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of horn or rather barley-sugar: this is called the proof. The fire is then put out and the syrup is carried to the cooler, which is a vessel capable of containing all the syrup produced by four operations or boilings. Here the sugar is to crystallize: as soon as this commences the whole is well mixed and stirred, and before it becomes too stiff, earthen moulds, of the well-known sugar-loaf shape, and of the size called great bastards, are filled with the crystallizing mass, of which a little at a time is poured into each. When they are full, they are carried to the coolest place on the premises. As the crystallization goes on, the crust formed on the top is repeatedly broken, and the whole is stirred till the crystals are collected in the centre; it is then allowed to go on without further disturbance. In three days it is so far advanced, that the pegs which were put into the holes at the point of the moulds may be taken out and the molasses allowed to run out. In a week this is mostly run off. White syrup is now poured on the top of the moulds, which filters through the mass and carries part of the colouring matter with it. The process that follows is exactly that in common use in refining West India sugars.

Although most of the operations are nearly the same as those by which the juice of the sugar-cane is prepared for use, much greater skill and nicety are required in rendering the juice of the beet-root crystallizable on account of its greater rawness, and the smaller quantity of sugar that it contains. But when this sugar is refined, it is impossible for the most experienced judge to distinguish it from the other, either by the taste or appearance; and from this arose the facility with which smuggled colonial sugar was sold in France, under the name of sugar from beet-root. Five tons of clean roots produce about 4 cwt. of coarse sugar, which give about 160 lbs of doublerefined sugar, and 60 lbs. of inferior lumpsugar. The rest is molasses, from which a good spirit is distilled. The dry residue of the roots, after expressing the juice, consists chiefly of fibre and mucilage, and amounts to about one-fourth of the weight of the clean roots used. It contains all the nutritive part of the root, with the exception of 44 per cent of sugar, which has been extracted from the juice, the rest being water. Two pounds of this dry residue, and half a pound of good hay, are considered as sufficient food for a moderate-sized sheep for a day, and will keep it in good condition; and cattle in proportion.

As the expense of this manufacture greatly exceeds the value of the sugar produced, according to the price of colonial sugar, it is only by the artificial encouragement of a monopoly and premiums that it can ever be carried on to advantage.* The process is

By the newspapers, we perceive that a Company is now forming for the manufacture of sugar from beet-root.-Ed. M.

one of mere curiosity as long as sugar from the sugar-cane can be obtained, and the import duties laid upon it are not so excessive as to amount to a prohibition; and in this case it is almost impossible to prevent its clandestine introduction.

By allowing the juice of the beet-root to undergo the vinous fermentation and by distilling it, a more profitable result will be obtained in a very good spirit. A kind of beer may also be made of it, which is said to be pleasant in warm weather and wholesome.

Another mode of making sugar from beetroot, practised in some parts of Germany, is as follows, and is said to make better sugar than the other process. The roots having been washed are sliced lengthways, strung on packthread and hung up to dry. The object of this is to let the watery juice evaporate, and the sweet juice, being concentrated, is taken up by macerating the dry slices in water. It is managed so that all the juice shall be extracted by a very small quantity of water, which saves much of the trouble of evaporation. Professor Lampadius obtained from 110 lbs. of roots 4 lbs. of well-grained white powder-sugar, and the residuum afforded 7 pints of spirit. Achard says that about a ton of roots produced 100 lbs. of raw sugar, which gave 55 lbs. of refined sugar, and 25 lbs. of treacle. This result is not very different from that of Chaptal.

New Books.

THE SCHOOL OF THE HEART, AND OTHER POEMS.

By Henry Alford. MR. ALFORD, vicar of Wimes would, Lecicestershire, is a reverential admirer of Wordsworth, "the reverend Priest of Poesy," as he

is characterized in these volumes. We are Blackwood's Magazine, in which the followas yet but acquainted with them through ing is one of the extracts quoted; the Editor premising that "the Poet who could write thus is privileged to call Wordsworth friend, and to walk with him in spirit through the Churchyard among the Mountains.""]

