AMONG THE HOPPERS.
My old friend, John Sandwell, asks me to stop a few days with him in the Weald of Kent. This may mean anything, as far as I am concerned, from Gravesend—I think that’s in Kent—to Margate,
which I know is in that county. But he says he will meet me at Sandstone, and drive me over to his place. That sounds well. I accept the invitation. He writes to me again, appointing the train,
and mentioning the fact that “ hop-picking is in full swing, and everyone proud of England and of its fairest county should witness such a scene of industry.” Fine, hearty fellow, SANDWELL ! He has only been in Kent six months, and is as warmly attached to its staple industry as if he had lived there all his life. He would he the
same in any county. Were he in Surrey, he would---- But how
ignorant one is of one’s own county ! What is the staple industry of Surrey ? As far as my recollections of the only two places that I positively know are in Surrey—Guildford and Godaiming—serve me, the inhabitants do nothing but drink brown brandy and backoutsiders for races which never, by any possibility, are nearer the winner than seventh. But it is ridiculous to suppose that a whole
county depends for its prosperity upon those two ways of passing the time.
Sandstone. Sandwell meets me. Out of my train gets Pottee, a barrister. Both talk to me at once. I answer one’s questions to the other, and finally have to introduce them, though I know they will not agree.
“You are just in time,” says Sandwell. “The picturesque hop-pickers give quite a new charm to the scenery.”
“ Picturesque be blowed ! ” says Pottee, brusquely. “ Have these carriages been disinfected, Guard ? ”
The Guard assures him that they have. But Pottee is evidently not satisfied. He tells me that the amount of fever and small-pox which, what he oalls “those confounded hoppers” bring down, is something inconceivable. Then he shakes himself aggressively, as if he were warding off a sudden attack of typhoid, lteally, his conversation is unpleasant, and I myself feel a sort of headache, and a heavy feeling coming over me.
“How are your apples looking?” Pottee asks Sandwell ; and on the latter replying, with enthusiasm, that they are looking splendid, shakes his head, and says, “Ah! they’ll all be gone in a couple of days ! ”
It is now Sandwell’s turn to look uncomfortable. I wish I hadn’t seen Pottee. I endeavour to soothe him by saying, “ Of course you ought to know, old fellow, because you are a regular Kentish Man.”
It appears that this is the one thing he isn’t. After he has gone off in a huff, Sandwell tells me that I have grossly insulted him by calling him a Kentish Man, when he is really a Man of Kent.
“ What’s the difference ? ” I ask.
“ Well, one lot lives either north or south of the Medway, hut which it is I forget.”
Silly custom! Am I to walk about with a map and a compass before I can address anyone in this county ?
Driving from Sandstone, wo encounter several tramps of the lowest class.
“ Bad road this for tramps ? ” I say.
“ Not at all,” replies Sandwell. “ They all go the other way.” “ Who are these ?” I ask.
“ Oh, those! Oh, they are nothing! ”
“ But they must be something; and see here is a large waggon full of them. What are they ? ”
“ Well, if you must know, they are hoppers.”
It dawns upon me now that Sandwell’s knowledge of hop-picking is derived from graphic articles, appearing in journals not altogether unfavourable to the brewing interests.
After dinner we stroll out on the terrace. In a meadow, which a deep lane separates from Sandwell’s grounds, are encamped a number of hop-pickers. Under the lees of rude tents constructed of hurdles and old mats, the hop-pickers have lighted fires, and in the dusk of the evening, these fires, with the figures flitting before them, and orouching around, really look picturesque.
“ Quite like a scene in an opera,” says a Lady. “ One expects to hear ”-----
“ If you don’t come ’ere blank slippy, I’ll—blank—blank,” &c. We all go in, the Ladies with considerable celerity.
A bright fine morning. How still and peaceful it is here after town—town even in September, and how very quiet after a French watering-place ! I throw open the casement and look out over the garden and over the meadows, where the brood mares are making a heavy breakfast. “Ili, hi! just you let me catch you!” This peculiarly common and peculiarly idiotic form of address, proceeds from Sandwell’s coachman and head gardener, to a party of five sturdy young ruffians, on whom Seven Dials is indelibly branded.
