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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
writhingby a mere glanceon 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?


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 Summerbright 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!


IN Great Stockington there lived a race of
paupers. From the year of the 42nd of
Elizabeth, or 1601, down to the present generation,
this race maintained an uninterrupted
descent. They were a steady and unbroken
line of paupers, as the parish books testify.
From generation to generation their demands
on the parish funds stand recorded. There
were no lacunæ in their career; there never
failed an heir to these families; fed on the
bread of idleness and legal provision, these
people flourished, increased, and multiplied.
Sometimes compelled to work for the weekly
dole which they received, they never acquired
a taste for labour, or lost the taste for the
bread for which they did not labour. These
paupers regarded this maintenance by no
means as a disgrace. They claimed it as a
right,—as their patrimony. They contended
that one-third of the property of the Church
had been given by benevolent individuals for
the support of the poor, and that what the
Reformation wrongfully deprived them of, the
great enactment of Elizabeth rightfullyand
only rightfullyrestored.

Those who imagine that all paupers merely
claimed parish relief because the law ordained
it, commit a great error. There were numbers
who were hereditary paupers, and that on a
tradition carefully handed down, that they
were only manfully claiming their own.
They traced their claims from the most
ancient feudal times, when the lord was as
much bound to maintain his villein in gross,
as the villein was to work for the lord. Those
paupers were, in fact, or claimed to be, the
original adscripti glebœ, and to have as much
a claim to parish support as the landed proprietor
had to his land. For this reason, in
the old Catholic times, after they had escaped
from villenage by running away and remaining
absent from their hundred for a year and
a day, dwelling for that period in a walled
town, these people were amongst the most
diligent attendants at the Abbey doors, and
when the Abbeys were dissolved, were, no
doubt, amongst the most daring of these
thieves, vagabonds, and sturdy rogues, who,
after the Robin Hood fashion, beset the highways
and solitary farms of England, and
claimed their black mail in a very unceremonious
style. It was out of this class that
Henry VIII. hanged his seventy-two thousand
during his reign, and, as it is said, with-