"Very right too," said the landlord who no doubt spoke feelingly.
"Well," proceeded the knacker, "Ben drinks his share, and presently he takes his handkerchief out of his hat quite permiscuous like, and wipes his face. In a few minutes he feels a strange pain in the eyes just as if some dust had got in;—but he did'nt think much on it, and so we all goes back to the yard. In a few hours Ben was taken so bad he was obliged to give up work; and by eight or nine o'clock we was forced to take him to Bartholomew's Hospital. He was seized with dreadful fits of womiting; and matter come out of his nose, eyes, and month. By the morning his face was all covered over with sores; holes appeared in his eyes, just for all the world as if they had got a most tremendous small-pox in 'em; and his nose fell off. By three o'clock in the arternoon he was a dead man; and I heerd say that he died in the most awful agonies."
"And that was the glanders?" said the landlady.
"Yes: he got 'em by wiping his face with the pocket-handkerchief that had fallen on the horse's nostrils."
"How shocking!" ejaculated several voices.
"And is the glanders increasing?" asked the landlord.
"The glanders is increasing," answered the knacker; "and I feel convinced that it will soon become a disease as reglar amongst human beings as the small-pox or measles; 'cos the authorities doesn't do their duty in preventing the sale of diseased animals."
"And how would you remedy the evil?"
"I would have the Lord Mayor and Corporation appoint a proper veterinary surgeon as Inspector in Smithfield Market—a man of great experience and knowledge, who won't let himself be humbugged or gammoned by any of those infernal thieves that gets a living—aye, and makes fortunes too, by selling diseased animals doctored up for the occasion."
"Yes—that's certainly a capital plan of your'n," said the landlord approvingly. "But what becomes of all the flesh of the horses that go to your yards?"
"You may divide the horses that's killed by the knacker into three sorts," answered the man: "that is—first, those horses that is quite healthy but that has met with accidents in their limbs; second, those that is perhaps the least thing diseased, or in the wery last stage through old age; and third, those that is altogether rotten. The flesh of the first is bought by men whose business it is to boil it carefully, and sell it to the sassage-makers: it makes the sassages firm, and is much better than beef. There isn't a sassage shop in London that don't use it. Then the tongues of these first-rate animals goes to the butchers, who salts and pickles 'em: and I'm blow'd if any one could tell 'em from the best ox-tongues."
"Well, I'll never eat sassages or tongues again!" cried the landlady.
"Oh! nonsense—it's all fancy!" exclaimed the knacker. "Half the tongues that is sold for ox-tongues is horses' tongues. A knowing hand may always tell 'em, 'cos they're rayther longer and thinner: for my part, I like 'em just as well—every bit."
"And the flesh of the second sort of horses?"
"That goes to supply the cat's-meat men in the swell neighbourhoods; and the third sort, that is altogether putrid and rotten, is taken up by the cat's-meat men in the poor neighbourhoods."
"And do you mean to say that there's a difference even in cat's-meat between the rich and the poor customers?" demanded the landlord.
"Do I mean to say so?" repeated the knacker, in a tone which showed that he was surprised at the question being asked: "why, of course I do! The poor may be pisoned—and very often is too—for what the rich cares a fig. I can tell you more too: some of the first class horses'-meat—the sound and good, remember—is made into what's called hung-beef; some is potted; some is sold to the boarding-schools round London, where they takes in young gen'lemen and ladies at a wery low rate; and some is disposed of—but, no—I don't dare tell you—"
"Yes—do tell us!" said the landlady, in a coaxing tone.
"Do—there's a good fellow," cried the landlord.
"Come, tell us," exclaimed a dozen voices.
"No—no—I can't—I should get myself into a scrape, perhaps," said the knacker, who was only putting a more keen edge upon the curiosity which he had excited, for he intended to yield all the time.
"We won't say a word," observed the landlady.
"And I'll stand a quartern of blue ruin," added the landlord, "with three outs—for you, me, and the missus."
"Well—if I must, I must," said the knacker, with affected reluctance. "The fact is," he continued slowly, as if he were weighing every word he uttered, "some of the primest bits of the first-rate flesh that goes out of the knackers' yards of this wast metropolis is sent to the workuses!"
"The workhouses!" ejaculated the landlady: "oh, what a horror!"
"An abomination!" cried the landlord, filling three wine-glasses with gin.
"It is God's truth—and now that I've said it, I'll stick to it," said the knacker.
"It's a shame—a burning shame!" screamed a female voice. "My poor old mother's in the Union, after having paid rates and taxes for forty-two year; and if they make her eat horse's flesh, I'd like to know whether this country is governed by savages or not."
"And my brother's in a workus too," said a poor decrepit old man; "and he once kept his carriage and dined in company with George the Third at Guildhall, where he'd no end of turtle and venison. But, lack-a-daisy! this is a sad falling off, if he's to come down to horse-flesh in his old age."
"What's the use of all this here whining and nonsense, eh?" exclaimed the knacker. "Don't I tell you that good horse-flesh answers all the purposes of beef, and is eaten by the rich in the shape of sassages and tongues? What's the use, then, of making a fuss about it? How do you suppose the sassage-shops can afford to sell solid meat, without bone, at the price they do, if they didn't mix it with horses'-flesh? They pays two-pence a-pound for the first-class flesh—and so it must be good."
"Never mind," ejaculated a voice: "it's a shame to give paupers only a few ounces of meat a-week, and let that be horses'-flesh. It's high time these things was put an end to. Why don't the people take their own affairs in their own hands?"
"Come, now," said the knacker, assuming a dictatorial air, and placing his arms akimbo; "perhaps you ain't aweer that good first-class horses'-flesh is better than half the meat that is sold in certain markets—I shan't say which—for the benefit of the poor. Now you toddle out on Sunday night, on the Holloway, Liverpool, Mile End, and Hackney roads, and see the sheep, and oxen, and calves, coming into London for the next morning's market. Numbers of the poor beasts fall down and die through sheer fatigue. They're flayed and cut up all the same for the butcher's market. And what do you think becomes of all the beasts that die of disease and so on, in the fields? Do you suppose they're wasted? No such a thing! They are all cut up too for consumption. Just take a walk on a Saturday night through a certain market, after the gas is lighted—not before, mind—and look at the meat which is marked cheap. You'll see beef at two-pence half-penny a pound, and veal at three-pence. But what sort of stuff is it? Diseased—rotten! The butchers rub it over with fresh suet or fat, and that gives it a brighter appearance and a better smell. Howsomever, they can't perwent the meat from being quite thin, shrunk, poor, and flabby upon the bone."
"I'll bear witness