'You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it not enough that you have burned me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to you! but you must be eating fire, and I know not what-what have you got there, I say?'

O father, the pig, the pig! do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats.' The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he cursed him self that ever he should beget a son that should eat burnt pig.

Eo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father, only tasteO Lord!'-with such-like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the while as if he would choke.

Hio-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural young monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted some of its flavour, which, make what sour mouths he would for pretence, proved not altogether displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript here is a little too tedions) both father and son fairly sat down to the mess, and never left off till they had despatched all that remained of the litter.

Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the neighbours would certainly have stoned them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could think of improving upon the good meat which God had sent them. Nevertheless strange stories got about. It was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burned down now more frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time forward. Some would break out in broad day, others in the night-time. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than ever. At length they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, and father and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and a verdict about to be pronounced, when the foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might be handed into the box. He handled it, and they all handled it; and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to each of them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and the clearest charge which judge had ever given-to the surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present-without leaving the box, or any manner of consultation whatever, they brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty.

The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest iniquity of the decision; and when the court was dismissed, went privily, and bought up all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few days his lordship's town-house was observed to be on fire. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen but fire in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enormously dear all over the district. The insurance-offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very science of architecture would in no long time be lost to the world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued, till in process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a discovery, that the flesh of swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked (burned, as they call it) without the necessity of consuming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string or spit came in a century or two later, I forget in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the most useful and seemingly the most obvious arts make their way among mankind.

Without placing too implicit faith in the account above given, it must be agreed, that if a worthy pretext for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned in favour of any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might be found in ROAST PIG.

Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus edibilis, I will maintain it to be the most delicate-princeps absoniorum.

WILLIAM SOTHEBY.

WILLIAM SOTHEBY, an accomplished scholar and translator, was born in London on the 9th of November 1757. He was of god family, and educated at Harrow School. At the age of seventeen he entered the army as an officer in the 10th Dragoons. He quitted the army in the year 1780, and purchased Bevis Mount, near Southampton, where he continued to reside for the next ten years. Here Mr. Sotheby cultivated his taste for literature, and translated some of the minor Greek and Latin poets. In 1788, he made a pedestrian tour through Wales, of which he wrote a poetical description, published, together with some odes and sonnets, in 1789. In 1798, he published a translation from the Oberon' of Wieland, which greatly extended his reputation, and procured him the thanks and friendship of the German poet. He now became a frequent competitor for poetical fame. In 1799, he wrote a poem commemorative of the battle of the Nile; in 1800, appeared his translation of the Georgics' of Virgil; in 1301, he produced a 'Poetical Epistle on the Encouragement of the British School of Painting;' and in 1802, a tragedy on the model of the ancient Greek drama, entitled 'Orestes.' He next devoted himself to the composition of an original sacred poem, in blank verse, under the title of 'Saul,' which appeared in 1807. The fame of Scott induced him to attempt the romantic metrical style of narrative and description; and in 1810, he published Constance de Castille,' a poem in ten cantos. In 1814, he republished his 'Orestes,' together with four other tragedies; and in 1815, a second corrected edition of the Georgics.' This translation is one of the best of a classic poet in our language. A tour on the continent gave occasion to another poetical work, Italy.' He next began a labour which he had long contemplated, the translation of the Iliad' and 'Odyssey,' though he was upwards of seventy years of age before he entered upon the IIerculean task. The summer and autumn of 1829 were spent in a tour to Scotland: and the following verses, written in a steam-boat during an excursion to Staffa and Iona, shew the undiminished powers of the veteran poet:

Staffa, I scaled thy summit hoar,

I passed beneath thy arch gigantic,
Whose pillared cavern swells the roar,
When thunders on thy rocky shore
The roll of the Atlantic.

That hour the wind began to rave,

The surge forgot its motion,

And every pillar in thy cave
Slept in its shadow on the wave,
Unrippled by the ocean.

Then the past age before me came,
When 'mid the lightning's sweep,
Thy isle with its basaltic frame,
And every column wreathed with flame,
Burst from the boiling deep.

When 'mid Iona's wrecks meanwhile
O'er sculptured graves I trod,

Where Time had strewn each mouldering aisle
O'er saints and kings that reared the pile,

I hailed the eternal God:

Yet, Staffa, more I felt His presence in thy cave
Than where Iona's cross rose o'er the western wave.

Mr. Sotheby's translation of the Iliad' was published in 1831, and was generally esteemed spirited and faithful. The Odyssey' he completed in the following year. He died on the 30th of December 1833. The original poetical productions of Mr. Sotheby have not been reprinted; his translations are the chief source of his reputation. Wieland, it is said, was charmed with the genius of his translator; and the rich beauty of diction in the Oberon,' and its facility of versification, notwithstanding the restraints imposed by a dificult measure, were eulogised by the critics. In his tragedies, Mr. Sotheby displays considerable warmth of passion and figurative language, but his plots are ill-constructed. Byron said of Mr. Sotheby, that he imitated everybody, and occasionally surpassed his models.

