The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4). George W. M. Reynolds
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 to the truth of all wot you've been saying this last time," said a butcher's lad, stepping forward.
"Of course you can," exclaimed the knacker, casting a triumphant glance around him. "And do you know," he continued, "that half the diseases and illnesses which takes hold on us without any wisible cause, and which sometimes puzzles the doctors themselves, comes from eating this bad meat that I've been talkin' about. Now, tell me—ain't a bit out of a good healthy horse, that was killed in a reg'lar way, with the blood flowing, better than a joint off a old cow that dropped down dead of the yallows in a field during the night, and wasn't found so till the morning?"
With these words the knacker took his departure, leaving his hearers disgusted, indignant, and astonished at what they had heard.
As the clock struck nine, the Resurrection Man and the Cracksman entered the "Boozing Ken." They repaired straight into the parlour, and seemed disappointed at not finding there some one whom they evidently expected.
"He ain't come yet, the young spark," said the Cracksman. "And yet he's had plenty of time to go home and get a change o' linen and that like."
"May be he has turned into bed and had a good snooze," observed the Resurrection Man. "He is not so accustomed to remain up all night as we are."
"I think his head is rag'lar turned with what he has seen in the great crib yonder. He seemed to give sich exceeding wague answers to the questions we put to him as we walked through the park this morning. I've heerd say that the conwersation of great people is wery gammoning, and that they can't always understand each other: so, if young Holford has been listening to their fine talk, it's no wonder he's got crankey."
"Humbug!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man, sulkily. "Let's have some egg-flip, and we'll wait for him. If he comes he shall give us all the information we want; and if he doesn't, we will lay wait for him, carry him off to the crib, and let the Mummy take care of him till he chooses to speak."
"Yes—that'll be the best plan," said the Cracksman. "But don't you think it's a wery likely thing he wants to have the whole business to himself?"
"That's just what I do think," answered the Resurrection Man, "he'll find himself mistaken, though—I rather fancy."
"So do I," echoed the Cracksman. "But let's have this egg-flip."
With these words he ordered the beverage; and, in due time a quart pot filled with the inviting compound, with a foaming head, and exhaling a strong odour of spices, was brought in by a paralytic waiter, who had succeeded the slip-shod girl mentioned on a former occasion.
"Good stuff this," said the Cracksman, smacking his lips. "I wonder whether poor Buffer has got anythink half so good this morning."
"What's to-day? Oh! Friday," mused the Resurrection Man, as he sipped his quantum of flip from a tumbler, with a relish equal to that evinced by his companion: "let's see—what's the fare to-day in Clerkenwell Prison?"
"Lord! don't you recollect all that?" cried the Cracksman; and taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, he wrote the Dietary Table of Clerkenwell New Prison upon the wall:—
| Soup. | Gruel. | Meat. | Bread. | |
| Pint. | Pint. | Ounces. | Ounces. | |
| Monday | .. | 2½ | .. | 20 |
| Tuesday | .. | 1½ | 6 | 20 |
| Wednesday | .. | 2½ | .. | 20 |
| Thursday | .. | 2½ | .. | 20 |
| Friday | 1 | 1½ | .. | 20 |
| Saturday | .. | 1½ | 6 | 20 |
| Sunday | 1 | 1½ | .. | 20 |
| Total Weekly Allowance |
|