with all the usual apparatus for slaughtering
diseased or worn-out horses, and plentifully
bestrewn with the reeking members and
frightful refuse of the morning's work. But
even before the eye,—usually the first and
quickest organ in action,—has time to glance
round, the sense of smell is not only assailed,
but taken by storm, with a most horrible,
warm, moist, effluvium, so offensive, and at
the same time so peculiar and potent, that
it requires no small resolution in any one,
not accustomed to it, to remain a minute
within its precincts. Three of the corners
are completely filled up with a heap of dead
horses lying upon their backs, with their
hoofs sticking bolt upright; while two other
angles in the yard are filled with a mass of
bodies and fragments, whose projecting legs
and other members serve as stretchers for
raw skins,—flayed from their companions,
or from themselves, lying all discoloured, yet
in all colours, beneath. By this means the
skins are stretched out to dry. A few live
animals are in the yard. There is one horse
—waiting for his turn—as the ox-party come
in; his knees are bent, his head is bowed
towards the slushy ground, his dripping mane
falling over his face, and almost reaching with
its lank end to the dark muddled gore in
which his fore hoofs are planted. A strange,
ghastly, rattling sound, apparently from the
adjoining premises, is kept up without
intermission; a sort of inconceivably rapid
devil's-tattoo, by way of accompaniment to
the hideous scene.

Two dead horses are being skinned; but
all the other animals—of the four-footed class
we mean—are bullocks, in different stage's of
disease, and they are seven in number. These
latter have not been condemned by the
Inspector, but have been brought here to undergo
a last effort for the purpose of being made
saleable—washed and scrubbed, so as to have the
chance of finding a purchaser by torchlight
at some very low price; and failing in this, to be
killed before they die, or cut up as soon after
they die as possible. They were all
distinguished by slang terms according to the nature
and stage of their diseases. The two best of
these bad bullocks are designated as " choppers;"
the three next, whose hides are torn in
several places, are called "rough-uns;" while
those who are in a drooping and reeking
condition, with literally a death-sweat all over
them, are playfully called "wet-uns." To
this latter class belongs our poor ox, who is
now brought in, and formally introduced by
the Inspector, as diseased, and condemned.
The others he does not see—or, at least, does
not notice—his business being with the ox,
who was the last comer. Having thus
performed his duty, the Inspector retires!

But what is this ceaseless rattling tattoo
that is kept up in the adjoining premises?
The walls vibrate with it! Machinery of
some kind? Yes—it is a chopping machine;
and here you behold the "choppers," both
horses and diseased bullocks, who will shortly
be in a fit state for promotion, and will then
be taken piece-meal next door. Ay, it is so,
in sober and dreadful seriousness. Here, in
this Sharp's Alley, you behold the largest
horse-slaughter-house in the city; and here,
next door, you will find the largest sausage
manufactory in London. The two establishments
thus conveniently situated, belong
to near relations—brothers, we believe, or
brothers-in-law.

Now, while the best of the diseased bullocks
or "choppers" are taken to the sausage
machine, to be advantageously mixed with
the choppings of horse-flesh (to which latter
ingredient the angry redness of so many "cured"
sausages, saveloys, and all the class of polonies
is attributable), who shall venture to deny
that, in the callousness of old habits, and the
boldness derived from utter impunity and
profitable success, a very considerable addition
is often made to the stock of the " choppers,"
from many of the "rough-uns," and from some
of the more sound parts of the miserable
"wet-uns?"  Verily this thing may be—" 'tis
apt, and of great credit," to the City of London.

But a few words must be said of the
"closing scene" of our poor condemned ox.
We would, most willingly, have passed this
over, leaving it to the imagination of the
reader; but as no imagination would be at all
likely to approach the fact, we hope we shall
be rendering a service to common humanity
in doing some violence to our own, and the
readers' feelings, by exposing such scenes to
the gaze of day.

Owing to some press of business, the ox was
driven to a neighbouring slaughter-house in
the Alley. He was led to the fatal spot,
sufficiently indicated, even amidst all the rest
of the sanguinary floor, by its frightful
condition. They placed him in the usual way;
the slaughterman approached with his pole-
axe, and swinging it round in a half-jocose
and reckless manner, to hide his want of
practice and skill, he struck the ox a blow
on one side of his head, which only made him
sink with a groan on his knees, and sway over
on one side. In this attitude he lay groaning,
while a torrent of blood gushed out of his
mouth. He could not be made to rise again
to receive the stroke of death or further
torment. They kicked him with the utmost
violence in the ribs and on the cheek with
their iron-nailed shoes, but to no purpose.
They then jumped upon him; he only
continued to groan. They wrenched his already
broken tail till they broke it again, higher up,
in two places. He strove to rise, but sank
down as before. Finally they had recourse to
the following torture: they closed his nostrils
With wet cloths, held tightly up by both hands,
so that no breath could escape, and they then
poured a bucketful of dirty slaughterhouse
water into his mouth and down his throat, till
with the madness of suffocation the wretched
animal was roused to a momentary struggle