The great question of what will become of the British Farmer has been in part answered by Mr. Hiceter, who has become—insolvent. It appears that gentleman has for some time expected the Ploughshare of Distress to cut up his hearth, and the Harrow of affliction to dig its teeth and nails into the bosom of his family. This he has long anticipated, on account of his not having paid any rent for the last two years—indeed from the fact of farming seldom _paying_, Mr. Hiceter had long since learned to look upon the agricultural business as an extensive _field for hoeing_ (owing). Mr. Hiceter complains that he has suffered much from his kidneys, which have been diseased for these last two years. His barley, he says, has run to nothing but beard. His ears, however, have been remarkably long; still, his corn has been so bad of late, that it has been as much as he could do to hobble on for this long time. Two large fields of Mangel Wurzel have been swallowed up by a _Native de Paris_, whom he engaged to perfect his daughters in the French tongue; and the whole of his six acres of canary seed have gone to teach the girls singing. The sympathy of the country for miles round has been raised on behalf of the Misses Hiceter. Their accomplishments are such that if they were not born, at least they have been bred ladies of quality. In the midst of their sorrows they find great comfort in the use of the globes. They do not complain, but pass their time singing Italian duets, and they have already worked several superb ottomans. Their extreme repugnance to the disgustingly early hours, and vulgar laborious offices of a farm life, completely reconciles them to their present condition of having nothing to do. They also feel great consolation in knowing that in future they will be able to appear every evening in "low-necked dresses," without being pointed at by the ploughboys, and to dine at the much more civilized hour of seven, without being called proud by the Goodies. In their prosperity it was ever the object of the Misses Hiceter to ennoble and refine the low manners and customs of the British Farmer. It was through their exertions that their brother, Mr. Albert Hiceter, was induced to wear a diamond ring and yellow kid gloves whilst guiding the plough. Whistling at the plough was also strictly forbidden by them among the farm servants, and white berlin gloves and meerschaum pipes rigorously insisted upon. It is very gratifying to learn that these two young ladies have made up their minds to marry only persons of independent fortune and title, and to leave their papa as soon as they conveniently can, unless he consents to forego his filthy clay pipe before company. We subjoin a few of the lots and purchasers at the late sale:—