for life, and with a violent fling of the head,
which scattered all his torturers, and all their
apparatus of wet rags and buckets, he rose
frantically upon his legs. The same slaughterman
now advanced once more with his pole-axe,
and dealt a blow, but again missed his mark,
striking only the side of the head. A third
blow was more deliberately levelled at him,
and this the ox, by an instinct of nature, evaded
by a side movement as the axe descended.
The slaughterman, enraged beyond measure,
and yet more so by the jeers of his companions,
now repeated his blows in quick succession,
not one of which was effective, but only
produced a great rising tumour. The elasticity
of this tumour which defeated a death-blow,
added to the exhaustion of the slaughterman's
strength, caused this scene of barbarous butchery
to be protracted to the utmost, and the
groaning and writhing ox did not fall
prostrate till he had received as many as fifteen
blows. What followed cannot be written.

It is proper to add that scenes like these,
resulting from want of skill in the slaughterman,
are by no means so common in Smithfield,
as in some other markets—Whitechapel more
especially. But they occur occasionally in an
equal or less degree, in every market of the
metropolis.

The two haggard, wolf-eyed fellows who
had prowled after the ox, and his Inspector,
now step forward and purchase the bruised
and diseased corpse of the slaughtered
(murdered) animal, and carry it away to be sold
to the poor, in small lots by gas-light, on
Saturday nights, or in the form of soup; and
to the rich, in the disguise of a well-seasoned
English German-sausage, or other delicious
preserved meat! So much for the Inspector,
and the amount of duty he so ably performed!

We make the following extract from a
pamphlet recently published, entitled, " An
Enquiry into the present state of the Smithfield
Cattle Market, and the Dead Meat Markets
of the Metropolis."

"The wet-uns are very far gone in disease, and
are so bad that those who have to touch them,
carefully cover their hands to avoid immediate
contact with such foul substances, naturally fearing
the communication of poison. A servant of a
respectable master butcher, about a twelvemonth
ago, slightly scratched his finger with a bone of
one of these diseased animals; the consequence
was that he was obliged to go to the hospital,
where he was for upwards of six weeks, and the
surgeons all agreed that it was occasioned by the
poison from the diseased bone. It is also a fact,
that if the hands at any time come in contact with
this meat, they are frequently so affected by the
strong smell of the medicine which had been given
to the animal when alive, that it is impossible for
a considerable time to get rid of it; and yet, it
will scarcely be believed, none of these poisonous
substances are thrown away—all goes in some
shape or form into the craving stomachs of the
hungry poor, or is served up as a dainty for the
higher classes. Even cows which die in calving,
and still-born calves, are all brought to market and
sold. Let these facts be gainsayed; we defy
contradiction."

We must by no means overlook the
adventures and sufferings of sheep; nor the
unwholesome condition to which great numbers
of them are reduced before they are sold as
human food.

A sheep is scudding and bouncing over a
common, in the morning, with the dew glistening
on her fleece. She is full of enjoyment,
and knows no care in life. In the evening of
the same day, she is slowly moving along a
muddy lane, among a large flock; fatigued,
her wool matted with dust and slush, her
mouth parched with thirst, and one ear torn
to a red rag by the dog. He was sent to do
it by the shepherd, because she had lagged
a little behind, to gaze through a gap in the
hedge at a duck-pond in the field. She has
been in a constant state of fright, confusion,
and apprehension, ever since. At every shout
of the shepherd's voice, or that of his boy, and
at every bark of the dog, or sound of the
rapid pattering of his feet as he rushes by,
she has expected to be again seized, and
perhaps torn to pieces. As for the passage
of the dog over her back, in one of his rushes
along the backs of the flock, as they huddle
densely together near some crooked corner
or cross-way—in utter confusion as to what
they are wanted to do—what they themselves
want to do—what is best to do—or what in
the world is about to be done—no word of
man, or bleat of sheep, can convey any
adequate impression of the fright it causes her.
Oil one of these occasions, when going through
a narrow turnpike, the dog is sent over their
backs to worry the leaders who are going the
wrong way, and in her spring forward to
escape the touch of his devilish foot, she
lacerated her side against a nail in the
gate-post, making a long wound.

The sudden pain of this causes her to leap
out of the rank, up a bank; and seeing a green
field beneath, the instinct of nature makes
her leap down, and scour away. In a moment,
the dog—the fury—is after her. She puts
forth all her strength, all her speed—the wind
is filled with the horrors of his voice—of the
redoubling sound of his feet—he gains upon
her—she springs aside—leaps up banks—over
hurdles—through hedges—but he is close
upon her;—without knowing it, she has made
a circle, and is again nearing the flock, which
she reaches just as he springs upon her
shoulders and tears her again on the head,
and his teeth lacerate anew her coagulated
ear. She eventually arrives at the railway
station, and is crushed into one of the market
waggons; and in this state of exhaustion, fever,
and burning thirst, remains for several hours,
until she arrives in the suburbs of Smithfield.
What she suffers in this place has been already
narrated, till finally she is sold, and driven off
to be slaughtered. The den where this last
horror is perpetrated (for in what other
terms can we designate all these unnecessary