At the end of the first year it becomes necessary to put poles into the hills, round which the bines reared from plants are wound; at the expiration of the second year, full-sized poles, from 15 to 20 feet, are set, (though the hop-bines will run to the height of 50 feet,) in the proportion of two poles to each hill, and a similar number of hop-plants are fastened loosely round each pole, by means of withered rushes.  Hops begin to flower about the latter end of June or the beginning of July.  The poles are now entirely covered with verdure, and the pendent flowers appear in clusters and light festoons.  The hops, which are the scaly seed-vessels of the female plants, are, when the seed is formed, (generally about the end of August,) picked off by women and children; for this purpose the poles are taken up with the plants clinging to them.  The seeds are then dried over a charcoal fire, exposed to the air for a few days, and packed in sacks and sent to market.

The culture of hops, though profitable when it succeeds, is very precarious:  as soon as the plant appears above ground, it is attacked by an insect somewhat similar to the turnip-fly, which devours the young heads.  Hop-gardens, situated on chalky soils, are peculiarly subject to its depredations.  In the months of June and July, the hops are liable to be blown by a species of aphis, or fly.  This insect, however, does not endanger the growth of the plant, unless it be in a weak state, in consequence of the depredations committed on its root by the larvae of the ottermoth, phalaena humuli.

The hop is a most valuable plant:  in its wild state it is relished by cows, horses, goats, sheep, and swine.  When cultivated, its young tops are eaten, early in the spring, as substitutes for asparagus, being wholesome and aperient.  Its principal use, however, is in brewing malt liquors, communicating that fine bitter flavour to our beer, and making it keep for a longer time than it otherwise would do.  Hops also serve some important purposes in medicine.

* * * * *

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE RIGHT HON.  GEORGE CANNING.

  Why does Britannia bend with pensive mien,
    And throbbing bosom o’er that sable bier,
  To which yon melancholy group is seen
    In mute affliction slowly drawing near,
  Whilst weeping genius, pointing to the sky,
  In silent anguish heaves a plaintive sigh?

  She seems to take a lingering last farewell,
    As down her cheek the pearly teardrops flow,
  Of some lamented spirit she lov’d well,
    By Fate’s inexorable shaft laid low;
  And thus half broken-hearted to complain
  “When shall we look upon thy like again!”

  Poor drooping maid—­she mourns the doom of one,
    Whom at a time like this she ill can spare,—­
  Her talented and patriotic son,
    Whom art could not deceive, nor vice ensnare,
  To truth and sacred liberty allied,
  His country’s hope, her honour and her pride!