Now 1 Just let me catch you,” is a form of invitation at which the sendee immediately takes to his heels and runs for his life; so I see a fine race, which results in the escape of the five. Coachman and
gardener come back swearing—“What’s the matter? Why those young scoundrels seem to think our meadows are of no use save to grow mushrooms for them.”
I can eat a breakfast in the country—not a large one, hut still a good one ; and I call a good one a couple of eggs.
“I know you Londoners,” says Sandwell, “ always enjoy newlaid eggs. How long will you have them boiled ? ” But before I have time to answer, the Butler intervenes, saying there are no eggs. “ No eggs! Why, where on earth are the eggs P”
“ I cannot say, Sir,” replies the Butler, “ where the eggs are ; but the hoppers have been very busy with them, and they have also taken a dozen or so of those new Golden Hamburghs.”
It appears there are modifications to the picturesqueness of hoppers.
Round the garden. I look at spinach, wdiich I take to be celery, and peas, which I fancy scarlet-runners, and say ‘1 Capital! Capital! ’ ’ the whole time.
“ I want to show you,” says Sandw Ell, “ some peaches on the wall here. My own opinion is that sun-ripened peaches are much better flavoured than hot-house ones. You shall taste these to-day, and say if they don’t beat those you had last night.” We w-alk round to the wall. “ There’s the tree,” he says. There is the tree,
no doubt. I can see that. But “where,” I ask, “are the peaches ? ”
“ The tree is covered with them,” says my host. And then he puts on his glasses, and gives a howl which might be heard over at Sandstone. “Where are those peaches?” he asks a gardener who has run up at the cry.
“ Them blamed hoppers must have taken the lot last night, Sir.” After this we retreat into the house, to write some letters. Sand
well has not got beyond the date of his first epistle when the Butler informs him that a policeman wishes to see him. With a reproach
ful look at me. as much as to say, “ What have you been doing already ? ” he departs to see the policeman. When he comes back he is a bit soured. On my asking him what was the matter, he says that a policeman had caught four boys in the apple orchard. “I told him to give them a thrashing, and let them go.” By the howls which we subsequently hear, we judge that that policeman is doing his duty. Sandwell starts again on his letter.
“ Should I say ‘ Sir ’ or ‘ Dear Sir ’ to this man ? ” he asks mo ; and we are discussing the merits of both forms of address wdien the Butler re-enters, and announces that a constable would like to see his master. “ You this time! ” his looks mean as he leaves the room.
“ More boys in the apple orchard ? ” I ideasantly ask him when he re-appears.
“ No,” he grunts ; “ boys in the garden stealing vegetables.”
We resume our writing. “ I have said this,” he commences after a pause :—“ ‘ Sir,—On the receipt of your letter——’ ”
“If you please, Sir”—here’s the Butler again—“the Superintendent of Police would like to see you.” Out he goes.
“ Boys in the orchard and the garden ? ” I ask.
“ Neither,” he growls. “ The Superintendent advised me to look carefully after the fastenings at night, as there is a gang of London burglars among the hoppers in this neighbourhood.” Pleasant, this; if there is one thing I am more frightened of than another, it is a burglary in the country. “And,” continues Sandwell, “he says we had better mind what we are doing when we are strolling about; there was a murder committed in that field over to the left last night.”
Vl And have they got the man ?
“ No, the man’s got off: he is about somewhere.”
The brilliantly ready excuse which I invented for my return, I shall not relate, but shall keep for my own further use. Suffice it
I got to town that night. Two days afterwards I met Sandwell in the Strand.
“ How are the hoppers ? ” I asked.
“ Hangthe hoppers ! ” he replied. “ I am not going back till after the Hop era’s over.” I laughed at his joke, and he continued,
beamingly, “ I am stopping at the Grand. Come and dino with me to-night.”
“ He ’ll Never come Back no More ! ”
We expected something from the “Lazy Minstrel” this week. He has deceived us. He left word that he had quitted Town on purpose to get a fresh breath of Inspiration. For private reasons we—well, we doubt it. We send him this through our own private Lazphone:—
The Minstrel Boy to the worse has gone—
(We don’t know where to find him)— In search of In-spi-ra-ti-on,
So he’s left no werse behind him.
A Real Salvation Aemy.—The London Fire Brigade.