Stand by me here, Beloved, where thick crowd On either side the path the headstones white: How wonderful is death-how passing thought That nearer than yon glorious group of hillsAye, but a scanty foot or two beneath This pleasant, suuny mound, corruption teems And that one sight of that which is so near, Could turn the current of our joyful thoughts, Which not e'en now disturbs them. See this stone

Not, like the rest, full of the dazzling noon,
But sober brown-round which the ivy twines
Its searching tendril, and the yew-tree shade
Just covers the short grave. He mourned not ill
Who graved the simple plate without a name :
This grave's a cradle, where an infant lyes,
Rockt faste asleepe with Death's sad lullabyes."
And yet methinks he did not care to wrong
The Genius of the place when he wrote "sad:"

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The chime of hourly clock-the mountain-stream
That sends up ever to thy resting place
Its gush of many voices and the crow
Of matin cock, faint it may be but shrill,
From elm-embosomed farms among the dells,-
These, little slumberer, are thy lullabyes:
Who would not sleep a sweet and peaceful sleep
Thus bush'd and sung to with all pleasant sounds?
And I can stand beside thy cradle, child,
And see yon belt of clouds in silent pomp
Midway the mountain sailing slowly on,
Whose beacon top peers over on the vale;-
And upward narrowing in thick-timbered dells,
Dark solemn coombs, with wooded buttresses
Propping his mighty weight-each with its stream,
Now leaping sportfully from crag to crag,

Now smoothed in clear, black pools-then in the vales,

Through lanes of bowering foliage glittering on
By cots, and farms, and quiet villages,
And meadows brightest green. Who would not sleep

Rocked in so fair a cradle ?

But that word, That one word-" death," comes over my sick brain Wrapping my vision in a sudden swoon: Blotting the gorgeous pomp of sun and shade, Mountain, and wooded cliff, and sparkling stream, In a thick, dazzling darkness. Who art thou Under this hillock on the mountain side? I love the like of thee with a deep love, And therefore called thee dear-thee who art now A handful of dull earth. No lullabyes Hearest thou now, be they or sweet or sadNot revelry of streams, nor pomp of clouds, Not the blue top of mountain-nor the woods That clothe steeps have any joy for thee.

years

Go to then-tell me not of balmiest rest
In fairest cradle-for I never felt
One-half so keenly as I feel it now,
That not the promise of the sweetest sleep
Can make me smile on death. Our days and
Pass onward-and the mighty of old time
Have put their glory by and laid them down
Undrest of all the attributes they wore,
In the dark sepulchre-strange preference
To fly from beds of down and softest strains
Of timbrel and of pipe, to the cold earth,
The silent chamber of unknown decay;
To yield the delicate flesh, so loved of late
By the informing spirit, to the maw
Of unrelenting waste; to go abroad
From the sweet prison of this moulded clay,
Into the pathless air, among the vast
And unnamed multitude of trembling stars;
Strange journey, to attempt the void unknown
From whence no news returns; and cast the freight
Of nicely treasured life at once away.

Come, let us talk of Death-and sweetly play
With his black locks, and listen for awhile
To the lone music of the passing wind
In the rank grass that waves above his bed.

Is it not wonderful, the darkest day
Of all the days of life-the hardest wrench
That tries the coward sense, should mix itself
In all our gentlest and most joyous moods
A not unwelcome visitant-that Thought,
In her quaint wanderings, may not reach a spot
Of lavish beauty, but the spectre form
Meets her with greeting, and she gives herself
To his mysterious converse. I have roamed
Through many mazes of unregistered
And undetermined fancy; and I know
That when the air grows balmy to my feel,
And rarer light falls on me, and sweet sounds
Dance tremulously round my captive ears,
I soon shall stumble on some mounded grave;
And ever of the thoughts that stay with me,
(There are that flit away,) the pleasantest
Ìs hand in hand with Death: and my bright hopes,
Like the strange colours of divided light
Fade into pale, uncertain violet

About some hallowed precinct. Can it be

That there are blessed memories joined with Death,
Of those who parted peacefully, and words
That cling about our hearts, uttered between
The day and darkness, in Life's twilight time?

SIR NATHANIEL WRAXALL'S MEMOIRS. (Continued from page 413.)

Doctor Dodd.

