THE "BOOZING KEN" ONCE MORE.
Morning dawned upon the great metropolis.
The landlord and landlady of the "Boozing-Ken" on Saffron Hill were
busily employed, as we have seen them upon a former occasion, in
dispensing glasses of "all sorts" to their numerous customers. The bar
was surrounded by every thing the most revolting, the most hideous, and
the most repulsive in human shape.
"Well, Joe," said the landlord to a man dressed like a butcher, and
whose clothes emitted a greasy and carrion-like smell, "what news down
at Cow Cross?"
"Nothink partikler," answered the man, who followed the pleasant and
agreeable calling of a journeyman-knacker. "We have been precious full
of work lately--and that's all I knows or cares about. Seventy-nine
horses I see knocked down yesterday; and out of them, fifty-three was so
awful diseased and glandered when they was brought in, that we was
obleeged to kill 'em and cut 'em up with masks and gloves on. It was but
three weeks ago that we lost our best man, Ben Biddle:--you recollects
Ben Biddle?"
"I knowed him well," said the landlord. "He took his 'morning' here
reglar for sixteen years, and never owed a penny."
"But do you know how he died?" demanded the knacker, staring the
landlord significantly in the face.
"Can't say that I do."
"He died of a fearful disease which is getting more and more amongst
human creeturs every day," continued the knacker:--"he died of the
glanders!"
"The glanders!" ejaculated the landlady, with a shudder; and all the
persons who were taking their "morning" at the bar crowded around the
knacker to hear the particulars of Ben Biddle's death.
"You see," resumed the knacker, now putting on a very solemn and
important air, "there is more diseased horses sold in Smithfield-Market
than sound 'uns. The art of doctoring a dying horse so that he looks as
lively and sound as possible to any one which ain't wery knowing in them
matters, is come to sich a pitch, that I'm blowed if the wisest ain't
taken in at times. We have horses come into our yard that was bought the
same morning in Smithfield, and seemed slap-up animals; but in a few
hours the effects of the stimulants given to 'em goes off, the plugs
falls out of their noses, and there they are at the point of death.
Why--if a horse has got four white feet, they'll paint three, or perhaps
all on 'em black; and _that part_ of the deception isn't never found out
till they're flayed in our yard."
"But about poor Biddle?" said the landlord.
"Well, in comes a horse one day," continued the knacker; "and although
we saw he was dead lame and altogether done up, we never suspected that
he had the glanders. So Ben Biddle had the killing on him. He drives the
pole-axe into the animal's skull; and he takes the wire and thrusts it
into the brain as business-like as possible. While he was stooping over
the beast, his hat falls off his head, and his handkerchief, which he
always carried in his hat, fell just upon the horse's mouth. The brute
snorted out a last groan at the wery moment that Ben picks up his
handkerchief. So Ben puts the handkerchief again into his hat, and puts
his hat upon his head; and away we all goes to the public-house to have
a drop of half-and-half."
"Very right too," said the landlord who no doubt spoke feelingly.
"Well," proceeded the knacker, "Ben drinks his share, and presently he
takes his handkerchief out of his hat quite permiscuous like, and wipes
his face. In a few minutes he feels a strange pain in the eyes just as
if some dust had got in;--but he did'nt think much on it, and so we all
goes back to the yard. In a few hours Ben was taken so bad he was
obliged to give up work; and by eight or nine o'clock we was forced to
take him to Bartholomew's Hospital. He was seized with dreadful fits of
womiting; and matter come out of his nose, eyes, and month. By the
morning his face was all covered over with sores; holes appeared in his
eyes, just for all the world as if they had got a most tremendous
small-pox in 'em; and his nose fell off. By three o'clock in the
arternoon he was a dead man; and I heerd say that he died in the most
awful agonies."
"And that was the glanders?" said the landlady.
"Yes: he got 'em by wiping his face with the pocket-handkerchief that
had fallen on the horse's nostrils."
"How shocking!" ejaculated several voices.
"And is the glanders increasing?" asked the landlord.
"The glanders _is_ increasing," answered the knacker; "and I feel
convinced that it will soon become a disease as reglar amongst human
beings as the small-pox or measles; 'cos the authorities doesn't do
their duty in preventing the sale of diseased animals."
"And how would you remedy the evil?"
"I would have the Lord Mayor and Corporation appoint a proper veterinary
surgeon as Inspector in Smithfield Market--a man of great experience and
knowledge, who won't let himself be humbugged or gammoned by any of
those infernal thieves that gets a living--aye, and makes fortunes too,
by selling diseased animals doctored up for the occasion."
"Yes--that's certainly a capital plan of your'n," said the landlord
approvingly. "But what becomes of all the flesh of the horses that go to
your yards?"
