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 home the pig, the crathur, to his dinner, before it gets cowld an him.”  “Barney, go an’ see if you can see the pig, the crathur, his buckwhist will soon be ready.”  “Barney, run an’ dhrive the pig, the crathur, out of Larry Neil’s phatie-field:  an’, Barney, whisper, a bouchal bawn, don’t run too hard, Barney, for fraid you’d lose your breath.  What if the crathur does get a taste o’ the new phaties—­small blame to him for the same!”