Approach of Saul and his Guards against the Philistines
Hark! hark! the clash and clang

Of shaken cymbals cadencing the pace
Of marshal movement regular; the swell
Sonorous of the brazen trump of war;

Shrill twang of harps, soothed by melodious chime
Of beat on silvr bars; and sweet, in pause

Of harsher instrument, continuous flow

Of breath, through flutes, in symphony with song,
Choirs, whose matched voices filled the air afar
With jubilee and chant of triumph hymn;

And ever and anon irregular burst

Of loudest acclamation to each host

Saul's stately advance proclaimed. Before him youths
In robes succinct for swiftness; oft they struck

Their staves against the ground, and warned the throng
Backward to distant homage. Next, his strength
Of chariots rolled with each an armed band;
Earth groaned afar beneath their iron wheels:
Part armed with scythe for battle, part adorned
For triumph. Nor there wanting a led train
Of steeds in rich caparison, for show
Of solemn entry. Round about the king,
Warriors, his watch and ward, from every tribe
Drawn out. Of these a thousand each selects

Of size and comeliness above their peers,

Pride of their race. Radiant their armour: some
In silver cased, scale over scale, that played

All pliant to the litheness of the limb:

Some mailed in twisted gold, link within link
Flexibly ringed and fitted, that the eye-
Beneath the yielding panoply pursued,

When act of war the strength of man provoked,
The motion of the muscles, as they worked
In rise and fall. On cach left thigh a sword

Swurg in the 'broidered baldric; each right hand

Grasped a long-shadowing spear. Like them, their chiefs

Arrayed; save on their shields of solid ore,
And on their helm, the graver's toil had wrought
Its subtlety in rich device of war;

And o'er their mail, a robe, Punicean dye,

Gracefully played; where the winged shuttle, shot
By cunning of Sidonian virgins, wove

Broidure of many-coloured figures rare.

Bright glowed the sun, and bright the burnished mail
Of thousands, ranged, whose pace to song kept time;
And bright the glare of spears, and gleam of crests,
And flaunt of banners flashing to and fro
The noonday beam. Beneath their coming, earth
Wide glittered. Seen afar, amidst the pomp,
Gorgeously mailed, but more by pride of port
Known, and superior stature, than rich trim
Of war and regal ornament, the king,
Throned in triumphal car, with trophies graced,
Stood eminent. The lifting of his lance
Shone like a sunbeam. O'er his armour flowed
A robe, imperial mantle, thickly starred

With blaze of orient gems; the clasp that bound
Its gathered folds his ample chest athwart,

Sapphire; and o'er his casque where rubies burned,
A cherub flamed and waved his wings in gold.

EDWARD, LORD THURLOW.

EDWARD HOVELL THURLOW, Lord Thurlow (1781-1829), published several small volumes of poetry: Select Poems' (1821); 'Poems on Several Occasions;' 'Angelica, or the Fate of Proteus;' 'Arcita and Palamon, after Chaucer;' &c. Amidst much affectation and bad taste, there is real poetry in the works of this nobleman. He was a source of ridicule and sarcasm to wits and reviewers-including Moore and Byron-and not undeservedly; yet in pieces like the following, there is a freshness of fancy and feeling, and a richness of expression, that resembles Herrick or Moore:

May! queen of blossoms,
And fulfilling flowers,
With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Blown in the opeù mead?
Or to the lute give heed
In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipe or wire,
That hast the golden bee.
Ripened with fire;

And many thousand more
Songsters that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor
With new desire.

Song to May.

Sonnets.

Thou hast thy mighty herds,
Tame, and free livers;
Doubt not, thy music too
In the deep rivers;
And the whole plumy flight,
Warbling the day and night-
Up at the gates of light,
See, the lark quivers!

When with the jacinth

Coy fountains are tressed;
And for the mournful bird
Greenwoods are dressed,
That did for Tereus pine;
Then shall our songs be thine,
To whom our hearts incline:
May, be thou blest!

The Summer, the divinest Summer burns,
The skies are bright with azure and with gold;

The mavis, and the nightingale, by turns,

Amid the woods a soft enchantinent hold:
The flowering woods, with glory and delight,
Their tender leaves unto the air have spread;
The wanton air, amid their alleys bright,

Doth softly fly, and a light fragrance shed:
The nymphs within the silver fountains play,
The angels on the golden banks recline,
Wherein great Flora, in her bright array,

Hath sprinkled her ambrosial sweets divine.
Or, else, I gazed upon that beauteous face
O Amoret! and think these sweets have place.

O Moon, that shinest on this heathy wild,
And light'st the hill of Hastings with thy ray,
How am I with thy sad delight beguiled,
How hold with fond imagination play!
By thy broad taper I call up the time

When Harold on the bleeding verdure lay,
Though great in glory, overstained with crime,
And fallen by his fate from kingly sway!
On bleeding knights, and on war-broken arms,
Torn banners and the dying steeds you shone,
When this fair England, and her peerless charms,
And all, but honour, to the foe were gone!
Here died the king, whom his brave subjects chose,
But, dying, lay amid his Norman foes!

Charles Lamb, in a communication to the London Magazine,' says of Lord Thurlow: A profusion of verbal dainties, with a disproportionate lack of matter and circumstance, is, I think one reason of the coldness with which the public has received the poetry of a nobleman now living; which, upon the score of exquisite diction alone, is entitled to something better than neglect. I will venture to copy one of his sonnets in this place, which for quiet sweetness, and unaffected morality, has scarcely its parallel in our language.

To a Bird that haunted the Waters of Lacken in the Winter

A rare union of wit and sensibility, of brilliant fancy and of varied and diligent study, is exemplified in the poetical works of THOMAS