People around me, pay but little heed to my advice, in regard to the curculio, because I have never been able to save a crop of fruit. This war of extermination must be general; a few individuals, scattered over the face of the country, cannot effect it. I think if the N. Y. State Agricultural Society should have a simple history of the nature and habits of the curculio, with the best means of destroying it, printed and posted up, in every country tavern, and district school-house, in the state, the good arising therefrom, would be seen in a very few years. Yours, etc. William Hopkins.

Pomona, Brunswick, Ren*. Co., N. T., Dee. 13,185a

[We are glad to find that our correspondent, despairing as he seems to be, has still faith in fowls. We, also, believe that plums and the poultry-yard, should go together. There are some districts like his, where the curculio seems almost to "rain down," shrubs, newly planted. The whole place has, most completely, the look of the pretentious place of some of our wealthy men at home, who, turning their backs upon the numberless fine natural sites, with which our country abounds, choose the barest and baldest situation, in order that they may dig, delve, level and grade, and spend half their fortunes, in doing what nature has, not a mile distant, offered to them ready made, and a thousand times more beautifully done. Osborne House may be a tolerable residence, (we mean respecting its out of-doors-pleasure,) fifty years hence; but it is almost the only country, seat that we saw in England, that looked thoroughly raw and uncomfortable. I suppose, in a country where everything seems finished, there is a singular pleasure in taking a place in the rough, and working beauties out of tameness and insipidity.

The Queen lives here, and walks and drives about the neighborhood, in a comparatively simple and unostentatious manner, and attracts very little attention, and her husband practices farming and planting, quite in good earnest.

A country seat, only a mile distant, in a thoroughly English taste, was a complete contrast to the foregoing, and gave us great pleasure. This is Norris Castle, built by Lord Seymour, but now the property of Mr. Bell, who resides here. Neither the place, nor the house, is larger than several on the Hudson, and the grounds reminded me, in the simple lawn or park, sprinkled with fine groups of trees, of Livingston Manor and Ellers-lie. The house gave me greater pleasure, than any modern castellated building that I have seen; partly because it was simple, and essentially domestic-looking, and yet, with a fine relish of antiquity about it. The facade may, perhaps, be 130 feet, and I was never more surprised, than when I learned that the whole was erected quite lately. The walls are of gray stone, rather rough, and they get a large part of their beauty from the luxuriant vines that festoon every part of the castle. The vines are the Ivy, and our Virginia creeper, intermingled, and as both cling to the stone, they form the most picturesque drapery, which has, in a few years, reached to the top of the battlemented tower, and given a mellow and venerable character, to the whole edifice.

We dined at Newport, the substantial little town, which, lying nearly in the center of the Island, serves as its capital and principal market. The Isle of Wight, enjoying, as it does, a wholly insulated position, is almost the only English ground not interlaced by rail-roads. For this reason, the genuine stage coach, now comparatively obsolete elsewhere, still flourishes here, and still carries a number of passengers out-side, quite at variance with all our ideas of safety and speed. The guard, who accompanies these coaches, usually performs an obligaio on the French horn or key bugle, just before the coach starts - and performs it too, with so much spirit and taste, that it was not without some difficulty I could resist the temptation to join his party. Progress, and the spirit of the times, though they give us most substantial benefits, in the shape of rail-roads, etc., certainly do not add to the poetry of life - as I thought when I compared the delicious air of Bellini, played by the coach guard, with the horrible screams of the steam-whistle of the locomotive - now associated with the travel of all Christendom.

It is but a mile from Newport to Carisbrook Castle - one of the most interesting old ruins in England. It crowns a fine hill, and from the top of its ruined towers, you look over a lovely landscape of hill and vale, picturesque villages, and green meadows. The castle, that my ideal of the Isle of Wight was realized. These villages lie on the south side of the Island, hacked by steep hills, and sloping to the sea. The climate is almost perfection. It is neither hot in summer, nor cold in winter, and though open to all the sea breezes, the latter seem shorn of all their violence here. The consequence is, they enjoy that perfect marriage of the land and sea so rarely witnessed in northern climates. The finest groves and woods, the richest shrubbery and flower-gardens, the most emeraldlike glades of turf, here run down almost to the beach, and you have all the luxuriant beauty of vegetation, in its loveliest forms, joined to all the sublimity, life and excitement of the ocean views. As to the climate, you may judge of its mildness and uniformity, when I tell you that the Bay trees of the Mediterranean grow here on the lawns, as luxuriantly as snow-balls do at home, and Fuchsias, as tall as your head, make rich masses in almost every garden, and stand the winter as well here, as lilacs or syringoes do with us.

In the neighborhood of Shanklin, I saw a charming old parsonage house - the very picture of spacious ease and comfort - with its great bay windows, its picturesque gables, and its thatched roof - quite embowered in tallstyrffea - Roman myrtles - one of our cherished green-house plants, that here have grown thirty or forty feet high, quite above the eves! Bays, Portugal laurels, hollies and China roses, surround this parsonage, and never lose their freshness and verdure, (the owner assured me the roses bloomed all winter long,) cheating the inhabitants into the belief that winter is an allegory, or if not, has only a substantial existence in Iceland or Spitsbergen.