WITH Dodd I was well acquainted. Some time during the month of November, 1776, dining at the house of Messrs. Dilly, the booksellers, not far from the Mansion House, who were accustomed frequently to entertain men of letters at their table, I there found myself seated very unworthily among several distinguished individuals. Wilkes, Jones, afterwards so well known as Sir William Jones, De Lolme, Dr. Dodd, with three or four others, composed the company. We were gay, animated, and convivial. Before we parted, Dodd invited us to a dinner at his residence in Argyle-street. A day was named, and all promised to attend. When we broke up, Dr. Dodd, who had shown me many civilities during the evening, offered to set me down at the west end of the town, adding that his own carriage was waiting at the door. I readily accepted the proposal, and he carried me back to the St. James's Coffee-house. The company accordingly met again on the evening fixed, when a very elegant repast was served, with French wines of various kinds. Mrs. Dodd presided, and afterwards received in her drawing-room a large party of both sexes. Dodd was a plausible, agree able man; lively, entertaining, well-informed, and communicative in conversation. While in prison, he wrote to me, urgently requesting my exertions with the late Lord Nugent to procure his pardon. If it could have been extended to him, without producing by the precedent incalculable injury to society, his majesty would undoubtedly have exercised in his case the prerogative of mercy. He felt the strongest impulse to save Dodd, not only on account of the numerous and powerful applications made in his favour, but as a clergyman who had been one of his own chaplains. The Earl of Mansfield, however, prevented so pernicious an act of grace. I have heard Lord Sackville recount the circumstances that took place in the council held on the occasion, at which the king assisted. To the firmness of the lord chiefjustice, Dodd's execution was due: for, no sooner had he pronounced his decided opinion that no mercy ought to be extended, than the king, taking up the pen, signed the deathwarrant. He died penitent and pusillanimous. The weather on the 27th of June, 1777, when he suffered, was most variable, changing perpetually from bright sunshine to heavy storms of rain; during one of which latter pelting showers he was turned off at Tyburn, His body, conveyed to a house in

the city of London, underwent every scientific professional operation which, it was hoped, might restore animation. Pott, the celebrated surgeon, was present to direct them. There were even found persons sufficiently credulous to believe that Dodd had been resuscitated, and privately transported to Aix in Provence. Lord Chesterfield never altogether surmounted the unfavourable impression produced by the prominent share which he took in Dodd's prosecution, though time obliterated it in a certain degree.

Parallel of Pitt and Pericles.

It has always appeared to me, that some very strong points of resemblance existed between Pericles and Pitt. Both were during many years the ministers of a free people. Both long enjoyed extraordinary popularity, and corresponding power. If the goddess of Persuasion was said to have placed herself on the lips of Pericles, so did she on those of Pitt. The same fascinating beauty and rotundity of expression were common to both. Disinterestedness, and superiority to all personal acquisition, alike distinguished them. Pericles had indeed the advantage of inhe riting a larger paternal fortune than the English minister; but he no more increased it at the national expense, than did Pitt. Both survived, if not the public favour, yet the public prosperity; and beheld their friends accused or sacrificed to public clamour. The fate of Phidias, Pericles' friend, charged with converting to his own use a part of the gold confided to him for ornamenting the statue of Minerva, bears a striking analogy to Lord Melville's impeachment, founded on his supposed appropriation or alienation of public money. But the Scottish minister ultimately escaped, while the immortal artist of antiquity perished in prison. Pitt, like Pericles, engaged in a long and disastrous conflict with foreign enemies: the latter, when he commenced the Peleponnesian war; the former, with revolutionary France. Neither of them survived to witness its termination. The Athenian, after sus taining the severest afflictions and privations in his family, sank under the attacks of a pestilential malady, in the third year of hostilities. The English statesman closed his memorable career precisely at the same period of the renewed struggle against the French republic,— -or rather against the military despotism of its foreign ruler. Here, indeed, the parallel ends; for Pitt had no Aspasia. It is in Fox's history that we must look for her.

The Duke of Queensberry.

8th August, 1786.-Among the distinguished individuals who at this time were created British peers, the Duke of Queensberry received the title of Baron Douglas. He

is better known as Earl of March, having passed his fiftieth year before he succeeded to the dukedom of Queensberry. Few noblemen have occupied a more conspicuous place about the court, and the town, during at least half a century, under the reigns of George the Second and Third. Like Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, he pursued pleasure under every shape; and with as much ardour at fourscore, as he had done at twenty. After exhausting all the gratifications of human life, towards its close he sat down at his residence, near Hyde Park Corner, where he remained a spectator of that moving scene, which Johnson denominated "the full tide of human existence," but in which he could no longer take a very active part. I lived in almost daily habits of intercourse with him, when I was in London, during the last seven years of his protracted career. His person had then become a ruin; but not so his mind. Seeing only with one eye, hearing very imperfectly only with one ear, nearly toothless, and labouring under multiplied infirmities, he possessed all his intellectual faculties, including his memory. Never did any man retain more animation, or manifest a sounder judgment. Even his figure, though emaciated, still remained elegant: his manners were noble and polished; his conversation gay, always entertaining, generally original, rarely instructive, frequently libertine; indicating a strong, sagacious, masculine intellect, with a thorough knowledge of man. If I were compelled to name the particular individual who had received from nature the keenest common sense of any person I ever knew, I should select the Duke of Queensberry. Unfortunately, his sources of information, the turf, the drawing-room, the theatre, the great world, were not the most pure, nor the best adapted to impress him with favourable ideas of his own species. Information as acquired from books, he always treated with contempt; and used to ask me, what advantage, or solid benefit, I had ever derived from the knowledge that he supposed me to posses of history;-a question which it was not easy for me satisfactorily to answer, either to him or to myself. Known to be immensely rich, destitute of issue, and unmarried, he formed a mark at which every necessitous man or woman, throughout the metropolis, directed their aim.

