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• 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.
Bo-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.
Ho-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 good 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 1801, 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 Ilerculean 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,
The roll of the Atlantic.
The surge forgot its motion,
Unrippled by the ocean.
When 'mid the lightning's sweep,
When 'mid Iona's wrecks meanwhile
O'er sculptured graves I trod,
I hailed the eternal God:
Than where lona'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 difficult 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
Arrayed; save on their shields of solid ore,
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:
Song to May.
Thou hast thy mighty herds,
Tame, and free livers ;
Doubt not, thy music too
In the deep rivers ;
And the whole plumy flight, Blown in the open mead?
Warbling the day and night-
Up at the gates of light,
See, the lark quivers !
Thou hast no need of us,
When with the jacinth
Coy fountains are tressed;
And for the mournful bird
Greenwoods are dressed,
That did for Tereus pine; Songsters that thee adore,
Then shall our songs be thine,
To whom our hearts incline:
May, be thou blest !
The skies are bright with azure and with gold;
The mavis, and the nightingale, by turns,
Amid the woods a soft enchantment hold:
Their tender leaves unto the air have spread :
Doth softly fly, and a light fragrance shed:
The angels on the golden banks recline,
Hath sprinkled her ambrosial sweets divine.
O Moon, that shinest on this heathy wild,
And light'st the hill of Hastings with thy ray,
How hold with fond imagination play!
When Harold on the bleeding verdure lay,
And fallen by his fate from kingly sway!
Torn banners and the dying steeds you shone,
And all, but honour, to the foe were gone!
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
O melancholy bird, a winter's day
THOMAS MOORE. A rare union of wit and sensibility, of brilliant fancy and of varied and diligent study, is exemplified in the poetical works of THOMAS