state to be killed, according to microscopic examinations made of
their fevered blood by one of the most distinguished physiologists
in the world, PROFESSOR OWEN - but that's humbug. When they ARE
killed, at last, their reeking carcases are hung in impure air, to
become, as the same Professor will explain to you, less nutritious
and more unwholesome - but he is only an UNcommon counsellor, so
don't mind HIM. In half a quarter of a mile's length of
Whitechapel, at one time, there shall be six hundred newly
slaughtered oxen hanging up, and seven hundred sheep - but, the
more the merrier - proof of prosperity. Hard by Snow Hill and
Warwick Lane, you shall see the little children, inured to sights
of brutality from their birth, trotting along the alleys, mingled
with troops of horribly busy pigs, up to their ankles in blood -
but it makes the young rascals hardy. Into the imperfect sewers of
this overgrown city, you shall have the immense mass of corruption,
engendered by these practices, lazily thrown out of sight, to rise,
in poisonous gases, into your house at night, when your sleeping
children will most readily absorb them, and to find its languid
way, at last, into the river that you drink - but, the French are a
frog-eating people who wear wooden shoes, and it's O the roast beef
of England, my boy, the jolly old English roast beef.
It is quite a mistake - a newfangled notion altogether - to suppose
that there is any natural antagonism between putrefaction and
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health. They know better than that, in the Common Council. You
may talk about Nature, in her wisdom, always warning man through
his sense of smell, when he draws near to something dangerous; but,
that won't go down in the City. Nature very often don't mean
anything. Mrs. Quickly says that prunes are ill for a green wound;
but whosoever says that putrid animal substances are ill for a
green wound, or for robust vigour, or for anything or for anybody,
is a humanity-monger and a humbug. Britons never, never, never,
&c., therefore. And prosperity to cattle-driving, cattleslaughtering,
bone-crushing, blood-boiling, trotter-scraping,
tripe-dressing, paunch-cleaning, gut-spinning, hide-preparing,
tallow-melting, and other salubrious proceedings, in the midst of
hospitals, churchyards, workhouses, schools, infirmaries, refuges,
dwellings, provision-shops nurseries, sick-beds, every stage and
baiting-place in the journey from birth to death!
These UNcommon counsellors, your Professor Owens and fellows, will
contend that to tolerate these things in a civilised city, is to
reduce it to a worse condition than BRUCE found to prevail in
ABYSSINIA. For there (say they) the jackals and wild dogs came at
night to devour the offal; whereas, here there are no such natural
scavengers, and quite as savage customs. Further, they will
demonstrate that nothing in Nature is intended to be wasted, and
that besides the waste which such abuses occasion in the articles
of health and life - main sources of the riches of any community -
they lead to a prodigious waste of changing matters, which might,
with proper preparation, and under scientific direction, be safely
applied to the increase of the fertility of the land. Thus (they
argue) does Nature ever avenge infractions of her beneficent laws,
and so surely as Man is determined to warp any of her blessings
into curses, shall they become curses, and shall he suffer heavily.
But, this is cant. Just as it is cant of the worst description to
say to the London Corporation, 'How can you exhibit to the people
so plain a spectacle of dishonest equivocation, as to claim the
right of holding a market in the midst of the great city, for one
of your vested privileges, when you know that when your last market
holding charter was granted to you by King Charles the First,
Smithfield stood IN THE SUBURBS OF LONDON, and is in that very
charter so described in those five words?' - which is certainly
true, but has nothing to do with the question.
Now to the comparison, in these particulars of civilisation,
between the capital of England, and the capital of that frog-eating
and wooden-shoe wearing country, which the illustrious Common
Councilman so sarcastically settled.
In Paris, there is no Cattle Market. Cows and calves are sold
within the city, but, the Cattle Markets are at Poissy, about
thirteen miles off, on a line of railway; and at Sceaux, about five
miles off. The Poissy market is held every Thursday; the Sceaux
market, every Monday. In Paris, there are no slaughter-houses, in
our acceptation of the term. There are five public Abattoirs -
within the walls, though in the suburbs - and in these all the
slaughtering for the city must be performed. They are managed by a
Syndicat or Guild of Butchers, who confer with the Minister of the
Interior on all matters affecting the trade, and who are consulted
when any new regulations are contemplated for its government. They
are, likewise, under the vigilant superintendence of the police.
Every butcher must be licensed: which proves him at once to be a
slave, for we don't license butchers in England - we only license
apothecaries, attorneys, post-masters, publicans, hawkers,
retailers of tobacco, snuff, pepper, and vinegar - and one or two
other little trades, not worth mentioning. Every arrangement in
connexion with the slaughtering and sale of meat, is matter of
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strict police regulation. (Slavery again, though we certainly have
a general sort of Police Act here.)
