SUGAR is obtained from the juice expressed from a plant called Saccharum Officinale, or common sugarcane, which grows in great plenty in the East and West Indies. It is said to grow spontaneously in S. America; but on the other hand it is asserted that it was not known in those regions till the Europeans colonized them. For a considerable time, however, it has been most industriously and successfully cultivated in the American Islands within the tropics, and it is from these plantations that we now derive the greatest part of our supply of sugar.

It is a question not yet decided among naturalists, whether the ancients in general were acquainted with this plant, and whether they knew how to employ the juice expressed from it. All that we can gather from the arguments on either side is, that if they knew the properties of the sugar-cane, they did not understand the method of condensing, hardening, and whitening it; and, of course, they knew nothing of our sugar.

Very many vegetables secrete a sweet juice easily converted into sugar. From a species of maple, Acer Saccharinum, sugar is annually obtained in America in considerable quantities. In Mexico it is extracted from the American Aloe, Agave Americana, and at Kamschatka from the HeracleumSphondylium, and Fucus Saccharinus. Many roots also afford sugar; as beet, carrots, parsnips, &c.

In cultivating the sugar-cane the following is the method generally adopted. The soil chosen is a rich vegetable mould, in such a situation that it

can be easily watered from the river. About the end of May, when the soil is reduced to the state of mud, one or two joints, are planted in rows, about four feet from row to row, and a foot and a foot and a half asunder in the rows. From three to six canes spring from each of the slips which are set. They are cut in January and February, about nine months after they are planted; at which time they reach the height of eight or ten feet, and the naked cane is from an inch to an inch and a quarter in diameter. They do not suffer the canes to flower; for when this takes place the juice loses much of its sweetness. The newly cut cane are put through the rollers of a mill, and their juice collected into large iron boilers, preparatory to its being made into sugar.

In North America it was noticed that sugar is produced from the Acer Saccharinum, or sugar maple tree, which abounds in its woods. The following is the method they adopt. When the tree is about twenty years old, it is then considered by them as having reached its maturity, its diameter being from two to three feet; and in the months of February, March, and April, when the sap most plentifully rises, they bore the tree with an augur to the depth of three quarters of an inch, and in an ascending direction. The hole is then deepened to two inches, and a wooden spout is introduced into the hole to direct the flow. The sap flows from four to six weeks. When it ceases on the south side, that on the north is bored. This process is said not injure the tree, but on the contrary im

proves it. An ordinary tree yields, in good seasons, from twenty to thirty gallons of sap, from which are made from five to six pounds of sugar; or every forty pounds of sap yield about a pound of sugar; so that it is only about one sixth as rich as the East India sugar-cane.

In order to make sugar, the expressed juice is boiled, with the addition of quicklime, or the vegetable alkali, (potash,) to saturate the superabundant acid. The boiling is afterwards repeated in smaller and smaller vessels, during which process it is often necessary to scum off the impurities, and to employ additional alkali. When the juice acquires a due consistency, it is suffered to cool in a proper vessel, and the sugar concretes in a crystallized or granular mass. This,after it is separated from the molasses, is sold under the name of brown or moist sugar. This same sugar, more purified, becomes white; and, being cast into conical moulds in the process, is then the loafsugar of the shops.

Moist or brown sugar is the state in which it is generally imported from the West Indies. When refined among ourselves, it yields the following products from a cwt. of 112lbs.

Refined loaf-sugar, about 64lbs.
Bastard sugar

Treacle

-17

-28

Extraneous impurities -3=112

The bastard sugar is easily distinguished from other brown sugar by its dulness, for it has lost the shining, sparkling appearance of the moist sugar. It is an inferior article, being merely a residuum from making the refined, or loaf sugar, containing less of the saccharine principle, and is ground up to a very fine powder, and in that state sold at an inferior price.

The sugar spoken of above is produced either from the sugar-cane, or the maple sugar tree; but there are besides this various other kinds, sugar of figs, sugar of grapes, Botany Bay sugar, mushroom sugar, and sugar of manna. All of these chemically differ, and vary likewise in their degree of sweet

ness.

But besides these we should mention the sugar of starch; for it is a curious

fact that this substance is capable of being converted into a sugar possessing exactly the same property as the sugar of grapes. This singular discovery was made by Kirchhoff, a Russian chemist, as he was employed in a set of experiments to convert starch into gum. He conceived that the starch would be rendered soluble in water by boiling it with with very dilute sulphuric acid; and by prolonging the boiling he gradually observed the conversion of the starch into sugar. Saussure ascertained that an hundred parts of starch, when converted into sugar, became one hundred and ten parts. Hence he drew as a conclusion that starch sugar is merely a compound of starch and water in a solid state.

This process of converting starch into sugar is exceedingly simple. The starch may be procured either from wheat or potatoes. It must then be mixed with four times its weight of wa ter, and about one hundred part its weight of sulphuric acid, and the mixture boiled for thirty-six hours, fresh water being supplied from time to time as fast it evaporates. After the boiling is over, lime must be added, so as to saturate the sulphuric acid, and the sulphate of lime thus formed must be separated by filtering. The liquor which remains is only sugar and water, and if concentrated by sufficient evaporation the sugar only will appear.

