"Still, Mary Ogilvie is the corner-stone of my happiness, and I am every thing to her. Her eye beams upon me, across the table, with love and gratitude, for taking her from society to which she was naturally superior, and raising her to her present condition; for bringing her home to my own bosom, and making her truly happy. Her presence consecrates to me the house in which she lives, and every thing with which she has to do. My eye follows her, as in gay contentment she moves lightly through the apartments, and fondly cherishes my darling children. The very sound of her fine feminine voice in the next room, or in the passages, strikes on my ear with heartfelt pleasure; and at night when, as I sit musing by the fire, I sometimes hear that voice warbling plaintively, in rich tones, wild and fanciful wood notes, to sing my babies to their rest, it takes captive my spirit by its soothing echoes in my quiet country dwelling,

and often brings tears from my eyes, by its affecting associations.

"This place," said I, throwing up the sash of the window, and looking out upon the undulating fields, distant mountains, and more distant sea, "is a paradise to me, since she came to it. The evils of artificial life I have almost forgotten; for here they are for ever hid from my eyes!'-Time steals away too fast in quiet enjoyment, and I look back upon my early ambition and purposes with a kind of uneasy terror. Blessed with ample competence, and cured of ambition, I am enabled to select, as friends and associates, those, who, from among the glitter of the high and the ignorance of the low, have seen and appreciated what is substantially good in human nature, who still find heads that think, and hearts that feel!' where ambition or mercenary selfishness has not tempted men to suppress or extinguish the amiable propensities implanted in the human bosom.

"The beauty of my estate, and of the surrounding neighbourhood, is increasing yearly; and this house of my fathers,-this land of my childhood, becomes dearer to me every hour!"I found myself unable to express fully what I felt, and quoted Shakspeare:

"I should guess,

If e'er content deigned visit mortal clime,
This was her place of dearest residence!"

ROAST PIG.

MANKIND, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do in Abys sinia to this day. This period is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations, where he designates a kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the cooks' holiday. manuscript goes on to say, that the art of roasting or rather broiling (which I take to be the

The

elder brother), was accidentally discovered in the manner following. The swine-herd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond of playing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which, kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian make-shift of a building, you may think it), what was of much more importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, no less than nine in number, perished. China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over the East from the remotest periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you may think; not so much for the sake of the tenement, which his father and he could easily build up