rather a feminine face,--not a gay, girlish one, but grave, reserved,
eying you sometimes with an earnest but secret expression, and causing
you to question what sort of person he is.


Friday, October 1st.--I have been looking at our four swine,--not of the
last lot, but those in process of fattening. They lie among the clean
rye straw in the sty, nestling close together; for they seem to be beasts
sensitive to the cold, and this is a clear, bright, crystal morning, with
a cool northwest-wind. So there lie these four black swine, as deep
among the straw as they can burrow, the very symbols of slothful ease and
sensuous comfort. They seem to be actually oppressed and overburdened
with comfort. They are quick to notice any one's approach, and utter a
low grunt thereupon,--not drawing a breath for that particular purpose,
but grunting with their ordinary breath,--at the same time turning an
observant, though dull and sluggish eye upon the visitor. They seem to
be involved and buried in their own corporeal substance, and to look
dimly forth at the outer world. They breathe not easily, and yet not
with difficulty nor discomfort; for the very unreadiness and oppression
with which their breath cones appears to make them sensible of the deep
sensual satisfaction which they feel. Swill, the remnant of their last
meal, remains in the trough, denoting that their food is more abundant
than even a hog can demand. Anon they fall asleep, drawing short and
heavy breaths, which heave their huge sides up and down; but at the
slightest noise they sluggishly unclose their eyes, and give another
gentle grunt. They also grunt among themselves, without any external
cause; but merely to express their swinish sympathy. I suppose it is the
knowledge that these four grunters are doomed to die within two or three
weeks that gives them a sort of awfulness in my conception. It makes me
contrast their present gross substance of fleshly life with the