, you are dead,—extinct, defunct, buried alive; with such a paper,—well conducted, well edited by a man of the world, of education, of practical experience in agriculture and human nature, mines, corn, manure, insurances, Acts of Parliament, cattle-shows, the state of parties, and the best interests of society,—with such a man and such a paper, you will carry all before you. But it must be done by subscription, by association, by co-operation,—by a Grand Provincial Benevolent Agricultural Anti-innovating Society.”

“Egad, sir, you are right!” said Mr. Rollick, slapping his thigh; “and I’ll ride over to our Lord-Lieutenant to-morrow. His eldest son ought to carry the county.”

“And he will, if you encourage the Press and set up a journal,” said Uncle Jack, rubbing his hands, and then gently stretching them out and drawing them gradually together, as if he were already enclosing in that airy circle the unsuspecting guineas of the unborn association.

All happiness dwells more in the hope than the possession; and at that moment I dare be sworn that Uncle Jack felt a livelier rapture circum proecordia, warming his entrails, and diffusing throughout his whole frame of five feet eight the prophetic glow of the Magna Diva Moneta, than if he had enjoyed for ten years the actual possession of King Croesus’s privy purse.

“I thought Uncle Jack was not a Tory,” said I to my father the next day.

My father, who cared nothing for politics, opened his eyes. “Are you a Tory or a Whig, papa?”

“Um!” said my father, “there’s a great deal to be said on both sides of the question. You see, my boy, that Mrs. Primmins has a great many moulds for our butter-pats: sometimes they come up with a crown on them, sometimes with the more popular impress of a cow. It is all very well for those who dish up the butter to print it according to their taste or in proof of their abilities; it is enough for us to butter our bread, say grace, and pay for the dairy. Do you understand?”

“Not a bit, sir.”

“Your namesake Pisistratus was wiser than you, then,” said my father. “And now let us feed the duck. Where’s your uncle?”

“He has borrowed Mr. Squills’s mare, sir, and gone with Squire Rollick to the great lord they were talking of.”

“Oho!” said my father; “brother Jack is going to print his butter!”

And indeed Uncle Jack played his cards so well on this occasion, and set before the Lord-Lieutenant, with whom he had a personal interview, so fine a prospectus and so nice a calculation that before my holidays were over, he was installed in a very handsome office in the county town, with private apartments over it, and a salary of L500 a-year, for advocating the cause of his distressed fellow-creatures, including noblemen, squires, yeomanry, farmers, and all yearly subscribers in the New Proprietary Agricultural Anti-Innovating—Shire Weekly Gazette. At the head of his newspaper Uncle Jack caused to be engraved a crown, supported by a flail and a crook, with the motto, “Pro rege et grege.” And that was the way in which Uncle Jack printed his pats of butter.

(1) “We talked sad rubbish when we first began,” says Mr. Cobden, in one of his speeches.