My old friend, John Sandwell, asks me to stop a few days with him in the Weald of Kent. This may mean anything, as far as I am concerned, from Gravesend—I think that’s in Kent—to Margate,
which I know is in that county. But he says he will meet me at Sandstone, and drive me over to his place. That sounds well. I accept the invitation. He writes to me again, appointing the train,
and mentioning the fact that “ hop-picking is in full swing, and everyone proud of England and of its fairest county should witness such a scene of industry.” Fine, hearty fellow, SANDWELL ! He has only been in Kent six months, and is as warmly attached to its staple industry as if he had lived there all his life. He would he the
same in any county. Were he in Surrey, he would---- But how
ignorant one is of one’s own county ! What is the staple industry of Surrey ? As far as my recollections of the only two places that I positively know are in Surrey—Guildford and Godaiming—serve me, the inhabitants do nothing but drink brown brandy and backoutsiders for races which never, by any possibility, are nearer the winner than seventh. But it is ridiculous to suppose that a whole
county depends for its prosperity upon those two ways of passing the time.
Sandstone. Sandwell meets me. Out of my train gets Pottee, a barrister. Both talk to me at once. I answer one’s questions to the other, and finally have to introduce them, though I know they will not agree.
“You are just in time,” says Sandwell. “The picturesque hop-pickers give quite a new charm to the scenery.”
“ Picturesque be blowed ! ” says Pottee, brusquely. “ Have these carriages been disinfected, Guard ? ”
The Guard assures him that they have. But Pottee is evidently not satisfied. He tells me that the amount of fever and small-pox which, what he oalls “those confounded hoppers” bring down, is something inconceivable. Then he shakes himself aggressively, as if he were warding off a sudden attack of typhoid, lteally, his conversation is unpleasant, and I myself feel a sort of headache, and a heavy feeling coming over me.
“How are your apples looking?” Pottee asks Sandwell ; and on the latter replying, with enthusiasm, that they are looking splendid, shakes his head, and says, “Ah! they’ll all be gone in a couple of days ! ”
It is now Sandwell’s turn to look uncomfortable. I wish I hadn’t seen Pottee. I endeavour to soothe him by saying, “ Of course you ought to know, old fellow, because you are a regular Kentish Man.”
It appears that this is the one thing he isn’t. After he has gone off in a huff, Sandwell tells me that I have grossly insulted him by calling him a Kentish Man, when he is really a Man of Kent.
“ What’s the difference ? ” I ask.
“ Well, one lot lives either north or south of the Medway, hut which it is I forget.”
Silly custom! Am I to walk about with a map and a compass before I can address anyone in this county ?
Driving from Sandstone, wo encounter several tramps of the lowest class.
“ Bad road this for tramps ? ” I say.
“ Not at all,” replies Sandwell. “ They all go the other way.” “ Who are these ?” I ask.
“ Oh, those! Oh, they are nothing! ”
“ But they must be something; and see here is a large waggon full of them. What are they ? ”
“ Well, if you must know, they are hoppers.”
It dawns upon me now that Sandwell’s knowledge of hop-picking is derived from graphic articles, appearing in journals not altogether unfavourable to the brewing interests.
After dinner we stroll out on the terrace. In a meadow, which a deep lane separates from Sandwell’s grounds, are encamped a number of hop-pickers. Under the lees of rude tents constructed of hurdles and old mats, the hop-pickers have lighted fires, and in the dusk of the evening, these fires, with the figures flitting before them, and orouching around, really look picturesque.
“ Quite like a scene in an opera,” says a Lady. “ One expects to hear ”-----
“ If you don’t come ’ere blank slippy, I’ll—blank—blank,” &c. We all go in, the Ladies with considerable celerity.
A bright fine morning. How still and peaceful it is here after town—town even in September, and how very quiet after a French watering-place ! I throw open the casement and look out over the garden and over the meadows, where the brood mares are making a heavy breakfast. “Ili, hi! just you let me catch you!” This peculiarly common and peculiarly idiotic form of address, proceeds from Sandwell’s coachman and head gardener, to a party of five sturdy young ruffians, on whom Seven Dials is indelibly branded.