Sugar, as a part of our necessarry food, or as adding to our luxuries, is too well known to require description. But its use as an aliment is by different medical men differently appreciated. While the great Boerhaave supposed it to have a tendency to emaciate the human body, John Hunter recommended it as a restorative in cases of debility. However, in a moderate proportion, there can be little doubt but that it is nutritious, for all animals supported in their earliest state by milk, are nourished by a food containing a great proportion of sugar; and Dr. Cullen is of opinion that all food is nutritious in proportion to its saccharine quality. Still there are well authenticated cases in which an excess of sugar has been found to have done much harm.

EWEN OF THE LITTLE HEAD.

ABOUT three hundred years ago the island of Mull, having been engage ed in a quarrel with a neighbouring chief, a day was fixed for determining the affair by the sword. Lochbuy, before the day arrived, consulted a celebrated witch as to the result of the feud. The witch declared, that if Lochbuy's wife should on the morning of that day give him and his men food, unasked, he would be victorious; but if not, the result would be the reverse. This was a disheartening response for the unhappy votary, his wife being a

noted shrew.

The fatal morning arrived, and the hour for meeting the enemy approached, but there appeared no symptoms of refreshment for Lochbuy and his men. At length the unfortunate man was compelled to ask his wife to supply them with food. She set down before them curds, but without spoons. When the husband inquired how they were to be eaten, she replied they should assume the bills of hens. The men ate the curds, as well as they could, with their hands; but Lochbuy himself ate none. After behaving with the greatest bravery in the bloody conflict which ensued, he fell covered with wounds, leaving his wife to the execration of his people. She is still known in that district under the appellation of Corr dhu, or the Black Crane.

But the miseries brought on the luckless Lochbuy by his wife did not end with his life, for he died fasting; and his ghost is frequently seen to this day riding the very horse on which he was mounted when he was killed. It was a small, but very neat and active pony, dun, or mouse-coloured, to which the Laird was much attached, and on which he had ridden many years before his death. His appearance is as accurately described in the island of Mull as any steed is at Newmarket. The prints of his shoe are discerned by connoisseurs, and the rattling of his

curb is recognized in the darkest night. He is not particular in regard to roads,

for he goes up hill and down dale with still wears the same green cloak which covered him in his last battle; and he is particularly distinguished by the small size of his head, a peculiarity which, we suspect, the learned disciples of Spurzheim have never yet had the sagacity to discover as indicative of an extraordinary talent and incomparable perseverance in horsemanship.

It is now above three hundred years since Ewen a chin vig (Anglice, Hugh of the Little Head,) fell in the field of honour; but neither the vigour of the horse nor of the rider is yet diminished. His mournful duty has always been to attend the dying moments of every member of his own numerous tribe, and to escort the departed spirit on its long and arduous journey. He has been seen in the remotest of the Hebrides; and he has found his way to Ireland on these occasions long before steam navigation was invented. About a century ago he took a fancy for a young man of his own race, and frequently did him the honour of placing him behind himself on horseback; he entered into conversation with him, and foretold circumstances connected with the fate of his successors, which have undoubtedly since come to pass.

Many a long winter night have I listened to the feats of Ewen a chin vig, the faithful and indefatigable guardian of his ancient family, in the hour of her last and greatest trial, affording an example worthy the imitation of every chief,-perhaps not beneath the notice of Glengarry himself.

About a dozen years since, some symptoms of Ewen's decay gave very general alarm to his friends. He accosted one of his own people, (indeed he never has been known to notice any other,) and shaking him cordially by the hand, he attempted to place him on the saddle behind him, but the uncourteous dog declined the honour. Ewen

struggled hard, but the clown was a great, strong, clumsy fellow, and stuck to the earth with all his might. He candidly acknowledged, however, that his Chief would have prevailed, had it not been for a birch tree which stood by, and which he got within the fold of his left arm. The contest became then very warm indeed, and the tree was certainly twisted like an osier, as thousands can testify who saw it as well as myself. At length, however, Ewen lost his seat for the first time! and the instant the pony found he was his own master, he set off with the fleetness of lightning. Ewen immediately pursued his steed, and the wearied rustic sped his way homeward. It was the general opinion that Ewen found considerable difficulty in catching the horse; but I was happy to

learn that he had unquestionably succeeded, as he had been lately seen riding the old mouse-coloured pony without the least change on either the horse or the rider. Long may they continue so! Many a highland chief strutted along the streets of Edinburgh on a late memorable occasion, with a tail full twenty yards in length, who did not enjoy half so much of the love of his people as does poor Ewen a chin vig at this day.

Those who from motives of piety or curiosity have visited the sacred island of Iona, must remember to have seen the guide point out the Tomb of Ewen, with his figure on horseback, very elegantly sculptured in alto-relievo; and many of the above facts are at the same time related. Lond. Lit. Gaz.