But, in order that the reader may understand what a monument of
folly these frog-eaters have raised in their abattoirs and cattlemarkets,
and may compare it with what common counselling has done
for us all these years, and would still do but for the innovating
spirit of the times, here follows a short account of a recent visit
to these places:
It was as sharp a February morning as you would desire to feel at
your fingers' ends when I turned out - tumbling over a chiffonier
with his little basket and rake, who was picking up the bits of
coloured paper that had been swept out, over-night, from a Bon-Bon
shop - to take the Butchers' Train to Poissy. A cold, dim light
just touched the high roofs of the Tuileries which have seen such
changes, such distracted crowds, such riot and bloodshed; and they
looked as calm, and as old, all covered with white frost, as the
very Pyramids. There was not light enough, yet, to strike upon the
towers of Notre Dame across the water; but I thought of the dark
pavement of the old Cathedral as just beginning to be streaked with
grey; and of the lamps in the 'House of God,' the Hospital close to
it, burning low and being quenched; and of the keeper of the Morgue
going about with a fading lantern, busy in the arrangement of his
terrible waxwork for another sunny day.
The sun was up, and shining merrily when the butchers and I,
announcing our departure with an engine shriek to sleepy Paris,
rattled away for the Cattle Market. Across the country, over the
Seine, among a forest of scrubby trees - the hoar frost lying cold
in shady places, and glittering in the light - and here we are - at
Poissy! Out leap the butchers, who have been chattering all the
way like madmen, and off they straggle for the Cattle Market (still
chattering, of course, incessantly), in hats and caps of all
shapes, in coats and blouses, in calf-skins, cow-skins, horseskins,
furs, shaggy mantles, hairy coats, sacking, baize, oil-skin,
anything you please that will keep a man and a butcher warm, upon a
frosty morning.
Many a French town have I seen, between this spot of ground and
Strasburg or Marseilles, that might sit for your picture, little
Poissy! Barring the details of your old church, I know you well,
albeit we make acquaintance, now, for the first time. I know your
narrow, straggling, winding streets, with a kennel in the midst,
and lamps slung across. I know your picturesque street-corners,
winding up-hill Heaven knows why or where! I know your tradesmen's
inscriptions, in letters not quite fat enough; your barbers' brazen
basins dangling over little shops; your Cafes and Estaminets, with
cloudy bottles of stale syrup in the windows, and pictures of
crossed billiard cues outside. I know this identical grey horse
with his tail rolled up in a knot like the 'back hair' of an untidy
woman, who won't be shod, and who makes himself heraldic by
clattering across the street on his hind-legs, while twenty voices
shriek and growl at him as a Brigand, an accursed Robber, and an
everlastingly-doomed Pig. I know your sparkling town-fountain,
too, my Poissy, and am glad to see it near a cattle-market, gushing
so freshly, under the auspices of a gallant little sublimated
Frenchman wrought in metal, perched upon the top. Through all the
land of France I know this unswept room at The Glory, with its
peculiar smell of beans and coffee, where the butchers crowd about
the stove, drinking the thinnest of wine from the smallest of
tumblers; where the thickest of coffee-cups mingle with the longest
of loaves, and the weakest of lump sugar; where Madame at the
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counter easily acknowledges the homage of all entering and
departing butchers; where the billiard-table is covered up in the
midst like a great bird-cake - but the bird may sing by-and-by!
A bell! The Calf Market! Polite departure of butchers. Hasty
payment and departure on the part of amateur Visitor. Madame
reproaches Ma'amselle for too fine a susceptibility in reference to
the devotion of a Butcher in a bear-skin. Monsieur, the landlord
of The Glory, counts a double handful of sous, without an
unobliterated inscription, or an undamaged crowned head, among
them.
There is little noise without, abundant space, and no confusion.
The open area devoted to the market is divided into three portions:
the Calf Market, the Cattle Market, the Sheep Market. Calves at
eight, cattle at ten, sheep at mid-day. All is very clean.
The Calf Market is a raised platform of stone, some three or four
feet high, open on all sides, with a lofty overspreading roof,
supported on stone columns, which give it the appearance of a sort
of vineyard from Northern Italy. Here, on the raised pavement, lie
innumerable calves, all bound hind-legs and fore-legs together, and
all trembling violently - perhaps with cold, perhaps with fear,
perhaps with pain; for, this mode of tying, which seems to be an
absolute superstition with the peasantry, can hardly fail to cause
great suffering. Here, they lie, patiently in rows, among the
straw, with their stolid faces and inexpressive eyes, superintended
by men and women, boys and girls; here they are inspected by our
friends, the butchers, bargained for, and bought. Plenty of time;
plenty of room; plenty of good humour. 'Monsieur Francois in the
bear-skin, how do you do, my friend? You come from Paris by the
train? The fresh air does you good. If you are in want of three
or four fine calves this market morning, my angel, I, Madame Doche,
shall be happy to deal with you. Behold these calves, Monsieur
Francois! Great Heaven, you are doubtful! Well, sir, walk round
and look about you. If you find better for the money, buy them.