"You may divide the horses that's killed by the knacker into three
sorts," answered the man: "that is--first, those horses that is quite
healthy but that has met with accidents in their limbs; second, those
that is perhaps the least thing diseased, or in the wery last stage
through old age; and third, those that is altogether rotten. The flesh
of the first is bought by men whose business it is to boil it carefully,
and sell it to the sassage-makers: it makes the sassages firm, and is
much better than beef. There isn't a sassage shop in London that don't
use it. Then the tongues of these first-rate animals goes to the
butchers, who salts and pickles 'em: and I'm blow'd if any one could
tell 'em from the best ox-tongues."
"Well, I'll never eat sassages or tongues again!" cried the landlady.
"Oh! nonsense--it's all fancy!" exclaimed the knacker. "Half the tongues
that is sold for ox-tongues is horses' tongues. A knowing hand may
always tell 'em, 'cos they're rayther longer and thinner: for my part, I
like 'em just as well--every bit."
"And the flesh of the second sort of horses?"
"That goes to supply the cat's-meat men in the swell neighbourhoods; and
the third sort, that is altogether putrid and rotten, is taken up by the
cat's-meat men in the poor neighbourhoods."
"And do you mean to say that there's a difference even in cat's-meat
between the rich and the poor customers?" demanded the landlord.
"Do I mean to say so?" repeated the knacker, in a tone which showed that
he was surprised at the question being asked: "why, of course I do! The
poor may be pisoned--and very often is too--for what the rich cares a
fig. I can tell you more too: some of the first class horses'-meat--the
sound and good, remember--is made into what's called _hung-beef_; some
is potted; some is sold to the boarding-schools round London, where they
takes in young gen'lemen and ladies at a wery low rate; and some is
disposed of--but, no--I don't dare tell you--"
"Yes--do tell us!" said the landlady, in a coaxing tone.
"Do--there's a good fellow," cried the landlord.
"Come, tell us," exclaimed a dozen voices.
"No--no--I can't--I should get myself into a scrape, perhaps," said the
knacker, who was only putting a more keen edge upon the curiosity which
he had excited, for he intended to yield all the time.
"We won't say a word," observed the landlady.
"And I'll stand a quartern of blue ruin," added the landlord, "with
three outs--for you, me, 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 | 2 | 13½ | 12 | 140
"That's a nice allowance for a strong healthy fellow!" exclaimed the
Resurrection Man contemptuously. "One month upon that will make his
flesh as soft and flabby as possible. It's a shame, by heavens! to kill
human beings by inches in that way!"
"What a precious fool the Buffer _has_ made of himself!" said the
Cracksman after a pause.
"The Buffer!" ejaculated the paralytic waiter, who had been affecting to
dust a table as an excuse to linger in the room with the chance of
obtaining an invitation to partake of the flip: "is any thing wrong with
the Buffer?"
"Safe in lavender," answered the Cracksman, coolly; "and ten to one
he'll swing for it."
"My eyes! I'm very sorry to hear that," cried the waiter. "He was a
capital fellow, and never took the change when he gave me a joey[73] to
pay for his three-penn'orth of rum of a morning."
"Well, he's done it brown at last, at all events," continued the
Cracksman.
"What _has_ he done?" asked the waiter.
"Why--what he isn't likely to have a chance of doing again," answered
the Cracksman. "I suppose you know that he married Moll Flairer, the
sister of him as was killed by Bill Bolter at the Old House in Chick
Lane, three years or so ago? Well--he had a child by Moll; and a very
pretty little creetur it was. Even a fellow like me that can't be
supposed to have much feeling for that kind of thing, used to love to
play with that little child. It was a girl; and I never did see such
sweet blue eyes, and soft flaxy hair. The moment she was born, off goes
the Buffer and subscribes to half a dozen _burying clubs_. The
secretaries and treasurers was all exceedin' glad to see him, took his
tin, and put down his name. This was about two year ago. He kept up all
his payments reg'lar; and he was also precious reg'lar in keeping up
such a system of ill-treatment, that the poor little thing seemed
sinking under it. Now, as I said before, I'm not the most remarkablest
man in London for feeling; but I'm blow'd if I couldn't have cried
sometimes to see the way in which the Buffer and Moll would use that
child. I've seen it standing in a pail of cold water, stark naked, in
the middle of winter, when the ice was floating on the top; and because
it cried, its mother would take a rope, half an inch thick, and belabour
its poor back. Then they half starved it, and made it sleep on the bare
boards. But the little thing loved its parents for all that; and when
the Buffer beat Moll, I've seen that poor child creep up to her, and say
in such a soft tone, '_Don't cry, mother!_' Perhaps all the reward it
got for that was a good weltering. How the child stood it all so long, I
can't say: the Buffer thought she never would die; so he determined to
put an end to it at once. And yet he didn't want money, for we had had
some good things lately, what with one thing and another. All I know is
that he first takes the little child and flings it down stairs; he then
puts it to bed, and sends his wife to the doctor's for some medicine,
and into the medicine he pours some laudanum. The little creature went
to sleep smiling at him; and never woke no more. This was two days ago.
