a decided improvement must be made in it
before it can become valuable enough to find its way into the European
market; although I must confess that, as it is, I should be most happy
to see it supplant the poisonous liquids called champagne which appear
at our "suppers," and at many of our hotels.

The "Burnet House" is the principal hotel here, and afforded me every
comfort I could have expected, not the least being the satisfaction I
derived from the sight of the proprietor, who, in the spotless
cleanliness of his person and his "dimity," and surrounded by hosts of
his travelling inmates--myself among the number--stood forth in bold
relief, like a snowball in a coal-hole.

But we must now visit the great lion of the place, whence the city
obtains the _sobriquet_ of "Porkopolis," i.e., the _auto da fe_ of the
unclean animal. We will stroll down and begin at the beginning; but
first let me warn you, if your nerves are at all delicate, to pass this
description over, for, though perfectly true, it is very horrid. "Poor
piggy must die" is a very old saying; whence it came I cannot tell; but
were it not for its great antiquity, Cincinnati might claim the honour.
Let us however to the deadly work!

The post of slaughter is at the outskirts of the town, and as you
approach it, the squeaking of endless droves proceeding to their doom
fills the air, and in wet weather the muck they make is beyond
description, as the roads and streets are carelessly made, and as
carelessly left to fate. When we were within a couple of hundred yards
of the slaughter-house, they were absolutely knee-deep, and, there being
no trottoir, we were compelled to wait till an empty cart came by, when,
for a small consideration, Jonathan ferried us through the mud-pond.
Behind the house is the large pen in which the pigs are first gathered,
and hence they are driven up an inclined plane into a small partition
about twelve feet square, capable of containing from ten to fifteen pigs
at once. In this inclosure stands the executioner, armed with a
hammer,--something in shape like that used to break stones for the roads
in England--his shirt-sleeves turned up, so that nothing may impede the
free use of his brawny arms. The time arrived, down comes the hammer
with deadly accuracy on the forehead of poor piggy, generally killing
but sometimes only stunning him, in which case, as he awakes to
consciousness in the scalding caldron, his struggles are frightful to