THE Ritter Bann from Hungary Came back, renown'd in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry And love and ladies' charms.

While other knights held revels, he Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom, And in Vienna's hostelrie

Slow paced his lonely room.

There enter'd one whose face he knew,Whose voice, he was aware,

He oft at mass had listen'd to,

In the holy house of prayer.

Twas the Abbot of St. James's monks,
A fresh and fair old man:
His reverend air arrested even
The gloomy Ritter Bann.

But seeing with him an ancient dame
Come clad in Scotch attire,
The Ritter's colour went and came,
And loud he spoke in ire.

"Ha! nurse of her that was my bane,
Kafae not her name to me;

I wish it blotted from my brain :
Art poor?-take alins, and fice."

"Sir Knight," the abbot interposed,
*This case your ear demands;"

And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed In both her trembling hands:

Remember, each his sentence waits; And be that shall rebut

Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates Of Mercy shall be shut.

You wedded undispensed by Church,
Your cousin Jane in Spring-

In Autumn, when you went to search
For churchmen's pardoning,

Her house denounced your marriage-band,
Betrothed her to De Grey,

And the ring you put upon her hand
Was wrench'd by force away.

Then wept your Jane upon my neck,
Crying, 'Help me, nurse, to flee
To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills;'
But word arrived-ah me!-

You were not there; and 'twas their threat,
By foul means or by fair,
To-morrow morning was to set

The seal of her despair.

I had a son, a sea-boy in

A ship at Hartland bay,
By his aid from her cruel kin
I bore my bird away.

To Scotland from the Devon's
Green myrtle shores we fled;
And the Hand that sent the ravens
To Elijah, gave us bread.

She wrote you by my son, but he
From England sent us word
You had gone into some far countrie,
In grief and gloom he heard.

For they that wrong'd you, to elude
Your wrath, defamed my child ;

And you-ay, blush Sir, as you should-
Believed, and were beguiled.

To die but at your feet, she vow'd To roam the world; and we

Would both have sped and begg'd our bread,
But so it might not be.

For when the snow-storm beat our roof,
She bore a boy, Sir Bann,

Who grew as fair your likeness proof
As child e'er grew like man.

'Twas smiling on that babe one morn
While heath bloom'd on the moor,
Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn
As he hunted past our door.

She shunn'd him, but he raved of Jane,
And rous'd his mother's pride;
Who came to us in high disdain,—
'And where's the face,' she cried,

'Has witch'd my boy to wish for one
So wretched for his wife?-
Dost love thy husband? Know, my son
Has sworn to seek his life.'

The treachery took, she waited wild;
My slave came back and lied
Whate'er I wish'd; she clasp'd her child,
And swoon'd, and all but died.

I felt her tears for years and years
Quench not my flame, but stir;
The very hate I bore her mate
Increased my love for her.

Fame told us of his glory, while
Joy flush'd the face of Jane ;
And whilst she bless'd his name, her smile
Struck fire into my brain,

No fears could damp; I reach'd the camp,
Sought out its champion;

And if my broad-sword fail'd at last, 'Twas long and well laid on.

This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn,

My foe's the Ritter Bann."

The wafer to his lips was borne,

And we shrived the dying man.

He died not till you went to fight
The Turks at Warradein;

But I see my tale bas changed you pale.”—
The abbot went for wine;

And brought a little page who pour'd
It out, and knelt and smiled:-
The stunn'd knight saw himself restored
To childhood in his child.

And stoop'd and caught him to his breast,
Laugh'd loud and wept anon,

And with a shower of kisses press'd
The darling little one.

Here paused the nurse, and thus began
The abbot, standing by:
"Three months ago a wounded man

To our abbey came to die.

He heard me long, with ghastly eyes
And hand obdurate clench'd,
Speak of the worm that never dies,
And the fire that is not quench'd.

At last by what this scroll attests
He left atonement brief,
For years of anguish to the breasts
His guilt had wrung with grief.

"There lived,' be said, 'a fair young dame Beneath my mother's roof,

I loved her, but against my flame
Her purity was proof.

I feign'd repentance, friendship pure;
That mood she did not check,
But let her husband's miniature
Be copied from her neck.

As means to search him, my deceit
Took care to him was borne
Nought but his picture's counterfeit,
And Jane's reported scorn.

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her.""And has she ta'en the veil ?"—

"Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar Rash words."-They sat all three,

And the boy play'd with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee.

"Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,"

The abbot further said:

"Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face

More deep than cloister's shade.

Grief may have made her what you can
Scarce love perhaps for life."-
"Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann,
"Or tell me where's my wife."

The priest undid two doors that bid
The inn's adjacent room,
And there a lovely woman stood,

Tears bathed her beauty's bloom.

One moment may with bliss repay Unnumber'd hours of pain;

Such was the throb and mutual sob Of the Knight embracing Jane. April, 1824.