Yesterday the Buffer goes round to all the _burying clubs_, and gives
notice of the death of the child. But some how or another the thing got
wind; one of the secretaries of a club takes a surgeon along with him to
the Buffer's lodgings, and all's blown."
"Well--I never heard of such a rig as that before," exclaimed the
waiter.
"As for the rig," observed the Cracksman, coolly, "that is common
enough. Ever since the _burial societies_ and _funeral clubs_ came into
existence, nothink has been more common than these child-murders. A man
in full work can very well afford to pay a few halfpence a-week to each
club that he subscribes to, even supposing he puts his name down to a
dozen. Then those that don't kill their children right out, do it by
means of exposure, neglect, and all kinds of horrible treatment; and so
it's easy enough for a man to get forty or fifty pounds in this way at
one sweep."
"So it is--so it is," said the waiter: "_burial clubs_ afford a regular
premium upon the murder of young children. Ah! London's a wonderful
place--a wonderful place! Every thing of that kind is invented and got
up first in London. I really do think that London beats all other cities
in the world for matters of that sort. Look, for instance, what a
blessed thing it is that the authorities seldom or never attempt to
alter what they call the _low neighbourhoods_: why, it's the low
neighbourhoods that make such gentlemen as you two, and affords you the
means of concealment, and existence, and occupation, and every thing
else. Supposing there was no boozing-kens, and patter-cribs like this,
how would such gentlemen as you two get on? Ah! London is a fine
place--a very fine place; and I hope I shall never live to see the day
when it will be spoilt by improvement!"
"Come, there's a good deal of reason in all that," exclaimed the
Resurrection Man. "Here, my good fellow," he added, turning to the
waiter, "drink this tumbler of egg-hot for your fine speech."
The waiter did not require to be asked twice, but imbibed the smoking
beverage with infinite satisfaction to himself.
"I never heard any thing more true than what that fellow has just said,"
observed the Resurrection Man to his companion in iniquity. "Only
suppose, now, that all Saint Giles's, Clerkenwell, Bethnal Green, and
the Mint were _improved_, as they call it, where the devil would crime
take refuge?--for no one knows better than you and me that we should
uncommon soon have to give up business if we hadn't dark and narrow
streets to operate in, cribs like this ken to meet and plan in, and the
low courts and alleys to conceal ourselves in. Lord! what indeed would
London be to us if it was all like the West-End?"
"And so the fact is that the authorities very kindly leave in existence
and undisturbed, those very places which give birth to you gentlemen in
the first instance," said the waiter, "and sustain you afterwards."
"Well, you ain't very far wrong, old feller," exclaimed the Cracksman.
"But, blow me, if this ever struck me before."
"Nor me, neither," said the Resurrection Man, "till the flunkey started
the subject."
"Ah! there's a many things that has struck me since I've been in the
waiter-line in flash houses of this kind," observed the paralytic
attendant, shaking his head solemnly; "but one curious fact I've
noticed,--which is, that in nine cases out of ten the laws themselves
make men take to bad ways, and then punish them for acting under their
influence."
"I don't understand that," said the Cracksman.
"I do, though," exclaimed the Resurrection Man; "and I mean to say that
the flunkey is quite right. We ain't born bad: something then must have
made us bad. If I had been in the Duke of Wellington's place, I should
be an honourable and upright man like him; and if he had been in my
place, he would be--what I am."
"Of course he would," echoed the waiter.
"Now I understand," cried the Cracksman.
"I tell you what we'll do," said the Resurrection Man, after a few
moments' reflection; "this devil of a Holford doesn't appear to hurry
himself, and the rain has just begun to fall in torrents;--so we'll have
another quart of flip, and the flunkey shall sit down with us and enjoy
it; and I will just tell you the history of my own life, by way of
passing away the time. Perhaps you may find," added the Resurrection
Man, "that it helps to bear out the flunkey's remark, _that in nine
cases out of ten the laws themselves make us take to bad ways, and then
punish us for acting under their influence_."
The second supply of flip was procured; the door of the parlour was
shut; room was made for the paralytic waiter near the fire; and the
Resurrection Man commenced his narrative in the following manner.