And this (if there be wind) reveals to sight Whether their ancles be in decent plight, Or be the props of poundersnot but that a good thumping pounder of a leg is main useful in treading the hops into the pockets; though, to be sure, that is not the women-folks' business, but the men's, and yellow enough they come forth from the bags; but observe, that incident too is passed over entirely by R. Now really this here attempt of mine is more than half a sonnet; and if I get encouragement from you, I do think I might venture to supply the descriptions which R. is so positive in refusing to try his hand at. My Betsey, who is quite a dab at dumb crambo of a winter evening, found some of the rhymes for me; and with her help I don't see why I shouldn't work away. For instance, I should have to report that hop-tops, early in the year, make almost as good a dish as grass. To autumn would be added the arrival of the hoppers, who are fetched in waggons from all parts of the country,sailors from Portsmouth,-gypsies from every patch of green in our Surrey lanes,paupers from poorhouses, riff-raff from Saint Giles's, living from hand to mouth by a hundred nameless employments, and beggars from all quarters, for the work is easy; anything, indeed, that has got a pair of hands will do to stand by a basket and strip the branches. Then there's the taking them to be dried at the kilns, and afterwards the pocketting. Not a tittle is there in R.'s verses from which one would guess that the pole putters have a piece of stuff for a shirt bought for them by a subscription among the company of pickers, for whom they tear up the leafy poles, -which bit of holland is folded like a scarf at a funeral, only that it has a gay thingumbob as big as a platter, twiddled all about with ribbon, and sewed to the shoulder, and the whole is worn by the pole-puller, or his favourite lass, about the streets after all is over. Who'd have thought

t

that a poet could have been mum about the coming in of the last load? Why, it is all drest up with flags and ribbons the men shout away, (if they are not too drunk)—the women prate and giggle,-boys huzza, and toss up their hats wreathed with hop leaves,-dogs bark,-cats vanish,cows scamper tail on end, the world comes out-o'-doors to see what's the fun, and Farnham is in a merry uproar. For certain, there was not quite so much of this mad-cap rejoicing this last hop time, and whether this was from the weather being wettish, and the crop not over promising, I don't know, or whether it was not, that the racketting of the Radicals with their banners, rather put some of us, who are true King and Constitution men, out of sorts with that sort of triumphing. However, when their flags are forgotten, ours no doubt will be hoisted again, for I don't like to leave off good old customs. If I wrote hop sonnets, I'm sure I wouldn't pass over the stamps upon our bags,—they are so prettily done in red and blue and black, and in a different pattern every year. This year's mark_is_a_bell, (though, that we almost always have, for you know, Farnham hops do really bear the bell,) and a stag in a shield, and a couple of dogs for supporters. Then I would describe our going to Weyhill Fair, to sell our pockets, where, as you no doubt know, we Farnham folks have our own acre, in which none but Farnham hops can be pitched,-no, not if it were ever so much wished for, nay, if the King himself, (God bless him, I dare say he loves his ale properly hopped,) grew hops in the garden, at Carlton Palace, or in Windsor Park (which would be nearer Weyhill,) he could not send them to The Acre for sale. Nothing is admitted there, but what was actually produced within the bounds of our parish. So here again would be enough to say; booths, and what not, all painted as natural as life; and Andover, where we sleep, as thick as three in a bed at the time. The more I con

SIR,

I hand you (1) four sonnets about Hops, by desire of Mr (rabbit it, I almost popt out his name,) but you are to call him R. or Mr R. or else nothing at all, just as you like to take your choice. They were writ to pleasure me, for I was tired to death of finding your authors of poems, and epics, and ballads, and cantos, and acrostics, and sketches, and operas, and lyrics, and other sorts of verses, of which I don't know one from t'other, not I, though my daughters read a mort of them to me. I was tired, I say, of finding the poets always harping upon the same old story. Hundreds and hundreds constantly go sowing and mow ing, and reaping, and threshing into verse; but not a soul, as I ever heard tell, (2) ever came into our hop-grounds to sing a song about them-and why should'nt they, just as well? My girls have got a good many poems and pocket-books, and among'em there's Thomson's Seasons, and Burns the Ploughman's poems, (which are very badly spelt,) and Bloomfield's Farmer's Boy; so I made 'em look 'em all well over, to see if there was anything about hopplanting anywhere in them, but not a word about it turned up. Indeed, I don't remember hearing a hist on the subject when the girls have been reading their books out loud to me of an evening; but then at those times I am apt to take a nap, for the regular sound of poetry is very composing. So I plucked up spirit one day, and asked a certain person (never mind who he is a shy cock-set down, R.-that must serve instead of a name)—well, I asked him once, when I saw him loitering by my strip of land in the Parkside grounds, whether he couldn't make a rhyme or two on the hop-picking. He rather caught at the hint, and said he'd give it a thought, and at last brought (3) these four sonnets (I am

