vinced by the Irish
parties, that would have struck them with greater admiration.

The pigs, however, of the present day are a fat, gross, and degenerate
breed; and more like well-fed aldermen, than Irish pigs of the old
school. They are, in fact, a proud, lazy, carnal race, entirely of the
earth, earthy. John Bull assures us it is one comfort, however, that
we do not eat, but ship them out of the country; yet, after all, with,
great respect to John, it is not surprising that we should repine a
little on thinking of the good old times of sixty years since, when
every Irishman could kill his own pig, and eat it when he pleased. We
question much whether any measure that might make the eating of meat
compulsory upon us, would experience from Irishmen a very decided
opposition. But it is very condescending in John to eat our beef and
mutton; and as he happens to want both, it is particularly disinterested
in him to encourage us in the practice of self-denial. It is possible,
however, that we may ultimately refuse to banquet by proxy on our own
provisions; and that John may not be much longer troubled to eat for us
in that capacity.

The education of an Irish pig, at the time of which we write, was an
important consideration to an Irishman. He, and his family, and his
pig, like the Arabian and his horse, all slept in the same bed; the
pig generally, for the sake of convenience, next the "stock" (* at the
outside). At meals the pig usually was stationed at the _serahag_, or
potato-basket; where the only instances of bad temper he ever displayed
broke out in petty and unbecoming squabbles with the younger branches
of the family. Indeed, if he ever descended from his high station as a
member of the domestic circle, it was upon these occasions, when, with
a want of dignity, accounted for only by the grovelling motive of
self-interest, he embroiled himself in a series of miserable feuds and
contentions about scraping the pot, or carrying off from the jealous
urchins about him more than came to his share. In these heart-burnings
about the good things of this world, he was treated with uncommon
forbearance: in his owner he always had a friend, from whom, when he
grunted out his appeal to him, he was certain of receiving redress:
"Barney, behave, avick: lay down the potstick, an' don't be batin' the
pig, the crathur."

In fact, the pig was never mentioned but with this endearing epithet of
"crathur" annexed. "Barney, go an' call