able assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and 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 fires 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 called 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 obsoniorum. I speak not of your grown porkers-things between pig and pork-those hobbledehoysbut a young and tender suckling-under a moon old-guiltless as yet of the sty-with no original speck of the amor immunditie, the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet manifest-his voice, as yet not broken, but something between a childish treble and a grumble the mild forerunner, or præludium, of a grunt. He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our ancestors ate them seethed or boiledbut what a sacrifice of the exterior tegument! There is no flavour comparable, I will contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted crackling, as it is well called the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance-with the adhesive oleaginous-O call it not fat-but an indefinable sweetness growing up to it-the tender blossoming of fat-fat cropped in the budtaken in the shoot-in the first innocence— the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's yet pure food-the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna-or, rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian result, or common substance. Behold him, while he is doing-it seemeth rather a refreshing warmth, than a scorching heat, that he is so passive to. How equably he twirleth round the string! Now he is just done. To see the extreme sensibility of that tender age, he hath wept out his pretty eyes-radiant jellies-shooting stars See him in the dish, his second cradle, how meek he lieth!-wouldst thou have had this innocent grow up to the grossness and indocility which too often accompany maturer swinehood? Ten to one he would have proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disagreeable animal-wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation-from these sins he is happily snatched away— Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade, his memory is odoriferous—no clown curseth, while his stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon-no coal-heaver bolteth him in reeking sausages-he hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicureand for such a tomb might be content to die. He is the best of Sapors. Pine-apple is great. She is indeed almost too transcendent -a delight, if not sinful, yet so like to sinning, that really a tender-conscienced person would do well to pause-too ravishing for mortal taste, she woundeth and excoriateth the lips that approach her-like lovers' kisses, she biteth-she is a pleasure bordering on pain from the fierceness and insanity of her relish -but she stoppeth at the palate--she meddleth not with the appetite-and the coarsest hunger might barter her consistently for a mutton chop. Pig-let me speak his praise-is no less provocative of the appetite than he is satisfactory to the criticalness of the censorious palate. The strong man may batten on him, and the weakling refuseth not his mild juices. Unlike to mankind's mixed characters, a bundle of virtues and vices, inexplicably intertwisted, and not to be unravelled without hazard, he is good throughout. No part of him is better or worse than another. He helpeth, as far as his little means extend, all around. He is the least envious of banquets. He is all neighbours' fare. THE WARLOCK OF AIKWOOD.1 [Walter Graham Blackie, Ph.D., F.R.G.S., born in Glasgow, 1816. Educated privately, and at the univer sity of his native city. Whilst studying in Germany he obtained the degree of Doctor of Philosophy from the University of Jena. He has written several songs and translations of poetry and prose; but his principal work is the Imperial Gazetteer, a Dictionary of General Geography, on which he was engaged about ten years. For the purpose of consulting original authorities for the latter work, he acquired eight European languages] Ae gloamin, as the sinking sun Gaed owre the wastlin' braes, Auld Michael sat his leafu' lane Down by the streamlet's side, Wi' mennons wee, that loup'd for joy, And cross the stream, frae stane to stane, I am one of those who freely and ungrudg ingly impart a share of the good things of this life which fall to their lot (few as mine are in this kind) to a friend. I protest I take as great an interest in my friend's pleasures, his relishes, and proper satisfactions, as in mine own. "Presents," I often say, "endear Absents." Hares, pheasants, partridges, snipes, barn-door chickens (those "tame villatic fowl"), capons, plovers, brawn, barrels of oysters, I dispense as freely as I receive them. I love to taste them, as it were, upon the tongue of my friend. But a stop must be put somewhere. One would not, like Lear, "give everything." I make my stand upon pig. Methinks it is an ingratitude to the Giver of all good flavours, to extra-domiciliate, or send out of the house, slightingly (undered is thus narrated by Sir Walter Scott in the notes to pretext of friendship, or I know not what), a blessing so particularly adapted, predestined, I may say, to my individual palate. It argues an insensibility. MEMORIES. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, SHAKSPEARE. The sportive maukin frae his form 1 The tradition upon which the present ballad is found the Lay of the Last Minstrel:-Sir Michael Scott "was chosen, it is said, to go upon an embassy, to obtain from the King of France satisfaction for certain piracies committed by his subjects upon those of Scotland. Instead of preparing a new equipage and splendid retinae, the ambassador retreated to his study, opened his book, and evoked a fiend in the shape of a huge black horse, mounted upon his back, and forced him to fly through the air towards France. As they crossed the sea, the devil insidiously asked his rider, what it was that the old women of Scotland muttered at bed-time? A less experienced wizard might have answered, that it was the Pater Noster, which would have licensed the devil to precipitate him from his back. But Michael sternly replied, 'What is that to thee? Mount, Diabolus, and fly!' When he arrived at Paris, he tied his horse to the gate of the palace, entered, and boldly delivered his message. An ambassador, with so little of the pomp and circumstance of diplomacy, was not received with much respect; and the king was about to return a contemptuous refusal to his demand, when Michael besought him to suspend his resolution till he had seen his horse stamp three times. The first stamp shook every steeple in Paris, and caused all the bells to ring: the second threw down three of the towers of the palace; and the infernal steed had lifted his hoof to give the third stamp, when the king rather chose to dismiss Michael with the most ample concessions, than to stand to the probable consequences. The paitricks whirring nearer flew,— But, hark! what is't I hear? Auld Michael raised his stately form, Right weel he kenn'd what knight and horse "Our gracious king, to whom the Lord This packet to his kinsman sends- "And ye maun hie as fast as horse Will bear you owre the lea, To Frenchman's land, and to the king "An answer frae the Frenchman ye Maun seek for clean aff hand, So spak' the knight, and Michael bow'd: Auld Michael to his closet gaed, But lang he baid na there, He donn'd a cleuck baith auld and queer, Frae a phial sma' a drap he pour'd, "Sir Michael Scott," according to the same high authority, "flourished during the 13th century, and was one of the ambassadors sent to bring the Maid of Norway to Scotland, upon the death of Alexander III. He was a man of much learning, chiefly acquired in foreign countries. He wrote a commentary upon Aristotle, printed at Venice in 1496; and several treatises upon natural philosophy, from which he appears to have been addicted to the abstruse studies of judicial astrology, alchymy, physiognomy, and chiromancy. Hence he passed among his contemporaries for a skilful magician. Dempster informs us, that he remembers to have heard in his youth, that the magic books of Michael Scott were still in existence, but could not be opened without danger, on account of the fiends who were thereby invoked.- Dempsteri Historia Ecclesiastica, 1627, lib. xii. p. 495. Lesly characterizes Michael Scott as 'singulari philosophiæ, astronomiæ, ac medicinæ laude præstans; dicebatur penitissimos magia recessus indagasse.' A personage, thus spoken of by biographers and historians, loses little of his mystical fame in vulgar tradition. Accordingly, the memory of Sir Michael Scott survives in many a legend; and in the south of Scotland, any work of great labour and antiquity is ascribed, either to the agency of Auld Michael, of Sir William Wallace, or of the devil." The lowe he toss'd up in the air, The sky grew black as coal, Some words he spak' that nae man kenn'd, And thunders 'gan to roll. The lightnings flash'd, the loud winds blew And tall trees bent their stately forms Midst war o' winds and thunder's crash, His count'nance glow'd, for see he comes A tall black steed, with eyes of flame, By this the storm had gone to rest, The warlock and his steed flew on, Nought stay'd their headlong way, The highest peak, the lowest glen, Were spang'd as 'twere but play. They bounded on, and night-owls screeched, And in their beds the sleepers gran'd On, on they sped like wintry blast, The palace porters trembling scann'd At Michael's dress; but soon with voice "What! ye refuse, ye cringing pack, A messenger so mean? Then stamp, my steed, and let them feel We're better than we seem!" The black horse stamp'd; and lo! the bells The steeple towers shook to their base "What! do ye still my suit refuse? Then stamp, my steed, once more!" The courtiers shook for very fear, And cross'd themselves right sore. Clash went the hoof, and sounds of woe Were heard on ev'ry side, The thunders roll'd, the lightnings glar'd, And through the air did ride Unearthly forms, with hoop and ho! That spewed forth smoke and fire. "Alack-a day "quoth the courtiers all, "That e'er we rais'd his ire." 66 The muckle bell in Notre Dame 1 Came tumbling down amain. The palace shook like saughen bush Or like the corn ears in the sheaf, That harvest reaper binds. The king frae regal seat was toss'd, For a vulgar part o' his bodie Came thud upon the floor. "Alack-a-day!" his kingship moan'd, Maun e'en be mair than mortal man- "He e'er cam' to our palace yett!" But Michael now nae langer Wad wait. "Ye poltroon knaves, tak' tent! The third stamp shall be