The juniper-trees
are very aged and decayed and moss-grown. The grass about the hospital
is rank, being trodden, probably, by nobody but myself. There is a
representation of a vessel under sail, cut with a penknife, on the corner
of the house.
Returning by the almshouse, I stopped a good while to look at the pigs,--a
great herd,--who seemed to be just finishing their suppers. They
certainly are types of unmitigated sensuality,--some standing in the
trough, in the midst of their own and others' victuals,--some thrusting
their noses deep into the food,--some rubbing their backs against a
post,--some huddled together between sleeping and waking, breathing
hard,--all wallowing about; a great boar swaggering round, and a big sow
waddling along with her huge paunch. Notwithstanding the unspeakable
defilement with which these strange sensualists spice all their food, they
seem to have a quick and delicate sense of smell. What
ridiculous-looking animals! Swift himself could not have imagined
anything nastier than what they practise by the mere impulse of natural
genius.
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