If he had lived under Charles the Second, he might have disputed for pre-eminence in the favour of that prince, with the Arlingtons, the Buckinghams, the Falmouths, and the Dorsets, so celebrated under his reign. Many fabulous stories were circulated and believed respecting him; as, among others, that he wore a glass eye, that he used milk baths, and other idle tales.

When approaching the verge of life, and labouring under many diseases or infirmities,

the duke's temper, naturally impetuous, though long subdued to the restraints of polished society, often became irritable. As he had too sound an understanding not to despise every species of flattery, we sometimes entered on discussions, during the course of which he was not always master of himself. But he knew how to repair his errors. I have now before my eyes his last note to me, written by himself in pencil, only a short time before his death. It runs thus: "I hope you will accept this as an apology for my irritable behaviour when you called this morning. I will explain all when I see you again."-Notwithstanding the libertine life that he had led, he contemplated with great firmness and composure of mind his approaching, and almost imminent dissolu tion; while Dr. Johnson, a man of exemplary moral conduct, and personally courageous, could not bear the mention of death, nor look, without shuddering, at a thigh-bone in a churchyard. The Duke of Queensberry, like Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire, might have said with truth,

"Incertus morior, non perturbatus." His decease, when it took place, occasioned no ordinary emotion throughout London, on account of the number of individuals who were interested in the distribution of his fortune. Besides his estates in Scotland and in England, he left in money about nine hundred thousand pounds sterling. Nearly seven hundred thousand pounds of this sum he gave away in legacies: the remainder he bequeathed to the present Countess of Yarmouth. Notwithstanding his very advanced age, he would have lived longer, if he had not accelerated his end by imprudence in eating fruit.

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were in a very inflammable state, and the fire immediately spread in the direction of the wind with great rapidity. In two hours, it had made such progress that all Pera was alarmed. The view from the top of the English palace about ten o'clock was very terrific; the whole valley of Tophana seemed on fire. Several minarets of mosques which rose from the midst of the flames, appeared like immense torches stuck in the ground; their white sides remaining untouched, while a cone of flame issued from the top. The wind was blowing strong from the south, and directly up the valley; so the flames were carried rapidly along in that direction.

About eleven o'clock, I proceeded to the back of the Galata Serai, to the open space which yet remained unbuilt after a fire of last year in this place. The conflagration was advancing rapidly up the street that led to this space. Five fire-engines had been brought down, and a number of trombadgees, with their naked arms and metal caps, were sitting idly on them. The street was narrow, and but one was brought to bear on the fire; the rest were inactive, with the firemen smoking their pipes. Beside these were men with long poles, terminated with iron hooks, like boat-hooks; with these they attempted to pull down a house next the one on fire; but after a few boards in the front were displaced, they desisted, and stood with their poles erect against the wall. Men with axes also made an effort to cut away. some timber; but, in a short time, they all desisted, and suffered the fire quietly to proceed. The houses here belonged to poor people, who could not give them bacshish, and so they made no exertions.

The fire now grew so hot that I could remain no longer, and I returned. The people from the neighbouring houses were slowly removing what they possessed. This generally is not much. There are no tables, chairs, beds, or any of the numerous articles with which our houses are encumbered. Almost the whole furniture consists of the cushion of the divan, on which an oriental eats, sits, and sleeps with a thick quilt thrown over him. This he takes on his back and walks out of his house when the fire comes next door. Among the fugitives, an old woman came out of the house adjoining the fire with her whole furniture-a stool in one hand, a reel in the other, a large gourd under each arm, and a cat on her shoulder; after some time, the cat began to struggle, unwilling to leave its old residence, and, at length, escaped back into the burning house. The mistress quietly followed it, and, after some delay, again brought it out. The cat still struggled, and a second time made its escape. The house was now falling fast in burning fragments, and several persons endeavoured to dissuade her from entering it;

but she would not desert her cat-went in once more in search of it, and was scarcely across the threshold when the whole fell in, and she and her cat were never seen more. Some bustle now occurred, and on inquiring into the cause, I found it was a horrible one. A law exists that any one found robbing at a fire is to be thrown into it. The Seraskier had just come up on horseback, and a man was accused before him of taking some property that did not belong to him. He was ordered by the Seraskier to be cast into the flames, and the bustle I saw was the execution of the sentence.

