We shudder at the cruelties practised upon Strasbourg geese to produce
the celebrated _pâtés de foie ǧras_; but remorse would assuredly afflict
the amateurs of veal with indigestion, if they reflected on the tortures
to which calves are subjected to cause the very unnatural colour of the
meat which they so much prize. The natural and wholesome tint of veal is
not white, but pink. An ancient French traveller in England (1690) says
that the English veal has not the “beautiful red colour of the French.”
Dr. Smollett, in “Peregrine Pickle,” upbraids epicures, on the scores
both of cruelty and unwholesomeness, saying that our best veal is like a
“fricassee of kid gloves,” and the sauce of “melted butter” is rendered
necessary only by the absence of the juices drained out of the
unfortunate animal before death.
The process of killing a calf is a refinement of cruelty worthy of a
Grand Inquisitor. The beast is, while alive, bled several times; in
summer, during several hours of the night, and frequently till it
faints; when a plug is put into the orifice till “next time.” But the
lengthened punishment of the most unoffending of animals is at the
actual “killing.” It is tied together, neck and heels, much as a dead
animal when packed in a basket and slung up by a rope, with the head
downwards. A vein is then opened, till it lingeringly bleeds to death.
Two or three “knocks” are given to it with the pole-axe whilst it hangs
loose in the air, and the flesh is beaten with sticks, technically
termed “dressing” it, some time before feeling has ceased to exist. All
this may be verified by those who insist on seeing the penetralia of the
slaughter-houses; or the poor animal may be seen moaning and writhing—by
a mere glance—on many days of the week, in Warwick Lane, Newgate Street.
This mode of bleaching veal is not only a crime, but a blunder. The
flesh would be more palatable and nutritious killed speedily and
mercifully. But were it otherwise, and had it been twenty times more a
luxury, who, professing to honour the common Creator, would, for the
sensual gratification of the palate, cause the calf to be thus tortured?
“ALL THINGS IN THE WORLD MUST CHANGE.”
Would’st thou have it always Spring,
Though she cometh flower-laden?
Though sweet-throated birds do sing?
Thou would’st weary of it, Maiden.
Dost thou never feel desire
That thy womanhood were nearer?
Doth thy loving heart ne’er tire,
Longing yet for something dearer?
Would’st have Summer ever stay—
Droughty Summer—bright and burning?
Dost thou not, oft in the day,
Long for still, cool, night’s returning?
Dost thou not grow weary, Youth,
Of thy pleasures, vain though pleasant—
Thinking Life has more of Truth
Than the satiating present?
Would’st have Autumn never go?
(Autumn, Winter’s wealthy neighbour),
Stacks would rise, and wine-press flow
Vainly, did’st thou always labour.
When thy child is on thy knee
And thy heart with love’s o’erflowing,
Dost thou never long to see
What is in the future’s showing?
When old Winter, cold and hoar,
Cometh, blowing his ten fingers,
Hanging ice-drops on the door
Whilst he at the threshold lingers,
Would’st thou ever vigil keep
With a mate so full of sorrow?
Better to thy bed and sleep,
Nor wake till th’ Eternal morrow!