no idea," continued my communicative friend,
"of the difficulty the committee and secretary
had in making this dinner 'go.' As for the latter,
he's given up his time to it for months. His
privacy has been invaded, his time absorbed,
his home arrangements upset, and all because
he's tried to beat down a prejudice. When
the controversy commenced in the newspapers
as to the advisability of eating horse-flesh, this
gentleman rashly offered to make up a party to
try the experiment. From that moment his time
and liberty—I'd almost said his peace of mind
—were gone. Strangers wrote to him from
distant parts of Britain, saying they'd be in
town on the following Thursday, and would
drop in at his private house and take a
horse-cutlet, about two. Other prudent people asked
whether he meant to feed inquiring spirits
gratuitously, or if he proposed to charge so much a
head. Pious monomaniacs denounced him for
attempting to introduce a food not recommended
in Scripture, and insisted on the connexion
between horse-meat and infidelity; and
commercially minded strangers asked him familiarly
how much he hoped to make out of his 'spec.'
An average of thirty letters a day arrived
on this subject alone; and what with trips
to Paris, interviews with horse-dealers and
horse-slaughterers (I smiled to myself here),
statistical inquiries into the progress of
horse-eating on the Continent, and meeting and
exposing the arguments of friends and opponents
at home, I can assure you that our honorary
secretary has worked as hard at the introduction
of the new meat as if it were his own
private business. When he commenced operations,
he found prejudice besetting him at
every step. The hotels closed their doors in
his face, with wonderful unanimity, directly they
learned his errand. The butchers refused to kill
the horse he had procured, because, 'if the
hoofs or hide were seen coming out of their
shops, it would be their ruin;' and nothing but
the most persevering energy would have
overcome the obstacles and trade-rules which stood
in the way of inaugurating a 'horse-dinner in
London.'"

All this information came to me in fits and
starts; for the speaker, a stout and rather
pompous personage, with an enormous double
chin, partook plentifully of the good cheer
before us, and thought nothing of giving up
in the middle of a sentence to eat, always
beginning again at the precise point he left off
at, with "As I was saying just now."
Meanwhile the banquet progressed admirably. Some
filets of horse (imagine the poor jokes on
filly!), with a full-flavoured brown gravy, were
especially delicious, and the slices of cold
horse sausage tasted like a veritable product of
Lyons. But I hold to my original opinion that
not one man in fifty of those present would have
detected any difference in appearance, in tenderness,
or in flavour, between the various
preparations of horse and the ordinary dishes of a
well-served dinner. A copious variety of wine was
supplied, and, long before the chairman proposed
the toast of the evening, the verdict of the
company had been already won.

Twenty-four hours later, and at midnight, I
again present myself at the horse-slaughtering
establishment at Belle Isle.* It is in the full
tide of work. Horses are being knocked down
and cut up, and their flesh thrown into the
huge boilers with infinite rapidity. At least
six-and-thirty are wanted for to-morrow's
supply, and, as business has been brisk during the
week, it had been feared that there would not
be enough in stock for the night's killing. But
condemned horses have come in from all quarters
within the last few hours, including eight which
have dropped down dead in the streets. The
yard and pound is full in consequence. We
stumble against a cart containing a dead roan,
"formerly belonging to the Marquis of Brandyford;"
and see, by the glare of the shed-lights,
a bay waiting to be stripped in another cart
on its threshold. Poleaxing, hacking, carving,
and boiling are going on inside, and continue
through the night, and it is three o'clock
on a dark and drizzling morning before the
animals are all killed and stripped. In this
time decayed hunters, worn-out hacks,
cart-horses, ponies, "Cleveland" bays, cab-horses,
and chargers have all succumbed to the mighty
arm of Potler and his myrmidons, and have
been thrown into the cauldrons and boiled down.

* See page 253 of the last number.

By four o'clock the slaughter-house is washed
down and clean. The horse-meat is placed in
great heaps upon the stones as fast as boiled;
and is very like the huge hunks of workhouse
beef I have seen turned out of parochial coppers.
Soon after half-past five a cart is backed into
the shed, and is piled up with boiled horse-meat.
This done, it is driven off in the darkness to
the branch establishment of the firm at Farringdon-street
station. At six, Mr. Potler, as spruce
as ever, but with a butcher's steel suspended from
his waist, drives a lighter vehicle in, and, standing
up in it, performs a remarkable feat of artificial
memory. He is going round to between thirty
and forty customers, all dealers in cats' meat,
who have given him their orders on a preceding
day. He has neither book nor note, but
calls out their names and quantities with a
precision that never seems to fail.
"Three-quarter Twoshoes and six penn'orth!" "Arf
a 'undred Biles and three penn'orth!" "Arf
fourteen Limey and two penn'orth!" "'Undred
and a arf, 'undred and three-quarters Till and
nine penn'orth!" went on in rapid succession
until we made bold to ask Mr. Potler
where his memorandum was, and how he knew
the different quantities required. "All in my
'ed, sir" (tapping it with a sly laugh). "'Aven't
got no books nor pencils, I 'aven't, and don't
want to," was his reply, which is corroborated
by the stout proprietor, who stands at the scales,
watches the weighing, and enters all Mr. Potler's
items methodically on a sort of trade-sheet
he carries in his hand. The first number,