If not, come to me!' Monsieur Francois goes his way leisurely, and
keeps a wary eye upon the stock. No other butcher jostles Monsieur
Francois; Monsieur Francois jostles no other butcher. Nobody is
flustered and aggravated. Nobody is savage. In the midst of the
country blue frocks and red handkerchiefs, and the butchers' coats,
shaggy, furry, and hairy: of calf-skin, cow-skin, horse-skin, and
bear-skin: towers a cocked hat and a blue cloak. Slavery! For OUR
Police wear great-coats and glazed hats.
But now the bartering is over, and the calves are sold. 'Ho!
Gregoire, Antoine, Jean, Louis! Bring up the carts, my children!
Quick, brave infants! Hola! Hi!'
The carts, well littered with straw, are backed up to the edge of
the raised pavement, and various hot infants carry calves upon
their heads, and dexterously pitch them in, while other hot
carefully in straw. Here is a promising young calf, not sold, whom
Madame Doche unbinds. Pardon me, Madame Doche, but I fear this
mode of tying the four legs of a quadruped together, though
strictly a la mode, is not quite right. You observe, Madame Doche,
that the cord leaves deep indentations in the skin, and that the
animal is so cramped at first as not to know, or even remotely
suspect that HE is unbound, until you are so obliging as to kick
him, in your delicate little way, and pull his tail like a bellrope.
Then, he staggers to his knees, not being able to stand, and
stumbles about like a drunken calf, or the horse at Franconi's,
whom you may have seen, Madame Doche, who is supposed to have been
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mortally wounded in battle. But, what is this rubbing against me,
as I apostrophise Madame Doche? It is another heated infant with a
calf upon his head. 'Pardon, Monsieur, but will you have the
politeness to allow me to pass?' 'Ah, sir, willingly. I am vexed
to obstruct the way.' On he staggers, calf and all, and makes no
allusion whatever either to my eyes or limbs.
Now, the carts are all full. More straw, my Antoine, to shake over
these top rows; then, off we will clatter, rumble, jolt, and
rattle, a long row of us, out of the first town-gate, and out at
the second town-gate, and past the empty sentry-box, and the little
thin square bandbox of a guardhouse, where nobody seems to live:
and away for Paris, by the paved road, lying, a straight, straight
line, in the long, long avenue of trees. We ca
n neither choose our
road, nor our pace, for that is all prescribed to us. The public
convenience demands that our carts should get to Paris by such a
route, and no other (Napoleon had leisure to find that out, while
he had a little war with the world upon his hands), and woe betide
us if we infringe orders.
Drovers of oxen stand in the Cattle Market, tied to iron bars fixed
into posts of granite. Other droves advance slowly down the long
avenue, past the second town-gate, and the first town-gate, and the
sentry-box, and the bandbox, thawing the morning with their smoky
breath as they come along. Plenty of room; plenty of time.
Neither man nor beast is driven out of his wits by coaches, carts,
waggons, omnibuses, gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs, trucks, boys,
whoopings, roarings, and multitudes. No tail-twisting is necessary
- no iron pronging is necessary. There are no iron prongs here.
The market for cattle is held as quietly as the market for calves.
In due time, off the cattle go to Paris; the drovers can no more
choose their road, nor their time, nor the numbers they shall
drive, than they can choose their hour for dying in the course of
nature.
Sheep next. The sheep-pens are up here, past the Branch Bank of
Paris established for the convenience of the butchers, and behind
the two pretty fountains they are making in the Market. My name is
Bull: yet I think I should like to see as good twin fountains - not
to say in Smithfield, but in England anywhere. Plenty of room;
plenty of time. And here are sheep-dogs, sensible as ever, but
with a certain French air about them - not without a suspicion of
dominoes - with a kind of flavour of moustache and beard -
demonstrative dogs, shaggy and loose where an English dog would be
tight and close - not so troubled with business calculations as our
English drovers' dogs, who have always got their sheep upon their
minds, and think about their work, even resting, as you may see by
their faces; but, dashing, showy, rather unreliable dogs: who might
worry me instead of their legitimate charges if they saw occasion -
and might see it somewhat suddenly.
The market for sheep passes off like the other two; and away they
go, by THEIR allotted road to Paris. My way being the Railway, I
make the best of it at twenty miles an hour; whirling through the