About two o'clock, the fire had spread as far as Beshiktash, and the whole face of the hill looking over the Bosphorus, for nearly two miles, was a sheet of fire. All the inhabitants of the neighbourhood had brought what they could save into the great buryingground, and were bivouacked among the trees; so that the whole large space was filled up with fugitives and small heaps of furniture; but now the fire seized on the trees, the resin of the cypress rendered them highly inflammable, and the whole was in a blaze. The progress of the fire was as curious as it was beautiful. As the wind waved the slender and flexible summits of the cypress, they continually threw out from their extremities large, bright sheets of flame, which floated along unbroken to a considerable distance, like the lightning produced in theatres by throwing powdered resin against the flame of a candle. In a short time, the whole burying-ground was covered with a canopy of this blaze, and the poor people below, unable to bear the showers of fire which fell on them, were compelled to seek another asylum.

On this day, we dined at the Austrian Palace, and, about five o'clock, the fire seemed as if it had exhausted itself for want of fuel; but the wind had changed, and the flames had rolled upon a district which had hitherto escaped; and when, about nine o'clock, we came out of the saloon, the aspect of the fire was very awful. The Austrian Palace lies in a valley, and was now flanked by an immense amphitheatre of fire, as if it was at the bottom of the crater of an ignited volcano. The progress of the fire seemed very extraordinary. At the distance of several hundred yards from where it was raging, and among a dark mass of houses, a bright and luminous spot would appear. This remained stationary for a short time, and then suddenly burst into a blaze, which inclosed all the intervening houses, so that the fire became one continued surface. From this manner of progress, it seemed almost certain that fire was intentionally set to various distinct places at once; but it was clearly ascertained that these communications were made by light, ignited matter carried through

the air, and falling on the dry wood, which soon bursts into a flame in the heated atmo. sphere. The Turks and Franks here univer. sally attribute it to red-hot nails, exploded from burning timber with such force as to stick in distant houses, and so communicate the fire. But there is no proof that nails só explode; nor, if they do, have they ever been found so communicating the fire. Simple flakes of light, inflammable stuff, which were floating about in the direction of the wind, would easily account for the effect.

We were now alarmed by the report of cannon, and imagined every moment that some conflict had commenced; and, in fact, a serious calamity had like to ensue. It had been rumoured all day that the fire was planned and executed by the Greeks, in connexion with the insurgents of the Morea, and the Turks were with difficulty restrained at different times from taking summary vengeance on all they could find. The fire at length reached the arsenal at Tophana about nine at night, and, instead of unloading the guns on the wharf, which were con tinually kept shotted, the Turks suffered the fire to seize the carriages, and they all exploded in succession, throwing their balls across to Scutari; some shells also, which, they say, were overlooked on the wharf, and overtaken by the fire, burst, and both circumstances created an extraordinary sensation in Pera; but, at Constantinople, it was reported to have been caused by an attack on the Turks, whose houses had been set on fire. An immediate soulèvement of the janissaries took place. They raised a cry, and ran down to the water-side to get boats to assist their friends. It would have been a tremendous addition to the calamity, if twenty or thirty thousand armed fellows had thus rushed into the burning city, like soldiers into a town taken by storm. The horrors of Scio would have been repeated; but providentially they were stopped. The janissary Aga had all the gates closed which led to the water, and in the mean time prevailed on them to ascertain the fact before they went over. Messengers were sent across, and having stated the real cause of the explosion of the guns, the janissaries dispersed. About four in the morning, the wind had entirely subsided, and the force of the fire with it, after it had continued to rage with inconceivable fury for above twenty hours.

The Turks having no kind of statistical tables, it is impossible to ascertain the number of houses destroyed; some accounts raise it so high as thirty thousand: but it is impossible. I went round the burnt district both while the fire was raging, and after it was extinguished, and I walked through the ruins. The extent of the fire was about 2,000 yards, not an English mile and a half, and the greatest breadth about 800 yards,

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