sure he called them sonnets, though Thomson and Bloomfield, who divide their poems by the four quarters of the year, don't call theirs by any such name) but, bless my heart! to call them a full account of all that is done with us from spring to winter is a fine take-in. I civilly pointed out to him, that there was a world of hop-work left out, but got nothing but a flea in the ear by it, for he mumbled something, that " a few discriminating marks were suffieient for the purposes of poetry." A word in your ear,-friend R. has a very good opinion of himself; try to make him hear reason, and he'll turn as stunt as a mule, and you may as well endeavour to make a hop-plant curl round the pole, from right to left, (which, you know, it never will do) as get him to alter a word in his ver ses, when he draws up and says, it's all right as it is. Now you'll see that he ha'n't said a syllable about putting plenty of compost on the land, though I should like to know what sort of plants he'd get without it. Not a word about becking the earth well-not a direction about the time for fixing the poles; for, d'ye think we set on our fellows to work, when we first see a cloud and a rain-bow in spring-time, as he seems to reckon that we do? Then who'd guess that in summer we pay women to tie fast the runners to the poles at three different heights? 'Ad whip it, now I know what a sonnet is, if I didn't think his poetship, Mr R., would be offended, I would try if I couldn't make something of this "discriminating mark" myself. Is this anything in the right style? At first they stoop, and those who can't

well bend

Get a sad crick o' the back. But at midheight

The tie is easier made, they stand upBut for the third, 'tis needful to ascend right. A pair of steps, the bines so high extend.

And this (if there be wind) reveals to sight Whether their ancles be in decent plight, Or be the props of pounders

not but that a good thumping pounder of a leg is main useful in treading the hops into the pockets; though, to be sure, that is not the women-folks' business, but the men's, and yellow enough they come forth from the bags; but observe, that incident too is passed over entirely by R. Now real ly this here attempt of mine is more than half a sonnet; and if I get encouragement from you, I do think I might venture to supply the descriptions which R. is so positive in refusing to try his hand at. My Betsey, who is quite a dab at dumb crambo of a winter evening, found some of the rhymes for me; and with her help I don't see why I shouldn't work away. For instance, I should have to report that hop-tops, early in the year, make almost as good a dish as grass. To autumn would be added the arrival of the hoppers, who are fetched in waggons from all parts of the country,sailors from Portsmouth,-gypsies from every patch of green in our Surrey lanes, paupers from poorhouses,riff-raff from Saint Giles's, living from hand to mouth by a hundred nameless employments, and beggars from all quarters, for the work is easy; anything, indeed, that has got a pair of hands will do to stand by a basket and strip the branches. Then there's the taking them to be dried at the kilns, and afterwards the pocketting. Not a tittle is there in R.'s verses from which one would guess that the poleputters have a piece of stuff for a shirt bought for them by a subscription among the company of pickers, for whom they tear up the leafy poles, -which bit of holland is folded like a scarf at a funeral, only that it has a gay thingumbob as big as a platter, twiddled all about with ribbon, and sewed to the shoulder, and the whole is worn by the pole-puller, or his favourite lass, about the streets after all is over. Who'd have thought

that a poet could have been mum about the coming in of the last load? Why, it is all drest up with flags and ribbons-the men shout away, (if they are not too drunk)-the women prate and giggle,-boys huzza, and toss up their hats wreathed with hop leaves,-dogs bark,-cats vanish,cows scamper tail on end, the world comes out-o'-doors to see what's the fun,-and Farnham is in a merry uproar. For certain, there was not quite so much of this mad-cap rejoicing this last hop time, and whether this was from the weather being wettish, and the crop not over promising, I don't know, or whether it was not, that the racketting of the Radicals with their banners, rather put some of us, who are true King and Constitution men, out of sorts with that sort of triumphing. However, when their flags are forgotten, ours no doubt will be hoisted again, for I don't like to leave off good old customs. If I wrote hop sonnets, I'm sure I wouldn't pass over the stamps upon our bags,—they are so prettily done in red and blue and black, and in a different pattern every year. This year's mark is a bell, (though, that we almost always have, for you know, Farnham hops do really bear the bell,) and a stag in a shield, and a couple of dogs for supporters. Then I would describe our going to Weyhill Fair, to sell our pockets, where, as you no doubt know, we Farnham folks have our own acre, in which none but Farnham hops can be pitched, no, not if it were ever so much wished for, nay, if the King himself, (God bless him, I dare say he loves his ale properly hopped,) grew hops in the garden, at Carlton Palace, or in Windsor Park (which would be nearer Weyhill,) he could not send them to The Acre for sale. Nothing is admitted there, but what was actually produced within the bounds of our parish. So here again would be enough to say; booths, and what not, all painted as natural as life; and Andover, where we sleep, as thick as three in a bed at the time. The more I con