While his faculties are still his own, only observe how, with a bark or snort, he starts if you approach him, and mark what shrewd intelligence there is in his bright, twinkling little eye; but with pigs, as with mankind, idleness is the root of all evil. The poor animal, finding that he has absolutely nothing to do--having no enjoyment--nothing to look forward to but the pail which feeds him, naturally most eagerly, or as we accuse him, most greedily, greets its arrival. Having no natural business or diversion--nothing to occupy his brain--the whole powers of his system are directed to the digestion of a superabundance of food. To encourage this, nature assists him with sleep, which lulling his better faculties, leads his stomach to become the ruling power of his system--a tyrant that can bear no one's presence but his own. The poor pig, thus treated, gorges himself--sleeps--eats again--sleeps--wakens in a fright--screams--struggles against the blue apron--screams fainter and fainter--turns up the whites of his little eyes--and--dies! It is probably from abhorring this picture, that I know of nothing which is more distressing to me than to witness an indolent man eating his own home-fed pork. There is something so horribly similar between the life of the human being and that of his victim--their notions on all subjects are so unnaturally contracted--there is such a melancholy resemblance between the strutting residence in the village, and the stalking confinement in the sty--between the sound of the dinner-bell and the rattling of the pail--between snoring in an armchair and grunting in clean straw--that, when I contrast the "pig's countenance" in the dish with that of his lord and master, who, with outstretched elbows, sits leaning over it, I own I always feel it is so hard the one should have killed the other.--In short there is a sort of "Tu quoque, BRUTE!" moral in the picture, which to my mind is most painfully distressing. The author thus speaks in relation to the mineral water of Wiesbaden.