Beet Root Sugar.

There are now in France upwards of one hundred manufactories of beet root sugar, from which were produced last year upwards of 5,000 tons of sugar, worth 60 l. per ton, or 300,000 l.; the profit of which is estimated at 15 l. an acre; but, says one of the manufacturers, the process may be so far improved, that sugar will be made in France from the beet root at 30 l. per ton, which will increase the profit to 24 l. an acre.  A writer in the Quarterly Journal of Agriculture observes that “it is difficult to conceive that one half of the sugar consumed in Great Britain, or in all Europe, will not, in a few years, be home-made beet root sugar.”

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SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

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LORD BYRON AND SIR WALTER SCOTT AT WATERLOO.

By a Sexagenarian.

In his transit to Italy in August, 1816, Lord Byron visited Brussels (where I was residing) accompanied by Dr. Polidori.  The moment I heard of his arrival, I waited on him, and was received with the greatest cordiality and kindness.

As he proposed visiting Waterloo on the following morning, I offered my services as his cicerone, which were graciously accepted, and we set out at an early hour, accompanied by his compagnon de voyage.  The weather was propitious, but the poet’s spirits seemed depressed, and we passed through the gloomy forest of Soignies without much conversation.  As the plan of the inspection of the field had been left to me, I ordered our postilion to drive to Mont St. Jean, without stopping at Waterloo.  We got out at the monuments.  Lord Byron gazed about for five minutes without uttering a syllable; at last, turning to me, he said—­“I am not disappointed.  I have seen the plains of Marathon, and these are as fine.  Can you tell me,” he continued, “where Picton fell? because I have heard that my friend Howard was killed at his side, and nearly at the same moment.”

The spot was well known, and I pointed with my finger to some trees near it, at the distance of one hundred and fifty yards:  we walked to the spot.  “Howard,” said his lordship, with a sigh, “was my relation and dear friend; but we quarrelled, and I was in the wrong; we were, however, reconciled, at which I now rejoice.”  He spoke these words with great feeling, and we returned to examine the monument of Sir Alexander Gordon, a broken column, on which he made some criticisms, bestowing great praise on the fraternal affection of his brother, who had erected it.  He did not seem much interested about the positions of the troops, which I pointed out to him; and we got into our carriage, and drove to the Chateau Goumont, the poet remaining silent, pensive, and in a musing mood, which I took care not to interrupt.