Numbers of soft-hearted irrepressible rustic swains hovered round the central figure of Stoke Ferry.
As time went on, John Ashbrook became more deeply enamoured of the pretty Miss Jamblin.
It was generally understood that he was the favoured suitor, for Patty, albeit a little wilful and capricious, had eyes and ears for him more than all the rest.
Old Jamblin was a farmer of the old school. He was, like most of that class, a little prejudiced; it may be said, very prejudiced, as far as his political opinions were concerned. Free trade and the abolition of the corn laws he had opposed to the utmost of his power, and a Radical he hated worse than a tax-collector.
Do not blame him for these opinions. Do not laugh at farmers, for they are men who have worked hard, and who have been ill-treated.
This nation once made it legal to have a free trade in corn, and corn alone. They had the bread cheap at the expense of the farmers.
“And not contented with cheating them,” observed Jamblin, “they jeered at them too.”
“Ah,” say the free traders, “Bobby Peel was going to kill three farmers a week, but there is one or two of them left alive yet.”
Yes, for when that law was passed the English yeomen, whom fools call idle grumblers struck their broad breasts with their hands, and resolved to struggle hard against their foreign foes.
It was a hard battle for them, this fight with farmers whose land cost them little, and who had few taxes to pay.