78 
A  VISIT  TO  A  SUSSEX  HOP  GARDEN. 
moderately  cheap  loaf  during  the  ensuing  winter,  is  satisfactorily 
and  happily  allayed.  The  sportsman  takes  again  his  dog  and 
gun,  and  makes  sad  havoc  among  the  feathered  tribes,  to  amuse 
his  leisure  time,  to  grace  his  table,  and  indulge  his  appetite. 
But  the  month  of  September  is  a  peculiarly  interesting  and  busy 
season  in  some  of  the  rural  districts  of  this  country.  I  allude 
more  particularly  to  the  counties  of  Kent,  Sussex,  and  Surrey, 
where  the  cultivation  of  the  hop  plant  (Humulus  lupulus)  is 
carried  on  to  a  great  extent,  and  forms  one  of  the  most  lucrative 
productions  of  the  agriculturist. 
As  the  catkins  of  the  hop  plant  is  officinal,  and  recognized  in 
our  Pharmacopoeias,  I  think  a  little  information  on  its  growth 
and  treatment  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  those  who,  perhaps 
living  away  from  any  of  the  hop  districts,  are  quite  unacquainted 
with  its  cultivation. 
We  choose  a  fine  day  for  our  excursion,  and  accordingly  set 
out,  having  partaken  of  a  hearty  luncheon,  and  provided  our- 
selves with  a  pair  of  old  kid  gloves  to  protect  our  hands  from 
the  effects  of  the  hops,  which,  after  long  picking,  leave  a  dark 
brown  stain  on  the  skin.  We  need  not  walk  far  from  the  noise- 
less business  of  our  country  town  to  reach  the  object  of  our  wishes, 
and  after  walking  through  a  shady  lane,  and  crossing  a  couple  of 
meadows,  we  arrive  at  the  scene  of  action. 
The  hop  plantation,  or  hop  garden,  as  it  is  usually  called,  with 
its  regularly  disposed  high  poles,  around  which  the  bines  entwine 
themselves,  while  the  hops  hang  in  graceful  clusters  therefrom, 
is  a  striking  and  beautiful  scene.  The  pickers  are,  of  necessity, 
varied  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  as  in  the  same  garden  you 
may  find  delegates  from  the  Emerald  Isle,  bairns  from  Scotland, 
and  a  full  complement  of  English  hearts  of  oak.  All  ages  are 
represented,  from  that  of  the  hoary  veteran  and  comely  old  dame, 
even  down  to  the  innocent  infant  asleep  near  its  mother,  in  a  box 
rudely  made  for  the  occasion. 
In  each  garden  there  is  a  certain  number  of  men  called  pole- 
pullers,  who,  by  means  of  an  implement  with  iron  teeth,  acting 
as  a  lever,  lift  the  heavily  laden  poles  from  their  earthen  sock- 
ets, and  place  them  in  piles  so  that  the  bines  may  be  conveni- 
ently stripped  by  the  pickers.    The  hops,  as  they  are  picked, 
