With Mr. Budd, we rode to-day to see the _Farm of Tull_, at _Shalborne_, in Berkshire. Mr. Budd did the same thing with Arthur Young twenty-seven years ago. It was a sort of _pilgrimage_; but as the distance was ten miles, we thought it best to perform it on horseback.--We passed through the parish of _Highclere_, where they have _enclosed commons_, worth, as tillage land, not one single farthing an acre, and never will and never can be. As a common it afforded a little picking for geese and asses, and in the moory parts of it, a little fuel for the labourers. But now it really can afford nothing. It will all fall to common again by degrees. This madness, this blind eagerness to gain, is now, I hope, pretty nearly over.--At _East Woody_ we passed the house of a Mr. Goddard, which is uninhabited, he residing at Bath.--At _West Woody_ (Berks) is the estate of Mr. Sloper, a very pretty place. A beautiful sporting country. Large fields, small woods, dry soil. What has taken place here is an instance of the workings of the system. Here is a large gentleman's house. But the proprietor _lets it_ (it is, just now, empty), and resides in a _farmhouse_ and farms his own estate. Happy is the landlord who has the good sense to do this in time. This is a fine farm, and here appears to be very judicious farming. Large tracts of turnips; clean land; stubbles ploughed up early; ploughing with oxen; and a very large and singularly fine flock of sheep. Everything that you see, land, stock, implements, fences, buildings; all do credit to the owner; bespeak his sound judgment, his industry and care. All that is wanted here is the _radical husbandry_; because that would enable the owner to keep three times the quantity of stock. However, since I left home, I have seen but very few farms that I should prefer to that of Mr. Sloper, whom I have not the pleasure to know, and whom, indeed, I never heard of till I saw his farm. At a village (certainly named by some _author_) called _Inkpen_, we passed a neat little house and paddock, the residence of a Mr. Butler, a nephew of Dr. Butler, who died Bishop of Oxford, and whom I can remember hearing preach at Farnham in Surrey when I was a very very little boy. I have his features and his wig as clearly in my recollection as if I had seen them but yesterday; and I dare say I have not thought of Doctor Butler for forty years before to-day. The "loyal" (oh, the pious gang!) will say that my memory is good as to the face and wig, but bad as to the Doctor's _Sermons_. Why, I must confess that I have no recollection of them; but, then, do I not _make Sermons myself_?----At about two miles from Inkpen we came to the end of our pilgrimage. The farm, which was Mr. _Tull's_; where he used the first drill that ever was used; where he practised his husbandry; where he wrote that book, which does so much honour to his memory, and to which the cultivators of England owe so much; this farm is on an open