stranger." "Stop! stop!" they cried, "thy mighty pow'r Nae mair we can withstand, A third stamp of thy fell black horse An answer in hot haste was giv'n, And as they pass'd o'er Dover Straits, 1 Notre Dame, the principal cathedral in Paris, stands upon an island in the middle of the river Seine, which intersects the city. 2 Gargoyle-A projecting water spout, common to different styles of architecture, and frequently sculp tured into the shape of an open-mouthed monster. A pawky beast, and, as he pleas'd, Was horse, or de'il, or man. "Come tell to me, O master mine! But Michael was ow're slee e'en for The cunning o' the deil"What's that to thee, Diabolus? Mount, or my wand thou'lt feel. "But if indeed thou fain wadst ken "And when the sun has left the lift, Out through the blue, and sounds o' toil "Then wilt thou see auld Scotia's dames "A name, Diabolus! more dread "By this time they had England cross'd, Here Michael parting frae his steed "What ho! Sir Michael, art thou here? Hast dar'd to disobey My orders, that ambassador To France thou'dst haste away?" "Wilt please my sov'reign to receive This packet from my hand? With right good will I have obey'd My monarch's just command." The king transfix'd wi' wonder stood, Lang ere their senses had return'd TITA'S WAGER. [William Black, born in Glasgow, November, 1841. Novelist and journalist. His chief works are: Love or Marriage; In Silk Attire: Kilmeny: The Monarch of Mincing Lane; A Daughter of Heth; The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton; and A Princess of Thule. The Spectator says that in his work "there is a mingling of humour of the raciest with pathos most truly simple and dignified." Another critic says: "Mr. Black never relies for effect upon violent means. He contrives by delicate, subtile, but sure touches to win the interest of his readers, and to retain it till the last volume is laid down with reluctance." On the Continent and in America, as well as in England, Mr. Black has obtained general recognition as one of our best and most distinguished writers of fiction. He was sometime editor of Charlie! Now I hope he will get on with his profession, and leave such things out of his head. And as for that creature". "I will do you the justice to say," observes her husband, who is still regarding the table with a longing eye, "that you did oppose this match, because you hadn't the making of it. If you had brought these two together they would have been married ere this. Never mind; you can marry him to somebody of your own choosing, now." "No; he must not think of marriage. He cannot think of it. It will take the poor lad a long time to get over this blow." "He will marry within a year." "I will bet you whatever you like that he the London Review, subsequently of the Examiner, and doesn't," she says, triumphantly. has been for several years on the editorial staff of the London Daily News. The following sketch is quoted from the Christmas number (1873) of the Illustrated London News.] CHAPTER I. FRANZISKA. It is a Christmas morning-cold, still, and gray, with a frail glimmer of sunshine coming through the bare trees to melt the hoar-frost on the lawn. The postman has just gone out, swinging the gate behind him. A fire burns brightly in the breakfast-room; and there is silence about the house, for the children have gone off to climb Box-hill before being marched to church. The small and gentle lady who presides over this household walks sedately in, and lifts the solitary letter that is lying on her plate. About three seconds suffice to let her run through its contents, and then she suddenly cries "I knew it! I said it! I told you two months ago she was only flirting with him; and now she has rejected him. And oh! I am so glad of it! The poor boy!" The other person in the room, who has been meekly waiting for his breakfast for half an hour, ventures to point out that there is nothing to rejoice over in the fact of a young man having been rejected by a young woman. "If it were final, yes! If these two young folks were not certain to go and marry somebody else, you might congratulate them both. But you know they will. The poor boy will go courting again in three months' time, and be vastly pleased with his condition." "Whatever I like! That is a big wager. If you lose, do you think you could pay? I should like, for example, to have my own way in my own house." "If I lose you shall," says the generous creature; and the bargain is concluded. Two Nothing further is said about this matter for the moment. The children return from Box-hill, and are rigged out for church. young people, friends of ours, and recently married, having no domestic circle of their own, and, having promised to spend the whole of Christmas-day with us, arrive. Then we set out, trying as much as possible to think that Christmas-day is different from any other day, and pleased to observe that the younger folk, at least, preserve the delusion. But just before we reach the church, I say to the small lady who got the letter in the morning, and whom we generally call Tita"When do you expect to see Charlie?" "I don't know," she answers. "After this cruel affair he won't like to go about much." "You remember that he promised to go with us to the Black Forest?" "Yes; and I am sure it will be a pleasant trip for him." |