at the horse-dinner who shared this
eating-philosopher's peculiarity. There is, however,
an unerring test as to whether a good dinner
has been enjoyed; and if any one doubts the
quantity consumed at this banquet, let him go
to the manager of the Langham and ask how
much was put upon the table, and how much
was left behind. To hear some men's talk, you
might have fancied they brought no appetite
to horse; but to see the same men eat, you
would have concluded it to be their favourite
dainty. It was marvellous to note the
discrepancies between promise and performance.
"I can't quite stand the notion of this," one
genial spirit would remark, putting his finger
on an item in the bill of fare. "Don't think
I shall be able to manage that," his brother
would chime in. But, lo! when the time came,
both eat of both with remarkable persistence.
Supposing horse-flesh to be unpalatable, the
one hundred and fifty people at the Langham
Hotel were exemplars of self-denial. Yet many
proficients in the art of dining were there. The
editor of the new "Epicure's Year- Book"
rubbed shoulders with a gallant officer whose
gastronomic experiences and prowess are well
known. The Pall Mall clubs might have
sent up deputations; so numerous were their
members. Men from the great social centres
of toryism and radicalism, of the arts and
sciences, of the universities, the army, the
navy, and the civil service, of travelled thanes
and of city commerce, were all fused in a
common anxiety to know the taste of horse.
Here was the brilliant historian of our greatest
modern wars; there, the celebrated painter
who is following the steps of Wilkie: here, a
physiologist whose fame is European; there,
a lawyer whose learning is a proverb: here, a
popular author whose diminutive is in the
mouth of every school-boy; there, a man of
science who has given lustre to an already
well-known name. It was strictly a
representative gathering, and had assembled on
philosophic grounds. Out of the rank and file
of the hundred and fifty diners were probably
some in whom curiosity had been the ruling
motive for attendance; but the men we have
instanced, who are only typical of many
others, were, doubtless, animated by something
higher.

It is obvious, however, that the whole question
of supply, the statistics of the horses
employed, and of the horses destroyed while sound,
must be sifted before the effect of making horseflesh
a common article of food can be decided
on. And this is not so easy as might be thought.
Even the figures given from the chair have been
seriously impugned since; and neither the revenue
returns nor the Board of Trade blue-book will
supply the exact information hippophagists
desire to know. The meeting at the Langham
simply convinced a hundred and fifty more or
less influentional people of what the twenty-two
diners at Francatelli's already knew. For
the plain truth is, that the great horse-banquet
differed so little from other good public
dinners, that no one present would have
noticed anything unusual about soup, made dishes,
or joints, had it not been for the peculiar
circumstances under which we met. Let
dinner-givers, whether experienced
club-frequenters or young ladies just commencing
house-keeping, picture to themselves guests
who smell and taste each item as if anxious to
detect unpleasantness. Let them imagine a
scrutiny of every mouthful taken, which was
almost hostile in its closeness, and let them say
how many banquets would come out scathless
from any such ordeal. How many people can give
a large dinner in which everything shall be faultless?
Are beef and mutton never tough? Do
gravies never belie their promise? Is cooking
invariably perfect? Who asks or wants to
know ordinarily whether every member of a
mixed company thoroughly enjoys every atom
of every helping he eats? Yet this is the test
the Langham dinner underwent. Men looked
at each other curiously while eating, and each
course ran the gauntlet of puns and satire.
But the examination was in all cases close and
searching; and between the fire of blind
enthusiasm, on the one hand, and ice of
hyper-criticism on the other, it was difficult for a
plain man to form a calm judgment on the
matter before him. The enthusiasts who, at a
considerable expenditure of time, labour, and
money, had promoted this and the preceding
dinner, could scarcely be impartial. Accordingly,
when a respectable but rather dull
gentleman insisted that horse-meat was superior
to venison, and spoke disrespectfully of those
established favourites, beef and mutton, his
talk fell as flat as the prejudiced whisperings of
the queer old consumer opposite.

When the trumpet-blast sounded, and the
mighty baron of horse came in on the shoulders
of four cooks, a neighbour nudged me to
say, of the imposing trumpeter in scarlet and
gold, "Ex-militia man, sir; not a beef-eater
at all. Uniform hired at a Jew clothier's;
trumpet sent in from a music-shop. Very
good get up. Uncommonly like the real thing;
but his rendering of the 'Roast Beef of
Old England' savours too much of the strong
beer of old England, doesn't it? Hark!
there's another of those liquid notes! Will
they march right round the room? Is he to
play before them all the way? Well, I only
hope there'll be no accident; for if ever a
beef-eater looked like a city man-in-armour after
a Lord's Mayor's dinner, that's the man. Did
you hear the bother they had with him just
now? Asked him to strike a gong in the intervals
of trumpet-blowing, and he indignantly
declined. Said, with a manly hiccup, that he
was only ''ired' to play one instrument, and
'that he wouldn't be put upon for all the
'orses in Hengland!' There he goes again;
another false note! Well, well, so long as he
doesn't assault the chairman, I suppose we
must put up with it!" There was something
extremely funny in these criticisms, for the
beef-eater was marching round all the time with
solemn step and slow, and mighty, if irregular,
fanfaronades were being blown. "You can have