Now 1 Just let me catch you,” is a form of invitation at which the sendee immediately takes to his heels and runs for his life; so I see a fine race, which results in the escape of the five. Coachman and
gardener come back swearing—“What’s the matter? Why those young scoundrels seem to think our meadows are of no use save to grow mushrooms for them.”
I can eat a breakfast in the country—not a large one, hut still a good one ; and I call a good one a couple of eggs.
“I know you Londoners,” says Sandwell, “ always enjoy newlaid eggs. How long will you have them boiled ? ” But before I have time to answer, the Butler intervenes, saying there are no eggs. “ No eggs! Why, where on earth are the eggs P”
“ I cannot say, Sir,” replies the Butler, “ where the eggs are ; but the hoppers have been very busy with them, and they have also taken a dozen or so of those new Golden Hamburghs.”
It appears there are modifications to the picturesqueness of hoppers.
Round the garden. I look at spinach, wdiich I take to be celery, and peas, which I fancy scarlet-runners, and say ‘1 Capital! Capital! ’ ’ the whole time.
“ I want to show you,” says Sandw Ell, “ some peaches on the wall here. My own opinion is that sun-ripened peaches are much better flavoured than hot-house ones. You shall taste these to-day, and say if they don’t beat those you had last night.” We w-alk round to the wall. “ There’s the tree,” he says. There is the tree,
no doubt. I can see that. But “where,” I ask, “are the peaches ? ”
“ The tree is covered with them,” says my host. And then he puts on his glasses, and gives a howl which might be heard over at Sandstone. “Where are those peaches?” he asks a gardener who has run up at the cry.
“ Them blamed hoppers must have taken the lot last night, Sir.” After this we retreat into the house, to write some letters. Sand
well has not got beyond the date of his first epistle when the Butler informs him that a policeman wishes to see him. With a reproach
ful look at me. as much as to say, “ What have you been doing already ? ” he departs to see the policeman. When he comes back he is a bit soured. On my asking him what was the matter, he says that a policeman had caught four boys in the apple orchard. “I told him to give them a thrashing, and let them go.” By the howls which we subsequently hear, we judge that that policeman is doing his duty. Sandwell starts again on his letter.
“ Should I say ‘ Sir ’ or ‘ Dear Sir ’ to this man ? ” he asks mo ; and we are discussing the merits of both forms of address wdien the Butler re-enters, and announces that a constable would like to see his master. “ You this time! ” his looks mean as he leaves the room.
“ More boys in the apple orchard ? ” I ideasantly ask him when he re-appears.
“ No,” he grunts ; “ boys in the garden stealing vegetables.”
We resume our writing. “ I have said this,” he commences after a pause :—“ ‘ Sir,—On the receipt of your letter——’ ”
“If you please, Sir”—here’s the Butler again—“the Superintendent of Police would like to see you.” Out he goes.
“ Boys in the orchard and the garden ? ” I ask.
“ Neither,” he growls. “ The Superintendent advised me to look carefully after the fastenings at night, as there is a gang of London burglars among the hoppers in this neighbourhood.” Pleasant, this; if there is one thing I am more frightened of than another, it is a burglary in the country. “And,” continues Sandwell, “he says we had better mind what we are doing when we are strolling about; there was a murder committed in that field over to the left last night.”
Vl And have they got the man ?
“ No, the man’s got off: he is about somewhere.”
The brilliantly ready excuse which I invented for my return, I shall not relate, but shall keep for my own further use. Suffice it
I got to town that night. Two days afterwards I met Sandwell in the Strand.
“ How are the hoppers ? ” I asked.
“ Hangthe hoppers ! ” he replied. “ I am not going back till after the Hop era’s over.” I laughed at his joke, and he continued,
beamingly, “ I am stopping at the Grand. Come and dino with me to-night.”
“ He ’ll Never come Back no More ! ”
We expected something from the “Lazy Minstrel” this week. He has deceived us. He left word that he had quitted Town on purpose to get a fresh breath of Inspiration. For private reasons we—well, we doubt it. We send him this through our own private Lazphone:—
The Minstrel Boy to the worse has gone—
(We don’t know where to find him)— In search of In-spi-ra-ti-on,
So he’s left no werse behind him.
A Real Salvation Aemy.—The London Fire Brigade.