DOI issue:
September 24, 1881
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17751#0136
September 24, 1881.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
133
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 be 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—Gruildford and Godalming—serve me,
the inhabitants do nothing but drink brown brandy and back'out-
siders 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 Potter,
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 bio wed ! " says Potter, brusquely. "Have
these carriages been disinfected, Guard ? "
The Guard assures him that they have. But Potter is evidently
not satisfied. He tells me that the amount of fever and small-pox
which, what he calls "those confounded hoppers" bring down, is
something inconceivable. Then he shakes himself aggressively, as
if he were warding off a sudden attack of typhoid. Really, his
conversation is unpleasant, and I myself feel a sort of headache, and
a heavy feeling coming over me.
"How are your apples looking?" Potter asks Sandwell ; and
on the latter replying, with enthusiasm, that they are looking
splendid, shakes his head, and says, " Ah ! they '11 all be gone in a
couple of days ! "
It is now Sandwell's turn to look uncomfortable. I wish I hadn't
seen Pottek. 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, but
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, we encounter several tramps of the lowest
class.
" Bad road this for tramps ? " I say.
" Not at all," replies Sand well. " 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 crouching 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 '11—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. "Hi, 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 "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 thos
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, but still a
good one ; and I call a good one a couple of eggs.
"I know you Londoners," says Sandwell, "always enjoy new-
laid 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 ?''
" 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, which I take to be celery,
and peas, which I fancy scarlet-runners, and say'' Capital! Capital!''
the whole time.
" I want to show you," says Sandwell, "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 walk
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 me ;
and we are discussing the merits of both forms of address when 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 pleasantly 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 Super-
intendent 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."
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.
" Hang the hoppers ! " he replied. "Iam 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 dine with me
to-night."
" He '11 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 Army.—The London Fire Brigade.
vol. lxxxt. k
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
133
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 be 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—Gruildford and Godalming—serve me,
the inhabitants do nothing but drink brown brandy and back'out-
siders 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 Potter,
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 bio wed ! " says Potter, brusquely. "Have
these carriages been disinfected, Guard ? "
The Guard assures him that they have. But Potter is evidently
not satisfied. He tells me that the amount of fever and small-pox
which, what he calls "those confounded hoppers" bring down, is
something inconceivable. Then he shakes himself aggressively, as
if he were warding off a sudden attack of typhoid. Really, his
conversation is unpleasant, and I myself feel a sort of headache, and
a heavy feeling coming over me.
"How are your apples looking?" Potter asks Sandwell ; and
on the latter replying, with enthusiasm, that they are looking
splendid, shakes his head, and says, " Ah ! they '11 all be gone in a
couple of days ! "
It is now Sandwell's turn to look uncomfortable. I wish I hadn't
seen Pottek. 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, but
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, we encounter several tramps of the lowest
class.
" Bad road this for tramps ? " I say.
" Not at all," replies Sand well. " 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 crouching 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 '11—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. "Hi, 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 "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 thos
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, but still a
good one ; and I call a good one a couple of eggs.
"I know you Londoners," says Sandwell, "always enjoy new-
laid 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 ?''
" 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, which I take to be celery,
and peas, which I fancy scarlet-runners, and say'' Capital! Capital!''
the whole time.
" I want to show you," says Sandwell, "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 walk
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 me ;
and we are discussing the merits of both forms of address when 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 pleasantly 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 Super-
intendent 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."
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.
" Hang the hoppers ! " he replied. "Iam 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 dine with me
to-night."
" He '11 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 Army.—The London Fire Brigade.
vol. lxxxt. k